Books: The Junior Classics Volume 8

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

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All the time he had been speaking, Father Beaver had been looking
up and down the banks for traces of the Wolverene. The Birds called
"Good-night" to each other from the glowing maples; the crimson
lights of the sunset fell over the river, and the new moon hung her
shining crescent on the top of a giant fir.

"I think all's safe," said Father Beaver; and the work of
tree-felling began again.

THE SQUIRREL'S STORY

By Lillian M. Gask

That very same evening Phil made his way to the home of the Musk
Rats, or Ondatras. As he neared the creek the Beaver had pointed
out to him, he saw a number of animals the size of big rats, with
tails that were almost as long as their bodies, swimming hither and
thither, and leaving trails of silver behind them. Others stood
motionless upon the bank; so still were they that it was only their
sparkling eyes that showed they were alive, until with a sudden
plunge, they dived after their companions, striking their long
tails smartly on the water as the Beavers did, and reappearing from
beneath the broad green leaves of the water lilies on the other
side.

Phil watched them silently for a time. They were like school boys,
he thought, and he wondered what game they were playing. Sometimes
a Musk Rat would lie quite flat on the surface of the stream, as if
he were a floating leaf from some giant tree; in a moment he would
be all life again, and, darting after his playmates, would race
them round the creek.

"I think it would be very nice to be a Musk Rat," said Phil aloud,
moving a little nearer the bank. In a second the creek was
empty--not a single Ondatra was to be seen. Phil felt so
disappointed that he was almost inclined to cry.

The water still rippled in the moonlight; all was still.

Presently a small brown head peeped out of a hole in the bank. Phil
did not stir; he was afraid to breathe lest he might frighten the
little thing away.

"Who is it?" cried a timid voice.

"A friend!" said Phil. And more small heads peeped at him
questioningly.

"I am the Lady Ondatra," she cried, "and you are indeed most
welcome. Will you join in our sports? The water is very smooth
to-night, and as warm as milk."

Phil was nothing both. He was the same size now as they were, and
could dive with the best of them; it was delightful to float on the
surface of the water and watch the clouds chasing each other over
the deep blue vault of the sky. The cry of the Night Owl came
dreamily from the woods; a prowling Puma roared hungrily to his
mate, but the pond of the Musk Rats was a happy playground, and
they the merriest of comrades.

The hours flew by and the moonlight faded; the tips of the far off
mountains were tinged with pink, and a Bird in the distance raised
his morning song.

"It is time to go!" cried the Lady Ondatra to Phil; "come with me;
I will show you my nest."

Phil found that it was exactly as the Beaver had told him, and that
he could follow the Lady Ondatra quite easily through the winding
tunnels, or branched canals, which had their entrances under the
water. The one through which the Ondatra led him sloped upward
gradually for quite a long distance; it ended in a wide chamber in
which there were three other openings. The centre of it was nearly
filled by a luxurious couch of water-lily leaves and sedges, where,
curled up snugly and fast asleep, four baby Ondatras lay with their
faces hidden. They were like little Beavers, Phil thought, and just
about the size of full-grown mice.

Their mother spoke in a hushed whisper lest she should disturb
them.

"I'm glad that you think we are pleasant creatures," She said. "We
do harm to no one, and live on roots and leaves, perfectly happy if
we are but let alone. We dread the fall--it is then that the
hunters most often come, though sometimes they visit us in the
spring. Ah me!"

"Are they after you, too?" cried Phil compassionately. "You are so
small that I shouldn't have thought your skins would be much good
to them!"

"Our fur, which is used in making hats, is highly esteemed," said
the Lady Ondatra stiffly, "and our flesh, though musky, of such
excellent flavour that the natives prefer us to Wild Duck."

Phil guessed that she was hurt, and did his best to soothe her by
admiring her babies. No mother could have resisted this.

"Tell me all about the hunters--that is, if you don't mind," he
said with diffidence, when they had quite made friends.

The Lady Ondatra did not mind. She seemed to take a fearful joy in
describing the perils she had escaped, though she knew quite well
that when the summer was over she might have to go through them all
again.

"Sometimes they take us in traps," she said, "which they arrange so
that in our struggles for freedom we are jerked into the water and
drowned, for we cannot live without air for any length of time. The
nature of our abode depends entirely upon the soil, and we do not
always build. The Ondatras who make their homes altogether in
burrows, they capture by stopping up all their air holes except
one, and seizing them when they come up to breathe. When we live in
marshy places we build winter houses, just as the Beavers do,
though ours are not so strong, and less than three feet high above
the surface of the swamp. When the ice freezes over them we make
breathing holes in it, and protect these from the frost by a
covering of mud. If the frost is so hard that our holes cannot be
kept open, we die from suffocation."

"But you are safe from the hunters in your winter houses?"

The slender tail of the Lady Ondatra quivered as she drew closer to
her babies.

"There were five of us last fall," she said, "and we lived in a
snug little house on the marsh. Our beds were beautiful--so soft
and dry--and we had all the food that we should need. We had
settled ourselves for a happy winter when a long cruel spear
crashed through our roof and wounded three of us. The walls of our
house were rudely torn away, and I and my mate only escaped because
the hunter lost his balance and stumbled into the mud. Fortunately,
our summer tunnels were not yet blocked with snow and so cut off
from us, or even then we could not have escaped him."

The baby Ondatras stirred uneasily in their sleep as if they were
dreaming of dangers to come, and their mother patted them gently.
With a whisper of thanks Phil said good-bye, and crept through the
branching passages up to the earth again.

Early as it was, the Squirrels were already chattering to
themselves as they scampered amongst the trees. A little black
fellow, with a bushy tail that spread itself out like a beautiful
feathery fan for some six or eight inches at the tip, dropped
lightly down in front of Phil. His ebony fur was as fine as
thistle-down; Phil was not surprised to hear that his name was
"Feathertail."

"When are you coming to pay _us_ a visit?" the little creature
asked in jealous tones. "I have a fair, green nest in the fork of a
top-most branch, and a lovely wife and three young babies, with
skins as soft as silk."

"I couldn't climb high enough!" Phil said regretfully. He had been
"a regular duffer" at climbing at school, and the bigger boys had
often dragged him up a fairly tall tree and left him there,
clinging helplessly to the boughs, until they were tired of jeering
at him. He shivered now as he thought of it; then squared his
shoulders. His grey eyes flashed; he would not say "I can't" again.

"I'll do it somehow!" he cried. The Black Squirrel ran off to give
notice of his visit, and Phil fixed, his whole mind upon climbing
that tree.

"Press your knees against it, and use your hands," whispered a
voice in his ear. "That's right,--now swing yourself round and take
hold of the branch above you. So! You're getting on famously. Well
done!"

Phil knew that it was Nature who spoke to him, and he felt so proud
of her praises that he almost forgot the Squirrels. But three small
heads, and a larger one, which belonged to a very proud mother,
peeped over the nest to welcome him, and Feathertail waited beside
it. Phil laughed to think of his doubts as to whether the branch
would bear him; slender as it was it barely stirred beneath his
weight.

The baby Squirrels were charming little things; he sat in the nest
with them, and laughed with glee as the Wind rocked it to and fro,
while Feathertail told him how it was only this spring that he had
come to these woods.

"Their mother and I used to live in those heights you see in the
distance there, under that rosy cloud. But the Grey Squirrels came,
and drove us out--we couldn't stand the noise they made, and their
rough ways frightened us. So Nature told us about this wood, and
here we feel quite safe."

"So do I," said Phil, stroking the prettiest baby Squirrel gently.
"What a jolly little chap this is. I wish I could take him home
with me when I go back--I s'pose I'll have to go back some day," he
finished with a sigh.

The mother Squirrel fluffed out her fur in wild alarm, and
Feathertail darted forward ready to protect his family.

"How could you suggest such a thing?" he asked indignantly, when
Phil had managed to convince him that he meant no harm. "It is bad
enough for an ordinary Squirrel to be taken away from his forest
home and shut in a small cramped prison, but for us it means almost
certain death, for we cannot stand captivity.... A cousin of
mine--'twas the Wind that told me--was caught by some travellers
and put in a tiny cage where she had scarcely room to turn. Of
course she died, and they 'couldn't think why'! I wonder if they
knew how cruel they were?"

His bright little eyes were clouded with grief, and it was not
until he had raced to the top of a neighbouring tree and back again
that he felt better. Even then he looked uneasy when Phil fondled
his babies; as to the mother Squirrel, since that unfortunate
remark of his, she had been clearly anxious to get rid of him.

"We will go to the stream," said Feathertail, when he saw that her
anxiety was getting too much for her. Phil longed to ask if the
baby Squirrels might come as well, but wisely refrained. He was
sorry to leave that cosy nest on the waving branch; next time he
came, he thought, he would be careful what he said.

The stream to which Feathertail led him was bordered by drooping
ferns; it was so clear that it might have been a lady's mirror but
for the tiny wavelets rippling from side to side.

"Don't you hear it singing as it trickles over the stone?" asked
Feathertail. "It is the same song that the Wind sings, only more
low and sweet.... Listen!"

Phil could hear nothing but the rustling of the leaves about them,
and the soft flow of the sparkling water; but perhaps his ears were
not so keen.

The Black Squirrel sat on the edge of the bank, and dipping his
nose well under the surface of the stream, drank deeply and long.
Then he placed himself jauntily on his hind feet, and washed his
face with his forepaws, splashing them in the stream from time to
time as if he thoroughly enjoyed it.

"We are the only Black Squirrels in the world," he said with
melancholy pleasure. "We find our homes in the woods and heights of
North America, and even here we are becoming more rare, for the Red
and Grey Squirrels drive us from our haunts, and hunters trap us
for our fur."

A cry from the bushes--the indignant protest of a Scarlet Tanager,
that had been robbed by his mate of a fine fat insect--made
Feathertail dart away. Phil waited in vain for his return.

"He has gone for good--that was quite enough to frighten him,"
remarked a little clucking voice that reminded Phil of the cry of a
fluffy yellow chicken; and the daintiest little Squirrel he had yet
seen whisked out from the brushwood and sat beside him. It was the
Hackee, or Chipping Squirrel, and many a time Phil had seen him
running in and out among the bushes; for the Hackee lives on the
ground.

Now that he saw him closely, Phil noticed the beauty of the seven
stripes that ran across his brownish-grey and orange fur. Five of
these were jet-black, and two were white, tinged with flecks of
yellow; the fur on his throat and underneath him was the colour of
pure snow, and his forehead flamed with brilliant orange. He seemed
on the best of terms with himself and all the world, and his small
black eyes were full of fun and humour.

"Did Feathertail offer you any breakfast?" he asked, hopping close
to Phil.

"No."

"I thought he wouldn't. He doesn't keep such stores as we do. Come
with me."

His movements were so rapid that Phil almost lost sight of him
before he gained the stump of the hollow tree which was, so to
speak, his hall. Out of this hollow led several tunnels, down one
of which the Hackee disappeared. Phil ran after him as quickly as
he could, and with all his haste, admired the way in which his host
had formed his winding gallery. Up and down it led them, through
twists and turns that would have puzzled most Squirrels, let alone
a boy, until they reached a large snug nest made of dry moss and
grasses. It was empty, but still quite warm.

"Those young ones of mine ought to have been up and out more than
an hour ago, lazy little creatures!" chuckled the Hackee. "I tell
their mother that if they are not more independent before the new
brood comes, she will have her hands full."

Diving into another gallery, the Hackee came to a full stop. Phil's
eyes were scarcely yet used to "seeing in the dark," but he saw at
length that they were standing before a heap of nuts, with grain in
plenty, and many acorns; the Hackee had more than provided for his
wants.

"We stay in these cosy burrows all through the winter snows," he
said, "and only come out when the warm sunshine tells us that
spring is here. To do this in comfort we work very hard in the fall
to fill our storehouses with nuts and grain. This is only one of
them--we have others in different places. Help yourself, and take
as many nuts as you like," he went on hospitably. "Here--sit in
this corner, and I will crack them for you."

But Phil preferred to crack his own nuts; his teeth, though the
Beavers scorned them, were strong enough for this, he thought. They
tasted like beaked hazel nuts, but where were the beaks? The Hackee
laughed at his bewilderment.

"We carry home nuts in our cheek pouches, four at a time (Why four?
Because five would be one too many, of course!), and we are much
too sensible, as you might have guessed, to hurt ourselves by those
sharp points. We bite them off tidily before we push them into our
mouths with our fore-paws, as you will see if you watch us one day.
It is fine to be a ground Squirrel, and much safer than living in
trees. Down here we are safe from all our enemies--or almost all,"
he added in a whisper. Then his expression changed, and his sharp
ears pointed forward.

"Hark!" he cried.

"_Chip-munk-chip-munk!_" The call was echoed through the
galleries, and the Hackee's merry eyes were full of anger.

"How dare he come here!" he cried, "and calling me in that familiar
way too! I'll let him know who is master in this burrow!"

The second Hackee came joyously down the passage, heedless of
offence.

"Hallo," he cried, looking at Phil, "whom have we got here? That
Nature child? To be sure. I--"

But Hackee the First interrupted him.

"You have no business to come down here uninvited," he said,
fiercely. "I would have you know--"

Before he could finish, the other had flown at him. Their slender
tails--Phil was not at all astonished when he heard afterwards that
these sometimes were snapped across in battle--whirled round like
Catherine wheels; two small furry bodies darted backward and
forward; gleaming white teeth tried to take savage bites at soft
pink noses. It was a wonder that the Hackees found room to turn as
they did in that narrow tunnel.

Phil tried in vain to come between them; they pushed him aside as
if he were a bundle of grass, and in a second were at each other
again. He was afraid that, like the Otters, they would fight to the
death.

But the pugnacious Hackees' rage was spent as suddenly as it had
arisen. While Phil imagined they were only gathering their breath
for another attack, they had both calmed down.

"I've just been showing him round," said Hackee the First, twisting
his tail in Phil's direction.

"Seems a nice boy," said Hackee the Second, feeling Phil's nose
anxiously. "I thought I might have bitten it off just now when you
got in my way," he said to Phil with much relief, finding it was
still there. "Never come between fighting creatures, boy--it's a
thankless task."

Phil was quite sure that if he had been his usual size the Hackee
would not have chucked him under the chin in that off-hand way, but
he did not mind a bit. They were all three sitting before the
storehouse, the best of friends, when both chipping Squirrels
sprang to their feet in terrified accord, standing for a second as
if paralysed with fear. For their keen sense of smell had told them
of the approach of the one enemy they dreaded--the soft-footed,
silent Stoat.

Now came the use of those twists and turns of the winding passages.
Swift as were the movements of the Stoat, he was on strange ground,
while the Hackees knew every inch of it. His savage eyes looked
like vengeful green fire to Phil, who waited for him in the centre
of the gallery, hoping to bar his way. But the Stoat passed by him
as if he were not there, and Phil listened with dread for the
strangled cry which would mean that one of the Hackees had met his
doom. None came; the Stoat had missed a turn in the winding tunnel,
and the flying Hackees reached the hollow tree in safety. Once
there, it was easy to dive down another burrow and so baffle
pursuit, but they were two very frightened Squirrels when at last
they stopped for breath.

A DEN IN THE ROCKS

By Lillian M. Gask

The sun, like some mighty king in a fairy tale with a great gold
crown, and flowing robes of pearl and rose colour, had long since
risen above the mountain. A mist of heat hung over the valley, and
the giant fir trees at the edge of the wood were like sentinels
guarding a wonderland.

Down one of these, from which the bark had been completely
stripped, came a singular animal with rough hair, and a short tail
thickly set with quills. On seeing Phil, who had just left the home
of the Squirrels, he rapped his tail smartly against a tree, almost
dropping to the ground with fright. He recovered his balance just
in time.

"I suppose you are that child of Nature's," he remarked, gruffly,
"I am the Urson, the only Porcupine you'll find in North America,
and I eat bark because I like it. Why do I take it from the top of
the tree first? Because I prefer to work my way down. Why haven't I
more quills if I am a Porcupine? If you use your eyes, you'll see
that I am studded all over with them, though my hair is so thick
and long that they are not particularly noticeable. How fond you
are of questions! Is there anything more you want to know? I'm just
going home."

"Couldn't you stay a little while, Mr. Urson? You look so--so
interesting, and I should like to talk to you!"

The Urson showed his orange teeth in a sudden smile, and rubbed
himself against Phil's arm as al friendly cat might have done. In
spite of his crop of thick dark hair he was rather prickly, and
Phil hoped that he would not want to sit on his lap.

"You're a bright little fellow," declared the Urson; "I can't think
why they called you 'stupid.' Did you put out your quills and fight
them?"

"No,--o," Phil acknowledged reluctantly. "I--I--ran away."

"Bad thing to do as a rule, though it hasn't turned out badly for
you. When you go back, you must stand up to the boys if they tease
you, and show them you have some spirit. Don't get in a temper, you
know; but hold your own."

Phil thought it was all very well for a Porcupine full of quills to
talk so bravely; for a small boy it was quite different.

"Not at all," said the Urson, as if he had spoken his thoughts
aloud. "They would leave you alone if you did not let them see you
were so frightened. I am nervous myself, but I can keep a dog twice
my own size at bay; if he comes too near I turn my; back and give
him a taste of my tail, and a mouthful of quills into the bargain."

"Ah, but I haven't a tail, you see!" said Phil, and the Urson
remarked that as that was the case he must learn to do without.
Yawning at intervals, he told Phil how his great-great-grandfather
("a most distinguished inhabitant of this forest") had defended
himself single-handed against the attack of an American Indian,
coming off victorious in the fight, though leaving half his tail
quills in the native's hands.

"And he used them to decorate his squaw's front hair!" said the
Urson with disgust. The very thought of it made him so angry that
he erected all his own quills until he was as completely protected
as a knight in armour.

In a moment or two his anger subsided. "Would you like to see my
home?" he asked, mindful of the fact that he, in common with all
the other creatures of the wood, had been told by Nature to be kind
to Phil. He did not seem too pleased when Phil said "Yes," for he
was a most devoted father, and had heard before now of a human
being taking a liking to a young Porcupine, and carrying him off to
tame and bring up as his own. He grunted to himself under his
breath as he went along, but Phil thought this was just his way.

The Urson's den was some distance off, in the midst of a cluster of
rocks that had fallen to the valley from the mountain side. To
reach it they had to cross the wood, and the Urson's progress was
almost a royal one, for all the small wood things moved away at his
approach. He walked deliberately, as if the woods belonged to him,
and made no effort to subdue the rustling of his quills through the
long grass. A hungry-looking Weasel with malicious eyes glared at
him furtively, but came no nearer; he had "tried conclusions" with
an Urson once, and would not venture again. A sharp-nosed Fox
licked his longing lips and turned his head aside, while further on
a greyish-brown animal huddled upon the lower branch of a spreading
tree stretched out a savage paw, and drew it back. Those slender
quills were painful things when they pierced the tender places
between one's claws, and no delicious morsel behind the spears
could make up for a swollen mouth that would be sore and smarting
for days--so sore that its owner, unable to eat, might die from
sheer starvation. So the Porcupine passed under the tree in safety,
dawdling on purpose as he caught sight of the crouching figure
above him.

"That's 'Peeshoo'--the Lynx," he laughed as they moved on. "She
would make a grab at me if she dared, but she's afraid. You would
not think to look at her, would you, that a blow from a stick would
kill her at once? Yet so it is. That is because she is a coward at
heart, for all her fierceness."

A snarl of rage from "Peeshoo" told Phil that she had overheard.

"She always snarls when I move out of her reach, though she dare
not touch me," said the Urson, making himself into a bristling ball
of defiance as he heard the sound. "I do that to remind her what
she would have to face," he explained to Phil. "There's nothing
like letting one's enemies see that one is ready for them. 'Don't
attack, but always be ready to defend yourself; this is my motto,
and a good one it is."

They were out of the wood soon and in the valley. The entrance that
led to the Urson's den was so narrow that he had to make his quills
lie very flat in order to creep through, but Phil, as it always
happened, was just the right size. He was speedily introduced to
Mrs. Urson and to "my small son."

The baby Porcupine was in reality anything but "small"; Phil found
out afterwards that of all wild things he was the largest in
proportion to the size of his parents. A big furry bundle of silky
brown, his quills not yet having pushed their way through his thick
hair, Phil thought him very comfortable to nurse, and Mrs. Urson
was as pleased with his admiration of her offspring as the Lady
Ondatra had been. His father, however, was inclined to be testy.

"He's just an ordinary young Porcupine," he said; "no more, no
less. Don't put nonsense into his head, please--his mother is ready
enough to do that."

Feeling rather uncomfortable on her account, Phil turned to Mrs.
Porcupine, who did not seem in the least disturbed by her lord's
reproaches.

"He wants a little change of air, poor dear," she said to Phil in a
confidential whisper. "I expect he'll be leaving me soon--I know
the signs."

The Urson caught her whisper, and his sharp little face grew sad.

"We've been very good friends," he said, looking round at her
wistfully, "and it's a nice child; but there's something beyond
these woods which is calling--calling. I don't think that I can
stay much longer."

His mate moved close to him and touched his, nose with hers.

"You'll come back when the summer is over," she said, "and you will
find us here."

"Shall I?" returned the Urson, doubtfully, more to himself than
her. They had forgotten Phil, who was rather in the way. He was
glad when the Mother Porcupine came back to the present, and asked
him to try some fine spruce bark.

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