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diff --git a/77766-0.txt b/77766-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..52d4bc1 --- /dev/null +++ b/77766-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3637 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77766 *** + + + + + _The_ + WILD HEART + + + _By + Emma-Lindsay Squier_ + +[Illustration] + + WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY + GENE STRATTON-PORTER + + _Illustrations and Decorations by_ + PAUL BRANSOM + + Cosmopolitan Book Corporation + NEW YORK MCMXXII + + + _Copyright, 1922, by Cosmopolitan Book + Corporation, New York. All rights + reserved, including that of translation + into foreign languages, including the + Scandinavian_ + + + _First printing_ _March, 1922_ + _Second printing_ _April, 1922_ + + + _Printed in the United States of America_ + + + DEDICATED TO + + _BASIL KING_ + + WITH DEEPEST GRATITUDE FOR THE INSPIRATION + AND ENCOURAGEMENT THROUGH WHICH THE WILD + HEART STORIES FOUND WRITTEN EXPRESSION, + AND FOR THE TITLE OF THE SERIES WHICH THUS + CAME INTO BEING. + + + + + THE ILLUSTRATIONS _and_ CONTENTS + + + PAGE + Skygak discovered that catching mice was + Three-Spot’s chief vocation SKYGAK 12 + He circled slowly above our heads 32 + U-Chu-Ka never failed to answer our call U-CHU-KA 34 + For the dogs had lost the lighter scent SANCTUARY 47 + He questioningly sniffed the breeze THE FAERY NIGHT 66 + Cannon came charging in a whirlwind of THE FRIENDSHIP THAT + feathers FAILED 82 + His constant barking set the grown-ups + against him STOP THIEF 101 + If Clarence had been a man, he would have + endowed orphanages O’HENRY 124 + Timothy clung to the bottle habit TIMOTHY, THE DIRTY BEAR 145 + Sometimes the bandit birds swooped down THE BANDIT BIRD 168 + Her nostrils dilated at the hated human + scent MY FRIEND THE PRINCESS 189 + A wild thing of the deep woods, ruled by + pain instead of kindliness ETHEL 208 + + + + + AN INTRODUCTION + _Which might better be entitled_: + Some Youngsters Find the Wrong Parents + + _By_ + + Gene Stratton-Porter + + +Since “The Wild Heart” is throbbing with the same blood that pulses in +the heart of every human being who goes to the fields and woods and +fraternizes with the creatures that home there, since the feet that +carry a wild heart on its journey are following the same path that a few +peculiar feet have made, what they have found and what the heart has +learned is the same thing that similar feet have been finding and hearts +have been learning since the beginning of time. + +[Illustration] + +The author of this book pronounces it “very simple, having no literary +style or value.” Perhaps this estimate indicates modesty on her part, +but it is not the truth concerning the book. Thoreau once wrote: “It +takes two to speak the truth—one to speak and the other to hear.” Those +of us who have made our own path through the wilds know the truth when +we hear it. The first law that can be laid down concerning any work +worthy to be put into the hands of the public is the old law that every +writer should write concerning matters of his own personal observation. +Whenever any writer follows this old rule, working with sincerity of +heart, with inborn insight concerning his chosen subject, following the +promptings of a simple human heart, and using a certain facility in the +choice of words, which is a gift of God primarily, that author must +evolve good work. Laying down these specifications as law which governs +every masterpiece that ever has been produced, it will be observed that +“The Wild Heart” follows them as naturally as water flows to the sea, +possibly as unconsciously. + +[Illustration] + +To anyone who knows the fields and woods the book carries the conviction +of truth. Those who do not know nature will not believe many of these +statements, because they have not learned that when one goes into the +haunts of the wild calmly, fearlessly, absolutely in tune with Nature, +one is perfectly safe. The people who go to fraternize with the free +creatures, to learn the secrets of Nature, to protect, to love, to +fellowship with the wild, wear an invincible armor. + +Enos Mills will tell you that he tramps the Rocky Mountains for weeks at +a time absolutely without a weapon. Arthur Heming will tell you that he +travels Canada from side to side, north and south, passing all kinds of +wild creatures at all seasons and under any conditions, and nothing +touches him. + +I can tell you that my face has been within two feet of a coiled +rattlesnake ready to strike, but it did not strike. Two minutes later a +man antagonistic to the wild passed the same location and immediately +the snake disclosed itself and was ready to fight. + +Very recently some children playing at the edge of the desert found a +scorpion. They coaxed it onto a piece of bark and were carrying it +around playing with it. So long as they felt no fear of the creature, it +was quiescent in their hands. The instant they carried it among grown +people who recognized it and were afraid, the trouble began. When the +wild thing entered the atmosphere of fear and was surrounded by the +taint of that acid which is exhaled from the body of any human being +experiencing fear, that instant it was on guard and ready to strike. + +Any human being carrying in his breast a wild heart knows instinctively +how to fraternize with the wild. Anyone carrying a heart of fear and +antagonism will have a troubled journey through forest or desert. The +writer of this book proves that she carries a wild heart in her breast. +Her records are unquestionably true. They are precisely the same things +that happen to anyone having a heart in tune with Nature. + +[Illustration] + +So the book passes, first, because it speaks the truth. It needs only +that these records should be read to gain an idea of the degree of +insight possessed by the writer. The nice comprehension of what the wild +is thinking and feeling, the keen perception of the “why” of things, +pass the book on the grounds of insight. The simple unassuming manner in +which the record is kept proves it the emanation of a human heart +without guile, effervescing love, not only for the beauties of field and +forest, but for the living creatures that home there. + +[Illustration] + +It is modest of the writer to say that her book has “no literary style +or value,” but the book proves the reverse. Throughout will be found the +value of truth, the exquisite style of utter simplicity, the best plain +common word chosen to tell the plain common story; and it is a very +difficult thing always to find the right words with which to tell any +story. There are only about twenty thousand words in the English +language. When you compare this number with the number of objects +existing in the world, the number of ideas that have sprung and will +spring in the human brain, it easily can be appreciated that it is +sometimes difficult to find the right word by which to express one’s +meaning clearly and simply; for there always is one word which, better +than any other, will portray a situation or describe an object. + +Any author who is actuated by sincerity will always choose the plain +simple word which expresses his meaning plainly and simply. The one +thing that sets apart the work of any writer is the ability to express +himself in plain simple language that common people can understand and +appreciate. It was on this subject that Martin Luther once said: +“Hebrew, Latin, and Greek I spare until we learned ones come together, +and then we make it so curled and finical that God Himself wondereth at +us.” + +That is precisely the reason why nine-tenths of the Nature books written +in this country have been failures. They are “so curled and finical” +that only the “learned ones” can understand what they are all about. + +[Illustration] + +To me it is an atrocity to tag a bird, a butterfly, or a flower with +several inches of Latin or Greek per each. Every living creature should +have a common, simple, descriptive name that a common human being who +wants to know what it is can learn and remember. I do truly believe +“that God Himself wondereth at us” if He takes the time to look at many +of the books to be found in our libraries concerning the most exquisite +and beautiful of His creatures. + +[Illustration] + +I believe that any normal man or woman would be intensely interested in +the organism of a moth, the delicate parts so beautifully evolved to +serve their purpose; but what common person could wade through a large +volume crammed from end to end with such terms as _patagia_, _jugum_, +_discocellulars_, _phagocytes_? It is such works on Nature that have +kept the Nature lovers of many generations out of the fields and woods. +They had not the education, the time, nor the inclination to be +sufficiently “curled and finical” to be specific. They could take no one +specimen and learn it, because they could not identify it. In a book +such as “The Wild Heart” there is no word that a ten-year-old child can +not comprehend; while there is a wonderful beauty and facility in the +choice of words, in the sincerity of expression, and the sympathetic +insight. + +I certainly wish that a copy of this book may go into every home in the +world, for two reasons: the first, that men and women may learn how +anyone with a sympathetic heart devoid of fear may fraternize with the +wild; and for the other very excellent reason that it may do something +toward teaching parents that all children are not alike and can not +possibly be run through the same groove. + +[Illustration] + +Here and there in a family there is born a child with a wild heart. It +is nothing less than a tragedy when such a child is cursed with the +wrong parents. God gives to only a few of His children a wild heart, a +musical ear, facile fingers. The man or woman who keeps a child born +with the love of the woods in its heart from contact with Nature, who +destroys the trust that God placed in its heart, and instils fear bred +by man, does a dreadful thing, a thing that must end in disaster. Nature +does not reveal her secrets to everyone. Creatures of the wild will not +be brothers with any save a very few specially endowed human beings. + +[Illustration] + +Today my heart sickens at the thought of what would have happened to me +if, when I told my Mother I had been talking with the fairies and what +they said and did, she had whipped me for not speaking the truth; if, +when I came from the woods with my apron torn and soiled, full of dirty +specimens, my heart overflowing with the wonders of my discoveries, I +had been beaten and forbidden to go again. If we are to have truly great +art, literature, or science in the future, many, perhaps most, of those +who are to do the work will be born into this world in simple common +homes like the Indiana homes in which the author of “The Wild Heart” and +I were born. What we as a nation produce in wonder-work along any +creative line in the future is going to depend upon the ability of +parents of this generation to recognize and to foster unusual gifts in +their children when they first detect them. The mother who whips a child +because it happens to have been born with a wild heart does a thing so +wickedly cruel that there are no words in which to describe the +situation adequately. If this book will serve the one purpose of making +fathers and mothers of the coming generation sympathetic and kindly to +the little wild hearts that they bring into the world, it will perform a +very great work indeed. + +[Illustration] + + + + + _Part One_ + _The Story of_ + SKYGAK + AN OLD-MAN SEA-GULL + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + _Skygak discovered that catching mice was Three-Spot’s chief vocation, + and he made her life a burden._ + + +Skygak was an old-man sea-gull. He had circled and screamed over the +waters of Puget Sound for many a season, and it is doubtful if there is +anything in aërial lore that he did not know. He was an expert at +fishing, and could swoop down on an unsuspecting smelt from a dizzy +height and have the shiny fish down his gullet without so much as +touching his webbed feet to the water’s surface. He could snatch up a +sidling red crab before it could seek the shelter of a rock, and drop it +neatly and accurately on a stone, to dart down upon the mangled remains +before the juicy meal could be purloined by any of his kindred. + +He knew when storms were coming, and sometimes, when the skies were +clearest and the sun warmest, he would spiral up to a great height and +scream in long, quavering cadences that grew louder as the rain and wind +approached. Then the Siwash clam-diggers on the beach would gather up +their bags and shovels and bid their women see to brushwood, for they +knew the cry of the sea-gull when the Storm-God rides. They respected +the gray gull’s warning. + +[Illustration] + +We were children on the shores of Puget Sound, Brother and I. From our +little log cabin, with its porch roof slanting low like an old-fashioned +pokebonnet, we would watch the sea-gulls circle in the sky or bob lazily +on the blue waters of the bay like so many feathered corks. + +We knew Skygak among the other gulls, for one wing was white, the other +gray. So when we saw him, we named him by a queer, fanciful name that +seemed to fit a bird of air and water. And because the boat landing in +front of the cabin furnished a resting place for webbed feet on sunshiny +days, Skygak made it his headquarters, and we came to look for him and +to be fond of him. + +When we sailed in the tiny twelve-foot boat with its home-made +leg-o’-mutton sail or paddled in the dugout canoe made for us by a +Siwash Indian chief, we looked for Skygak in every flock of sea-gulls +that passed us, and it was our superstition, made on the spur of the +moment, as children’s fancies are, that if he flew over us we would have +good luck, and that a wish made on the instant would come true. + +[Illustration] + +But we never dreamed that Skygak of the air lanes would one day be an +intimate friend of ours, for we had been told by sailor and Indian +alike—and who knows more of seafaring birds than they?—that sea-gulls +could not be tamed. The Siwash chief who had given us our dugout canoe +knew the habits of the winged scavengers and loved them. Perhaps the +primitive heart of him, held in leash by the white man’s civilization, +was tuned to the wild, untamed heart of the gulls, for they flocked +around his beach shanty unafraid, and ate the scraps of clams he flung +to them; but he had never touched one of the gray brethren. + +[Illustration] + +And so it happened, on a day of mists and clouds, that Skygak came into +our lives as something more than a gray-and-white winged bird whose +passage above our boat would make a wish come true. + +[Illustration] + +It was a day typical of autumn in the Sound country. Gray rain pattered +ceaselessly into gray waters that stretched away to meet a leaden +horizon, and low-hanging clouds swirled restlessly with every gust of +wind. But the smell of wet pines was in the air; the grass was green and +glistening with iridescent beads. It was a day when the out-of-doors +called the hardy one to don overshoes, raincoat, and sou’wester hat and +fare forth to breathe the wet fragrance of woods and field, to feel the +soft rain on uplifted face, and to listen for the storm cry of the gulls +circling against the sky. + +[Illustration] + +Brother and I, clad against the rain, stood in wonder at the shore end +of the float. For there on the far end was Skygak, a miserable, dripping +figure hunched dejectedly on the wet planking. His once sleek wings hung +limply at his sides, his feathers were draggled and unkempt, his head +was hanging miserably as if the light but steady drizzle were torment to +him. + +[Illustration] + +Above him soared and circled his kindred of the sky, wondering, no +doubt, what was wrong, for now and again one of them would turn in a +half-circle, spinning on the tip of one great wing, and scream sharply, +as if in invitation to Skygak to join the airy tribe. And the old-man +sea-gull would turn one eye up to the birds above him and give vent to a +plaintive, longing cry. His draggled wings would flap in the rain as if +sheer force of will must bear him upward, then relax hopelessly as if +the effort made him more miserable. + +We watched and speculated, Brother and I, for never had we seen a gull +in such a plight. We saw that he was denied the water, too, for he would +stalk, with the wobbly, swinging motion of a web-foot tribe, to the edge +of the float, crane his neck as if about to launch himself upon the +rain-beaten waves, and then retreat to the middle of the wharf once +more. A gull who could neither fly nor swim! What had happened? + +We took the problem to the Siwash chief a mile up the beach, mending a +fish-net in his warm and smoky shanty. He listened impassively, yet with +interest. And he returned with us to the float to diagnose the gull’s +ailment. + +[Illustration] + +When he saw Skygak, he grunted briefly but sympathetically. The bird had +been caught in the swell behind a large boat—a battle-ship, +probably—when it was discharging oil, he told us. It was not an uncommon +thing, he said. The gull’s feathers were soaked with the heavy oil, and +until it had evaporated, or until new feathers should grow, Skygak would +be helpless both in the air and in the sea, and since he could not +provide food for himself he would starve to death. + +So spoke the Siwash chief, but his philosophy was not ours. We told each +other that Skygak should not die, and we called to the wet, miserable +gull that we would take care of him, but he did not even raise his head. + +What should we feed him? We had neither clams nor fish, and we were +afraid to go too near him, lest he mistake our friendly intentions and +take to the water in self-defense, to be weighted down by his oil-soaked +feathers. + +With the permission of our always sympathetic mother we salvaged cookies +from the jar behind the kitchen stove. We took cold griddle cakes, too, +and scraps of meat and bread. And with these dainties we set about the +task of winning the gray gull’s confidence and of saving him from the +misfortune which had overtaken him. + +[Illustration] + +Carefully and very quietly we went down the float, as near as we could +approach without Skygak’s taking alarm. When he showed signs of +restlessness, we advanced no further, but put a chunk of meat upon the +planks and withdrew to watch and wait. + +The gull, at first indifferent to everything but his unexplainable +plight, gradually felt hunger’s urge, and his long neck craned toward +our offering of food. Slowly he waddled toward it, a grotesque gray +bundle of draggled feathers, and with one vigorous gulp the meat +disappeared. + +Then we tossed him a chunk of bread softened with water, and this time +Skygak did not hesitate. The first morsel had aroused an appetite which +for the time being supplanted misery. He stalked forward and swallowed +the food, turning on us the broadside of one black eye, as if asking for +more. + +[Illustration] + +Nor did we refuse him. We tossed him, piece by piece, the food we had +brought with us, and returned to the pantry for more. Always we placed +the bread or meat a little nearer the shore and the cabin, and Skygak +followed the morsels anxiously, greedily, satisfying a hunger which must +have been of long and painful duration. + +Early dusk was upon us when we finally succeeded in tolling the gray +gull through the front yard into the chicken run, and into an unused +brooder house which offered a shelter against the rainy night. + +The lamps were lighted in the little log cabin when we completed our +self-appointed task of making Skygak comfortable, and our only regret +was that we could not give our friend a blanket. We feared he would not +understand. + +[Illustration] + +That was the beginning of a threesided friendship. The first few days of +Skygak’s convalescence were spent in huddled misery, and he moved only +when Brother or I came into the brooder house with food and water. Then +the rain ceased, Indian summer came smilingly upon the Sound country, +and when the sun shone warmly, Skygak decided that life was not all a +haze of gloom, and he set about vigorously to restore himself to a +normal condition. Hour after hour he pulled and massaged his feathers +until some of the heavy oil was loosened. The sunshine helped to dry his +draggled plumage, new feathers commenced to grow, and little by little +Skygak became his old cocky self. + +[Illustration] + +His affection for Brother and me was as apparent as was his dislike for +all other members of the human race. The grown-ups he would not trust, +and passers-by annoyed and alarmed him. But he would follow us about +wherever we went, stalking along behind us with grotesque dignity, and +when invited, would fly up on my shoulder or on Brother’s to receive +bits of food from our fingers and to snap playfully at us with his +great, powerful bill when we pretended to box with him. + +The liberty of the ranch was his, but his favorite spot was a corner of +the front porch where he would sit for hours in solemn contemplation of +the bay in front. People who went by on the trail looked in wonder at +the gray gull apparently very much at home in a little log cabin. + +[Illustration] + +Soon he learned to eat with the chickens, and when the bran mash was +spread for them in a long, wooden trough, Skygak would be there before +the bucket was emptied. Then, as the hens came flocking around, the gull +would spread his magnificent wings, open his huge beak to its widest +extent, and scream shrilly and fiercely, laying about him with his +yellow beak like a warrior swinging a deadly sword. The startled +poultry, unused to this changeling of the sea and sky, would scurry away +with distressed and frightened cackles, and Skygak would eat his fill at +the trough, pausing occasionally to administer punishment to any daring +cockerel who ventured too near. Many a bunch of feathers have I seen +hanging from his bill, like a scalplock hung from the belt of an Indian +brave, mute witness to a battle of brief but bloody duration. + +[Illustration] + +Our animals soon learned that this wandering guest was to be respected. +Tinker, the rat terrier, learned to his cost that Skygak was not a hen +to be chased from the front porch, if he chose to stay there. + +Between our cat, Three-Spot, and the gull, a bitter feud developed, +which had for its beginning such a small thing as a mouse. One had been +killed in a trap, and Brother tendered it to Skygak as an experiment. +The delicacy was new, but wholly acceptable, and with one ecstatic snap +of his beak Skygak swallowed it, and afterward, as Brother averred, +fairly licked his chops. Three-Spot sulked and gloomed because of the +slight, but her cup of woe was not full. + +[Illustration] + +For in some mysterious manner, Skygak discovered that catching mice was +Three-Spot’s chief vocation, and he made her life a burden. One morning +we heard an outraged yowl from the cat and an answering scream from +Skygak. On the back porch we found the two, Three-Spot crouched over a +dead mouse, eyes gleaming dangerously, tail switching from side to side, +and every hair erect. The bird was advancing cautiously, but +relentlessly, wings outspread, beak wide open, screaming and snapping at +every step. Three-Spot did not lack courage, but her experience had not +included juggernaut gulls, and when the terrifying yellow beak was hard +upon her, she fled, spitting venomously, and Skygak, like a disreputable +robber chief, swallowed her hard-earned prize in one mouthful. + +From that time, when he was not following Brother and me, or dozing on +the front porch, or bullying the hens, he was trailing Three-Spot about, +a relentless gray shadow, and if the luckless cat succeeded in keeping +for herself one mouse that she caught, it was when Skygak was asleep in +the brooder house. + +[Illustration] + +Slowly but surely the old-man sea-gull recovered from his affliction. +Some of the oil-soaked feathers dropped out, and new ones took their +place, and he risked short flights from time to time, cautiously at +first, as if not sure of his powers, and then with increasing +confidence. He ventured out into the water with perfect ease, and we +knew it would be but a short time before he had completely regained his +health. + +[Illustration] + +When first he flew we were afraid we had lost him, but he returned at +night-time, hungry and eager to be taken up on my shoulder. After that, +when he flew, it was to come back to us as naturally as if we, and not +the sea-gulls, were his kindred. + +But there came a day when a feeling of restlessness was in the air. +Brother and I, attuned to the moods of the woods and of out-of-door +things, felt it keenly, and we were not surprised when we saw overhead +the V formation of the wild geese flying southward. + +Then the sea-gulls commenced to scream in short, sharp cadences, and a +flock of the gray-and-white birds flew overhead, rising higher and +higher as is the habit of the gray ones when the migrating call comes. + +Skygak heard the call—that we could not doubt—for he was restless and +would stretch himself on tiptoe, flapping his wings, turning his head up +to the sky where a gray cloud of birds were flying. Then he would +scream—short, broken cries as if torn by indecision. He loved us, we +knew, but he was of the air lanes; the gray gulls were his kindred. +Sooner or later he must go with them. + +[Illustration] + +His flights grew longer, and once we did not see him for three days. +Even when he was with us, he was ill at ease. The wild heart of him was +longing for the untrammeled freedom of the winds and the sea, and gaunt +cliffs untouched by foot of man. He forgot to box with us; he no longer +bullied the poultry yard; he even neglected to watch for Three-Spot’s +trophies of the hunt. + +[Illustration] + +And then he went away. A week passed, and we mourned him bitterly. It +was not so much his going—we knew we must expect that—but we had wanted +to tell him good-by when he left, to wave our hands to him and wish him +Godspeed, to watch him until he was only a speck in the sky. The Siwash +chief said Skygak would never come back—but he did, once more. + +It was on a day of crystal clearness, when the clouds were like tiny +white boats in the sky. We stood in the yard, hand in hand, watching the +wild geese pass overhead and the flocks of sea-gulls flying high above +them. From the west came a gray cloud of the seabirds, with one gull +flying far in the lead. And as we watched, the leader left the flock of +winging gulls and, like a falling star, swooped down upon us, spiraling +lower and lower. We held our breath as we watched, for somehow, we knew, +we knew— + +A flash of one white wing showed clearly. I tried to speak, but no words +came. Closer and closer came the bird, Skygak, our old-man sea-gull, and +when he was no higher than the roof of the house, he circled slowly +above our heads. Then he screamed twice—long, plaintive cries that we +knew meant farewell. + +[Illustration] + +We were crying, but we waved our hands to him and called, “Good-by, +good-by!” And slowly he rose once more, the white of one white wing +melting into gray. Higher and higher he winged, to take his place at the +head of the flock.... He was just a speck against the sky, and still we +called our farewells to him in words choked with tears—the specks +vanished into cloudy distance—Skygak had gone forever. + +[Illustration: + + _He circled slowly above our heads_ +] + +But it was not without a thought of us. We shall always believe that he +halted the winged caravan to tell us good-by—and the Siwash chief +believes it, too. + + + + + _Introducing_ + U-CHU-KA + THE JUMPER + + + + + _Part Two_ + U-CHU-KA + + +Upon the Hill Trail, which Brother and I called ours because we loved it +so, you may yet see a little clearing made in the midst of red +huckleberry bushes, Oregon grape, and dark green salal shrubs. As long +as we lived in the little cabin by the bay, we never allowed underbrush +to creep into this spot on the Hill Trail, for it was sacred to the +memory of U-Chu-Ka, the only monument we could give him. + +U-Chu-Ka was a tiny rabbit—a “jack-rabbit,” I suppose natural historians +would have called him. But we gave him the name that in the Chinook +language means “the jumper,” and we never called him anything else. + +[Illustration] + + + + + _Part Two_ + U-CHU-KA + THE JUMPER + + +[Illustration: + + _He never failed to + answer our call_ +] + + +I remember the day we first saw him—a wee baby rabbit he was, escaped +somehow from his mother’s vigilance, and so much interested in the big +world outside the burrow where he had spent his short life that he +hardly knew whether to be afraid of us or merely curious. In such a case +he no doubt remembered his mother’s warning, for he “froze.” By this I +mean that he remained rigid, the tan of his fur blending with the +mottled greenery and the brown tones of the forest undergrowth. But +Brother and I could “freeze” too, having learned the art from the woods +creatures whom we knew and loved. So we stood perfectly still, and then +it was a case of seeing who could hold out the longer. + +It was U-Chu-Ka who finally capitulated in the battle of freezing. His +curiosity became greater than his fear, and he sat up on his haunches, +his tiny forefeet held primly over his stomach, his ears—much too long +for him—tilted questioningly in our direction, and his black dot of a +nose twitching ceaselessly. + +We were, I am sure, the first human beings U-Chu-Ka had seen, and +although behind him were countless rabbit traditions as to what fearful +creatures humans were, U-Chu-Ka, being so young, was possessed of +optimism and confidence. Brother and I were so happy when the little +fellow with his soft brown eyes decided that we were friends to be +trusted! Oh, if we had only realized that there were other people not so +friendly to little brown rabbits, whom U-Chu-Ka might have the +misfortune to meet! + +But we never thought of that. Our one realization was that here was a +new woods friend, and we set ourselves to the task of winning his heart. + +[Illustration] + +It was not hard. Indeed, when I think of it now, it seems so pitifully +easy. And I wonder, if every one knew just how easy it was, if men would +carry sticks that shoot flame and death into the domain of the woods +creatures—if they would not carry apples instead. + +It was an apple that first won U-Chu-Ka’s heart. Brother had one, of +course, and we nibbled bites off and placed the juicy morsels on the +trail in front of us. Then, walking quietly backward, we waited at a +safe distance for the wind to carry the delectable apple fragrance to +U-Chu-Ka’s wiggling nose. + +[Illustration] + +Nor was it long before one satiny ear—so fragile that it was almost +transparent—drooped and then rose again. The twitching nose worked +harder; U-Chu-Ka sat up straighter than ever; and then, with funny +little hops, he came toward us, hesitating occasionally, once pausing to +sit up on his haunches as if asking himself if he were doing the right +thing in approaching thus boldly. + +[Illustration] + +Finally he came to the bits of apple and promptly forgot his fear in his +delight at the unknown dainty. By the time he had eaten the few morsels +we had spread out for him, we had others ready, this time only at arm’s +length. + +Later we proffered bits of the fruit in our hands, held very steadily so +that no jerking should alarm the little brown rabbit. At first he was +undecided whether to accept the morsels so close to the big human +creatures, but something, I am sure, told him that there was no harm in +us. In the end he hopped over to my outstretched hand and nibbled +daintily at the apple, while I held my arm so still it ached. + +What Mother Rabbit would have said of the way we stuffed U-Chu-Ka, that +day, I do not know, but I am sure she would not have approved. We fed +him until his small stomach was round as a ball. When the apple diet +seemed to pall, we gathered tender blades of grass, and very soon the +little brown one would not take alarm at our movements, but would watch +us with solemn baby dignity, sitting up on his haunches or squatting in +a round ball, his tiny ears laid over his back—a sure sign that he was +no longer nervous. + +How we hated to leave him that day! We didn’t take him down the hill and +make him a home by the log cabin, for we had no wish to frighten him, +and as for foraging for himself in the woods, we were sure U-Chu-Ka knew +how to go about it. So we left him at the bend of the trail where we had +first seen him. We called it U-Chu-Ka’s corner, and we left the core of +the apple for him to nibble on after we had gone. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +The next afternoon about the same time—for the woods creatures are apt +to do certain things at certain hours—we came up the Hill Trail, +whistling, and were almost at U-Chu-Ka’s corner before it occurred to us +that the sound might frighten him away if he were still in that +neighborhood. But curiosity is a rabbit’s strongest trait, and suddenly +there he was, hopping out of the underbrush into the little clearing as +if in response to our call—indeed as if he had been waiting. + +We had brought offerings of lettuce and cabbage leaves, and this time it +was not half so long before U-Chu-Ka would eat from our hands and permit +us to fondle his velvet softness. + +We came every day after that, always whistling, with choicest tidbits +for our little friend. He would come into his “corner” hopping out from +the greenery like a tiny puffball, sit up very primly, ears tilted, his +nose wiggling, until he was sure it was his friends. Then down the trail +toward us he would bound, with such long hops that his hind feet seemed +to go above his head. Oh, U-Chu-Ka, little brown one, if we only had not +taught you to have confidence in humans—to come unafraid when we +whistled! + +[Illustration] + +As the summer went by, U-Chu-Ka grew and grew. From a baby rabbit he +became a half-grown rabbit, and we realized that before long he would be +a very large rabbit indeed. But he never failed to answer our call, and +through the long summer afternoons we would play upon the hill, the +three of us. We played house, U-Chu-Ka submitting without protest to +being dressed in a doll’s frock, with a tiny hat tying back his ears. He +was our child, and we rocked him to sleep, sent him to school, +disciplined him at times, and pretended that he talked to us. If I could +only give you a picture of U-Chu-Ka, half-grown now, in a blue gingham +doll dress, his brown paws stuck through the short sleeves, his white +knob of a tail flashing impudently from behind when he hopped about, and +his soft brown eyes grotesquely large under the white hat tied under his +chin! + +And then, one day—it is a day I do not like to think of—we decided that +U-Chu-Ka should have a birthday party. So we took cookies, apples, and +lettuce sandwiches up the hill. It was hot, with scarcely a breeze, and +sounds carried distinctly. From far away we heard a whistled tune, and +we knew that some infrequent passer-by was on the Hill Trail. The sound +grew louder as we climbed, and then—a single shot that sent echoes +vibrating against the startled hills. + +[Illustration] + +A gunshot! It was not such an infrequent sound through the woods that +skirted the Bay, but our hearts suddenly contracted as if a hand had +clutched them. + +We said not a word to each other, but broke into a jogging trot that +brought us hot and panting to the top of the hill. From there it was but +a hundred yards or so to U-Chu-Ka’s corner, and we ran doggedly, with a +great fear tearing at our hearts. + +Oh, that moment! U-Chu-Ka’s corner was empty—but perhaps he would come +if we whistled! We tried to form our dry lips for the sound, but none +came. For we saw simultaneously, in the little clearing, a bright red +patch on the low-hanging ferns—a little tuft of brown fur and a bit of +white down. + +[Illustration] + +The hunter had come and gone. U-Chu-Ka could not have known that the +long stick pointed at him was filled with flame and death. We could +picture the scene so well—the man, swinging carelessly down along the +trail whistling, the gun over his shoulder—a sudden halt as a little +brown rabbit hopped out from the underbrush into the small clearing and +raised himself inquisitively on his haunches—a flash—a bundle of limp +fur, blood-stained—a little brown pelt dangling pathetically down from a +leather belt. Perhaps the man whistled again as he went down the trail. +He could not know that two children, back by the little clearing, were +sobbing their hearts out with their faces buried in the cool, green +moss, because of a playmate who would come no more. + +[Illustration] + +We tamed no more rabbits, Brother and I. We felt that we had been the +cause of our friend’s death, and the least we could do was to refrain +from putting confidence into other woods creatures, to be shattered by +humans who did not know or care about the wild heart. + +And so we planted twin-flower vines in the little clearing, and edged it +with yellow Johnny-jump-up plants. It was our futile way of saying to +U-Chu-Ka how sorry we were—how we loved him and how we missed him. + +And today on the Hill Trail you may see U-Chu-Ka’s corner, grown over a +bit now, because no one chops away the underbrush. But still the +twin-flowers and the Johnny-jump-up’s bloom there in memory of U-Chu-Ka, +the little brown friend who lives on in our hearts and our loving +memory. + + + + +[Illustration: + + _For the dogs had lost the lighter scent_ +] + + _Part Three_ + SANCTUARY + + +No doubt it was a silly name to give a deer—“Leonard”—but Brother and I +named him on the spur of the moment, and, probably because we did not +know the Indian word for “fawn,” we resorted to the prosaic title to +which our woods friend learned to respond. + +Our acquaintance with Leonard began in such a dramatic way and with such +suddenness that we had no time to think about a suitable name—although +we did remember to name him even in the first chaotic moment of meeting. +It was a habit that came to us as naturally as breathing. + +[Illustration] + +It was during those days of licensed killing known as “the deer season.” +All day long, from across the bay, a mile in width, came the +long-drawn-out baying of hounds and an occasional shot. On our side of +the bay, too, high up in the wooded hills, we could hear the hounds at +chase, and our hearts were heavy, being weighted with fear for the +hunted things of the woods. We wondered if the hunters would find the +salt-lick which we had stumbled upon in our wanderings and where we had +spent many breathless hours watching for the slim-limbed does and the +antlered bucks to come and take refreshment. + +We stood outside the little log cabin, our faces raised to the hills, +our hands clasped tightly together, listening shiveringly to the hunting +cry of the dogs. They were in full chase, we knew, after some luckless +deer. We felt so helpless, yet so eager to help protect our friends of +the wilds. I wonder if our unexpressed prayer did not have something to +do with what happened. + +The baying of the hounds alternated with the crash of the underbrush +where they were running, men coming close behind. The dogs were skirting +the top of a hill. All at once their baying became a series of +whimpering barks. They were for the moment off the scent. + +[Illustration] + +And then, down the hill, with such flying leaps that he scarcely touched +the earth, came a little deer, a fawn, heading straight for the cabin. +Was he mad with fear that he sought the home of humans? Or did he know +by that unexplainable power which animals have that we were friends, +that we would protect his life with ours—did he, I wonder? For he +cleared the four-foot fence with a bound and trotted up to us, then +stood trembling, his soft eyes glazed with fright, white foam at the +corners of his mouth. + +This is not a fiction story; I am telling it as it happened. + +The little fawn thrust his hot, dry nose against my hand, and when +Brother and I, recovering from our petrified amazement, put our arms +around his velvety neck, he did not shrink away, but pressed against us +as if mutely begging protection. + +[Illustration] + +If you have never had a wild creature throw itself upon your mercy, if +you have never known the feeling of a soft, brown deer body pressed +against yours in pleading and in confidence, you can not realize the +wild thrill of ecstasy that went through us. + +“His name is Leonard!” I found breath to say, my face against the +velvety neck of the little deer. + +But Brother, being a man in embryo, was thinking of sterner things. The +hounds, he reminded me, would shortly find the scent of the deer. If +they came baying down the hill, the fawn would take fright and dart away +before we could stop him. + +[Illustration] + +It was not a pleasant picture, but what were we to do? The short, +whining barks of the dogs had already changed to the long, triumphant +cadence of the hound in full cry. They would come down the hill, the +hunters would claim Leonard as their game, they would— + +[Illustration] + +“Meat!” whispered Brother tensely, and cryptic as it may sound to the +reader I understood perfectly. I wondered that I had not thought of it +myself. Brother outlined a plan of action in a few brief words while the +baby deer, with knees wobbling sadly, turned terror-haunted eyes up the +hill, his delicate nostrils quivering, yet made no move to leave us. + +It took my best efforts to lead the little fawn into the shelter of the +brooder house. The scent was foreign to anything he had known before, +and the darkness terrified him anew. He could not have known that safety +lay within that strange place, but he did know—of that I am sure—that he +could trust himself with me, for he came, hesitatingly, urged always by +my voice and my hands gently caressing him. He went with me, even +through the door, into the semi-darkness of the frame brooder house, and +though when I swung the door shut he nervously leaped away from my side, +it was to return an instant later, as if begging my pardon for his +involuntary action. + +Brother, in the meantime, had dashed into the kitchen and emerged as +quickly with a juicy steak—it was to have been cooked for dinner that +night—which he hacked into chunks with his jackknife as he raced up the +hill. + +With my eyes against a crack I could see him panting upward to the point +where Leonard had emerged from the underbrush of the woods. + +[Illustration] + +And scarcely had he arrived when a lean hound, with lolling tongue and +nose to the ground, burst from the shrubbery, uttering a long-drawn-out +bay. The little deer beside me shook in every limb, and I was trembling, +too, as if it were I, not Leonard, whom the dogs were trailing. We +crouched there in the darkness, the wild thing of the woods and the +child who loved the wild things of the woods, and in those tense moments +I felt the heart of the baby deer pounding against my body. Can you +wonder why now, when I see the body of a deer killed in the hunt, I can +not congratulate the hunter on his prowess? I know how the deer at bay +stood still and trembled! I know how his soft, brown eyes grew wide with +helpless terror. I know how his heart pounded suffocatingly. And I can +not be glad for the hunter; I am only sorry that he does not understand. + +[Illustration] + +And up on the hill Brother was acting his part in the drama. When the +first lean hound swung into sight, he deftly tossed a chunk of red, +juicy meat in his pathway. The dog ignored the first piece, so intent +was he on the fresh scent of the deer. But another chunk aimed just +ahead of him was a temptation not to be withstood, and he gobbled it up, +pausing a second in his chase. Another dog followed him out of the +underbrush, finding the first piece of meat Brother had thrown. + +It did not take long for the two hounds to finish off the entire steak +so obligingly tossed to them by the small boy almost hidden in a clump +of tall ferns. And when it was gone, Leonard was safe, for the dogs, +with the smell of fresh meat in their nostrils, had lost the lighter +scent of the little deer’s flying hoofs, and they sniffed shamefacedly +and with befuddled yappings, until the hunters came cursing down the +hill and crashing into the open, to berate the dogs soundly for having +lost the game—as they supposed—in the woods. + +[Illustration] + +They could not know that the little boy in the clump of ferns, looking +on so innocently, was responsible for the hounds’ failure, nor that +their game was at that instant held tightly in the arms of a little girl +who was shaking with excitement as well as with fear, lest something +happen to betray the refugee’s hiding-place. + +But nothing did. The men stamped back into the woods, taking the hounds +with them, and that day at least we heard no more baying on the hill. + +[Illustration] + +And Leonard—we were afraid to let him go back to the woods until the +deer season had passed or until he was of a size better able to care for +himself. The grown-ups helped us, and we contrived a pen with wire +netting over the top and sides as well, with the brooder house as +shelter for nights. And here we kept Leonard a willing prisoner, while +the hounds bayed on the hills and shots echoed across the water. How we +wished, when we heard them, that we could make a place of refuge for +every hunted thing in the world to come to and be cared for. But Leonard +at least was safe, and he seemed to know it, too. Though he trembled +whenever he heard the long hunting cry of the dogs, he did not take +refuge even in the brooder house. He knew, I think, that he was in +sanctuary. + +[Illustration] + +As the days went on, we released our little deer from his pen, first +with a collar and a rope, and then with nothing to hold him. He followed +us like a dog, trotting beside us with dainty, mincing steps, sometimes +leaping ahead of us, turning to look back at us, his large ears at an +angle, his slim young body silhouetted against the green of the woods. + +He soon learned his name and would come bounding out to us when we +called. We fed him things his ancestors probably never tasted—cookies, +apples, lettuce leaves, and candy, in addition to the grass and tender +leaves we brought him before we allowed him to accompany us. But best of +all the dainties we gave him was the chewing gum that Brother in a +playful moment tendered him. Leonard accepted it daintily, as was his +wont, and chewed it, as Brother and I remarked, with an actual +expression of surprise coming into his brown eyes. He chewed and chewed. +Perhaps he thought it a new variety of cud. At any rate, he gave it his +hearty indorsement, and after that he would nose in Brother’s pockets to +find the stick of gum that was always there for him. + +[Illustration] + +So Leonard became one of our happy family, and though we knew that +sometime in the distant future we should have on our hands the problem +of what to do with an antlered buck who had forgotten the ways of the +woods and accepted those of civilization, we did not feel sorry about +it, being content to dwell in the happy present, while Leonard seemed +content as well. + +But one night I woke to find Brother’s hand tugging at mine. He was +whispering to me that something was outside Leonard’s pen—perhaps it was +a bear or a wildcat trying to get at him. + +[Illustration] + +Foolish children we may have been, but we were not cowardly. It never +occurred to us to rouse the grown-ups. Leonard was our friend and our +responsibility. From my window the two of us crept out on the roof, +white nightgowned figures, shaking with cold and excitement. From the +roof we dropped easily to the railing of the picket fence at the back of +the cabin and from there to the ground. + +Like two little white wraiths we crept along in the shadow of the fence +until we could see the outlines of the brooder house and the pen which +enclosed it. There was a moon, but it was thickly hidden by clouds. All +we could distinguish was a dark form against the wire netting, a shape +that moved restlessly, now away from the pen, now back to it. + +As our eyes became accustomed to the darkness, we saw that Leonard was +in the pen outside the brooder house, and we questioned each other +silently. Surely no deer would come thus to meet an enemy animal that +wanted to destroy. + +[Illustration] + +And then, as if in answer to our question, the clouds parted and a pale +moon turned the darkness into half-shadowed light. With the sudden +effulgence came the weird gleam of four eyes turned in our direction—for +our scent had carried to sensitive nostrils. Brother and I, for an +instant, caught each other’s hands and gasped. + +[Illustration] + +Then two of the luminous lights vanished, as the slim animal outside the +pen sprang away in great bounds that carried her into the shadows beyond +our ken—but not before we had recognized the slim, fleeing form for a +doe. We knew it was Leonard’s mother, who had found her baby. + +We climbed back into our window as silently as we had left it. Brother +in his cot, and I in mine, stared up into the darkness, trying to tell +ourselves that ours was the right to keep the fawn we had befriended, +yet knowing that the mother heart was calling for the little brown deer +whom we loved so well. And we knew that in the end we must relinquish +our claim—Leonard, after all, belonged to the woods, and the mother +heart of the woods was calling. + +Because we loved him so, we tried to pretend, the next day, that the +deer we had seen was not Leonard’s mother—that it was merely a friend +from the woods who had come down by moonlight to pay a nocturnal call. +In our hearts, though, we knew better. Leonard all the day was restless; +he pricked his ears continually as if waiting for a voice from the +forest. We could scarcely coax him out of his distrait mood, even with a +double ration of the chewing gum he loved so well. + +[Illustration] + +The next night sleep was impossible. Though we heard nothing, we knew, +somehow, that outside Leonard’s pen was a slim brown body pressed close +against the wire netting. We rose, at last, and crept out over the roof +and down to the ground. The doe was there, as we had foreseen. At our +approach she bounded away with only the faintest rustle of leaves and +snapping of twigs to mark her progress. But knowing that she would not +go far—that she would come back to her baby—Brother and I went quickly +forward and opened the door of the pen. + +Leonard came to us and thrust his nose against my hand. We knelt on the +ground, putting our arms around him, pressing our faces against his +soft, brown neck, telling him with tears behind our whispered words that +he must go with his mother, that the danger season was passed, and that +he was free to go back to his kindred. + +[Illustration] + +We stole away, but Leonard followed us, as if asking where we went and +why he was not to go with us. For the first time we pushed him away from +us, though you can not know what it meant to us to do it. He stood still +then, as if wondering, perhaps a little hurt, and we, not daring to look +back, ran for the fence, clambered upon it, and gained the roof. + +Once there, we could not resist watching a bit, and it was not long +before the two luminous eyes gleamed from the underbrush. Then we saw a +shapely, dark body come slowly into the open, and Leonard, with light, +springing bounds, had rushed to meet his mother. For an instant we saw +again the glowing orbs of two pairs of eyes. Then the lights vanished; +two dark bodies moved side by side into the blackness of the woods; we +heard the light crackle of underbrush; and then silence. + +Silently we crept into our beds, and long afterward I heard Brother’s +choking whisper coming through the darkness—my own face was buried in +the pillow: + +“I know—Leonard’s going to miss—his—gum—” + +We cried ourselves to sleep that night, thinking of an empty pen and of +a little brown friend gone from us forever. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration: + + _He questioningly sniffed the breeze._ +] + + + + + _Part Four_ + THE FAERY NIGHT + + +There came a night in June when the moon rose a great, yellow ball of +light over the fir trees that crowned the hill. It was a night for +adventure, for magic and mystery. And I, wide awake on the camp cot in +the front yard of the cabin, listened to the faint lapping of the water +upon the beach not a single stone’s-throw away, and to the wordless song +of the pine trees as the night wind swept drowsy fingers across their +branches—harps that woke to melody only when the daylight had gone and +the stars stole out to listen to their song. The puffy maple tree which +guarded the little log cabin was murmuring softly to itself, its leaves +nodding to each other as if confiding some wonderful secret, and the +giant fir tree on the other side of the porch stood erect and motionless +as if it were a sentinel and thus disdained to gossip. + +From far out in the bay came faint splashes which told of salmon +leaping, and now and then the distant cry of a night bird, so faint as +to be only the shadow of a sound. In the air was the smell of grass +freshly wet with dew, of pine trees drenched and glistening, of wild +syringa on the hillside, and, more pronounced, the scent of the tiny +Mother of God roses that clambered over the cabin in a white and +fragrant wreath. + +The stars were bright as the tears of angels, from which the Chinook +Indians say they were made, and the moon in their midst flooded hill and +bay with a silvery light made more intense by the blackness of the +forest. + +[Illustration] + +Somehow there was a hint of expectancy in the air, as if the summer had +looked forward to this one night and was a-thrill with the joy of its +coming. I could not sleep, for I was attuned to the things of the +out-of-doors, and I, too, was a-thrill with the expectation of +something—I knew not what. + +I watched Altair rise over the “Happy Family” pines with his two +attendant stars that are like the outspread wings of an eagle, and I +kissed my hand to him in greeting. + +A star fell, leaving a trailing line of light in its wake, and suddenly +I felt a little sad, for a Siwash Indian chief had told us that when a +star fell, it was a flower tossed by the hand of a good spirit from +Paradise to ease the pain of a soul passing out into the Great Darkness. + +[Illustration] + +Then Amarillo, the big yellow cat, padded across the grass with little +throaty mewings of greeting, and I felt the light thud of his body as he +leaped on the bed and settled himself at my feet. He, too, was restless, +for he would raise and lower his tawny head and would sometimes turn his +golden eyes upon me as if seeking an explanation for the thrill that was +in the night. + +[Illustration] + +So I was not surprised when I heard a faint, familiar scraping which +told me that Brother had climbed from his bedroom window and was sliding +down the roof to the fence. + +Since we had only one camp cot, Brother and I must needs take turns +sleeping out of doors. And although this night was mine, I knew that he, +too, had felt its magic and could not abide the stuffy darkness of the +cabin when the world outside was bathed in moonlight. He came tiptoeing +around the corner of the house very quietly so as not to waken the +grown-ups, and Amarillo purred loudly as he saw him come, and dug his +claws into the bedclothes with contented, prickling sounds. + +Brother was fully dressed, and he put his lips close to my ear as he +whispered: “Do you know what kind of a night this is?” + +“No,” I answered breathlessly. + +“A fairy night!” he breathed with awe. “The old fisherman told me that +on moonlight nights the fairies dance in the moss ring on the Hill +Trail. Come quick, let’s go!” + +I needed no second bidding. Even as he spoke, I was drawing over my head +the knee-length dress I had worn during the day, and was feeling for my +moccasins tucked away from the dew under the rubber covering of the bed. + +[Illustration] + +Hand in hand we slipped out of the yard and up the trail, moving as +silently as wraiths. Amarillo followed to the edge of the woods and then +slipped away on business of his own. + +Up the hill we hurried, up the narrow trail patched with moonlight and +shadows. The wet branches of the pines brushed across our faces; our +bare legs were swished by fern fronds as we passed. Sometimes a twig +crackled underfoot, and now and then we heard a slight rustling in the +underbrush where a little animal was moving. + +We passed by the spring which gurgled dreamily into the pool shadowed by +ferns and alders. A mother deer and her baby were drinking there, and +although they turned their great eyes upon us, luminous in the moonlight +that sifted through the branches, they did not start or run as we stole +by. + +[Illustration] + +The top of the hill was gained at last, and the Hill Trail which we +called ours. Well we knew the fairy ring, a circle of moss in a +clearing, ringed around with pink twin-flowers and wild strawberry +vines, a fitting place for elfin feet to dance on a moonlight night. And +as we neared the clearing flooded by the bright moonlight, we trembled +with ecstasy and anticipation. That the fairies did dance there we never +doubted, but would they reveal themselves to the eyes of mortals, even +such friendly mortals as ourselves? + +Crouched behind a cedar log and screened by salal bushes, we watched and +waited, our eyes glued to the moss ring in the patch of moon silver—but +no fairies came. + +[Illustration] + +Just the same it _was_ a fairy night, as you shall see. For presently a +little brown bear came out into the clearing, making considerably more +noise than his size warranted, sat up on his haunches, and sniffed the +breeze questioningly. He nibbled daintily at the leaves of a red +huckleberry bush, and having finished his nocturnal repast, walked +pigeon-toed over to a cedar tree, scratched his back against it, making +rumbling noises of content, and finally raised himself to his full +height—which was not so high after all—and marked how tall he was on the +shaggy bark of the tree by scratching it deeply with his claws. Then he +waddled away in his bow-legged fashion, and we heard the faint crashing +of the underbrush as he passed through. + +[Illustration] + +There came a wakeful brown rabbit, who hopped into the very center of +the fairy ring, wiggled his ears and nose, and then began to make an +elaborate toilet—in honor, we thought, of the elfin ball. He washed his +paws with care and gave each tapering ear a thorough massage. Last, he +twisted like a contortionist to assure himself that his white knob of a +tail was in perfect order, and finally being satisfied with his +inspection, he loped leisurely away without so much as the crackle of a +twig. + +[Illustration] + +The next two visitors to the moonlit clearing were two baby skunks +striped with brown and white and with graceful tufts of white for tails. +Strangely enough, Brother and I were not afraid of what might happen +should they suddenly be aware of our presence and become frightened, for +it seemed to us that we too belonged to the fairy night and that nothing +could happen to mar the perfect beauty of it. The little animals played +like kittens, dashing out at each other from the shadows and rolling +about in mock ferocity, but presently they, too, stole away, silently, +as wood creatures move, and we were left alone with the moonlit night +and the empty fairy ring. + +Then from the direction of the trail came a cry of pain—like a human +cry. The spell of the night was shattered, and we gripped each other’s +hands and thought of flight. But again came the sound, a whimpering cry +like a child in distress, and the fear which had clutched at our hearts +vanished as suddenly, for we knew it must be an animal—some woods friend +sorely hurt. So without further pause we left the shelter of the log and +hurried across the clearing to the trail. The sound came from beyond the +“Happy Family” pines, and we hastened toward it. + +[Illustration] + +In the lumber clearing just off the trail we found what we had half +expected—a young fox caught in a steel trap by his front paws, and he +was whimpering with the pain of it. The dark eyes which he turned toward +us showed a frenzied, greenish light, and as we came nearer, he yelped +sharply, tugging frantically at the sharp teeth which never relaxed +their grip. + +The pity in our hearts made us forgetful of his fear, but as we started +toward him, he wrenched backward, dragging the heavy trap to the full +length of the chain, his small, gray-brown body a-quiver with terror and +pain. So then we waited, approaching very quietly and slowly. Finally +his struggles ceased from sheer fatigue, and the eyes which he turned +upon us were dull and lifeless. Brother tried to hold me back, but I +would not have it so, and coming very close to the little fox, I put my +hand on his soft, furry head. He did not bite or even cringe. Perhaps +his pain was so great that he could suffer no more and so could not be +afraid, or perhaps it was because he sensed that my touch was a friendly +one and that help was near at hand. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +Together Brother and I pried the steel jaws apart, and the little fox, +set free, limped away for a few feet and then fell exhausted. So I +picked him up, and walking quietly so as not to hurt or alarm him, we +sought again the forest pool, mottled now with deep shadows and pale +lights. The mother deer and her baby had gone, and in the cool, gurgling +water of the little stream we bathed the wounded feet of our friend and +named him “Reginald.” We made sure that the paws were not broken, only +lacerated by the sharp teeth of the trap, and when he began to stir and +move his head in quick jerks from side to side, we set him down on the +cool moss. After a little while he commenced to lick the hurt paws, very +gently at first and then with increasing confidence, and he did not go +away at once. He feared us no more than he would have feared a brother +and sister fox. So for an hour, until the moonlight gleams became +fainter and the shadows deeper, the three of us lingered by the forest +pool. Brother and I pretended that Reginald talked to us and that he +could understand what we said to him. And when finally he finished +licking his paws and slipped away into the darkness, we regained once +more the moonlit Hill Trail and started for home. + +But there was one thing we must do, and we turned back to “Reginald’s +clearing,” as we called it. In the waning light we found the trap which +had so cruelly hurt our little friend, and we unwound the chain from the +tree. Into the blackness of the underbrush we flung it and laughed +defiantly as we heard it crash in the thicket. Then, as if some avenging +power were hard on our heels, we fled down the trail out of the wood and +stole into the yard without even the creaking of a gate to betray us. + +[Illustration] + +Thrilled to the very core of my being, I huddled into bed. And Amarillo, +who had long since returned, arched his back and yawned widely as if to +imply that such a nocturnal excursion was not respectable. + +Brother started to tiptoe around to the fence and thus gain the roof and +his bedroom, but I stopped him with a sharp hiss, and he tiptoed back to +me. + +“What shall we say if some hunter asks us about the trap?” I breathed +into his ear, and he doubled up and laughed noiselessly. + +[Illustration] + +“We will tell him that anything can happen on a fairy night,” he +whispered back and stole away to the fence, while I watched the moon +settle behind the distant blue hills, and with the ensuing darkness came +the breath of the morning breeze. The fairy night was over. + + + + + _Part Five_| THE FRIENDSHIP THAT FAILED + + + + +[Illustration] + + _Part Five_ + THE FRIENDSHIP THAT FAILED + + +On the shores of Puget Sound, where the woods come down to the shore to +fraternize with the little white-capped waves of the bay, lived Henry, +the heron. How old he was before Brother and I came to know him, we +could not tell. But an old-man bird he must have been surely, for his +was a knowledge of fishing that comes from long experience. + +Every day we would watch him from our little log cabin—watch him sail +majestically toward the float, pause directly above, and flap down upon +it, using his lanky legs as balancing weights. He would stand there for +many moments, turning his head slightly from side to side as if +revolving in his mind whether he had done the wise thing in coming, and +what his next move ought to be. + +[Illustration: + + _Cannon came charging in a whirlwind of feathers._ +] + +Such a deliberate bird Henry seemed, but this apparent deliberation was +only one of the tricks of his trade. I am sure that had I been a fish, I +would have believed there was nothing to fear from the immobile bunch of +gray feathers balanced on two skinny stilt legs, and I would have swum +merrily under the very tip of his beak. But Henry’s sharp, black eyes +missed nothing, as the hapless fish found to their cost when they +ventured too near the surface. With one lightning swoop the great bill +cleaved the water, and the next instant a shiny fish was wriggling in +his beak. + +[Illustration] + +Sometimes he did his fishing while standing in the water up to his +knees—or where his knees would be if herons had such things. With his +head drawn in between his feathered shoulders and his long beak sticking +out at right angles like a lance at rest, he seemed to be taking a +siesta, and only the occasional plunge of his long bill into the water, +and the accompanying twinkle of a small silver fish as it flapped in +amazement before it slid down into his gullet, proved that he was +awake—and hungry. + +We gave Henry his name when he was but an acquaintance of ours. We never +really hoped to have him for a friend, but we liked him, and we felt +that he liked us, too. So when he did his fishing on our float or +knee-deep in the water of the little cove before the cabin, we threw +scraps of bread to him, which he accepted gravely and always dipped in +the salt water before swallowing. + +We used to hear his strange, mournful cry late at night as he flew +northward past the cove on his way to the pine tree where he lived, and +we always pretended he was giving us a greeting before he turned in for +the night. + +[Illustration] + +We found out, too, where he made his home. We had often seen him land on +a bony, fallen tree half a mile up the beach, which jutted straight out +into the water and which we called “the Pointing Finger.” Once, in our +explorations along the beach trail, we saw Henry standing on the gray +shaft of the dead tree, and as we watched, he stooped slightly, then +flapped upward and flew into a tall pine tree almost in front of us. +When we stood under it, we could distinguish the outlines of a nest high +up in the branches. Perhaps at that time there was a Mrs. Henry and +maybe some young Henrys—I do not know. But certain it was that when he +became a friend of ours by reason of a happening which might have ended +in tragedy for him, he seemed to be without family cares or +responsibilities. + +[Illustration] + +During the season when the salmon were running, the Old Fisherman, who +was at once our mentor and playfellow, spread his nets from the +shore-line straight out into the bay for a hundred yards, leaving them +there the night through to catch the large silver salmon on their way to +the creeks to spawn. One of these nights he had laid his net near the +Pointing Finger, and Brother and I, going with him in his creaky, +flat-bottomed boat to see the result of the haul, heard ahead of us a +great splashing, and saw dimly outlined in the midst of the cork floats +a dark body that flapped and struggled. + +We whispered excitedly that perhaps a seal had become entangled in the +net, but the Old Fisherman thought it only a salmon, or perhaps a +dogfish whose pointed snout had been caught in the meshes of the cords. + +[Illustration] + +But it was neither seal nor salmon, for on rowing close to the net we +saw by the light of the Old Fisherman’s lantern a huge, gray bird with +flapping wings and slashing beak. It was Henry, the heron, who had +alighted on one of the cork floaters, perhaps thinking it safe footing, +and had thus become hopelessly snared in the net. + +[Illustration] + +What was even worse, he had hurt himself cruelly in his struggles, for +one long leg was dangling helplessly, and one of his wide gray wings +hung limp at his side. When the Old Fisherman, with gruff words but +tender hands, released him from the cords which bound him, he could not +fly, but flapped helplessly upon the water. And so it was that we lifted +him into the boat and tied a gunnysack around him so that he should not +injure himself further, for he did not understand that our intentions +were kindly and snapped at us fiercely with his huge beak. + +The Old Fisherman, who had lived with the Indians and who had acquired +their curative gifts, took Henry, the heron, in charge when we reached +the little cabin in the cove, first muzzling him by tying a stout cord +about his beak. Then he set the broken wing and put the leg in splints. +The grown-ups suggested putting Henry in the hen-house for the night, +but Brother and I would not have it so, and with their help we +constructed a pen behind the kitchen stove where he could be warm and +comfortable. We left him moving his head jerkily from side to side, +blinking his beady eyes now and then and snapping his bill as if in +troubled retrospect. + +But during the next week Henry, the heron, came to know that we were his +friends and that he had nothing to fear from us. He allowed us to stroke +him and would accept morsels of food from our fingers, even taking care +not to nip us with his powerful beak. + +[Illustration] + +When he had finally ceased to fear us, we gave him the liberty of the +back-yard, and he would stalk about stiffly like a peg-legged veteran of +the wars. But most of the time he would stand with his head drawn in +between his shoulders, the picture of dejection, and Brother and I knew +he was longing for the freedom of the air and the water which had been +his. He was longing for the cool lapping of little waves against his +legs, for the silver gleam of fish in the blue depths; and he wanted to +fly once more—to circle over the bay, to flap down upon the Pointing +Finger. Perhaps he was even lonesome for the nest in the pine tree. At +any rate we were sorry for his sadness and set about to remedy it as +best we could. We fished indefatigably from the float, and the Old +Fisherman brought us smelts and silver perch from his nets. + +[Illustration] + +Then, to make our guest feel more at home, we would put our catch in a +washtub filled with water, and Henry would fish for them choosing his +prey with calculating eye and gobbling it up with one great peck. It was +the best we could do for him, and we felt that he appreciated that, too, +for he obligingly hunted down every fish in the tub, and then would turn +his grave head toward us, giving us the broadside effect of one shiny +eye, whether in thanks or in petition for more we could not determine. + +[Illustration] + +But it was really due to Cannon, our bantam rooster, that Henry’s +convalescence was not entirely unendurable. Cannon was the eldest son of +Liberty, a small bantam hen who had brought forth her brood on the +fourth of July—hence her name and his. He was the undisputed king of the +poultry yard, for a strain of game cock in his blood had made him +fearless of everything and an unspeakable bully. There was no hen or +cock of twice his size who dared come near his end of the feed trough, +and even Prince, the mammoth White Rock rooster, stood in awe of him. +Perhaps he was merely amused at the airs Cannon gave himself, and so let +the tiny cock have his way, but at any rate his record of combat was +unsullied by a single defeat. + +[Illustration] + +I have seen many a strange friendship between animals and between birds, +too, but never one so curious as that of Henry, the heron, and Cannon, +the bantam rooster. For friends they were, and real friends, too. They +became acquainted when Cannon, flying into the back-yard one day, spied +the stiff-legged Henry and immediately decided to do battle with him. He +ruffled up his neck feathers, whirled round and round with one wing +dusting the ground, and advancing on Henry, dared him to come on and +fight. At first Brother and I thought to rescue Cannon from what we +believed would be his sure death. But we were wrong; for Henry regarded +the little brown cock contemplatively, snapped his bill in warning, then +blinked and turned away as if overcome with boredom. But Cannon was not +used to being ignored. If his enemies would not fight, they must at +least give way before him. So his neck ruff distended more and more, his +tiny comb glowed an angry red, and in his best game-cock fashion he +hopped up and down stiffly, trying to strike at the heron’s broad, +feathered breast above him. + +[Illustration] + +Henry eyed him curiously, almost saturninely, and at last with a sort of +wearied annoyance gave one sweep of his broad bill, and Cannon was sent +tumbling in a scurry of brown feathers and outraged squawks. But he was +a warrior; back he came in a series of frenzied leaps, and once more +Henry’s massive bill swept him lightly but conclusively aside. + +[Illustration] + +Time after time, to the number of twelve, Cannon came charging in a +whirlwind of feathers, trying to slash the feathered breast of his +passive enemy, always to be met by the calm but decisive buffet of +Henry’s beak. At last it was a wearied little bantam cock who stopped +pantingly and turned his back upon the gray heron, owning himself +defeated. + +Perhaps it was respect for Henry’s superior prowess which actuated +Cannon, and perhaps the merry little bantam’s pluck appealed to the +grave fisher bird, for they became almost at once inseparable friends. +Cannon deserted his feathered acquaintances and spent his time in the +back-yard with Henry. When finally the invalid was well enough to hobble +down on the float, Cannon went with him and would stand beside him while +Henry, the heron, swooped joyfully upon minnows and silver smelt and +gobbled them down with a zest he had never displayed when fishing in the +washtub. Such became the intimacy of the tall Henry and the diminutive +Cannon that Henry would even share his catch with Cannon, dropping down +upon the float a small, wriggling fish for Cannon’s delectation. + +We noticed that at first the bantam rooster eyed askance the flapping +tidbits offered by his friend. He was not accustomed to such lively +food, but little by little he learned to peck and devour the fish with +the same relish that Henry showed for them. He became a feathered +parasite, depending almost entirely upon the heron for his meals. + +[Illustration] + +It was such a pleasant friendship—comradeship between man and man always +is—and it was broken up, I am sorry to say, in the usual way—by a woman. + +As Henry grew stronger, his leg and wing knit rapidly. And on the day +when the Old Fisherman removed the bandages and pronounced the patient +out of danger, we feared our heron friend would leave us. But he did +not. He had become accustomed to the float, to the cabin, to the yard, +and to Brother and me. Above all, there was Cannon, the bantam rooster. +So he stayed with us, flapping up into the firtree in the front yard at +night to roost, and fishing from the float or the beach in the daytime. +It was an idyllic state of affairs which might have lasted indefinitely +had it not been for Sironda, the Black Minorca hen. + +[Illustration] + +“Si” we sometimes called her for short, and we had known her from the +day of her birth. Even before that; for Brother and I had set the very +egg in the incubator from which she was hatched. She was a trim little +hen with shiny black feathers, a red comb that fell coquettishly over +one eye, and a “singing voice” that made her the prima donna among the +poultry. She was in every respect fitted to make an impressionable +cockerel forget the ties of friendship, and Brother and I have always +believed that she mapped out a campaign to that end after seeing how +well Cannon fared by trailing at Henry’s heels. + +She took to wandering down upon the float, singing softly to herself and +ostensibly on the lookout for bugs, but, as we noticed, keeping an eye +upon Cannon and his fisher friend and always drawing nearer and nearer +to the pair. + +[Illustration] + +Finally she grew so bold as to come up to Cannon’s side, and when Henry, +the heron, next dropped a shining smelt upon the float, the bantam, +innately chivalrous, voiced a high-pitched invitation to Sironda to +partake of the dainty. + +Cannon, watching her, was content to have her devour the juicy morsel, +but not so was Henry. He would fish willingly for Cannon, but not for +his lady friends, and with one hair-raising scream he opened his huge +bill, spread his wings and lunged for Sironda, who dropped the remnants +of the fish and fled down the float, half running, half flying, and +uttering hysterical cackles. + +[Illustration] + +Cannon watched her precipitous retreat with a surprised and worried +countenance; then he turned upon Henry. And though Brother and I could +not hear what was said, I am sure that there were fierce words between +them, for Henry had to knock Cannon down three times in rapid succession +before the irate bantam turned heel and followed Sironda up the float +and into the yard. + +The rift in the lute had come, and it grew wider. For Sironda became +bolder in her advances, and Cannon, flattered by her feminine wiles, +laid his fish—of Henry’s catching—at her feet. It was a triangle +situation which could end only in one way. For at the end of each +one-sided fight Cannon would stalk away with outraged dignity in every +ruffled feather, and Henry would gaze after him sadly and would +thereafter peck at the swarms of silver smelt solemnly and without zest. + +[Illustration] + +And so he left us. One day he tried his massive wings and sailed upward +and outward into the blue sky, circled in midair as if trying his +strength, and then flapped quietly away toward the Pointing Finger, and +as he flew, he uttered a mournful cry that trailed behind him like a +wisp of smoke. + +And Cannon, the thankless one, did not even know that he had gone. He +was scratching worms for Sironda. But I really think it broke Henry’s +heart, for he never came to our float again. And I am positive that he +became a woman-hater and remained a bachelor the rest of his life. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration: + + _His constant barking set the grown-ups against him._ +] + + _Part Six_ + STOP THIEF + + +In the days when the roving fisher boats chugged into the little cove to +set their nets for salmon or silver smelt, we spent most of our time on +the bay. We knew every broad-beamed gray launch that rounded Green +Point, a mile away, and we knew most of the fishermen who owned them. We +would wait until the coughing engine was silent and the anchor was cast; +then we would hoist the sail of our tiny, round-bottomed skiff and, +using an oar for a rudder, skim out across the ruffled surface of the +bay to pay a visit to the swarthy-visaged men with heavy, grizzled +beards and rough, red hands. They always made us welcome in their +strange and guttural tongues, for we took them apples from the orchard, +and sometimes a glass of jelly or a loaf of home-made bread. And in +exchange they gave us curious souvenirs of their travels—dried starfish +of monstrous size, lovely, iridescent shells, and reed baskets bartered +from the Siwash Indians. + +[Illustration] + +The boat we knew best was called _Rosenzweig_, which, the Austrian +owners said, meant “Rose-branch.” These two fishermen, dark, powerful +men, anchored just beyond our float in the smelt and salmon seasons, and +we were fond of them. They let us help them haul in the nets, and more +than once Brother and I have stood in huge hip boots many sizes too +large, tugging at wet ropes heavy with seaweed, excitedly pulling at the +drag net and watching for the first glint of splashing silver in the +brown meshes which would tell us that the net was nearly to the beach +and filled with fish. + +[Illustration] + +We were always sorry to see the _Rosenzweig_ leave us, and it was always +a day of rejoicing when we sighted the little gray boat chugging around +the Point, its bow and stern piled high with seine and drag nets. The +two fishermen brought us a gift each time—we expected it. Sometimes it +would be a bunch of letters with Austrian stamps attached—Brother and I +were confirmed philatelists; sometimes it was a sugar-cured salmon, and +once they brought us a carved canoe paddle which they had purchased of a +Nittenat chief, far up the straits toward Alaska. + +But the day of days was when, coming alongside their gray boat just as +the anchor splashed, we were greeted by Andrin, the elder brother, who +grinned delightedly and signified in his broken English that he had +something wonderful for us. + +We clambered over the gunwale of the _Rosenzweig_, with its littered +deck and its heavy, perpetual smell of fish, seaweed, and tar calking, +and Karl, the younger fisherman, made us shut our eyes while he carried +something up from the hold and put it on the deck, something that +thrashed about wetly and barked in a high-pitched baby voice much like a +puppy’s. + +[Illustration] + +We opened our eyes and stared in amazement. For there, before us on the +deck, was a baby seal! He was wet and shiny brown, with great, bright +eyes that peered at us curiously, but without fear, and delicate +nostrils with neat, gentlemanly whiskers protruding from each side. With +his tiny fore-flappers he propelled himself along the deck, barking +constantly. Andrin threw him a piece of dried fish, which he caught in +the air and devoured instantly. + +“We bring you nice present,” said Karl, showing his white teeth in a +smile, and he indicated the baby seal, who reared himself up as high as +he could on his front flappers and barked vociferously. + +That we were delighted goes without saying. We had seen many seals from +a distance, but never had we thought to have one for a friend. + +[Illustration] + +Often one would pop out of the water in the wake of our boat as we rowed +to town, his wet, sleek head blackly silhouetted against the blue water. +And if we whistled or called, he would follow us indefinitely, for seals +have more than their share of curiosity. They are interested in strange +sounds and in bright colors. Once, when Brother was wearing a red +sweater, a seal followed our boat for nearly a mile. + +[Illustration] + +We had often known when they were near us in the Bay even without seeing +them. For when we saw a salmon jumping many times, in a series of +frenzied leaps, we knew it was not through sport, but because he was +pursued by a seal who would surely seize him the minute his strength +gave out. We had seen salmon nets spread in the water with only a row of +fish heads remaining in the meshes. Robber seals had neatly bitten off +the rest of the body. Once, while Brother and I were swimming far out +from the float, a smooth, heavy body brushed against mine, and I +screamed with fear. But an instant later a brown, wet head arose not +twenty yards away, and two bright eyes were turned on me inquiringly as +if to ask why I had been frightened. + +You see, we were well acquainted with the seal family at long distance, +but never before had we been so close to one of the brown brethren. + +I took a piece of fish from Karl’s hand and stooped toward the baby +seal, who turned his head from side to side, sniffed once or twice, and +then dragged himself along the deck to me, taking the friendship +offering gingerly from my outstretched fingers. A little later he found +a warm, sunny place on a pile of nets and turned over on his back, +scratching himself negligently with one of his fore-flappers. + +[Illustration] + +Karl said he would not take it amiss if we scratched him under the chin, +and indeed he did not. He stretched his head back and closed his eyes, +while we gently stroked the glossy fur, which, as it dried, became gray +rather than brown in color. + +[Illustration] + +The fishermen told us that the baby seal had attended a net-robbing +expedition with his mother. Both the lady seal and her baby had become +entangled in the nets. The mother had fought and had finally escaped. +But the baby they had loosed from the heavy meshes, and had taken him, +barking and protesting, on board the _Rosenzweig_, where they had kept +him in the hold, first as a prisoner and then as a pet, to bring to +Brother and me. + +I know they were sorry to part with Alfred, as we christened the little +seal, but they needed the hold of their small boat for their catches of +fish. They could not afford to turn it permanently into a bath-tub for a +water-baby who could not live long away from the element to which he was +accustomed. So when the _Rosenzweig_ chugged away a few days later, +Alfred was left to our care, with a hundred instructions as to how to +regulate his diet and behavior. + +The grown-ups were none too pleased at our latest pet, and it was a +tribute to Alfred’s winning ways that he finally established himself as +firmly in their affection as in ours. For there was no doubting his +intelligence, handicapped as it was by his unwieldy body that seemed +half fish and half animal. + +[Illustration] + +He learned to respond to his name sooner than most dogs, and he +displayed his love for us in a manner which was unmistakable. At first +we were afraid to let him go into the bay for fear he would swim away +and leave us. We did not know how large seals had to be before they +could earn their living in the water, but we chose to think—selfishly +perhaps—that Alfred was too small to make his way in a submarine contest +of wits against older and more experienced of his kindred. + +[Illustration] + +We need not have worried, however, for the baby seal adopted us in the +same spirit that we had adopted him. He evidently had no thought of +leaving us. The float in front of the cabin was his headquarters, and +from it he would slide off into the water, rolling and splashing like a +young dolphin, to return when he was tired or when we called him. + +I can see him now, his small, sleek head, with its great brown eyes, +sticking up out of the water, at our call pointing for the float like a +periscope; lifting himself by his wet fore-flappers with their short, +clicking nails and dragging himself toward us, leaving in his wake a +trail of salt water. + +It was his constant barking which at first had set the grown-ups against +him, so we made him refrain from it. He learned that when we said, with +finger upraised reprovingly, “Alfred, less noise!” he must be quiet, or +there would be no piece of dried fish for him, no bottle of milk, and no +gum-drops. + +[Illustration] + +It might not have been necessary to bring Alfred up on the bottle, +especially as the fishermen of the _Rosenzweig_ had been feeding him +dried fish ever since they had caught him, but our experience with other +baby animals had convinced us that milk was a pleasant if not absolutely +essential form of food. So we trained Alfred to drink from a bottle with +a rubber nipple, and he loved it. He broke the first two, banging them +down on the float, so Brother and I devised a padded bag for it. From +this Alfred daily took his milk, blinking his great, shining eyes at us +and pausing occasionally to bark. We came to know it for his sign of +approval. + +[Illustration] + +The gum-drops were given to him experimentally. Brother maintained that +the Esquimaux lived on them, and that Alfred, being a relative of +northern fur-bearing seals, would doubtless thrive on the same diet. His +reasoning may have been faulty in theory, but in practise it was +amazingly successful. Many a time did Brother and I row the three miles +to town for the special purpose of purchasing gum-drops for Alfred. He +seemed to know instinctively when we had the candy with us, for when, in +returning, we reached the Pointing Finger, half-way between Green Point +and the cove, we could make out a black speck on the float ahead of us, +a speck that wriggled and flopped and finally slid down into the water. +Then we would see a round dot against the blue little waves of the bay, +a dot that resolved itself into a sleek, brown head, and there would be +Alfred, swimming toward the boat, lifting himself as high out of the +water as he could, his eyes fixed upon us beamingly. We always made him +wait until we reached the float and moored the boat, then we would toss +him the candy a piece at a time, making him catch it in midair. + +[Illustration] + +As Alfred grew older and larger, we trained him to do some of the things +we had seen his kindred do in the circuses. And how eager he was to +learn! He put Brother and me to shame, for we hated lessons. He loved +them. We taught him to balance an indoor baseball on the tip of his +brown nose, and when he saw us coming down the float with his ball in +our hands, he would set up a hilarious barking and wriggle over to us, +his head moving up and down in an ecstasy of anticipation. There was no +barking, though, when he went through his tricks. If Alfred had been a +man, his power of concentration would have made him a millionaire. He +would sit, moment after moment, posing the ball on his nose, flexing his +body from side to side to keep the balance, his bright, intelligent eyes +fixed steadily on the leathern sphere. + +[Illustration] + +We taught him to “play dead,” to dive from a high springboard, and to +fetch us a stick that we threw into the water. + +Some people say there is nothing in heredity. I am sure there is. I do +not pretend to be an expert on the question, but I can account in no +other way for Alfred’s deflection from the path of respectability. It +was certainly not because of lack of nourishment that he took to robbing +seine nets of salmon. I am rather inclined to think it was his mother’s +waywardness which was cropping out in him. At any rate, he took to +making nocturnal excursions, and in the morning we would find him on the +float, stretched out listlessly, his stomach actually distended by too +much food, and he would eye with disdain the padded bottle of milk and +the pieces of griddle cake we had brought for his breakfast. + +[Illustration] + +Still we did not suspect that our friend had become a net robber until +the Old Fisherman descended on us one morning with wrath in his eye. He +told us of having made the rounds of his salmon nets the night before to +find the bodies neatly snipped from half a dozen king salmon. He had +even caught the fish burglar in the act of amputating a Chinook salmon’s +silver body from its head, and the seal had stared at him in the lantern +light and had barked at him. + +That it was Alfred, he was sure. Brother and I demurred that one seal +was much like another. But no, said the Old Fisherman; this was a small +seal, a seal unafraid of people, an impudent, half-grown seal—Alfred! + +“And he chose the best fish o’ the lot,” he fumed. “If he’d taken a +dog-salmon, now—but no, he has to pick out the kings, the steel-heads +and the Chinooks!” + +We faced Alfred and charged him with suspicion of robbery. It seemed to +us that he avoided our questioning eyes. He flapped over to his ball at +the side of the float and occupied himself in trying to hoist it on his +nose. It was perfectly clear to us that his conscience was clouded with +guilt. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +What to do? We loved Alfred dearly, but we loved the Old Fisherman, too, +and his living depended upon the hauls of fish he made. A scanty living +it was at best, and we could not bear the thought of being even +indirectly the cause of poverty descending upon him. + +We built a wire cage in which we confined Alfred the next night, much +against his will. And the Old Fisherman reported in the morning that no +salmon had been stolen. But the following night heredity and appetite +proved stronger than the wire netting we had devised, and Alfred robbed +the seine net, near the Pointing Finger, of three large steel-heads. + +The question of turning Alfred loose was a difficult one. We had never +restrained him in any way, and our float and the beach beside it were +the only homes he knew. The Old Fisherman spoke of killing, but that was +against the law, since the seals of Puget Sound are considered in the +same class with sea-gulls and other scavengers. Besides, Brother and I +would never have permitted such a thing. Alfred was our friend. Somewhat +of a reprobate, it is true, but after all, he had as much right to the +salmon in the Bay as had the Old Fisherman. It was not his fault that he +could not understand the man-made ethics by which human beings assumed +control over the water and its inhabitants. + +[Illustration] + +Then the next morning, as if in response to prayer, the _Rosenzweig_ +came chugging around Green Point. Hardly had its anchor splashed when +Brother and I were easing our boat alongside and clambering up to the +smelly deck. + +We told Karl and Andrin, all in a breath, how Alfred, the seal baby, had +grown up to be a salmon thief, just like his mother. We told how sorry +we were for the Old Fisherman, and how we could not seem to explain to +Alfred about controlling his appetite. + +[Illustration] + +Karl and Andrin took counsel with each other. We hung hopefully upon the +strange foreign sentences that we could not understand. Then Karl +grinned broadly. They were going to buy a new boat, he said, a bigger +boat. They could fix a sort of a tank for Alfred, wherein he could +submerge himself in water. There would be no question of fish; he would +have his fill of them. They had missed him, Karl said. He had been “such +a smart babee!” + +So Alfred left us as he had come to us—on board the _Rosenzweig_. He +nuzzled against my hand like a dog as I gave him a gum-drop, and his +shining eyes were fixed on me with so much affection in them that I had +to blink hard to keep from crying. He had forgotten Karl and Andrin. His +heart was plainly in our keeping. + +But the parting had to be. It was with sorrowful faces that we watched +the _Rosenzweig_ weigh anchor and commence to chug out into the current. + +Brother and I stood on the float, trying to pretend to each other that +we weren’t down-hearted, when suddenly I spied between the boards +Alfred’s ball. + +“Oh,” I cried, “he must have that to remember us by.” + +We piled into the little white boat and, pulling on the oars with all +our might, set out in pursuit of the gray fishing launch. Our cries +finally reached Karl and Andrin, for the engine stopped, and in a few +minutes we came alongside. + +[Illustration] + +“Alfred’s ball!” we explained breathlessly. “He’d be lonesome without +it.” + +[Illustration] + +And at the sound of our voices, we heard a high-pitched barking from the +hold. It was Alfred, who was calling to us as best he knew how, begging +us not to leave him, asking us to please take him home with us— + +We did not wait for the fishermen’s thanks. We were on the verge of +tears. So the engine started again its steady drumming, the propeller +churned the water into green and white whirlpools, and the _Rosenzweig_ +made out towards the Straits, while our little boat rocked gently in her +wake. + +[Illustration] + +And then, as we sat there, a sleek brown head appeared out of the water +not a dozen yards from the stern—a shiny seal head with brilliant, +intelligent eyes. It was not Alfred, of course, but for an instant we +thought it might be. For the space of a few breaths the eyes watched us +intently, then the head disappeared from sight. + +“I’ll bet it was Alfred’s mother,” said Brother solemnly, “wanting to +know what we’d done with her child.” + +“Well,” said I, “what has happened is her own fault. If only she hadn’t +made a robber of him!” + +[Illustration] + + + + + _Part Seven_ + O’HENRY, THE QUAIL BABY + + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration: + + _If Clarence had been a man, he would have endowed orphanages._ +] + + _Part Seven_ + O’HENRY + _The_ + QUAIL BABY + + +It was upon the Hill Trail that Brother and I came to know O’Henry, the +Quail Baby. You would have liked our Hill Trail. It ran from the old +logging chute, just at the top of the hill above the cabin, straight +through woods of pine and fir until it ended at Bright Creek, two miles +distant, a turbulent little stream full of rapids and miniature +waterfalls, where the lady salmon fought their way up through the fresh +water to deposit their eggs. The Hill Trail was bordered by ferns and +salal bushes, with delicate, overhanging red huckleberry bushes and rows +of young alders who whispered to each other all day like children in +church. On either side of the brown ribbon that was the trail a carpet +of grass and green moss stretched back into the deep woods, and +tapestries of twin-flower vines and wild blackberry bushes hung from +stump and fallen tree. The sunlight slanted down through the tall pines +and touched the trail with tapering fingers of light as if it loved it. +Even in the hottest summer there was always a little breeze that stirred +the alders into sleepy gossip and set the pine trees humming gently to +themselves. There was the scent of pine-needles, of fallen leaves, of +wet moss. + +[Illustration] + +We loved the Hill Trail best on the drowsy days of summer, when the +shadows of the trees were long and cool, and the gentle splash of the +tiny waterfall deep in the woods came like distant music. It was on such +a day that we lay in the cool, deep moss near the Fairy Ring and stared +through interlacing branches at the blue patchwork sky. We heard the +tap-tap of a woodpecker not far away, the drowsy hum of a bee, and the +shrill twittering of a flock of juncoes who were flying overhead. Then +from afar came a call that we knew and loved, the deep woods call of the +quail, with its three clear notes which said, as we imagined, “Oh, +_Hen_-ry! Oh, _Hen_-ry!” + +The Chinook Indians say that long ago a lady quail was unfaithful to her +mate, but afterward repented. Her husband never forgave her, however, +and would not come back to her, so now she goes through the forest +calling plaintively to him, “Oh, _Hen_-ry!” + +[Illustration] + +As we listened, the quail call came nearer, then a faint, almost +imperceptible scurry of leaves that told us that a bevy of the little +brown birds was close at hand. Indeed, closer at hand than we thought, +for at that instant a mother quail tripped out from the underbrush and +at sight of us stopped short with an imperative danger note, sounded, as +we suspected, in warning to the children who were following her. We had +not moved, but the mother heart was filled with terror. There was a whir +of wings, and she rose in the air for a short distance, then fell, +crashing heavily into a clump of fern. + +“She’s hurt,” said Brother in a low tone, and quietly yet quickly we +rose to our feet, our one thought to aid the little brown lady in her +distress. But as we came near her—so near that my outstretched hand +almost touched her—she fluttered away out through the clearing and down +the trail, one wing dragging piteously. + +[Illustration] + +Of course you must know it was only a trick. Brother and I should have +known it, for we had heard of it many times. But such was the excellent +acting of the brown mother bird, with her trailing wing, her helpless +fluttering, and pitiful little cries, that we never questioned her +sincerity. Half a dozen times we almost touched her, and each time she +eluded us and fluttered a few feet ahead. Then suddenly with triumphant +whir of strong wings she rose in a graceful arc and disappeared in the +thickness of the forest shadows. + +We stood and laughed—a little ruefully, for we prided ourselves upon our +woodcraft. Then I touched Brother’s arm as a thought came to me. + +“Her children are back by the Fairy Ring,” I told him. “Let us hide +there and see if she will return to them.” + +[Illustration] + +So down the trail we sped, across the little clearing, and stooped +behind a thick screen of salal bushes. Nor had we long to wait, for +presently there was a soft flutter of wings, a scuttle of leaves, and +out from the underbrush, at almost the very spot where we had first seen +her, came the mother quail uttering a soft, piping call which meant +“Danger is past; all’s well!” + +[Illustration] + +As if by magic, a dozen tiny brown bodies scurried out from under +leaves, baby birds the size of bantam chicks. They eddied around and +behind her like little leaves in the wind, and she spoke to them in +soft, maternal notes, telling them perhaps of the two fierce humans from +whom she had saved them by exposing herself to capture. + +[Illustration] + +But quails can not count, it seems. For when the little brown mother +tripped daintily away into the deep greenery of the fern brake with her +brood at her heels, we heard a tiny, piping cry so small as to be only a +dot of sound. Following it, we came upon the place where Mrs. Quail’s +children had hidden themselves, and there we found a baby quail whose +tiny legs had been caught in a twin-flower vine, and who was trying to +wrench himself free with all his little might. It was but the work of an +instant to release the little dark brown puffball, and as I held him in +my hands he peeped shrilly and mournfully. + +[Illustration] + +We could not bear the thought of leaving him there in the woods on the +chance that his mother would hear him and come to him. Perhaps our doubt +of her was unjust, but at any rate I carried him down the Hill Trail, +through the orchard, and to the little log cabin. Cupped warmly in my +hands, he went to sleep, and when he woke up, he forgot that he had been +frightened, for he was a very tiny quail, and his life had been so brief +that he had not had time to learn the great fear which all too soon +becomes a part of every woods creature’s life. + +[Illustration] + +That night we put him in a little box with warm flannel covers over him, +which we hoped would take the place of his mother’s feathers, and the +next morning we thought to give him into the keeping of some +philanthropic hen to rear with her own children. + +[Illustration] + +O’Henry, the Quail Baby, did not know that he was not a chicken; but the +hens knew the difference, and there was not one lady among them, I am +sorry to say, who would stretch her maternal spirit to include him in +her family. We tried him on Sironda, the black Minorca hen, who had +obligingly hatched out and mothered everything, from Barred Plymouth +Rock chicks to white Pekin ducklings, and who had even reared a family +of lanky young turkeys. But although Sironda was fussily attentive to +her own brood of three-day-old chicks, she clucked sharply when we +shoved O’Henry in under her spreading wings, and tried to scalp him with +a vigorous peck. + +Nor would Liberty, the bantam hen, accept him as a foster child. She +squawked as if he were some vicious animal, and only prompt attention on +our part saved him from a terrible death. + +So we brought up O’Henry by hand and built for him a wire pen where he +could spend his days. We dared not let him loose in the poultry yard, +for it seemed that every hen, matron and maiden lady alike, resented the +presence of the little woods stranger and would have rejoiced in +scalping him. + +[Illustration] + +Brother and I lightened O’Henry’s captivity as much as we could. We +taught him to come to us when we whistled his family call, and we would +carry him about on our shoulders, balancing there like a tight-rope +performer. We took him with us when we rowed in our little boat on the +bay, and he would perch on the bow, keeping himself upright with +fluttering wings and tail, cocking his tiny head on one side when the +sea-gulls flew over, and uttering at times a faint and thoughtful note. + +However, it was really due to Clarence, the gray gander, that O’Henry’s +life became a happy one at the cove. Clarence was full of years and +dignity, and a born philanthropist. If he had been a man, he would have +endowed orphanages and given newsboy dinners. As it was, he had a +passion for fathering the young things of the poultry yard, much to the +dismay of the various mothers. + +[Illustration] + +There was never a queerer sight than Clarence, the huge gander, going +the rounds of the hen-coops of a morning, making coaxing noises to lure +the young chicks out from under their mothers’ wings. The mother hens +were imprisoned to prevent their scratching in the garden, and Clarence +would shovel at the ground with his broad flat bill and pretend to drop +a worm or bug in front of the coop, with the result that half of the +lady hen’s brood would be at his heels ready to follow where he led. His +charges were always well fed, for Clarence was an excellent provider, +but the wear and tear on the feelings of the mothers must have been +terrific. + +[Illustration] + +It was inevitable that sooner or later the gray gander should discover +O’Henry and make him one of his family. We found Clarence in the yard +one morning, a dozen odd-sized chickens at his webbed heels. There were +two Minorca chicks that belonged to Sironda, half a dozen white Leghorn +children, a tiny cockerel with budding wings and tail who was Liberty’s +son, and a lanky young Plymouth Rock rooster, all run to legs. + +We were minded to see what Clarence would think of our pet, and we let +O’Henry out of his pen. The gray gander waddled over toward the tiny +brown bird, his feathered tail wiggling from side to side, and made some +hospitable noises in his throat. Then he pulled up a tuft of grass and +dropped it before the Quail Baby by way of getting acquainted. The +chicks set upon it noisily, while O’Henry watched them, his little head +upraised, his tiny black eyes fixed on Clarence’s friendly bulk. + +[Illustration] + +We had no idea of letting him go gipsying with Clarence, for he had +become a well-loved playmate, and we could not be sure of his safety +when away from us. Brother stooped to pick him up, but with a long-drawn +hiss Clarence was upon him in a fury of flapping wings and snapping +bill. He did not suffer his charges to be molested while in his care; +that was clear. + +So we allowed O’Henry to go jaunting with Clarence and his feathered +crew. Daily the gray gander would come into the yard with his motley +family in tow, and having gathered up O’Henry, they would be off through +the meadow, up into the orchard, not to return until the setting of the +sun. They would come straggling back in sleepy Indian file, the gray +gander at the head of the line, the chicks cheeping fretfully and glad +to nestle under the feathers of their distracted mothers. We would watch +for O’Henry and whistle the call he knew. He would come to us with his +quick, darting run and we would take him into the house for the night. +His crop was always crammed disgracefully, and his eyes were heavy with +sleep. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +Sometimes O’Henry heard the call of the wild, and we wondered when he +would obey it. He had grown from a baby bird to a beautiful brown +gentleman quail, with white stripes running from his throat down over +his breast like a vest. He had a tiny topknot that lifted in moments of +excitement, and a clear “Bobwhite” whistle that Brother and I imitated, +much to his annoyance. + +We would hide from him behind the rose-bush and whistle. He would come +running, his head stretched out in front of him, and on seeing us would +hunch his head in between his shoulders and blink at us reproachfully. + +[Illustration] + +When summer passed and autumn came to the cove, O’Henry was the only one +of Clarence’s family who still remained with the gray gander. The chicks +and ducklings had gradually grown to adulthood and forgotten the kindly +gander who had fathered them. But O’Henry still joined Clarence in his +daily excursions to the orchard or the meadow. + +Then one day, late in the fall, O’Henry went back to the woods. We +grieved for him, because we loved him and because he had chosen the +hardest time of the year in which to return to wild life he knew only by +instinct. We went along the Hill Trail whistling “Oh, _Hen-ry_!” But if +he heard the call he disregarded it. He never came to us. + +[Illustration] + +Clarence was inconsolable. Day after day he would waddle into the +back-yard where O’Henry’s empty pen still stood, walk around it, peer +through the wire mesh, and make seductive noises of invitation. Brother +and I tried to explain to him that our baby quail had grown up and had +gone back to his kindred of the woods, but Clarence only hissed at us +and regarded us balefully. I think he suspected us of having made away +with his little comrade. + +One day the snow came, early for the Sound country, and Brother and I, +climbing the trail to the top of the hill, saw the familiar three-line +imprints of the quail track. We thought of O’Henry, our lost friend; we +hoped he was warm and that his crop was full of food. + +Then one morning we heard the familiar “quit quit” of the quail very +near at hand. The sound came from an empty hen-house, and when we +approached it silently and peered through a crack, what should we see +there but a bevy of twenty quail—and O’Henry in their midst! He had not +forgotten us after all! He had brought his friends and relatives back to +the place of his childhood, where he was sure of a welcome for them. + +[Illustration] + +Our hands filled with cracked wheat and mixed grain, we came to the door +of the shed, softly whistling, “Oh, _Hen_-ry!” He came, as in former +days, running to us with his head stuck out in front of him, and with a +soft whir of wings was upon my shoulder, pecking contentedly at the +wheat I offered him, and wiping his bill on my cheek. + +[Illustration] + +All through the weeks of snow and cold we fed O’Henry’s clan, and they +learned that we were not to be feared. They surrounded us like chickens +whenever we came into the shed, for O’Henry’s trust in us had inspired +their confidence. Not only did they become accustomed to us, but to +Clarence as well. For the lonely gray gander caught sight of O’Henry one +morning, and waddled over to him, wiggling his excuse of a tail, +shoveling the ground with his flat, yellow bill, and expressing his +delight in husky quacks. The other quail at first took alarm, and there +was much whirring of wings and scurrying of tiny feet. But the gray +gander soon proved to them that his intentions were of the best. He +merely wished to provide for them. So all those weeks when we fed our +“boarders,” as we called them, Clarence stayed in the shed with the +quail family, grubbing busily at the bare ground, finding little, but +making up for the scarcity of food in kindly endeavor. + +[Illustration] + +When the snow melted, O’Henry’s tribe went back to the woods—and with +them went Clarence. One day we saw O’Henry and his brown cousins +scurrying up the hill, darting under ferns and bushes, calling to each +other happily—and in their wake was Clarence, the fatherly gander, +flattered into thinking that he was leading the way. + +[Illustration] + +It was a quaint sight, and we did not try to bring him back because we +thought he would return at sunset. But he did not. He disappeared into +the woods with the quail family, and we never saw him again. Long +afterward, hunters told us of seeing a gray gander with a flock of +quail—and they had forborne to shoot. + +So we lost two friends at once, but we tried to believe that they were +happy together. How Clarence accustomed himself to the ways of the wild, +I do not know. But I do believe that somewhere the gray gander still +lives with O’Henry, and I can think of no better protector for the quail +baby and his family. + +[Illustration] + + + + + _Part Eight_ + THE TALE OF TIMOTHY + + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration: + + _Timothy clung to the bottle habit._ +] + + _Part Eight_ + TIMOTHY, THE DIRTY BEAR + + +Perhaps it is unjust to the memory of our friend Timothy that we should +think of him as “the Dirty Bear.” I wouldn’t prejudice you against him +for the world. “Dirty” has such a reprehensible sound. But Timothy was +dirty in a perfectly legitimate way. He had a primitive soul that found +delight in grubbing in rotten stumps for maggots and in burrowing into +the soft earth for Indian potato roots. You can see that under such +circumstances he could not keep his face and paws scrupulously clean, +any more than a child can who makes mud pies. He hated water—but then, +so did we, unless we could take our baths in the Bay—and he had an +almost fanatical fear of soap. Brother, who was then reading “A +Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court,” thought Timothy might have +been a reincarnation of some eccentric hermit who had vowed never to +wash himself for the rest of his life. + +[Illustration] + +We knew Timothy long before he knew us. We did not know him by name, but +we knew where he lived, and we had what you might call a speaking +acquaintance with his mother. It happened thus: + +One day, in our explorations along the creek bed at the end of the Hill +Trail, we came suddenly upon a hole in the bank. It was almost covered +by long, overhanging ferns, and had not a puff of wind stirred the +fronds just as we were passing, we should never have known about the +hole at all. It was on the opposite side of the creek, but we found a +place where a fallen log bridged the little stream, and the next moment +we were standing on the opposite side at the foot of the embankment, +pushing the ferns aside and peering into the depths of a black and +wonderfully inviting hole. + +[Illustration] + +Had we thought to look, we might have seen in the sandy slope that led +up to the hidden entrance the imprints of a foot almost human in shape, +although not nearly so large. Footprints that turned in toward each +other—and we should have known. But our minds were filled with the +fascinating possibilities of the miniature cave we had discovered. +Perhaps it was a pirate den; perhaps gnomes lived there; or perhaps we +were on the track of buried treasure. + +[Illustration] + +On hands and knees I led the way into the inky blackness with Brother +close behind me. The daylight behind was blotted out. For several yards +the passageway went straight ahead, then it turned suddenly to the +right; and I, turning with it, stopped so abruptly that Brother coming +behind bumped into me. A curious, powerful odor enveloped us, as of +darkness made odorous by furry bodies and warm by living things. Then +from ahead of me not more than two yards away flashed the savage gleam +of two blue-green eyes. + +There was a menacing growl which set our spines to tingling, and at the +same instant came the sound of whines and a movement as of baby things +disturbed in their sleep. I was conscious of a sickish, fainting +feeling, for I realized suddenly that we were in the house of a mother +bear. + +Brother needed no urging to make his exit. He was backing out on hands +and knees far more quickly than he had come in, and I was prodding him +along, followed by those menacing, hair-raising growls. + +[Illustration] + +Why the lady bear did not attack us is more than I can tell. The brown +bears of the northwestern woods are harmless and even friendly little +persons, but the mother when protecting her young is more ferocious than +a wildcat or a mountain lion. Perhaps Mrs. Timothy knew that our visit +was unintentional and that we meditated no harm toward her or her +children. At any rate we gained the entrance of the cave untouched and +unharmed, but we were breathing heavily and our knees were wobbling +sadly. + +[Illustration] + +Perhaps you think we should have stayed away from the house of the lady +bear; but we did not. We were interested, you see, in knowing how much +of a family she had, and we never went along the creek bed without +leaving some offering in the shape of food at the mouth of the hole. + +Sometimes it was an apple or a leaf of lettuce, and if nothing else +availed, we broke off licorice root or fern and placed it there for her. +It was our method of apologizing for our intrusion and of expressing our +interest in the family. + +One day we saw the mother bear with her children, and that is how we +came to name Timothy. She was at the mouth of the cave, half asleep in +the warm sunshine, and four cubs were rolling over each other like +gridiron heroes in a football scrimmage. They were squealing like young +pigs, and from time to time she remonstrated against their noise by a +sleepy grunt. Then, as we watched, the bear cub at the bottom of the +furry pile squeezed out and stood on his hind legs. His face was covered +with brown, sandy loam, and his squinty black eyes peered out as through +a mask. I knew a boy who lived at the head of the Bay whose face always +looked so. His name was Timothy, and that was why on the spot we so +christened the bear baby. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +Our next meeting with Timothy was in the nature of a near-tragedy. We +were hunting for trilliums in Trillium Gulch, a hidden valley to which +we ourselves had cut a path from the Hill Trail. The white, lily-like +flowers starred the hillside there in the spring, and it was our fond +belief that no one came there but ourselves. Hunters and trappers go +everywhere, however, violating even such a woodland paradise as ours. As +we went down the narrow trail, pushing aside the light branches of the +alders and the firtrees, we heard a plaintive, whining cry almost human +in its poignancy. We stopped for an instant, listening, wondering. Then +we slipped softly down the path, thrust aside the interlacing ferns, and +found ourselves beside the little stream which ran like a silver ribbon +through Trillium Gulch. The sounds came from the left, and following +their lead we rounded a boulder in the trail and came upon a sight which +filled us with gasping indignation. A little brown bear with a fleck of +white on his furry throat was tugging frantically and futilely at the +jaws of a steel trap which held his two front paws in a cruel, biting +grip. There was blood upon the jagged clamps, and the face which the +little fellow turned to us was piteous in its baby misery, a little +brown face covered with loam. It was Timothy, the Dirty Bear. + +[Illustration] + +I do not like even now to think of the half-hour which followed. So +strong was the steel trap that the combined efforts of Brother and +myself could only pry the cruel jaws apart the fraction of an inch. We +were hampered, too, in our work of mercy by poor little Timothy, who, +not realizing that we were trying to help him, shrieked and bit at us +and scratched with his hind feet. Our hands were soon covered with +blood, and there was a long, jagged line of red on Brother’s face where +the baby bear had clawed him. But we did not pause in our efforts. +Finally, by the aid of a stout stick, we managed to open the jaws of the +vicious trap, and the poor little fellow, his front paws cruelly torn +and bleeding, whimpering like a baby, sat down on his haunches and began +to lick his wounded paws, stopping at intervals to hold them out in +front of him like a child whose finger is hurt and wants it made well by +a kiss. + +Strangely enough, he was not afraid of us now, and when I took him in my +arms his plaintive whimpering gradually ceased, and he licked at his +paws solicitously. + +[Illustration] + +No doubt we should have taken Timothy back to his mother and trusted to +nature to heal his grievous hurts. But nature would take too long, and +in the meantime he would suffer cruelly. He was such a little bear, you +know, and had not yet achieved the stoicism which makes the older woods +creatures almost indifferent to pain. So even at the cost of causing his +mother a great deal of worry at his prolonged absence, we took him down +the hill with us to the log cabin to receive first aid treatment for his +wounds. + +That is how Timothy, the Dirty Bear, became a friend of ours. Fate in +the form of a hunter prevented us from taking him back to his home in +the creek bank. The poor lady bear was shot the next day. One of her +cubs was captured and the other two children escaped to the woods to +live as best they could. So Timothy belonged to us, and he was the +merriest of playmates. + +[Illustration] + +When we rescued him from the trap he was a very tiny bear, being no +larger than Tinker, our black and tan rat terrier. He slept in a +clothes-basket on the back porch, sometimes having for a bedfellow +Three-Spot, the mottled black and white cat. Three-Spot at first had +been greatly alarmed by Timothy’s rough and sportive overtures of +friendship. But when she found that by boxing his ears she could correct +his manners and set him to yelping with fright, she took to imposing +upon his good nature by making him serve at night for a mattress. In the +morning we would find the two of them curled up together, Timothy +snoring gently and Three-Spot digging her paws into his soft, thick fur +with a purr that was a monotone of content. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +Brother and I did not know whether Timothy’s mother had weaned him from +a milk diet, but we felt that we would be safeguarding his digestion if +we brought him up on liquid food for a time at least, so we rowed into +town especially to purchase a bottle with a strong rubber nipple +attached. The druggist asked if there was a baby at our house, and we +told him yes—what kind of baby, we did not state. + +[Illustration] + +Whether or not we were following the same system of dietetics that Mrs. +Bear would have employed in bringing up her child, Timothy really did +thrive on his liquid menu. Even after he outgrew the necessity for milk, +he clung to the bottle habit and would sample the contents of any bottle +he found. We used to bring him ginger ale from town and soda pop of all +flavors. If nothing else was handy, we filled a battered old canteen +with sweetened water, and he would tilt back on his hind legs, hold the +canteen perpendicularly aloft, close his eyes, and drink it slowly, +making funny little rumbling noises deep in his throat which, Brother +maintained, were imitations of Three-Spot’s purring. Once he got hold of +a bottle of kerosene and had closed his eyes in anticipatory ecstasy +before the taste of the first terrible mouthful reached his throat. I +shall never forget the look of pained disillusion on Timothy’s face. He +threw the bottle from him, coughed and sputtered, gagged once or twice +as if deathly sick, and then waddled off to the spring, walking +pigeon-toed, and with uncomprehending anguish in the very tilt of his +furry hind quarters. That should have cured him of his liking for +promiscuous bottles, but it did not—as you shall see. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +We worried a little at first as to what else we should give him besides +milk, but we need not have concerned ourselves. Timothy’s appetite was +without limits, and he could eat anything—bread, meat scraps, griddle +cakes, or cold potatoes. On top of the civilized food we fed him he +hunted on his own account for certain roots he liked, clawed the bark +from fallen logs to get the white grubs underneath, and buried his head +at the foot of hollow stumps where the red ants had made their hills. +After an hour or two of such foraging, he would return to us, his face +and paws besmeared with loam and covered with cobwebs, his furry coat +rusty with sand and tagged by twigs and strands of blackberry vine. He +would blink at us questioningly, a trifle shamefacedly, running his +small red tongue along the sides of his mouth, and we would shake our +heads and say mournfully, “Oh, Timothy, you dirty, dirty bear!” + +After such excursions we always gave him a bath in the big washtub, and +though he knew there was no escaping it, he always squealed and +struggled while we lathered him and only ceased his whining when we had +rinsed him and put him in the sun to dry, giving him the canteen filled +with sugared water to keep him quiet. + +[Illustration] + +He was the merriest playfellow we ever had. He went with us +everywhere—up the Hill Trail, into the orchard, and out on the bay when +we sailed our little boat and played that we were pirates. Timothy never +objected to anything except a bath. We dressed him in outlandish +costumes, sometimes with a red bandanna tied around his head, a shawl +looped about his fat and furry body, and a wooden knife stuck in his +belt. He was always ready to wrestle with us, to climb hills with us, or +to be a pillow for our heads as Brother and I lay through the long, +drowsy, summer afternoons and read fairy-tales aloud to each other, or +described the shapes we saw in the clouds. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +When the late fall came, Timothy remembered he was a bear long enough to +have a desire to go to bed for the winter, but what chance had a tired +bear for a seasonal sleep when living in the same house with Tinker, +Three-Spot, Brother, and myself? We would drag him from his +clothes-basket while he whimpered with half-closed eyes, and Tinker +would badger him into wakefulness and a game of tag. Then the four of us +would go through the orchard up to the Hill Trail, pushing each other +into the drifts of dead leaves and playing hide and seek around the +stumps and logs. + +[Illustration] + +Of course Timothy could not stay with us always; that was too much to +expect. He belonged to the woods, and sooner or later he must obey their +call. He had belonged to us for almost a year, and it was only right +that the out-of-doors should at last claim her child. But when the call +of the wild did come, we were sorry in spite of ourselves, and when +Timothy’s absences came more and more frequently and the intervals of +time he spent with us lessened, we missed him sorely. We knew that soon +our playmate would be with us no more, that he would go back to the +forest whence he came, and take up the serious business of finding a +wife and of locating a tree or a hole in which to spend the next winter. + +[Illustration] + +The manner of his departure was dramatic, even as was his advent into +our lives. We were up on the Hill Trail, Brother and I, and we had, as +we supposed, left Timothy on the back porch sleeping in his +clothes-basket, for which he was now much too big, but to which he had +become attached through habit. On the open trail with its +sound-deadening mat of hard, brown earth we did not hear the soft, +padding feet that followed us and were not aware that our friend was +near at hand until we met a hunter, brown-faced and with a gun in hand, +near the bend in the path that we called “U-Chu-Ka’s Corner,” in memory +of our little rabbit friend. + +[Illustration] + +The man had a red band around his hat, I remember, and a canteen was +slung at his side. He had put it to his lips to drink when he caught +sight of us, and suddenly his eyes widened, and the hand that held the +canteen became rigid. + +“Run, you kids!” he gasped out, “there’s a bear behind you!” + +We turned to confront Timothy, who was standing pigeon-toed in the +middle of the trail, his face covered with loam from a rotten stump +where he had been digging for ants, his eyes blinking at us sleepily and +a trifle reproachfully for having gone off without him. But before we +could explain to the hunter that the bear behind us was a friend of +ours, the man had raised his gun and leveled it at our playfellow. I +screamed aloud and Brother, heedless of the danger flung himself in +front of the rifle. + +[Illustration] + +Now Timothy knew nothing of guns, but he had long and satisfactory +acquaintance with bottles and canteens. He had seen the man drink. There +was something contained therein that he, Timothy, would like. The man +would not mind sharing it—I’m sure he reasoned thus to himself—and in +that instant when the gun was pointed straight at him, he rose on his +hind feet, his furry arms outstretched, and started toward the hunter. + +[Illustration] + +The man with the gun forgot to pull the trigger; he forgot everything +except that a dark brown body with gleaming black eyes was advancing +upon him. He gave a little squeal of terror, and the rifle dropped from +his hands. He turned and fled down the trail with Timothy galloping on +all fours close at his heels. In spite of our breathless calls he would +not return to us, and though we ran and called and laughed at the same +time, he soon outdistanced us. When last we saw the hunter he was +disappearing over the crest of a little hillock in the trail with the +canteen bobbing behind him, and the hat with the red band made a dot of +scarlet against the underbrush where it had fallen. + +We heard afterward that the man had not stopped running until he reached +the little town. Timothy by that time was nowhere in sight, having given +up the pursuit of the canteen in disgust. + +But we never saw him again. Perhaps returning home he met a comely lady +bear and they decided to set up housekeeping together. Perhaps she even +won his heart by telling him that she knew where there was a nice bottle +full of sweetened water. + +[Illustration] + +Long afterward we found one day by the creek bed a ginger ale bottle +dropped there by some picknickers. It was empty, and on the gravel near +by we saw footprints almost human in shape, only smaller and toeing in +toward each other. + +[Illustration] + +We knew somehow that Timothy had been there. It was almost as if he had +known we would pass that way, and had left the bottle and his footprints +where we would see them to tell us that we were not forgotten, nor were +the things we had taught him. + + + + + _Part Nine_ + THE BANDIT BIRD + + + + + _Part Nine_ + _The_ + BANDIT BIRD + +[Illustration] + + +I hope the fact that Hector was a chicken hawk will not prejudice you +against him unduly. There are brigands, you know, who have gentlemanly +instincts, and I am sure that if Hector had been a bandit chief, he +would have spared women and children and given part of his plunderings +to charity. After all, he was not to blame for being a hawk or for +having a natural liking for live poultry. There was at times a mournful +dignity about him, as if he resented the unfair workings of a fate which +had made him a robber bird, a trespasser on the lives of other +creatures, and at enmity with every living thing. + +[Illustration: + + _Sometimes the bandit birds swooped down_ +] + +He was a beautiful hawk with gray-brown plumage, wing tips that turned +slightly upward when he flew, and a fierce and royal beak curved like a +scimitar. His eyes were very black, very bright, and very knowing. Most +of the time they were superbly disdainful. But Brother and I have seen +them when they actually seemed to smile. + +It was Brother who named him, for the alliterative privilege, I suspect, +of calling him “Hector, the Horrible Hawk.” But that was only in fun. +For he was not horrible at all when we got to know him. Lazarus thinks +otherwise, very probably. But then his experience with Hector was a +trying one, and to this day—if he still lives—he carries the marks of +his eventful meeting with our friend, the robber chief. + +[Illustration] + +Lazarus was a pet chicken, son of Sironda, the black minorca hen. We +gave him his curious name because he had a talent for venturing very +near death’s door, and the fact that we always saved him lent +appropriateness to his name. Once when very young, no more than five +days out of his shell, he was all but scalped by a rival mother hen, and +when we answered his frantic baby peeps for help his head was bleeding +profusely, and his eyes were closed as if in death. We sprinkled water +on his tiny bill and salved his lacerated head. And he, having a strong +constitution, came back from the tomb, as it were, and lived a long and +eventful life. In order to care for him better, we kept him in the +back-yard, tucking him at night into a small box under flannel +coverings. He thrived and grew from chickhood very sturdily, and the +only ill effect that remained from his early mishap was that he was +quite bald. No feathers ever came on the spot where the lady hen had +scalped him, and we could have distinguished him from every cockerel of +his size and color in the world by that little bare place on the top of +his head. + +[Illustration] + +Now, when Lazarus lost his first baby down and was in that shorn and +untidy condition which always precedes the growth of real feathers, he +suddenly became lonesome for the other members of the poultry yard. He +would run the length of the wire fence, poking his head through the +small meshes, and more than once he nearly strangled to death by getting +it caught. We always rescued him just in time to save his life. So +finally we allowed him to go into the barnyard with the rest of his +kindred. It was then that Lazarus had the big adventure of his already +crowded career. His meeting with Hector lifted him to dizzy heights—and +I am not speaking figuratively. It really did. At that, it wasn’t so +much a meeting as an abduction. At least Hector intended it to be such. + +[Illustration] + +We were constantly on guard to keep hawks away from the ranch. They +waged merciless warfare on our chickens, pigeons, and guinea-pigs, and +there was always a loaded, double-barreled shotgun behind the kitchen +door ready for action in case of an air raid. When we heard the +frightened flapping of the pigeons as they flew in aimless circles +around the cabin and barn, we knew a hawk was somewhere overhead, +hovering with curved-up wings and cruel, bright eyes, seeking his prey, +choosing it calmly, waiting patiently the proper moment to swoop down +upon it. + +[Illustration] + +The chickens, too, always told us when such danger was near. Prince, the +great white Plymouth Rock rooster, would set up a long-drawn cry of +warning, and the hens would burst into frenzied cackling. The whole +poultry yard would cock its head on one side to get a better view of the +air robber, then would scoot to cover of the barn or hen-houses, every +neck ruff distended. Sometimes it was a false alarm. A crow would be +flying peaceably on his business, or a sea-gull would have swerved +inland a bit. Prince took no chances. It was his duty to guard the +poultry yard, and he believed firmly in the policy of safety first. + +But many times the warning was one of real danger. A hawk would indeed +be circling slowly above the barnyard, his bright eyes fixed +calculatingly on the scurrying fowls below. Then one of the grown-ups +would snatch the double-barreled shotgun from behind the kitchen door +and fire at the winged plunderer. The shot, though it did not usually +kill, always frightened the air robber away, and we would watch him fly +lazily, almost contemptuously, off toward the hill and the thick woods, +his powerful wings moving steadily and easily. + +[Illustration] + +Sometimes, though, the bandit birds came and swooped down on their +prey—a small chick or a baby guinea-pig—before we could prevent it. And +often a bloody bunch of feathers near the rookery would testify to the +murderous skill of a hawk and the sad fate of a hapless pigeon. + +[Illustration] + +It was on a day when the grown-ups had gone to town. The Old Fisherman +was mending his nets down on the float in front of the cabin. It was a +lazy summer day, and Brother and I were sitting on the porch steps +reading—the steps that were made of roughly-hewn logs. + +All at once we heard the familiar danger signal of Prince, the white +rooster, and then the hens began to cackle in a very panic of fear. We +dropped our books, but before we could even start for the back-yard, we +heard another sound which seemed so impossible and so out of place that +we listened paralyzed with astonishment. It was the shrill and frenzied +peeping of a half-grown chicken in terrible distress—_and the sound came +from above us_! + +[Illustration] + +The next instant, as we stood staring, hardly crediting what our eyes +told us, we saw a large chicken hawk fly slowly past the cabin, no +higher than the roof of the porch. He flew so slowly and at such a short +distance from the earth because he was weighted down with a live and +struggling young cockerel, which he held grimly in his sharp talons! +There was a shout that came from our throats simultaneously, +“_Lazarus!_” + +[Illustration] + +For the struggling, shrilly-peeping victim was no other than our +bald-headed friend whom we had saved from death half a dozen times +before. His bare, gangling legs hung limply beneath him; his neck jerked +spasmodically with his frantic appeals for help. His wings, with their +absurd tufts of feathers, stuck out at right angles from his body, for +the hawk’s talons were buried in the flesh beneath them. + +[Illustration] + +At the time, you may be sure, we did not wait to make any remarks on all +these observations. With one thought Brother and I plunged through the +front door, back into the kitchen, and bumped into each other in our +eagerness to get the gun. It was Brother who seized it first, and +through the two rooms we dashed again and out into the front yard. The +hawk was flying slowly and with evident difficulty—for Lazarus was a +healthy, heavy youngster—across the open space that lay between the yard +of the cabin and the old brickyard shed which adjoined it. + +Brother, bent back almost double by the weight of the heavy weapon, +pressed it against his shoulder, took careful aim, and fired. I +screamed, for there were three falls. Brother tumbled backward from the +kick of the shotgun. Lazarus hurtled to earth in a sprawl of legs and +wings and lay there, uttering feeble, choking sounds. The hawk rocketed +down, a flutter of gray-brown feathers; there was blood upon the grass +where he dropped. + +[Illustration] + +The Old Fisherman, hearing the commotion, came running up the float, the +wooden shuttle with which he mended nets still grasped tightly in his +hand. + +Brother scrambled to his feet, blinking dazedly at the result of his +marksmanship. Our first thought was that Lazarus was killed at last. But +he was apparently only severely shaken by his fall, for presently he +walked off a little dizzily, his tender skin bleeding where the hawk’s +talons had sunk in. + +[Illustration] + +The hawk was our next consideration. Now that we had wounded him—I say +“we,” because I felt that the responsibility was half mine—we were sorry +for his plight. He was thrashing about helplessly on the grass, one wing +dragging at his side. He was trying desperately to fly, but could not so +much as lift himself above the ground. His fierce, dark eyes blazed at +us, and his powerful, curved beak snapped menacingly when we approached +him. But at last his strength failed him, the bleeding wing spread +itself out in a fan, and he sank over on one side, his talons jerking +spasmodically. As we came nearer he regarded us with eyes that were +unafraid. They even seemed dull with apathy, as if he knew that the end +had come and that he, like the robber aristocrat that he was, must +accept it philosophically. + +The Old Fisherman was for ending his life then and there. But Brother +and I could not bear to have him killed, for he was at our mercy, hurt +and helpless. For the first time in our lives we had deliberately +wounded something that lived and had feelings even as we. The knowledge +that we had fired upon him to save our friend’s life was not sufficient +excuse for us to allow the Old Fisherman to kill him. + +[Illustration] + +So together we caught him, tied his fierce beak so he could not snap at +us, bound his powerful legs so that his talons should not tear our +hands, then the Old Fisherman, grumblingly, but gently, bathed and +salved the injured wing. In time it would be as good as new, he told us, +but he didn’t know what our folks would say to our saving the life of a +“pesterin’, low-lived hawk.” + +As he anticipated, the grown-ups were not at all pleased when they +returned from town and found Hector—he had been named by that time—tied +by one leg to a stake in the back-yard, his right wing sadly out of +focus and smeared with a clot of blood. But it was not in their kindly +hearts to kill in cold blood, so they let the hawk live. + +[Illustration] + +For the first few days that Hector was in our midst he did little except +to tug at the chain which bound him to the stake, slowly and +automatically, like a man taking morning exercises with rubber ropes. He +hated us and repulsed our attentions fiercely and scornfully. He refused +to eat the tempting bits of raw meat that we spread before him; he +sulked all day with his curved beak hidden in the ruffled feathers of +his breast. He was indeed like a robber chieftain in captivity. We were +patient, however, for we knew that according to Hector’s viewpoint we +had injured him without reason. He had been in search of his dinner—a +perfectly legitimate occupation for any one—and as he was carrying it +off we had not only robbed him of it, but wounded him grievously. You +can see that he had a great deal of logic on his side. + +[Illustration] + +But little by little his haughty antagonism melted before our daily +overtures. He no longer snapped at us when we came near, and began to +take an active interest in the food we brought him. There came a day +when he allowed me to put my hand on the soft, smooth feathers of his +head and back, and when I gently massaged his wounded wing with vaseline +he opened his beak as if to bite my hand but closed it without doing me +harm. + +[Illustration] + +Then, wonder of wonders, Hector began to like us. When he saw us coming +into the back-yard he would set up a sort of dancing, jumping up and +down stiff-legged, spreading out his dark wings, and straining at the +chain. His beak would snap open and shut, and his bright, black eyes +seemed actually to have a smile in them. He would allow me to salve his +injury with only the faintest suggestion of nervousness in his half-open +beak, and on the day when we unchained his leg from the stake he sat on +my hand with all the dignity of an emperor receiving his court after a +long illness. + +[Illustration] + +From that time on we gave Hector his liberty for a few hours each day. +And always, before releasing him, we would take the precaution to feed +him well. We did not intend to have any fatalities among the poultry if +we could help it. But even with a full stomach, he worried the barnyard +into a daily spasm of fear. For as he regained the use of his wing, he +would fly slowly, majestically, over the poultry pens, turning his head +from side to side as hawks do when they are picking their prey and +calculating the time for the swoop to earth. Brother and I believed +firmly that Hector had no intention of snatching up a chick or a pigeon, +that his daily flight was merely by way of exercise and for the dramatic +satisfaction it gave him to see the feathered crew below him so +disturbed. + +[Illustration] + +At any rate, he never once attempted to harm any of our live stock. +Perhaps it was because we fed him so well, but Brother and I preferred +to think it was because he was a gentleman, and that he would not betray +our confidence when we trusted him to do the right thing. + +[Illustration] + +This daily flight of Hector’s was most annoying to the grown-ups, +however. In the first place, the hens were not laying so well as they +had. They were frightened out of all nesting desire by Hector’s calm +aërial promenades, and were in a continual state of nervous excitement. +Then, too, when Prince gave the danger signal and all the hens ran for +cover with their chicks, the grown-ups would dash out of the house each +time ready to fire upon a strange marauder, only to be confronted with +Hector making peaceable spirals above the hen-houses. He would come to +us when we whistled shrilly, and would sit quietly on my wrist to nibble +at a piece of cooky as if he had never had a carnivorous thought in his +life. + +[Illustration] + +I should like to tell you that he and Lazarus became friends after the +hawk had become partially domesticated, but such was never the case. +Lazarus used to come stalking into the back-yard, his legs much too long +for the rest of him, and a tiny, serrated, red comb sticking up from the +bald spot on his head. His body was still almost bare, though a generous +tuft of feathers on his tail showed where he might in time expect some +real plumage. He still carried the scars of his aërial adventure under +his wings. He would approach Hector cautiously, craning his neck in and +out with a curious rubberized effect, and would stop at a safe distance, +turning his head on one side, giving Hector a timorous inspection from +the broadside of one amber eye. And Hector would return the look +scornfully, his curved beak giving him a morose, sneering expression. +His whole attitude seemed to say, “Never mind, I’ll get you next time!” + +As Hector grew stronger and could fly better, the grown-ups gave the +ultimatum that we must dispose of him in some way. It was too dangerous, +they said, to have a chicken hawk around the ranch. In vain we argued +that Hector was a gentleman, that he would not bother any of our +poultry. But to our sorrow, they said that he should be taken to the +city and presented to the zoölogical gardens there. + +[Illustration] + +Brother and I told Hector what was going to happen to him, and that it +was not in our power to prevent his going, and it seemed to us that he +was very thoughtful afterward. We shall always believe that what +happened was the direct result of the grown-ups’ decision to send him +into captivity, although, you understand, we could not blame them. They +had been more than kind to our somewhat dangerous guest. + +The next day when we released our robber chieftain from his stake, he +flew up over the cabin roof, circled once around it, then flew northward +along the beach and was soon out of sight. When night came Hector did +not return. And though Brother and I stood in the yard whistling until +we were breathless, there was no sudden swoop of a gray-brown bird from +the air, no Hector to curve sharp talons gently around my wrist. + +[Illustration] + +The next morning, when we went for milk at the neighboring ranch, we +knew why our friend had not come back to us. On the fence outside the +barn, hung limply over the pickets just as he had fallen, was a draggled +bunch of gray-brown feathers that had once been our beautiful Hector, +the Robber Chief. The wide wings were powerless now, the body was +riddled with fine shot, the once proud head with its curved beak drooped +pitifully. The fierce dark eyes were closed. Never again would Hector +perform his dance of joy at our coming, never again would he stare +appraisingly at Lazarus, or frighten the hens and pigeons with his lazy +circles above their heads. + +The rancher told us he had shot the hawk the day before. And he could +not understand why we wept over the blood-stained bunch of feathers. He +did not know that Hector was a friend of ours—and a gentleman. + +Brother and I always thought that Hector deliberately courted death +rather than spend his life in yearning captivity. And I, for one, am +glad he did. For no one else would have understood him and loved him as +we did. + + + + +[Illustration: + + _Her nostrils dilated at the hated human scent._ +] + + _Part Ten_ + MY FRIEND THE PRINCESS + + +This is not my story, except incidentally. It is the story of a Bengal +tigress named Princess, with a coat of dull gold striped with ebony. A +restless, sullen tigress, padding the length of her narrow cage, with +amber eyes staring out at some vision beyond the iron bars, with tawny +lips half drawn back from white, pointed fangs. A tigress with something +high and noble in her steady pacing, her air of absolute detachment from +everything around her. When I met her I was no longer a child living +near Puget Sound, but had quite grown up and moved to California, and to +city life far from my woodland friends of earlier and sweeter years. + +[Illustration] + +Princess lives in a motion-picture studio’s menagerie now, but there was +a time when she knew the hot, marshy smell of the Bengal jungles, when +she crouched, tense in every muscle, to spring upon a fat bullock, when +she padded through narrow jungle trails to drink at the hidden pool +which only the forest creatures knew. + +[Illustration] + +She was caught in a tiger pit, they told me, when little more than a +cub. She had been purchased first by a circus, and then by the +motion-picture company which owns her now. They told me she was fierce +and utterly without affection. And indeed she looked so, pacing back and +forth in her iron-barred cage, her breath coming in a hissing snarl as +she noted our presence, her amber eyes widening ever so little as she +caught our scent. + +Still I could not think Princess was so terrible. I could not find it in +my heart to be afraid of her. I pitied her. There was something +unbearably pathetic in her constant pacing. It seemed to me that I could +actually feel the longing of her caged heart to be out in the open +again, to lope down jungle trails, to lie stretched out on rocks warm +with Indian sunshine. There was no enmity in the look she turned on us, +only indifference, and—was it pleading? + +[Illustration] + +It was my first visit to the studio. And I carried away with me that +picture of Princess in her cramped cage, pacing, pausing, sniffing at +the air heavy with human scent, her amber eyes seeing something afar +off, something we could not understand— + +[Illustration] + +Then I discovered that the keeper of the menagerie was an old friend of +mine. “Pudgy” he was nicknamed. He was short and rotund, and trained +animals with kindness instead of whips. I had known him in the Puget +Sound country when Brother and I were children. A woodsman he had been +then, and with a tiny little cabin near Green Point. We had visited him +often, for he shared our love for the things of the open. He had had a +tame deer whose name was Nellie, and he had nursed back to health a +bobcat that he had rescued from a trap in the High Sierras. It was not +strange that with his love of animals Pudgy should finally come into a +position as keeper of a motion-picture menagerie. Many years had passed +since we had seen each other, but when we met by chance—I was of the +press—we renewed old acquaintance, and found pleasure in talking of +Puget Sound and of the woods creatures we had loved. + +[Illustration] + +Through him I came to know personally the animals in the menagerie. I +was introduced to the Russian wolves, to the lions, to the bears, and to +Princess the tigress. I think he liked her best of all the wild things +there, and I am sure I did. There was something about her cheated +strength, her restrained power, that made my heart go out to her. I +never failed to visit her when I went to the studio, and I liked to +think that she knew me and recognized me as a friend. + +It was several weeks after Pudgy and I renewed our old friendship that +they told me at the studio that Princess, the glorious Bengal tigress, +was to be killed. She had grown unmanageable for picture work, they +said, too sullen and too treacherous. The picture in hand called for a +tiger hunt. She was to be sacrificed for the sake of reality and shot +down. Her pelt, they added, would be worth a great deal of money. + +But I could not think of Princess in terms of a pelt that was worth +money. I felt as if a human being had been sentenced to death. Because +she could not find it in her royal heart to cringe beneath the trainer’s +lash, she was to die; because she was queenly, and unafraid, she no +longer had the right to live. + +[Illustration] + +I have seen the tortures wild animals go through in making pictures. How +they are prodded with pointed sticks, made to jump into water from great +heights, and forced to run through blazing brush. I have seen lions and +tigers struck cruelly on their sensitive noses to make them register +rage. All these things had Princess suffered from trainers and +directors. I did not blame her for rebelling. + +I came upon Pudgy as he sat on a bench near Princess’s cage, his chin in +his hand, and he was staring at her while she paced restlessly back and +forth with hissing intakes of breath. + +“They are going to kill her,” he said slowly, “just because they can’t +break her spirit.” + +[Illustration] + +I sat beside him, and together we watched Princess. Pudgy told me how he +had tried to ease the fear and hatred of humans in the heart of the +jungle tigress by being especially nice to her. How, when she had hurt +herself jumping from a springboard into a lake with sharp rocks in it, +he had gone into the cage and bathed the swollen paw, and how she had +licked his hand with her huge, grating tongue. Once she had had a +swelling on her throat; he was the only one whom she suffered to +minister to it. And again, when she had sickened with fever, he had +stayed in her cage a night and a day, moistening her tongue with water +and watching until her eyes lost their glazed stare and became normal +once more. + +“And they’re going to kill her,” he repeated slowly, “just because she +can’t understand the treatment they’ve given her—because she’s not +afraid of their whips any more.” + +[Illustration] + +His voice almost broke. And my heart went out to him and to the tawny +wild thing in the barred cage. If he could only make the Powers +understand, I told him. If only he could make them realize that Princess +was not wantonly ferocious, only tortured into savagery by unkind +treatment. He shook his head. The Powers, he said, understood nothing +that did not have a dollar mark attached. + +So the day was set when Princess was to die. It was to be in the +out-of-door arena, an oval piece of ground enclosed in upright bars and +strong steel wire. At the back was a miniature thicket of bamboo, ferns, +and marsh grass. At the front was the camera cage, strongly barred to +prevent danger from the wild animals being photographed in action. + +[Illustration] + +My visit to the menagerie that day was accidental. I did not know that +the tigress was to be killed. I had only been told that an interesting +picture was being made in the arena. So I pushed my way through the +double line of carpenters, actors, and onlookers, to the very bars of +the huge out-of-door cage. The camera man was already in his barred +enclosure, and inside the arena the director, a slim-waisted man with a +black mustache, was outlining the action of the scene to the hero of the +picture, who, attired in a hunting costume, dabbed at his face with a +yellow powder-puff. + +[Illustration] + +“The tiger comes bounding out of the jungle,” the director was saying, +“and you shoot from behind that log. Never mind if you don’t get her the +first shot. I’ll have my gun on her, and I’ll finish her off. There’s no +danger.” + +My heart stopped and then thumped painfully. I had stumbled unknowingly +on the scene of Princess’s execution. I felt sickened. I could not bear +to stay and see her shot at—wounded first by an ill-aimed rifle, then +fired upon until she dropped, an inert mass of tawny gold and black— + +[Illustration] + +I turned away, tried to press through the crowd. But there were too many +people. Every one from the studio had ceased work to come and see the +spectacular death of Princess, the Bengal tigress. + +I was dimly aware that men were rolling a cage on wheels up to the side +entrance of the arena. From between the bars I caught a glint of +sunlight on a body of savage beauty. I saw, too, the white, drawn face +of Pudgy, standing by the side of the cage. + +Some one opened the side gate of the arena. The director and the actor +were still talking. The director was showing graphically how the other +should come out of the jungle, should listen for the tigress’s coming, +should drop behind the log and fire— + +[Illustration] + +What happened then I can scarcely remember. It was all so sudden, so +breath-taking. A confusion of signals had been the cause, they told me +afterward. The man at the cage thought the opening of the arena gate was +the signal to release Princess—and he had opened the door of her cage! + +There was a shout that died away in a gasp of many breaths, a silence +that was like a great commotion—for Princess, the royal Bengal tigress, +crashed through the flimsy greenery of the mimic jungle and like a tawny +statue stopped short, her head raised, her amber eyes wide. + +It was a nightmare, that terrible instant. No one moved. The director’s +face went pasty white, the actor’s red-lined mouth had fallen open. +There in that oval cage the two puny men faced the magnificent creature +of the wilds, faced the animal they had planned to kill—and they were +helpless. + +[Illustration] + +Only the briefest moment did the tableau last. For Princess’s nostrils +dilated with the hated human scent, her eyes narrowed to slits, her nose +wrinkled back, and she snarled. The director was speaking jerkily +without moving—saying that no one must scream—telling some one to bring +the gun— + +[Illustration] + +At the sound of his voice the tigress dropped to a crouch. Her tail +lashed her sides. I could not take my eyes from the arena. My throat was +dry. I was vaguely conscious that a man had pushed past me. It was +Pudgy, the menagerie keeper. + +For a scant second a lower crouch—a long-drawn snarl—then a voice spoke, +quietly, sharply. + +“_Princess!_” + +At the sound of the keeper’s voice, the tigress lifted her head ever so +little, and her amber, black-rimmed eyes turned toward him. + +“Princess!” he said again. “Keep back—steady, old girl!” + +He had unfastened the front gate of the arena and opened it. He was +unarmed; he carried not so much as a whip. Yet he went toward her +quietly, talking in a gentle monotone, and she snarled at him as he +came. But he walked quickly, confidently. He placed himself between the +two men and the crouching tigress. Then he planted his feet far apart +and smiled down at her. + +“Maybe you’re mad at these folks, but you wouldn’t be mad at me—your old +pal,” he said softly. + +There was a moment of sickening suspense. Then the snarl died on +Princess’s lips, her tail ceased its frenzied lashing, and she rose from +her crouching position. + +“The danger is over,” Pudgy said quietly to the men behind him. “Just +move out toward the door. Take your time. Don’t run.” + +[Illustration] + +Then he spoke to the tigress again: + +“Into your cage, old girl, right out through the same door you came +in—Out you go—It’s all right, lady—Don’t be frightened—You know your old +pal wouldn’t do anything to hurt you—” + +He was stepping forward toward her, urging her gently but firmly back +through the side gate of the enclosure. She snarled as she went, and +stopped once to roar full-throated defiance. But the mild little man +talked to her always, caressing her with his voice, comforting her with +the assurance that she was not to be hurt. The tawny body slipped +through the door into the wagon cage—the door clanged after her—it was +over. + +Pudgy came out of the arena at the gate where he had entered. His face +was calm, his hands untrembling. I pushed past the people in front of me +and in a moment was beside him. + +[Illustration] + +“Tell them, oh, tell them now!” I whispered. And Pudgy, because he, too, +loved the things of the wild, understood me. + +“Do you think it would do any good?” he questioned under his breath, and +I nodded, being almost past speech. + +Together we sought the director of the picture. He was one of the +Powers. His word would mean much. + +He was still white-lipped and breathless, but he attempted a wan smile +as he shook Pudgy’s hand. + +“Well, she almost got us,” he spoke with forced cheerfulness. “If it +hadn’t been for you—” He shuddered in spite of himself. “If there’s +anything I can do, old-man, to show my gratitude—” + +Pudgy’s eyes turned toward the wagon cage where Princess had commenced +her endless pacing. She was still snarling softly, as if dreaming of the +vengeance on man which had almost been hers. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +“Maybe you don’t know it,” he said slowly, “but the real reason Princess +obeyed me was because she knows me and likes me. She knows I like her, +too, and she wouldn’t do anything to make me feel bad. And if you really +mean what you say—about doing something—why, let Princess live. +She—she’s a friend of mine.” + +There was a short silence. The director was staring at him curiously. + +“That tiger—that bloodthirsty beast—a _friend_ of yours?” he said +incredulously. + +“Yes,” answered Pudgy simply. “She’s just that, and I don’t want her +killed.” + +The director turned away, walked a few short steps, and halted. “All +right,” he said briefly, “if that’s the way of it—I’ll see what I can +do.” + +As I said before, this is not my story. I wish it were. I should love to +have the friendship of that wonderful tigress as Pudgy has it. But at +least I always make it a point, when at the studio, to pay a brief visit +to Princess, the Royal Bengal. She paces unceasingly and stares at +something beyond the bars which humans may not see. But because Pudgy +has let me come inside the railing, and has told Princess that I helped, +a very little bit, in obtaining her reprieve from the death sentence, I +like to think that her amber eyes as they rest on me are not fierce, but +kindly, and that she knows that I love her and wish her well. + +[Illustration] + + + + + _Part Eleven_ + ETHEL OF THE WILD HEART + + +[Illustration: + + _For I saw her, not a savage, bloodthirsty beast, but a wild thing of + the deep woods, ruled by pain instead of kindliness._ +] + + + + + _Part Eleven_ + ETHEL + _of the_ + WILD HEART + + +This is the story of a lioness in a cage at a great moving-picture +studio—a lean, tawny lioness with slanting, amber eyes and flexible +muscles that undulated under the loose skin like ripples of water under +a blanket of kelp. + +They said, the people of the studio, that Ethel was savage, that she had +clawed a trainer and injured an actor for life, that she hated women and +would not tolerate the touch of a human hand. And they thought me a +little mad when I wanted to go into the cage where she and four other +lions were taking their exercise. + +But I was of the press, so I was permitted to enter the cage with the +trainer, to go through the doubled-barred iron doors, and to stand very +quietly while the keeper of the lions, with a long whip, lashed the +snarling animals to their pedestals. + +Of them all, Ethel was the most savage. Her eyes blazed with a wicked +light that burned green behind the amber; her tail lashed furiously when +the trainer flicked her with his whip; and afraid as she undoubtedly +was, the courage of her spirit showed itself in her stubborn crouch and +the vicious striking of her powerful paws whenever the lash came near +her. + +[Illustration] + +She fascinated me. The other lions were cowed, it seemed, by long +experience with the stinging whip. They took their places protesting and +snarling, but with alacrity none the less. Ethel would not obey. In +defiance of the stern commands of the trainer and the leather thong +which flicked remorselessly about her eyes and nose, she would leap from +one side of the cage to the other, crouch for an instant, then spring +again, shaking the bars in her frenzied attempts to escape the +persecuting lash, while the other lions watched her from their pedestals +uneasily, with guttural intakes of breath and occasional snarls. + +Do you wonder what I felt when Ethel careened about the cage, stubborn, +disobedient, mad with rage as well as with a terror born of pain? At +first I felt fear, a fear as unreasoning as that of the lioness. For in +one of her crazed leaps she brushed against me, so that I was pushed +sharply against the iron bars of the cage. + +“Do you want to go out?” the trainer was asking me, and I shook my head, +for I could not speak. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +Then suddenly the fear left me. The thread of ice which had seemed to +run from the top of my head to the very soles of my feet melted away as +though in a warm sunshine. For Ethel, crouching in snarling defiance, +had suddenly raised her head. For an instant we measured each other, eye +to eye. And in that moment I remembered another wild thing—this one +uncaged—and I remembered myself a little girl alone on the Hill Trail, +facing the amber eyes of one of Ethel’s distant kin. I want to tell you +what I remembered, so that you will know why the ice thread was melted +and why things happened in that barred cage that the trainer said had +never happened before. + +[Illustration] + +It was while we still lived in the little cabin on the Bay, and I was +yet a child. Brother had gone away to school, and I was lonely, so more +than ever I sought the woods and the companionship of the woods +creatures there. + +It was a sultry day in August when the juncoes were flying in panicky +flocks, and when a haze of smoke was in the air that told of forest +fires not so far away. All the night before the sky in the west had been +reddened with a dull glow that gradually grew brighter, and though we +had no fear for ourselves since a cleared space lay between the wooded +hills and the cabin we were sorry for the wild things of the woods who +would be forced to flee from the red monster that devoured their homes +so relentlessly. + +The air that day was oppressive, for the smoke hung low, and if we +listened carefully, we could hear the distant crackling of tall pines +with gum-smeared trunks on fire, and the occasional crash of a giant +fir, tortured too long by licking flames. + +[Illustration] + +I sought the Hill Trail, listening, as I climbed, to the ominous crackle +of burning trees, much nearer than I would have wished. And perhaps it +was because of that intentness that I came, without realizing it, face +to face with a wildcat, the largest I have ever seen, stretched across +the trail, only a few feet in front of me. + +[Illustration] + +For the first time in my life I knew the fear of which men and books +tell you. Many had been the stories told by hunters who passed the +cabin, of the ferocity of mountain lions and wildcats, although none of +them had ever been seen in the woods around us, because civilization was +too near. These beasts, said the hunters, kept to the higher hills and +the deeper wooded forests, where game abounded and men seldom came. So +when I saw the tawny animal so close that one light spring would have +carried the powerful body upon me, my first impulse was to run—blindly, +madly—to run until I could run no more, or until the fierce claws of the +great cat should bear me to the ground— + +The wildcat had not moved except to lift its head ever so slightly and +to draw back its jowls in a hissing snarl that displayed cruel, white +fangs. The amber eyes watched me without flickering, yet in them I saw +distrust, startled anger, and ever so little of a desire to spring—to +kill— + +[Illustration] + +In that one instant I had many thoughts—dizzy, rambling thoughts, that +chased themselves across my mind like dried leaves blown by a wind. I +noticed the straight, white whiskers on either side of the wildcat’s +nostrils; I heard the distant fall of a tree; I saw a grasshopper leap +from a blade of grass that was bending under his weight; I heard the +scuttle of leaves somewhere in the woods and knew that a bevy of quail +was there. But I could not move. I stood still in the grip of that numb +terror. + +[Illustration] + +What would have happened I can not say. Suddenly the fear left me—for I +_knew_! I knew that the tawny animal before me was a wild thing of the +woods even as were the other wild things I loved. I knew that fear of +fire had driven him from his familiar haunts far up in the mountains, +that he sought these woods for protection, not for killing, and I knew +that I, having been in those woods longer than he, was hostess there, +and that it was my place to make him welcome, to extend to him the +friendly greetings that I would have tendered to any of my woods +friends. The fear was gone, utterly. I wanted to put my hand on his +sleek head, to stroke his glossy back, to put my cheek against the +russet satin of his thick coat. + +[Illustration] + +But I made no move. I spoke to him, as I would have spoken to any other +of my woods friends, telling him that he was welcome, that the woods +were his as well as mine, and that I hoped the fire would spare his +relatives who were dear to him. + +As I spoke, the amber eyes opened wider, the snarl died away, and +suddenly he yawned, voluminously, with a snap of his jaws and a careless +licking motion of his red tongue. Then his eyes closed indifferently, +and I knew he had understood me. I knew that between us was no thought +of fear or hate. I walked past him up the trail, so close that I might +have touched him, and he did not move. Only the amber eyes met mine +squarely, and it was as if the wild thing from the deeper woods had said +with words, + + “We are friends—go in peace.” + +[Illustration] + +When I had gone up the trail a way, I stopped at the bend in the path +and looked back. The wildcat was in the same position, but he was +watching me still with eyes unblinking and unafraid. + +So that is why, some years later, when Ethel raised her head and met my +eyes, the icy fear slipped away. For I saw her, not a savage, +bloodthirsty beast, but a wild thing of the deep woods, girded round +with iron bars and stinging whips, a wild thing ruled by pain instead of +kindliness, and there surged into my heart a great love and pity for +her. I wanted to take the whip from the man, to break it into bits, to +tell her that she was free to go back to her mountain fastnesses. + +[Illustration] + +So, disregarding the cry of warning from the trainer and the gasps from +those who stood outside the cage, I walked slowly toward the crouching +lioness, saying to her the things I would have said had I met her in the +woods, telling her that I, too, belonged to the out-of-doors, that I, +too, was a captive, that between us there was a bond. Slowly the +snarling lips relaxed, the glint of green went out of her slanting eyes, +and she no longer crouched. I knelt beside her on the floor of the cage, +while the lions above on their pedestals watched with curious, sullen +eyes, and the trainer’s voice died away in a series of gulps. Gently I +put out my hand and touched her rough, tawny head. She flinched and +snarled, but I did not draw my hand away, and the next instant I felt +her tense muscles relax, and she was quiet under the steady stroking of +my hand. + +[Illustration] + +The trainer spoke to me in an agonized whisper, telling me to come away +quickly, and as I rose from my kneeling position, Ethel rose, too. +Padding over to the pedestal which was hers, she mounted to it with a +spring and sat there quietly, her eyes never leaving me or missing a +motion I made. + +When we left the cage, Ethel padded close to my side, and the trainer +said in jest that I might take her for a pet. + +If I only could have! My heart was aching for her as I left, for I, too, +am sometimes rebellious at the ways of civilization and of a world that +does not know or care about the things of life that have nothing to do +with money. I, too, am lonely for the freshness of leaves wet with dew, +the feeling of moss underfoot, the glint of sunlight through laced +branches. I think I know a little of the longing that is hers as she +paces back and forth in her narrow cage, for hers is not a savage +heart—only a wild heart; and I know that love can speak to it and soothe +its hurt. + +[Illustration] + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + ● HTML alt text was used for images that didn’t have captions. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77766 *** |