Books: The Junior Classics Volume 8

S >> Selected and arranged by William Patten >> The Junior Classics Volume 8

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The gardener wondered, and was vexed, for he prided himself on the
digging of the carrot-bed. "Anything that had had any sense might
have gone down into it, he was sure," he said. And he was not far
wrong; but you see the Carrot had had no sense when he began to
speculate, and tried to be something he was not intended to be.

Yet the poor clumsy thing was not quite useless after all. For,
just as the gardener was about to fling it angrily away, he
recollected that the cook might use it for soup, though it could
not be served up at table--such a shape as it was!...

And this was exactly what she did.

THE WIND AND THE FLOWERS

By Mrs. Alfred Gatty

"What a fuss is made about you, my dear little friends!" murmured
the Wind, one day, to the flowers in a pretty villa garden. "I am
really quite surprised at your submitting so patiently and meekly
to all the troublesome things that are done to you! I have been
watching your friend the gardener for some time to-day; and now
that he is gone at last, I am quite curious to hear what you think
and feel about your unnatural bringing up."

"_Is_ it unnatural?" inquired a beautiful Convolvulus Major,
from the top of a tapering fir-pole, up which she had crept, and
from which her velvet flowers hung suspended like purple gems.

"I smile at your question," was the answer of the Wind. "You surely
cannot suppose that in a natural state you would be forced to climb
regularly up one tall bare stick such as I see you upon now. Oh
dear, no! Your cousin, the wild Convolvulus, whom I left in the
fields this morning, does no such thing, I assure you. She runs
along and climbs about, just as the whim takes her. Sometimes
she takes a turn upon the ground; sometimes she enters a
hedge, and plays at bo-peep with the birds in the thorn and
nut-trees--twisting here, curling there, and at last, perhaps,
coming out at the top, and overhanging the edge with a canopy of
green leaves and pretty white flowers. A very different sort of
life from yours, with a gardener always after you, trimming you in
one place, fastening up a stray tendril in another, and fidgeting
you all along--a sort of perpetual 'mustn't go here'--'mustn't go
there.' Poor thing! I quite feel for you! Still I must say you make
me smile; for you look so proud and self-conscious of beauty all
the time, that one would think you did not know in what a
ridiculous and dependent position you are placed."

Now the Convolvulus was quite abashed by the words of the Wind, for
she was conscious of feeling very conceited that morning, in
consequence of having heard the gardener say something very
flattering about her beauty; so she hung down her rich bell-flowers
rather lower than usual, and made no reply.

But the Carnation put in her word: "What you say about the
Convolvulus may be true enough, but it cannot apply to _me_. I
am not aware that I have any poor relations in this country, and I
myself certainly require all the care that is bestowed upon me.
This climate is both too cold and too damp for me. My young plants
require heat, or they would not live; and the pots we are kept in
protect us from those cruel wire-worms who delight to destroy our
roots."

"Oh!" cried the Wind, "our friend the Carnation is quite profound
and learned in her remarks, and I admit the justice of all she says
about damp and cold, and wire-worms; but,"--and here the Wind gave
a low-toned whistle, as he took a turn round the flower-bed--"but
what I maintain, my dear, is, that when you are once strong enough
and old enough to be placed in the soil, those gardeners ought to
let you grow and flourish as nature prompts, and as you would do
were you left alone. But no! they must always be clipping, and
trimming, and twisting up every leaf that strays aside out of the
trim pattern they have chosen for you to grow in. Why not allow
your silver tufts to luxuriate in a natural manner? Why must every
single flower betied up by its delicate neck to a stick, the
moment it begins to open? Really, with your natural grace and
beauty, I think you might be trusted to yourself a little more!"

And the Carnation began to think so, too; and her colour turned
deeper as a feeling of indignation arose within her at the childish
treatment to which she had been subjected. "With my natural grace
and beauty," repeated she to herself, "they might certainly trust
me to myself a little more!"

Still the Rose Tree stood out that there must be some great
advantages in a gardener's care, for she could not pretend to be
ignorant of her own superiority to all her wild relations in the
woods. What a difference in size, in colour and in fragrance!

Then the Wind assured the Rose he never meant to dispute the
advantage of her living in a rich-soiled garden; only there was a
natural way of growing, even in a garden; and he thought it a
great shame for the gardeners to force the Rose Tree into an
_un_natural way, curtailing all the energies of her nature.
What could be more outrageous, for example, than to see one rose
growing in the shape of a bush on the top of the stem of another?
"Think of all the pruning necessary," cried he, "to keep the poor
thing in the round shape so much admired! And what is the matter
with the beautiful straggling branches, that they are to be cut
off as fast as they appear? Why not allow the healthy Rose Tree
its free and glorious growth? Can it be _too_ large or _too_
luxuriant? Can its flowers be _too_ numerous? Oh, Rose Tree,
you know your own surpassing merits too well to make you think this
possible!"

And so she did, and a new light seemed to dawn upon her as she
recollected the spring and autumnal prunings she regularly
underwent, and the quantities of little branches that were yearly
cut from her sides, and carried away in a wheel-barrow. "It is a
cruel and a monstrous system, I fear," said she.

Then the Wind took another frolic round the garden, and made up to
the large white Lily, into whose refined ear he whispered a doubt
as to the necessity or advantage of her thick powerful stem being
propped up against a stupid, ugly stick! He really grieved to see
it! Did that lovely creature suppose that Nature, who had done so
much for her that the fame of her beauty extended throughout the
world, had yet left her so weak and feeble that she could not
support herself in the position most calculated to give her ease
and pleasure? "Always this tying up and restraint!" pursued the
Wind, with an angry puff. "Perhaps I am prejudiced; but as to be
deprived of freedom would be to me absolute death, so my soul
revolts from every shape and phase of slavery!"

"Not more than mine does!" cried the proud white Lily, leaning as
heavily as she could against the strip of matting that tied her to
her stick. But it was of no use--she could not get free; and the
Wind only shook his sides and laughed spitefully as he left her,
and then rambled away to talk the same shallow philosophy to the
Honeysuckle that was trained up against a wall. Indeed, not a
flower escaped his mischievous suggestions. He murmured among them
all--laughed the trim cut Box-edges to scorn--maliciously hoped the
Sweet Peas enjoyed growing in a circle, and running up a quantity
of crooked sticks--and told the flowers, generally, that he should
report their unheard-of submission and meek obedience wherever he
went.

Then the white Lily called out to him in great wrath, and told him
he mistook their characters altogether. They only submitted to
these degrading restraints because they could not help themselves;
but if he would lend them his powerful aid, they might free
themselves from at least a part of the unnatural bonds which
enthralled them.

To which the wicked Wind, seeing that his temptations had
succeeded, replied, in great glee, that he would do his best; and
so he went away, chuckling at the discontent he had caused.

All that night the pretty silly flowers bewailed their slavish
condition, and longed for release and freedom: and at last they
began to be afraid that the Wind had only been jesting with them,
and that he would never come to help them, as he had promised.
However, they were mistaken; for, at the edge of the dawn, there
began to be a sighing and a moaning in the distant woods, and by
the time the sun was up, the clouds were driving fast along the
sky, and the trees were bending about in all directions; for the
Wind had returned,--only now he had come in his roughest and
wildest mood,--knocking over everything before him. "Now is your
time, pretty flowers!" shouted he, as he approached the garden; and
"Now is our time!" echoed the flowers tremulously, as, with a sort
of fearful pleasure, they awaited his approach.

He managed the affair very cleverly, it must be confessed. Making a
sort of eddying circuit round the garden, he knocked over the
Convolvulus-pole, tore the strips from the stick that held up the
white Lily, loosed all the Carnation flowers from their fastenings,
broke the Rose Tree down, and levelled the Sweet Peas to the
ground. In short, in one half-hour he desolated the pretty garden;
and when his work was accomplished, he flew off.

Meanwhile, how fared it with the flowers? The Wind was scarcely
gone before a sudden and heavy rain followed, so that all was
confusion for some time. But towards the evening the weather
cleared up, and our friends began to look around them. The white
Lily still stood somewhat upright, though no friendly pole
supported her juicy stem; but, alas! it was only by a painful
effort she could hold herself in that position. The Wind and the
weight of rain had bent her forward once, beyond her strength, and
there was a slight crack in one part of the stalk, which told that
she must soon double over and trail upon the ground. The
Convolvulus fared still worse. The garden beds sloped towards the
south; and when our friend was laid on the earth--her pole having
fallen--her lovely flowers were choked up by the wet soil which
drained towards her. She felt the muddy weight as it soaked into
her beautiful velvet bells, and could have cried for grief: she
could never free herself from this nuisance. Oh that she were once
more climbing up the friendly fir-pole! The Honeysuckle escaped no
better; and the Carnation was ready to die of vexation, at finding
that her coveted freedom had levelled her to the dirt.

Before the day closed, the gardener came whistling from his farm
work, to look over his pretty charges. He expected to see a few
drooping flowers, and to find that one or two fastenings had given
way. But for the sight that awaited him he was not prepared at all.
Struck dumb with astonishment, he never spoke at first, but kept
lifting up the heads of the trailing, dirtied flowers in
succession. Then at last he broke out into words of absolute
sorrow:--"And to think of my mistress and the young lady coming
home so soon, and that nothing can be done to these poor things for
a fortnight, because of the corn harvest! It's all over with them,
I fear;" and the gardener went his way. Alas! what he said was
true; and before many days had passed, the shattered Carnations
were rotted with lying in the wet and dirt on the ground. The white
Lily was languishing discoloured on its broken stalk; the
Convolvulus flowers could no longer be recognized, they were so
coated over with mud stains; the Honeysuckle was trailing along
among battered Sweet Peas, who never could succeed in shaking the
soil from their fragrant heads; and though the Rose Tree had sent
out a few straggling branches, she soon discovered that they were
far too weak to bear flowers--nay, almost to support themselves--so
that they added neither to her beauty nor her comfort. Weeds
meanwhile sprang up, and a dreary confusion reigned in the once
orderly and brilliant little garden.

At length, one day before the fortnight was over, the house-dog was
heard to bark his noisy welcome, and servants bustled to and fro.
The mistress had returned; and the young lady was with her, and
hurried at once to her favourite garden. She came bounding towards
the well-known spot with a song of joyous delight; but, on reaching
it, suddenly stopped short, and in a minute after burst into a
flood of tears! Presently, with sorrowing steps, she bent her way
round the flower-beds, weeping afresh at every one she looked at;
and then she sat down upon the lawn, and hid her face in her hands.
In this position she remained, until a gentle hand was laid upon
her shoulder.

"This is a sad sight, indeed, my darling," said her mother's voice.

"I am not thinking about the garden, mamma," replied the young
girl, without lifting up her face; "we can plant new flowers, and
tie up even some of these afresh. I am thinking that now, at last,
I understand what you say about the necessity of training, and
restraint, and culture, for us as well as for flowers. The Wind has
torn away these poor things from their fastenings, and they are
growing wild whichever way they please; and I might perhaps once
have argued, that if it were their _natural_ way of growing it
must therefore be the best. But I cannot say so, now I see the
result. They are doing whatever they like, unrestrained; and the
end is,--my beautiful garden is turned into a wilderness."

PHIL'S ADVENTURES AMONG THE ANIMALS

_Phil, the little seven year old boy
who makes the acquaintance of different
animals in these stories, had an attack
of brain fever at the orphanage, where
he had been taken after the death of
his father and mother. It was while he
was ill, and the matron and boys were
hunting for him, that he thought he
wandered away and, under the guidance
of Mother Nature, made the acquaintance
of a lot of new friends._

AT HOME WITH THE BEAVERS

By Lillian M. Gask

The air was as warm as summer, and the murmur of the big brown
velvet Bee that hovered over a purple flower made Phil think of the
garden at home. A tiny Humming-Bird, gleaming against the willows
like a spot of fire, flashed quickly past him, and lingered for a
moment on a swaying branch; she had travelled nearly four thousand
miles on those small wings of hers to reach her summer quarters,
and even now was not at her journey's end.

Phil turned his head to look at her, and as he did so he found to
his great joy that his stiff white collar had disappeared. So, too,
had the drab serge suit and the clumsy hob-nailed boots that had
hurt him so. Instead, he wore a single garment of some soft brown,
the colour of earth, girdled by a broad green belt that felt like
velvet. His feet were bare, and as he buried them in the thick
grass on which he lay, he sighed with pleasure.

"Good morning," remarked someone in rather hoarse tones close at
his elbow, and one of the quaint animals he had seen the night
before shuffled awkwardly towards him with what was evidently
intended for a pleasant smile. "Mother Beaver," Nature had called
her, he remembered, and he had a dim idea that she had offered to
take him under her care until he knew his way about the forests. He
sat up now so that he might see her better, for in the daylight she
looked stranger still. Her body, nearly three feet long, was
covered with glossy hair; her tail was paddle-shaped and smooth,
while her strong white tusks would have given her quite a fierce
expression but for her twinkling eyes. These were very bright and
most inquisitive, as if she found him quite as curious as he did
her.

"Good morning," she repeated with friendly emphasis, as Phil tried
in vain to think of something to say. "Where are your manners,
young man? Haven't you learnt yet that it isn't polite to stare?"

"I beg your pardon," said Phil, smiling shyly at her. "I never knew
that animals could speak until last night, and it's rather
startling at first, you know. Do you mind telling me where I am?"

"In North America, on the banks of one of its swiftest rivers," she
returned, proudly. "You are coming to school with me, I hear. I
hope you are quick and industrious--we have too many idlers
already, and there's any amount of work to be done before the
autumn."

"I dare say you're as bright as any, if the truth were told. Can you
swim?"

Phil nodded joyfully; an old sailor had taught him during a long
happy summer he had spent by the sea, and had been quite proud of
his pupil.

"Not that it would matter if you had never learnt," said Mother
Beaver, struck by a sudden thought, "for Nature has made you an
exception to all her rules. What is an exception? Well, you must
wait until Father Beaver comes if you want it properly explained,
but it means that while you are Nature's guest you will be able to
do all those things that a small boy _wouldn't_ be able to do
in the usual way; such as breathe under water, for instance, as you
will in a moment, when you come to my winter home. You will change
your size, too, without knowing anything about it, just when and
where it is most convenient, so that you can sit in nests, or run
down burrows, as easily as the creatures to which they belong. And
you'll never feel hungry, unless there is something near that you
can eat, or thirsty, unless you are within easy distance of a
stream. In short, my dear, Nature has been particularly kind to you
for this one year; after that you'll be just an ordinary boy
again."

Phil was rather bewildered; it sounded much too wonderful to be
true, but Mother Beaver, seemed quite in earnest.

"Are you ready?" she said. "Then follow me. We're going to my
winter lodge, where my young ones are still waiting for me. Their
father and I only left it this morning to look round, for spring
comes suddenly here in the north, and a day or two ago it was quite
cold. The flowers are in bloom, the Bees say, before they have time
to notice their buds, and the trees spread out their leaves in a
single night. The winter has only just gone."

Phil followed her to the water's edge through clumps of rushes, and
saw before him a cluster of dome-shaped houses, like giant
thimbles, in the centre of the stream. Many were some feet above
the surface of the water; they were covered with a smooth coating
of hard mud, and so far as he could see they had no entrance.

"Did you make those?" he asked, as she led him on to the dam, so
that he might get a better view of them. He was amazed that such an
insignificant creature as the beaver could build such fortresses.

"Of course we did," she answered in matter-of-fact tones.
"Yes--they took a long time, but we worked together, and worked
with a will. The walls, you'll notice, are more than six feet
thick. They have to be very strong," she added mysteriously. Phil
wanted to ask her why, but she seemed so troubled that he said "How
do you get in?" instead.

"Take a header and see," she told him, splashing from the dam and
diving straight down, with Phil behind her, until they reached the
deep projection, or "angle" as it is called, beneath which lay the
entrance to her own particular home. It was very near the bed of
the river, where the frost would not be likely to reach even in
bitter weather.

"Here we are!" she cried, shaking the water off her tail as she
scrambled through. Phil noticed that she was as agile in the water
as she was clumsy on land, and that two toes on each foot were
webbed.

Inside the winter house were three young Beavers, all very wide
awake and covered with brown and glossy fur. Their three little
beds were nicely arranged along the side of the wall, while two
vacant ones, somewhat larger, and belonging to Father and Mother
Beaver, were on the other side. The centre of the chamber was left
free to move about in, and was so beautifully clean that Phil was
sure Mother Beaver would be as particular about muddy boots as the
matron at school. He was very glad he had left his behind him--bare
feet were much more comfortable.

"Yes, my children," Mother Beaver was saying, as she patted each
affectionately, "the time has come for us to go to the woods. Your
father is exploring now, so that he may know where you can find the
juiciest roots, and how far it is safe to venture. He will meet us
before dusk."

She busied herself in smoothing their fur, while they stared hard
at Phil. Under their shining chestnut hair was a thick soft coat of
greyish brown, and Mother Beaver seemed very anxious that this
should lie quite flat.

"They're very thin," she said, regretfully, "but then it has been a
long winter, and our larder is nearly empty. We live on bark
entirely when we are down here," she explained to Phil, as she made
sure that all was straight before she left. "We find it very
nourishing and tasty, though you might think it dry. Before the
frosts come we lop off branches of willows and other trees, and
sink them under layers of stones close to our houses. Last fall we
laid in a larger supply than usual, for we knew the spring would be
late in coming; but our neighbours had such enormous appetites that
it soon went. Our neighbours? Yes--they live on the other side of
our lodge; but we don't visit--it isn't our way."

With a last look round she left the winter house, and though Phil
swam more quickly than he had ever done before, she and her young
ones were first on the river bank.

"But we're good friends," she went on (Phil shook himself as she
had done, and noticed with pleasure that his brown coat was dry in
a moment), "and always work together in building or repairing our
dams and houses. That's why they call us 'Social' Beavers. Some
cousins of ours (there are not many of them, I believe) live quite
alone."

The young Beavers had a fine time of it that bright spring day.
Phil found them most amusing play fellows, for when they had
satisfied their hunger on succulent roots and tender shoots they
were quite ready for any game that he suggested. They were all in
the highest spirits when Father Beaver came on the scene.

He was thinner than any of them, and much more serious. Phil was
inclined to be frightened of him at first, but soon found him as
kindly as the rest. He smoothed Phil's hair for him as if he were a
son of his own, and asked to look at his teeth.

"H'm," he remarked thoughtfully. "They won't be much use for
felling trees, but I daresay you can help us in other ways. We must
set to work in the early summer," he continued, turning to Mother
Beaver, "for there is a lot of rebuilding to be done this fall."

"Rebuilding?" echoed Phil. He had loved his bricks, and to make
castles in the sand; building those dome-shaped houses must be
great fun.

"Certainly," replied Father Beaver. "Our dam must be enlarged, and
a new lodge put up. We shall want all the help we can get. Later
on, when we have got up our strength, we must begin to cut those
saplings."

Phil was feeling rather tired, so, while the young Beavers started
another game, he sat with their parents, trying to understand what
they meant when they spoke of "IT."

"I feel sure IT is somewhere about," said Father Beaver moodily. "I
came across ITS traces two or three miles away."

Mother Beaver sighed. "There is no use in borrowing trouble," she
said. "We must just keep a sharp look-out, and get our work done
quickly. I'm glad now that we made those extra holes in the bank,
though it did seem rather unnecessary at the time."

"Those holes, my son," said Father Beaver, in answer to Phil's
inquiry, "lead to the deep tunnels in which we take refuge when we
are pursued by our enemies. There we are comparatively safe, but in
the open country or in the woods, owing to our clumsy movements on
land, we are at their mercy."

His voice was gloomy, and it made Phil sad to think that such
gentle animals as beavers had enemies.

"If they catch you, do they swing you up high, and make you all
sick and giddy?" he asked, with a vivid recollection of the terrors
of the barn.

"Worse," said the Beaver, shortly. "The hunters trap and kill us
for our valuable fur, and IT--the Wolverene--actually eats us! This
is why we go to so much trouble to make our houses secure, so that
when the frost has hardened the thick layer of mud which we place
each fall over the thatch of stones and driftwood, neither teeth
nor claws can penetrate the hard surface."

Mother Beaver had shuffled off to her young ones, who were making
up for the short commons of the winter by eating all the green
shoots that came in their way. Their father, settling himself
comfortably in the shelter of a low bush, invited Phil to sit
beside him and have a chat.

"You want to learn our ways," he said, looking at him indulgently.
"They are easy to understand, for though we are more skilled in
building, perhaps, than other creatures, it is chiefly for our
industry that we are noted. Nature has taught us to think ahead and
provide for the future. I suppose you know what 'thinking ahead'
means?"

"Not ezzactly," said Phil honestly, with a longing look at the
young Beavers. The smallest of them appeared to have rolled himself
into a round ball, and Phil couldn't help thinking what first-rate
bats the others' broad tails would make.

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