Chapter 1 of The Little Foresters, A Story of Field and Woods. Not all children are as fortunate in living near to their grandparents as we were, for it is not often that one can go to his grandmothers at any time of day in ten or fifteen minutes, but this was the fact in our case, and we thought ourselves very lucky indeed. When we were tired of playing at home and longed for something different, we would go in and say, Mother, may we go up to grandma's? To which mother would usually reply? Yes, dears, if you will be good and do just as grandmother tells you, and will start for home before dark. Then there was a shout of joy and a clatter of small feet down the garden path, and we were gone. The walk over to grandmothers was a never-ending source of delight. First it led out through our own garden and into the orchard. What child who is country-born does not recall the old orchard with delight. There are its straight rows of quaint trees, each different from the other and each having some peculiar limb, or hiding place under the roots that the other does not possess. If it is autumn, there is the fruit, bright red and yellow, loading the limbs down even to breaking. If it is springtime, how sweet the air is with the scent of apple blossoms, and how pleasant is the drowsy droning of the bees as they gather honey. Long through the old orchard winds the path to grandmothers until it is lost to sight in the beech woods. Here in the springtime are green mossy knolls, where hepatica and partridgeberry love to hide, and tender young ferns and blood root. Further on beyond the woods is a meadow where a little brook sings joyously all day long, watch a temptation to sit long upon the plank bridge, dangling one's feet over the cool water, watching the minnows play hide and seek in its eddies, or the gleam of sunlight upon the ever-changing ripples. But we must not loiter too long, for up through another orchard, as delightful even as our own, we can see the pleasant old farmhouse under the big elms. Although we cannot see her yet, we know that grandmother is standing there on the porch waiting to welcome us with a smile on her face and a cheery word. Then we know there will be an invitation to come in and see what grandmother has been making. It may be gingerbread or it may be cakes, but it is sure to be something good. When I go way back into the dim corners of my memory to those things that are almost forgotten, I am sure to see a kindly old woman with a cap and spectacles and the sweetest kind of a smile. That is my grandmother, and a dearer old lady never lived, for although her years were many, yet her heart was always young and full of sweet sympathy for children. It was from her that we learned that most important lesson of being kind to animals, and particularly to birds and squirrels, of which she was very fond. In the wintertime when the storms came into the winds blue and these little creatures were cold and hungry, it was her special delight to befriend them. In the summer, she would say, they can take care of themselves, but in the winter when we are comfortably housed, we should think of them out in the cold. With these kind thoughts in her mind, grandmother would scatter grains of buckwheat and breadcrumbs for the sparrows and the chickadees, and I would watch through the window while they hopped about on the snow picking up their breakfast. Then there was always a piece of meat nailed to a convenient post that the birds knew well. Many of them made their breakfast upon this half-frozen meat. There were chickadees and sparrows, woodpeckers and grass-beaks, snow-birds, and even an old crow came when very hungry, but he did not often venture so near the house. One night, just at dusk, I saw a curious-looking white owl standing upon the post making a late supper, but the strangest of all grandmother's feathered visitors, and one who is usually very wary, was an old cock-partridge with big black ruffs and very pompous manners. This fine fellow would stretch around with all the dignity of a turkey-cock, but he would fly away with a great noise at the slightest sound. Grandmas said it was unusual for a partridge to venture so near the house, and that there was a good reason for his coming. Several years before she had found him one day by the roadside stunned and nearly dead. She had carried him home in her hands and had cared for him, keeping him in a hen-coupe until he was well, when she had let him go. He had always remembered this kindness and was occasionally seen near the house. Grandmas said she knew him by the way he flew, one of his wings having been injured when she found him. But the cutest of all her winter pets was a pair of gray squirrels that I named Frisk and Frawly from the manner in which they frisked and frolicked about, chasing each other up and down trees and all along the top of the wall. Sometimes they would go scurrying up the big maple in front of the house until it made me dizzy to look at them, and then I would ask Grandma if they would not fall, but they never did. The squirrels did not like the same things to eat that the birds did. Grandma always placed their breakfast upon the back porch so that I could watch them eat. It was great fun to see them stand upon their hind legs and turn a nut about in their forepaws and all the time keep their sharp teeth biting away at the shock until a sweet meat was in sight when they would eat it with great zest. Corn they were also fond of, and Frisk, the larger of the two squirrels, could carry off a whole ear at a time. This he always did when they started for the woods. Grandma said that he was taking it home for dinner, and of course Grandma knew. One evening late in the autumn, our parents being away on a visit, we children were sitting about a fire in the open great while Grandmother told us stories. It was quite cold for the time of year, and a hard hailstorm had come up. It was so cozy, though, in the warm room, and so pleasant to sit inside and hear the storm beating against the windowpains that we were quite content with our lot. The stories had been discontinued for a few moments that we might better enjoy the warmth and firelight when in a lull of the storm we heard a sharp blow against the window glass. What is that? We children asked in astonishment, for it was strange enough that anything should be moving in such a storm. I think it was a bird, replied Grandmother. The poor thing has probably become bewildered by the storm, and attracted by the light, sought shelter in the warm room. It seemed so out of place that anything should be out in the storm, and we asked so many questions about the birds. What they did during storms what kind of bird this one was, and was he hurt? But finally, to satisfy our anxious questions, Grandma lighted the lantern and went out of doors to see what she could find. Presently she returned bringing a small feathered object in her hand. It was a poor little sparrow who had not known the danger in the window glass, and had dashed his head against the hard surface. Thus what had seemed to be an escape from the storm and a refuge had brought him low.  While in a few moments after coming inside, with a feeble gasp and flutter the sparrow died, my little sister cried as though her heart would break, and my own sympathies were moved more than I cared to show, being a boy. I went to the kitchen for a drink of water that I might cover up my feelings. It was well enough for a girl to cry, but it would never do for a boy. Grandmother wrapped the dead sparrow in a newspaper and put him upon the mantelpiece for the night, and the next day I dug his grave in the garden and reburied him with all solemnity. It was a small affair, this death of a sparrow, and something that happens in every storm, but it has lingered in my mind ever since, and somehow even to this very day I cannot shake off the pathos of this little tragedy. First will come the picture of the storm beating outside and the small bird fleeing before the sharp blows. Then on the other hand is the picture of the warm room, cozy in the glow of firelight. The storm-tossed bird sees the warmth and light and flies toward it, only to dash out his life against the window-glass. It is well that every child should learn early in life this lesson of the dead sparrow.  Then will he see how man was set above the creatures of the fields and woods, not to destroy them, but to protect and encourage them, and be mindful of their coming and going. And why should he not, since we are told that not a sparrow falleth to the ground, unnoticed by our Heavenly Father. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of The Little Foresters, A Story of Field and Woods This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Campbell Shelpe The Little Foresters, A Story of Field and Woods by Clarence Hawks Chapter 2 The Tristing Tree The Tristing Tree was an ancient oak, standing in the centre of the forest, where the friendly birds, squirrels, and smaller creatures of the woods were in the habit of meeting each day. These meetings were held at about sunrise and sunset, to gossip and talk over the happenings of the day before, or relate the adventures of the night that had just passed, for living as they do in a world that is hostile to them, where they have the snares of larger animals and birds, as well as those of man to avoid. It is not strange that many a thrilling adventure was related under the old Tristing Tree to an expectant group, each one of whom was silently thankful that it had not been he. Of the company that met at the oak I best remember the following. There was Nimrod the crow, as black as a coal who always sat in a watchful attitude upon the topmost bow of the oak, balancing himself nicely and looking in every direction at once. He was the sentinel, and his vigilance delivered the little people from many a danger. Nimrod was a natural sentinel, for his croaking made him nonetheless watchful, and he could carry on a flirtation with the saucy J, winking and blinking with one of his bright eyes, while he scanned the landscape with the other. But there was not very much to fear at this time of day, the only enemy who would be likely to be about was Sparrowhawk, whose coming and going no one could account for. He was hated and feared by all the birds, as well as by the squirrels, for he not only killed to satisfy his hunger, but also from Alice. He took a particular delight in robbing birds' nests, eating the eggs, and killing the young birds, so that all the birds were very careful when building their nests that Sparrowhawk was not around. Of the animals, cats, weasels, and foxes were the most to be feared, and it took the combined vigilance of all to sent these dangers. It was very strange though, how quickly these little folks of the woods would completely disappear at a sound of warning from any one of their number. No matter how merrily they had been chattering away a minute before, at the warning note the woods would suddenly become as still as death. Nimrod would rise high in air and fly away, Ruffgrouse would follow his lead on silent wings, while the jays and the squirrels would hide in the tree-top. The chipmunk would slip into his hole at the foot of the tree, and the rabbit would squat under a bush, and being just the color of the ground, it took the sharpest eyes to discover him, while Frisk and Frawley and their cousin Redder had a way of hiding that baffled all inquiry. Each of these little creatures is possessed of an instinct that tells him just what is the best thing to do in time of danger, else how could they exist in a world in which they have so many enemies? The great sun that always brings so much gladness into the world was just mounting up over the eastern hills. His warm beams, falling upon the tree-tops, made bright patches of sunlight in the aisles of the sweet green woods. Although the sun was very early in his coming, he was not ahead of the little people of the woods who were very thrifty and upbeat times. For more than half an hour they had been stirring, and by the time he was quarter of an hour high they had all breakfasted and were ready for the morning meeting at the Tristing Tree. The squirrels had been away to a distant orchard for sweet apples. The birds had found their usual number of worms and bugs by the roadside or in the molds beneath dead leaves and ferns, while Bob the Cottontail had made a fine breakfast of birch twigs and winter green leaves, of which he was very fond. Nimrod, who had made his meal from the cornfield, and had afterwards taken a bath at the brook, was as usual the first to arrive at the tree. He at once proceeded to call the others with a series of loud calls, for which he was famous. Then there was such a pattering of small feet, for the squirrels came running in the tree-tops and the rabbits on the ground, each chattering and scolding away in his own language, all of which was understood by each member of this great family. The last to arrive at the Tristing Tree was Chucky, who was so fat that he could scarcely waddle, and for that reason was usually late. Hello, Chucky! Hello! cried all the little folks in Chorus, for Chucky was quite a favourite with them, and he amused them with his clumsy ways. Well, Chucky, how are beans? asked Nimrod when the fat lazy woodchuck had seeded himself at the foot of the tree, and Nimrod had declared the meeting open for discussion. First straight, Nim, first straight, replied Chucky, with a grunt of deep satisfaction. The only trouble is I have eaten so many that I can hardly walk. You are getting pretty free with the farmer's beans, and I am afraid he will get after you again one of these fine mornings with his thunderstick, said the crow. That was a very close shave that you had the other morning, and if I hadn't happened along he would have got you then. Tell us about it, Nimrod, tell us about it, cried all the little foresters. Well, said the old crow, straightening himself with dignity. It isn't very much of a story, but I do think that it adds another feather to the glory of the crow family. It was this way. Chucky was down in the bean patch getting his breakfast, and I was sitting upon the top of the old maple in the mowing, when I happened to see the farmer coming down the road with the thunderstick over his arm. Whom is he after now, I thought to myself, and then I looked down to the bean patch and saw Chucky, and the meaning of the farmer's early walk was plain. How could I warn poor Chucky? That was the question. I knew that he was such a stupid fellow that he would not see or sent danger, and it looked very much as though his hide would be drying on the barn in another hour. At this point Nimrod looked seriously down at Chucky, whose hair stood up at the thought. Well, continued the crow, if I was to fly down and tell him, I would get in range myself and be peppered for my pains. You people all know I do not like to have my feathers ruffled with big shot. Fortunately I thought of that member of our family who dropped the stones into the pitcher and raised the water until he could drink, so I set my wits to work. Then I had a bright idea. I flopped down to the ground and picked up a big pebble. Then I rose high in the air and went sailing over the place where Chucky was eating beans. I knew I was out of reach of the thunderstick, and so I was not afraid. When I got just above Chucky I dropped the stone. He at once raised up on his hind legs to see what had disturbed him and saw the farmer and started for his hole. Bang, wing! went the thunderstick, but Chucky was so far away that it did no harm, and I tell you it didn't take him very long to get into his hole. Chucky felt very much like a hero when Nimrod had finished his story, and he grinned broadly. While the little foresters crowded round to tell him they were glad the farmer didn't get him. Oh well, said Chucky in his easy going way. I guess. But what he would have said we do not know. For at a warning note from Nimrod there was a whirling of wings and a patter of small feet, but none too soon. For with a scream a large hawk swooped into the top of the tree after getting his own morning breakfast which he was late in getting. The smaller birds and the squirrels fled away into the thickest treetops, and of a sudden the forest became as still as death. Chatterbox, the red squirrel, was not three feet away in the hole in the tree, but redtail did not see him, and he could not have got him if he had, a fact the squirrel well knew, but he kept very still nevertheless. Redtail glared savagely about him.  Then he caught sight of Bob, the rabbit, squatting under a bunch of brakes, and darted down at him. And then a race began which would have been very comical, had it not been a matter of life and death to one poor cottontail. Bob sprang from point to point, keeping in the underbrush all of the time, and dodging like a bounding ball. Again and again the great bird swooped for him and opened his terrible talons, and poor Bob barely escaped. Once he even got a clawful of the rabbit's fuzzy fur, and left a bad wound upon his back. But Bob did not care for wounds as long as his good long legs were left with which to double and twist. Then Nimrod came to Bob's assistance. He darted at the hawk and pecked at him savagely, and all of the time he kept up a most deafening calling, partly to distract the hawk, and partly to call his friends whom he knew were not far distant. Then Bob made a desperate spurt through an open place where he barely escaped from the talons of the hawk, and dove under a tangle of deep brambles and vines, and was safe. Ca-ca! cried Nimrod derisively. Ca-ca! The hawk clenched his talons in fury and screamed back at Nimrod, and was about to fly at the brave crow, when he noticed several of Nimrod's friends coming through the woods, so he beat a hasty retreat and was soon lost in the distance. Bob then came out of the bramble and thanked Nimrod for the service that he had done him, and then scampered away to the swamp where he lived, feeling that he had had excitement enough for one day, and thinking good fortune that he had escaped. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of The Little Foresters, A Story of Field and Woods. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Campbell Shelp. The Little Foresters, A Story of Field and Woods by Clarence Hawks. Chapter 3 A Life of Fear. It is hard for us human beings who live under the protection of the state and its laws to realize the constant fear in which the little people of the forests live. No act of their lives, from the first days of responsibility to that of their violent death for these wild creatures rarely die of old age, but is done guardedly. The very first law that the wild creature is taught is that of self-preservation. In fact, his whole life resolves itself into the problem of just living and keeping clear of all his enemies. Watch a woodchuck as he gets his breakfast upon the young clover, and see with what caution the meal proceeds. He nipples away at the tender heads for a few moments, and then rears cautiously upon his haunches, and looks about in all directions. He also sniffs the air suspiciously from the windward side, and takes even more care in the opposite direction. What need has he to be so cautious, you may ask? His pelt is worthless, and he cannot eat a dollar's worth of clover in a year. Well, in the first place there is a long gun that hangs in the kitchen over the fireplace up at the farmhouse. Chuckie has often heard its roar on the summer's morning, and he carries many a small pellet in his tough hide that came from its grim barrel. It is only because the gun is old and rusty that Chuckie is alive at all to whistle his defiance to the clumsy hunter. Then there is Grip, the farm dog. He and Chuckie have been sworn enemies ever since that day when Grip tried to pull the woodchuck from the wall and got a savage bite in the nose for his pains. Grip was a puppy then, or that bite would have been Chuckie's last. Besides the farmer and the dog, there is Sly Lord Reynard, who wishes to catch Chuckie alive and carry him home to his den for the young foxes to torment and finally tear to bits.  One of these summer mornings when he is sleeping peacefully in his snug hole, a turtle, scorching and smelling hideously, will come scurrying in, trying vainly to get away from the burning cotton tied to the back part of his shell. This is a great peril for Chuckie, even if he is not suffocated by smoke. There is danger that his nest, which is lined with hay and leaves, will be set to fire, and he be obliged to run straight into the open mouth of Grip, or if he escapes the dog there are eager boys ready to give chase with clubs, and poor Chuckie with his short legs and fat body has small chance in such a match. But Chuckie is no more in danger than the other little foresters. In fact, he is full as safe as any of them, and is supposed to live a luxurious life, free from care and in the midst of plenty. Whistle at the rabbit who is hopping peacefully along the woodland path, and see with what a startled air he rears upon his hind legs to listen. His ears are erect, his eyes large with fright, and his nostrils distended to catch the scent, turning this way in that he tries to look in all directions at once, and when he does at last catch the scent, that these little creatures fear above all others, how he scurries away upon those nimble legs in which alone is safety, although he flees along the pathway like an arrow, yet he goes with caution. At the slightest sound he will squat under a bush and keep so still that even the eye of a woodsman is often deceived. The rabbit, by a kind provision of nature, is always the color of the earth, so in the autumn he is brown like the fallen leaves, but in winter he is white as snow. Who are the rabbit's enemies? I hear the young reader ask. Well, the domestic cat is crouching by the pathway just ahead of him waiting his coming. Redtail the hawk so far up in the sky that he is almost invisible to the eye of man is watching poor Bob, and if he gets out in the open he is down upon him. Grip the farm dog loves to give him a chase when he gets a chance. There is not much danger from Grip, who is not very sure on the scent or fleet of foot, but there is danger when fleeing from the dog that the cottontail will run into a snare or be taken unawares by some other enemy. At night when he goes to sleep in his hall or a hollow tree, he knows not how soon the ferret may disturb him, and fleeing from this danger he will run into an open bag at the mouth of his hall. It matters not that it is against the law to hunt him with a ferret, for no one is by to see but the pale moon and the soft stars when he is taken from the bag and his neck broken, and they tell no tales. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Phyllis Vincelli. The Little Foresters. A Story of Field and Woods by Clarence Hawks. Chapter 4. The Galloping Hessian The Galloping Hessian was a red-crested woodpecker who lived for a long time in our orchard, and in whom I came to take a lively interest. You may wonder a little at the name I gave him, but it was one that pleased my childish fancy, and when I have explained its true significance I am sure that you will agree with me in thinking it most appropriate. Now all of the members of the woodpecker family, not only the red-crested woodpecker, but also his cousin, Partridge Woodpecker, and their more stylish cousin, the piliated woodpecker, have a peculiar motion in flying that gives the impression of a galloping horse. When they first spring from the tree to fly they drop down fifteen or twenty feet, but quickly rise to about the height from which they started and then across the fields they go, rising and falling in their flight for all the world like a galloping horse. So upon a bright spring morning when the sunbeams played upon his brilliant red-crest and set off his shiny black coat to good advantage it was very easy to imagine that my woodpecker was a galloping Hessian. The first I ever saw of him was one warm April morning, when I heard a great whacking out in the orchard, and I went to see what it was all about. I soon discovered that the pounding came from an old apple-tree, and creeping cautiously along I got a fine look at him before he saw me.  With his sharp claws dug into the wood he stood bracing himself with his tail, which was spread out, fan-shaped. This gave him a good purchase so that he could ply his short, sharp bill with terrible strokes. The chips came down in showers, and the sharp, rat-a-tat-tat of his blows rang out upon the morning air with a great noise. So fast he struck that the eye could not follow the motion of his head, which seemed all the time to be in one place, while the blows were so near together that it sounded like the long roll upon a drum, done by a very skillful drummer-boy. Why was he working so frantically, I wondered? But even while I asked myself the question, came the answer. For he stopped whacking and began examining the wood curiously, cocking his head first upon one side and then on the other. Then he gave two or three sharp whacks, and, thrusting his bill deep into the wood, drew out a fat worm which he ate with great relish. He had been after his breakfast. Who would have imagined that a bird would find his breakfast in a dry dead limb, and how did he know that the worm was there? Why did he try the tree where it was dead? While I was still trying to solve the mystery, he flew away, and I saw him no more that day, nor for several days. But after a few days he came back, and I saw him frequently at the old apple-tree. We could even hear his merry rat-a-tat-tat from the house when he was getting his breakfast or supper. Whack-whack, ping-ping, other birds may chirp or sing. But my one song is the merry stroke with which I pierce the elm or oak, away with chirping and with singing, while I set the echoes ringing. This was what the galloping Hessian always seemed to be saying when he perched upon a dry limb and plied his short strong bell. But more was going on in the old apple-tree than I dreamed of these spring days, for it must be a hungry bird indeed that would chop away for half a day at a time, although I did not stop to consider the fact. About a month after the first appearance of my little friend in the old apple-tree, I saw him come flying, galloping as usual across the fields and light upon this particular tree. I looked again, but he was not there. I was wondering where he could have disappeared to, when, of a sudden, he appeared upon the dead limb and even while I watched him, he disappeared in the most peculiar manner.  He had made him a house in the old apple-tree and come to live with us all the summer through. The next day I climbed up to investigate. It was a very tall apple-tree and my hair stood up as I looked down to the ground. There, just under the dead limb, the galloping Hessean had built himself and, Mrs. Hessean, the cutest house that you ever saw, proof against both the wind and rain and almost anything that crawls, creeps, or flies. He had chopped a round hole, about three inches in diameter, in towards the center of the tree for three or four inches. Then it suddenly ran straight down for six inches more, and there at the bottom was the nest made of hair and bits of fuzz very neat and comfortable. One morning early in May, when the apple blossoms were sweet upon the half-leaved trees and the air seemed mild and warm, there came up a terrible windstorm accompanied by hail and lightning. The sky grew suddenly dark, the wind howled frightfully, and the hailstones fell like bullets. The thunder rolled in one continuous cannonade, and the lightning was so bright that I dared not look out of the window, but hid in the further corner of the room. Just before the storm came up I had seen Mr. and Mrs. Hessean flying home to their snug house. Something in the air or the sky had told them that it was coming, but the storm departed with the same hailst that it had shown in coming, and the sun was soon shining brightly as though it had never gone under the clouds. Then, full of boyish curiosity, as to what had been doing outside, I went out of doors. Finally my wanderings led me to the old orchard, and then it was the natural thing to go to the ancient apple-tree, for it was one of my favorite trees. I could hardly believe my eyes when I beheld it stretched upon the ground with many of its rotten limbs broken in the fall. But my first thought was of the galloping Hessean and his wife. I soon discovered them galloping wildly about the orchard, now lighting upon this tree and now that, and never staying long in a place, and always returning to their ruined home. I clambered into the top of the tree in search of the woodpecker's nest. Just at the point where they had pierced the tree it had split and falling, and there upon the ground was the carefully shaped nest with the broken eggs nearby. No happening of after years has left a deeper impression upon my mind than has this tragedy of the galloping Hessean. His home had seemed so secure, from all danger, and here, in the twinkling of an eye, the whole fabric had fallen to earth, his dream and mine alike had vanished. While I sat upon the trunk of the fallen tree, the woodpecker's galloped about the orchard for the last time, as though it was hard to leave. They hovered a moment over the remains of their home, then galloped away over the fields and were soon lost to sight. I stood up that I might see them as long as possible, but finally the rhythmic rise and fall of the red crests was lost to sight, and they were gone never to return to the scene of their sorrow. I wept bitter tears in the empty nest, and tried vainly to piece the broken eggs together, but the dream was ended, and I had awakened to one of the stern realities of nature. CHUCKY'S LAST BREAKFAST It was a warm summer morning, early in July, and the pale white streak that denotes the coming of daylight was just growing in the east. The sun would not be up for half an hour, but the birds and the squirrels were already stirring, for these little folks are very enterprising, and many of them are through breakfast when the sun comes up. Chucky was asleep, down in his hole, dreaming of sweet clover and tender new beans. It was cool and pleasant underground during these hot days, and that was why he ate breakfast very early in the morning and supper late in the evening, for he was a lazy fellow, and hated to be stir himself when it was hot. Presently he woke up, and although his nest was several feet underground and very dark, something told him that it was beginning to be light. There is a way animals have of telling certain things that they cannot hear, see, or smell. Birds and animals can foretell the coming of great storms or earthquakes, and man is often warned by them. When the miners who are digging deep down in the earth see the rats all leaving the mine, they hurry to get above the ground, for they know there is soon to be a terrible cave-in or explosion, and that the rats have scented danger. We call this instinct, but it seems like a higher intelligence that we do not possess. If any of Chucky's friends had asked him how he knew it was day, and when he could not see the light, he would have grunted and said, he just knew, and that was all. Chucky stretched himself, rolled about in his hole, to get the cramps out of his joints, and thoroughly wake himself.  How he enjoyed this living in the clover, fattening himself at the farmer's expense! As he thought of the fine row of beans he had stripped, the morning before breakfast, he grinned and chuckled. How lucky he was to have discovered this deserted hole two years before, and then to have grown up in such luxury as this! He would stay here and eat beans and clover, and occasionally a turnip, as long as he lived. With these pleasant thoughts, Chucky stretched himself again, and then crawled lazily out of his hole. The sun still wanted fifteen minutes of being up, and the air was deliciously fragrant. Chucky sniffed it with keen enjoyment. First on the windward side, and then in the opposite direction. It was more difficult to discover a foe when the wind was blowing his scent away from you, but finally he decided that the coast was clear and started gaily for the bean-patch. Ca, ca! cried Nimrod, from far above him. It is a fine morning. I am going down to the river for a plunge.  Good luck to you, replied Chucky, with a shrill whistle that rang out loud and clear on the morning air. I prefer beans to brooks. Chucky could hear Cock Robin singing in the big maple by the road, where he had built his nest this year. How pleasant the song he was singing! It must be fine to sing like that for one's self whenever one wanted. Then, for a vain moment, Chucky wished that he was a bird, and could sing but only for a moment. Way! he cried with a long-drawn whistle. I would much rather be a woodchuck than one can have a hole to go into when he is frightened, and he trudged on after his breakfast. But he did wash his face some, as he went, for the grass was soaking wet with dew. It was great fun to bring down showers of these bright drops and smell the fragrance of the flowers as he stirred them. Soon he arrived at the bean-patch and began his meal with all the zest of a boy who had done the chores and driven the cattle to pasture before breakfast. Chucky's teeth were sharp, and the pods of the new string beans were very tender, and the way he stripped the hills did him credit as a hungry woodchuck. Far away by the brook he could hear Nimrod's lusty caw, caw. And at the same time there was the tinkle of a cowbell up the road. The sun had now risen in all his glory, and his coming had been heralded by the little foresters with song and chatter. The locust, too, was singing in the grass. It would be a warm day when he sang so early. Nimrod flew up from the brookside and perched upon an old oak in the pasture that he might sun himself after his bath and admire the glitter of his feathers, for he was very vain. From his high perch he could see Chucky in the bean-patch, and he envied him his breakfast. Then looking over in the mowing next to the bean-patch he saw something that made him quake with fear. For there, crouching behind the wall, thunder-stick in hand was the farmer.  The farmer peeped cautiously over the wall, but drew back quickly, and raised the terrible thunder-stick. Then Nimrod knew that Chucky was eating his last breakfast. He could not fly above him and warn him, as he had done before, for the thunder-stick would speak long before he could get there. Besides, he would put himself in range, and one crow was worth several wood-chucks. But he could do one thing, so he raised his head, swelled out his breast, and sounded forth his well-known note of warning. Danger, danger, danger, it seemed to say, and the soft morning winds wafted the sound far across the fields. Even Chucky heard it, busy as he was munching beans, and stopping, reared cautiously upon his hind legs and sniffed the air. This was the farmer's opportunity. A stream of fire leapt from the thunder-stick, and its roar echoed over hill and valley. Chucky's hide was tough, and he carried many small pellets in it already, but the distance was short, and the farmer had aimed with care.  The farmer went up and poked poor Chucky with his foot. He was quite dead, so he lifted him by the hind leg and carried him away to the house. Nimrod flew slowly toward the tristing tree, calling the little foresters as he went. There upon the topmost branch of the oaky sat, silent and sad. Soon they came flocking from field and forest, bush and break, till all were assembled. Good morning, Nimrod, they cried, but the crow made no answer. When the tree had become fairly alive with fur and feathers, Nimrod cleared his throat and asked, Friends, are we all here? Then a hush fell on the little company, and they looked at each other with eyes full of fear, for they all had heard the thunderstick. Then grave old Bob, the cottontail, replied from his place at the foot of the tree. No, my friend, we are not all here. All looked down at Bob and saw that Chucky's place by his side was vacant. Where is Chucky, they cried in chorus. That is the question, replied the old crow, with great deliberation, where is Chucky? Then he told in a few broken words what he had seen, and all went away into the woods to think it over and each to grieve after his own fashion. Chucky had been a silent little fellow, but they all liked him. They had always greeted him warmly when he waddled into the morning circle and took his place at the foot of the tree. Well, it was the way they all went, the way of the forest, where no creature ever dies of old age. But their children would take their places and the world would go on just the same. THE LITTLE FORESTERS A STORY OF FIELD AND WOODS BY CLARENCE HAWKS CHAPTER VI HOW COCK ROBBIN SAVED HIS FAMILY From the morning of our first acquaintance, Cock Robin has ever been the cheeriest of birds, and as the bird family are noted for their good spirits this is a very strong statement. It was the first of April. The morning sun was sending its bright rays into my chamber window to shame me into wakefulness, but presently I was awakened by a perfect flood of the most bewitching birdsong. I started up, rubbed my eyes, and listened, but there was no mistaking the sound. Cheery, cheery, cheery, cheer up, cheer up, cheer up. And in the clearest, strongest notes that I had ever heard from Robin. It may be that the song seemed the sweeter and clearer because it was the first Robin song of the year, but aside from that there was always a peculiar tenderness in the singing of Cock Robin that I have never heard equalled. I went to the window, and pulling the curtain aside a little, looked cautiously out, not wishing to disturb so welcome a friend, although I did want a glimpse of the performer. There he was upon the old elm, not ten feet from my window, and I stood very still lest I might disturb him. He was standing erect, with his red breast swelled to its utmost, and singing as though he would burst if the song were stopped, but no one wished to stop it. He was a fine specimen of the American Robin. His ruffs were very marked, and his entire plumage was rich and warm in tone. All of this was in direct contradiction of the rule that the dullest-colored birds are the sweetest singers, for he still poured out that delicious song. Presently he flew away to look for his breakfast, and it was as though a bit of heaven had departed. Then it was that I noticed a peculiar thing about him, by which I could always tell him from his fellows. When he started from the elm I thought that he was going to the cedar, but not so, for he turned and went ten feet to the west of it. Ah! he is going to the driveway, I said, but this guess was too previous, for he swung still more to the west, and fluttered down into the garden. How queerly he flies, I thought! Perhaps one of his wings is shorter than the other. This I afterwards learned was the case, for he always flew tacking a little to the right, and his destiny was as hard to determine as to tell what a cross-eyed man is looking at. Cock Robin hung about the buildings for several days after his first appearance. As he was so sweet a singer, you may be sure that we encouraged him by throwing out breadcrumbs and other dainties, and by not frightening him. After about a week he disappeared for several days, but finally one morning I heard him again. On going to the window I discovered that he was not alone, but perched upon the branch of the elm near him was a smaller Robin, whom I guessed was a female. This guess proved to be the right one, for Cock Robin had been away courting, and had now brought home his wife, and together they were looking over the country and deciding where to build. We called the newcomer Brownie from the dull color of her plumage, and in time grew to think quite as much of her as of Cock Robin himself. They finally decided to build in the elm, and late in April set to work upon the nest, and for about a week there was great activity in the Robin family. They were continually flying to and fro, bringing straw and mud, and also bits of twine which I supplied to help along the good work. In about a week the house in the elm was ready for occupancy, and Brownie took possession and proceeded to lay five blue eggs. For the next few days Cock Robin sang and sang, and from the sweetness of his song I knew that Brownie was setting, and that he was singing not for me, but for his little mate upon the nest. One afternoon early in May there came up a violent windstorm, and the great elm bent and writhed and thrashed its long arms upon the roof of the house. When the winds had stopped blowing and the rain and hail had ceased, so that small sounds could be heard, I discovered a great commotion in the family of Cock Robin. Cock Robin and Brownie were flying to and fro, crying quit, quit, quit. So I went out to investigate. The reason for their cries was not far distant, for there in the yard was the mud-house that they had builded with so much pains, and the eggs were all broken but too. I knew the Robins would not use these eggs again, so I carried them into the house for a keepsake. But the Robin is a cheery fellow, always ready to forget his grief, so Cock Robin and Brownie soon ceased their cries, and the very next day began building again in the elm in a more secure spot. Again the little mud-house was refashioned and more eggs were laid, and again Cock Robin sang for Brownie, but he could not help the rest of us hearing. After the young birds came he was very busy getting worms for them, so he did not have so much time for singing. One morning he was flying home to the house with an angle worm, when Sparrowhawk spied him. Now of all the birds that fly, Cock Robin most hated and feared Sparrowhawk, who was the cruelest and most vicious of all the hawks. Sparrowhawk kept very quiet, until he saw where the Robin went with the worm, and then followed as swift and as sure as death. Cock Robin and Brownie fought bravely, but they had to keep just out of his way to avoid being killed themselves, so finally they were driven from the nest, and Sparrowhawk proceeded to eat up the nestlings before their very eyes. I arrived upon the scene just in time to see Sparrowhawk fly away, closely pursued by the two Robins. Again despair reigned in the family of these much-afflicted birds. We people, possessed of higher intelligence and less pluck, would probably have given up at this point, but not so the Robins. It was a long time before I could find their third nest, but finally I happened upon it in the stump of an old apple tree. With one more mishap, narrowly averted by Cock Robin's pluck and presence of mind, a family was finally reared. It was nearly the middle of July when the family was hatched, and even then they had a narrow escape of which I was a distant witness. I had been down in the meadows one morning trout-fishing, and was returning to the house when I stopped to rest at a favorite seat under a maple in the pasture. I had been seated but a minute when I heard the distressed quit-quit-quit of a Robin. At first I could not locate the cries, but finally I decided that they came from the old stump where Cock Robin lived, although it was nearly forty rods away. Usually I could not have heard a Robin at that distance, but the morning was very clear, and what little breeze there was blew in my direction. To make sure I stood up, and by straining my sight, could just see a Robin flying wildly about the old stump, but no cause for the commotion could I see. But it was very evident from the bird's rapid flight that something was the matter, so I resorted to the use of a small opera-glass that I frequently carry for the study of birds. With the aid of the glass I could see the Robin quite plainly. It was browny, and something was clearly the matter. There was also another Robin coming like the flight of an arrow from the woods nearby, and by the circular manner of its flight I knew that the second bird was Cock Robin. It was very strange. What could it all mean? Then I fell to examining the old stump closely through my glass, and when I finally discovered the cause of all this commotion my astonishment was so great that the glass nearly fell from my hand. There upon the stump of the apple-tree, wriggling and writhing every minute nearer and nearer to the nest of young birds was the hideous form of a huge black snake who was known among the little foresters as black lightning. I was so far away from the scene of this tragedy that I could do nothing, for the snake would reach the nest long before I could reach the tree. I could merely stand where I was and see how it all ended. My sympathy was all that I could give the birds this time. Up up crept the hideous writhing form of the snake, with browny darting at it and the snake striking at her every time she came near enough for a blow. Every second brought him nearer to the nest, and I could see no possible escape for the young birds. True, Cock Robin was coming like a brave night errant to their rescue, but what could he do against the ugly snake? Black lightning had now wriggled his way up to within two or three feet of the nest. If Cock Robin is to do anything it must be done quickly, and as though an answer to my thought he shot into the circle swept by my glass. Straight up to the nest he flew, and hovered a moment over it, almost within reach of the snake. He then drew back two or three rods where both he and browny circled about watching the snake intently. He has given up the fight, I thought, and I was disappointed, for I had expected to see so valiant a bird make a brave stand for his nest and his young. Then the snake wriggled a foot or two nearer the nest and raised his ugly head for his prize, but instead of making a meal of the fledglings he suddenly began to wriggle about as though discomfited by something, and then, to my great astonishment, he began to descend in haste. When a few feet from the ground he let go his hold and tumbled into the grass. I did not wait to see more, but made all haste to cross lots to the old stump to discover, if possible, how Cock Robin had foiled his enemy. When I reached the tree nothing was to be seen of the snake, and Cock Robin and his mate were twittering softly about the nest. How in the world did you do it, I asked involuntarily, speaking aloud, and as though an answer to my query, Cock Robin lifted something from the nest and dropped it upon the ground at the foot of the tree. I stooped to examine it. It was a spray of three or four very bright green leaves of some plant that I was not familiar with, having a very rank odor. I picked the leaves up to examine them more closely, but the sap from the broken end of the branch made my skin burn, and my eyes began to smart and water from looking at it, while a nausea like seasickness seized me. With a shutter I flung the poisonous plant away and none too soon. For in two hours my hand was swollen badly and my eyes were nearly closed with inflammation. I searched all my books upon botany to identify the plant, but have never been able to do so. I am confident that it is not generally found in the temperate zone, but with some poisonous tropical plant, the seed of which had by some strange chance been dropped in our soil. But even so it is still a mystery how Cock Robin knew where it was growing, and by what instinct he knew that it was poisonous to the snake. I had often read of like incidents in tropical countries, but had been doubtful of their truth, but here was a demonstration of it at my very door. After all, was it any more wonderful than a thousand things that we see and hear in the animal and plant life about us every day? Life without intelligence, living intelligently, and small creatures without reason showing a deeper intelligence in many things than man. I am still pondering over these things, even as the poet Bryant wondered as he saw the wild goose taking its unerring flight through the trackless heavens without a compass, yet guided by some instinct or intelligence across a continent to the very inlet or bay, or even the nesting place that it has left six months before. Note, the author has frequently seen it stated that the leaves of the white ash dropped upon a snake have a paralyzing effect. It is also said that some ground birds protect their nests by partially covering them with white ash leaves. In the first place, the grove in which they lived is what is called first growth, and very tall, and a gray squirrel will not demean himself by living in small trees. He likes to be up in the world, where he can look down upon his fellow creatures and get a good view of what is going on. And besides being tall trees, the old maples were full of sweet seeds in the early autumn. If you had gone into the woods any morning in October, and had sat very still under one of these great trees, you would soon have heard tiny bits of something falling, and if you were a woodsman, you would at once know that the squirrels were at work. Then a little further on in the woods, there was a hickory grove, and here in the autumn was a feast that did the heart of a squirrel, good just to look upon, that there among the leaves were walnuts, and what squirrel does not know the taste of a shag bark. But they did not usually eat them at once, but stored them away in the nest until winter came. Then when the winds howled outside, and the snow was deep upon the ground, and it was impossible to gather mast, thanks to his forethought, the squirrel could sit comfortably in his hole, nibbling away at the sweet meat of the walnut. Still further on in the woods, there was an occasional chestnut, and Frisk always made it a point to pick out a fine tree of these nuts, and mark it for his own. Then some night, just at dusk, when something told him that there was to be a hard frost, he would go and drop down a bushel or two of birds, the largest upon the tree, for a squirrel is very particular about his nuts, and always has the best that the tree affords. Then in the morning he would go to his tree, and find that all had happened just as he expected, for there upon the ground would be his chestnut birds, all nicely opened by the frost. Some of my little readers may ask, how did Frisk know that there was to be a frost that night? I shall have to answer that I do not understand how he knew, or how all the little foresters know a great many things that they do know, but it seems to be given them to understand many things that man does not, so that they may take advantage of them. There was also a fine apple orchard near the sugar camp, where Frisk and frolic occasionally went for sweet apples, but they did not like to venture so near the house. Besides, the apple orchard belonged to their noisy cousin Redder, who delighted above all things to tease the grey cousins, and played pranks upon them. If cousin Redder saw the grey squirrels in his apple orchard, he would straight away set up such a chattering and scolding that they were soon glad to leave, although each usually carried away a sweet apple to the maple woods where they could eat it in quiet. For all cousin Redder is so noisy a chap, he is not a provident squirrel, as he never lays up any store for the winter, and often gets very hungry during the cold months. One winter he got so starved out that he would have died, had not frolic taken pity on him, and dropped down a few nuts each morning when he came to the foot of their tree to beg for his breakfast. This was very kind of the greys, and cousin Redder was never so saucy after that, and did not object to their coming into his orchard the following summer. It was a pleasant sight to see Frisk and frolic playing on an autumn morning in the tops of the great maples. Back and forth they would go, running in very tops of the trees, leaping from limb to limb as easily and as gracefully as a bird moves in the air. They rarely lose their hold, for if they cannot catch by their feet they will grasp a limb with their teeth. If they do happen to fall, they spread out as flat as possible, and come down through the air, almost as slowly as a leaf, and the alighting does not seem to bother them at all. For sheer sport I have often seen them jump from the top of a tall tree to the base of another tree, forty or fifty feet away. I do not think, if he were put to it, that a squirrel would hesitate to jump from the top of a church steeple, although it makes us shudder to think of such a thing. But God has made these little fellows for running and jumping, and He taught them how to do it when He put the first pair in the treetop. The happiest morning in all the year for the squirrel family is that when the baby squirrels come, then Frisk and frolic sees their chattering and playing, and goes sobly about their business, for they have more important matters to attend to. The babies are such helpless little mites that it takes all the frolics time to cuddle them in the nest and keep them warm, and Frisk is very busy providing breakfast and supper for his family. That as the summer days come and go, the baby squirrels grow strong until they can roll and tumble about the nest. Finally they even go away into the treetops to learn of their parents the art of running and jumping, which is a squirrel's greatest alight. But a squirrel's life is not all joy, but they have their trials and tribulations, as well as all things that live, and they must ever on the lookout or in some unguarded moment something will do them harm.  Billy Wilson's Box Trap One rainy day while Billy Wilson was playing in the garret, where there were so many wonderful things and always something new, he found a queer box that he had never seen before.  For a while he mused himself by lifting the door and letting it down with a loud bang. Finally he took the box downstairs to his grandfather to ask what it was, for grandfather knew everything and was always ready to answer questions. Billy had always claimed that a grandfather was the next best thing in the world to a Shetland pony. Grandpa, he cried, all excitement running into the old man's room with the strange house under his arm. I have just found the queerest kind of a house with a funny door that is not like a door at all. What do you think it is, Grandpa? Grandpa took his spectacles from his pocket and put them on, for his eyesight was poor and he could not tell a wheelbarrow from a wagon without his specs. Why, Willie, he said, you have found the old box-trap. I have caught many a squirrel in it in my day. It is one that I have made when I was a boy. When he showed Willie how to pass the string over the end of the box and catch the small stick at the end of the string in a slit in the spindle, they then fastened a part of an ear of a corn to the spindle inside the little house and the trap was baited and set. Now Willie, said Grandpa, you take a stick and touch the corn and see what will happen. Willie did as he was told, and to his great astonishment the door of the box dropped suddenly and caught the stick. That afternoon when he had stopped raining, Billy took the funny little house under his arm and started for the orchard where he had decided would be the best place to catch a squirrel. He found a smooth stone upon the top of the wall with the trap would rest firmly and he replaced it with the door pointing towards the woods. He carefully baited it with an ear of corn then set at a distance to see what happened, but Billy expected that a squirrel would come along and be caught at once. He amused himself for a long time munching apples and watching the trap, but as no squirrel appeared he finally went home where he found his particular friend Frank Snow waiting for him. Frank had come over to see the new swing that Billy's father had put up for him the day before in the Big Elm. It was the best swing in the neighborhood and the boys were all eager to try it. So Billy and Frank amused themselves for a long time with the swing, and when they were tired of swinging they went to the barn where the mows were filled with new hay. What country boy does not like to play upon a new hay though? The hay is so fragrant, the mows so soft and springy, and is such fun to jump from the big beams. Frank and Billy had such a fine play that afternoon that Billy forgot all about his box trap, nor did he remember it even in the evening. That night when Billy came to the supper table to his great delight he found a crisp new mince pie looking smilingly up at him and his mouth warded at the thought of its delicious contents of raisins, currants and preserves. Billy never knew where his first piece of pie went to. It disappeared so quickly, and he passed his plate for another. I'm afraid it will not be good for you, said his mother. He's very rich and may give you bad dreams. Oh no it won't mother, cried Billy. I know it won't, will it Pa? Billy knew that his father was more apt to indulge him than his mother, so he always appealed to him at such times.  That night when he lay in his little bed, watching the moon through the window, he thought of his box trap and wondered how he could have so long forgotten it. I hope I'll have a squirrel in the morning, he said to himself, and with these words he fell asleep. The next thing Billy remembered, he was walking in a beautiful wood. It was summertime, birds were singing, and everything was more beautiful than he had ever seen it before. He walked on for a long time through the shady avenues, admiring the flowers and listening to the birds' songs. Presently he strolled under a great oak, where to his astonishment he found the cutest little house that he had ever seen in all his life. There were four or five windows and one door which was wide open. Billy went in and sat down in a little chair, which fitted his size so well that he thought it must be made for him. Upon the floor there was a fine carpet, and at the further end of the house was a table with dishes on it, but they were covered over with a spread, so that Billy could not see what was there. He went and lifted up the spread and peaked under, and what he saw made him shout with delight. The table was covered with goodies, pies, cakes and doughnuts, and in the middle of the table was a big basket of candy. Then Billy remembered that he was terribly hungry. Why? It seemed to him that he had never been so hungry before in all his life, so he sat down and began to eat. Pies and cake disappeared as though by magic, until there was nothing left but the basket of candy. Then Billy reached for that, but he no sooner touched the handle of the basket than there was a loud bang that made him jump up and look around. To his great astonishment he found that the door by which he had entered had shut. This did not trouble him much, though, at first. When he wanted to go out he would open it, for whoever heard of a door that would shut and not open. So he sat down again and began eating the candy, but it did not taste as good as he had expected. So he stopped and went to examine the door. He looked over from top to bottom, but could find no knob or latch. Then he pushed upon it gently at first, and then with all his might, but it would not give an inch. It was very strange. Billy began to grow uneasy and turned his attention to the windows. These he found to his surprise were covered with iron bars.  Then he began to get uneasy and walked up and down, trying first the door and then a window, but both were quite tight. There was the basket of candy which he had hardly touched, but he had no appetite for it or for anything else. He could not stay still. It was so lonesome and so quiet in the little house. Perhaps the door would open in a few minutes and he would go home to his folks. At the thought of home and parents, Billy's lip quivered. He might never see them again. Perhaps it was a bear's house into which he had walked, and they would soon be home and eat him. At the thought of such possibilities, he began walking up and down very fast, striking and kicking at the door and shouting for help. Papa, papa, mother, mother, he cried. Come and get me. I am caught in a terrible house and cannot get out. The more he cried and pounded, the more frightened he became. He shook the bars of the windows and bit them with his teeth, until at last he fell down, exhausted. Then he heard a noise like the sound of a great army marching. Tramp, tramp, tramp, it went, and the ground shook with each step. Billy climbed up quickly to one of the windows and peaked out. But what he saw made him nearly lose his hold and fall to the floor. For coming through the windows was a giant as tall as the tallest tree, and every time he stepped the ground trembled. Presently he began to sing, and the sound of his voice was like the heaviest thunder. I am the giant who lives in the woods, far up the mountain side, when the people hear me they hasten away, and all in their houses hide.  When I am thirsty I drink in the stream, I'll drink up the river some day. Here the song ceased, but Billy could hear the echoes of it rolling away over the hills like distant thunder. The tread of the giant was growing louder, Billy's hair stood up, and his teeth knocked together.  Tramp, tramp, tramp, came the great feet of the giant, right up to the little house, and then to his terror Billy felt the house lifted up and set in the top of a tree. Then the door was raised very little, and Billy could not help looking up. The giant's face was covered with whiskers, but Billy could see two eyes like great red lanterns and a double row of teeth that were so large they made cold shivers run down his back, and his breath nearly left him. He was so frightened. Oooo! roared the giant.  I'll take you home, and the children shall have you to play with. You did not know what a box-trap was, did you? You thought it was a little house. And the giant laughed until the woods rang. He then lifted the house upon his shoulders, and Billy felt himself born swiftly away over the treetops to an unknown land. The giant took such long steps that it janced the little house on his shoulder, and Billy tumbled about in a most uncomfortable manner that he did not mind this, for his mind was filled with awful forebodings as to what the giant would do with him when he reached home. He had read of giants who even ate boys, and he thought perhaps this might be one of the hungry kind. By and by he could hear water splashing every time the giant stepped, and he thought they must be crossing a river, which was the case. After they had crossed the giant began climbing a very steep mountain, and he he occasionally stopped to rest. Once he stopped to get himself a cane, which he made from a small tree about a foot through and twenty feet long. This he dug into the ground to help himself along as he climbed the mountain.  Mehettable! he thundered in his terrible voice. I am here. Come out and see what I have caught in the vox strap. Pretty soon a giantess nearly as large as the giant came out bringing the baby in her arms. The giant baby was crying, and the noise he made was as loud as the bellowing of a wall. It made Billy's ear ache to hear him, but the mother did not seem to mind it. Then the giant opened the door of the vox-trap, and the giantess peeked in. Her face did not scare Billy as the giants did, for it was not all whiskers, but it was enough to terrify a small boy. Take him out thundervolt, said the giantess, and let me see him. Then the giant reached in his great hand and took Billy out, nearly smothering him in doing so. Billy was awfully frightened to have the giant touch him, for his hand was so strong that he was afraid he would crush him, before he thought, even if he did not mean to do him harm. My, ain't he pretty? said the giantess. See how he trembles?  You don't suppose that he would bite him, do you, thundervolt? He had better not, roared thundervolt, in the tones like the deepest thunder. If he does, I will drop him into the soup kettles some fine morning. Presently the baby reached out his hand, and the giantess gave him Billy to hold. The baby was as strong as an ordinary man, and he held Billy so tight that he nearly squeezed his breath out. He would have kicked the baby if he had dared.  Then the giant and his family all went into the cave and had dinner. When they had finished, they'd brought out some for Billy, a whole ham, half a bushel of potatoes, and a pie as big as a wash tub. Billy was so tired and scared that he was not hungry, but he did not dare to refuse to eat, so he tried two or three potatoes and a bit of the ham. The giant family watched while he was eating, and the baby kept reaching for him through the windows of the house. After the giant family had got tired of handling him, during which Billy thought that all of his bones would be broken, they left him in the box trap and went in for a nap. Soon he heard them all snoring, making a noise like the howling of the wind. Although he was very tired, Billy could not sleep. What would become of him in this awful land? He could not get out of the box trap, and even if he did, he could never find his way back home, or get across the deep river the giant had waited. If he ran away they would pursue him and bring him back, then he would be put in the soup kettle, or worse, they might eat him alive. His hair stood up with fright as he recalled these words in Jack the Giant Killer. B, V, F, M, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make me red. These giants must eat boys as well as those in the days of Jack, and that would probably be his end. Then he thought of his folks, but could get little comfort.  Billy crawled away into one corner of the little house and began to cry softly. He did not dare to cry aloud, or was afraid of waking the giant family. But the baby heard him and came creeping out to see what the noise was. Billy at once stopped crying when he saw him looking at him, and sat up straight. Then the baby began to talk to him, but he could not understand. When the giant baby had looked at Billy for a while, he began tumbling the little house about to use himself. Over and over it went, and Billy rolled about inside, bumping his head in a most unpleasant manner. Further and further along the mountain side, the baby rolled the little house, and Billy saw to his horror that they were nearing a precipice, the bottom of which he could hardly see. He screamed for help, but his voice sounded like a mere squeak after that of the giants who were now sleeping and did not hear him. Nearer and nearer to the precipice came the little house until it was on the brink.  Then the baby gave it a push, and Billy felt himself falling. Down, down he went. At last he struck with a terrific bang that brought his teeth together with a snap. Then he sat up and rubbed his eyes, and to his great astonishment found himself sitting on the floor beside his own bed, with the moonlight streaming in at the window, just as when he fell asleep. He rubbed his eyes again and pinched himself to make sure that he was not still asleep, but it hurt, so he knew he was awake. Then he got up and wiped the sweat from his forehead and peaked out of the window. There in the yard was the great Elm, and the new swing that his father had made for him the day before. There was no dream about that. He was safe at home in his own room, and it was still night. The box trap and the giants had all been but a bad dream, and with a sigh of relief he got back into bed, where he slept soundly until morning. When he did awake it was broad daylight. The morning sun was streaming in at the bedroom window, and the robin and Oriole were singing as though their throats would split. Billy dressed hurriedly and went down to breakfast. At the table he was so quiet and thoughtful, his mother thought he must be sick, but on seeing his rosy cheeks she concluded he was quite well. As soon as breakfast was over Billy put on his cap and telling his mother he was going to the orchard was off running as fast as his legs could carry him. While Billy is on his way to the orchard let us return to his box trap and see what has been happening there. Early in the afternoon of the previous day Frisk the grey squirrel who lived in the sugar orchard near the apple orchard said, Good-bye to Frolic and his baby squirrels, and started for the orchard in search of sweet apples for his family. Frolic left the babies just long enough to go with him to the edge of the maple grove. Now take good care of yourself, she said, as he dashed away towards the wall, where Billy's box trap was set. Frisk chatted back gaily to his mate as he jumped from stone to stone and finally disappeared in the distance and Frolic went back to the baby squirrels in the tree. Frisk was running so rapidly along the wall that he did not notice the little house until he was almost upon it, then he stopped suddenly, almost in front of the door. What a cute little house it was, just large enough for a squirrel, and there was a fine ear of corn inside. It was very strange, he thought, as he cocked his head upon one side and peaked into the door, that anyone should have left their house in this way on the wall, and also that they left the ear of corn inside. Frisk had heard of traps, but as he was a young squirrel had never seen one. He did not think this could be a trap, it was more like a squirrel house. Perhaps it was one that some good person had built especially for his family. He stepped one paw into the house and then stopped, but the ear of corn was so tempting that he could not resist the temptation to go in. They had not had any corn since the winter supply gave out two months ago. How good it would taste, but he would not eat it himself, he would carry it home to his frolic. So he took hold of the ear and pulled gently, but it seemed to be fastened, and he pulled harder. Then the door of the little house came down with a bang, and Frisk knew that it was a trap, and he was caught. He would never see frolic or the baby squirrels again. We have seen how Billy felt when he thought he was caught in a box trap, and squirrels feel much as folks do in light places, so we will not dwell upon the terrors of the poor grey squirrel that night in the box trap, but will pass on to the morning when Billy went out to the orchard to see his box trap. As he neared the old apple tree his heart beat fast with excitement, but when he saw that the trap had been sprung his face fell. He had hoped there would be nothing in the trap, for he intended to carry it home and put it away in the garret. Billy tiptoed up to the trap and peeked in, and there in one corner, troubling with fear, and with eyes big with fright, he beheld a beautiful grey squirrel. The inside of the trap was strewn with bits of wood that the squirrel had gnawed from its side in his efforts to escape, and his jaws were bloody from gnawing. Any of beauty, thought Billy, how I would like to keep in a cage and have him to look at. Then he thought of his own experience the night before and wavered, but it was only for a moment his better self conquered. Then with a quick motion, as though he dared not to trust himself to consider, he lifted the door of the trap. With a grateful chatter and a patter of small feet upon the wall, Frisk was gone to the maple grove, and he did not waste many moments in getting home to frolic and his baby squirrels. Billy shouldered the box trap and trotted Hoe with it, feeling very happy and glad that he had let the squirrel go. Hoe, hoe, said Grandpa, when he saw Billy coming. So you were tired of trapping, are you? No, said Billy. I caught a grey squirrel, but I thought it was too bad to keep him in a cage when he wanted to be free, so I let him go. Well, I guess that is the best way, said Grandpa, trying hard not to laugh at the boy's so ver-disappointed face. You put up the trap and come into the woodshed, and I will make you a new kite, and Grandpa made the tallest kite that Billy had ever seen. END OF CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX OF THE LITTLE FORESTERS A STORY OF FIELD AND WOODS This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Phyllis Vinceli THE LITTLE FORESTERS A STORY OF FIELD AND WOODS by Clarence Hawks CHAPTER IX THE END OF BLACK LIGHTNING Black lightning was a terrible black snake that inhabited the woods where the little foresters dwelt. Each spring he would make his appearance in May or June, and then he would prowl about the woods and along the sunny roadway until late in October, when he would den up and sleep until spring. Of all who dwelt in the forest, black lightning was the most feared by the little foresters next to sneak the weasel. He was so cunning and so full of tricks with which to entrap them. He was always lying in wait by the pathways that they best loved to use, and his coming was so still that no one was safe from him. He was not even contended with gliding about upon the ground, doing what mischief he could there, but even took to the treetops when he was uncommonly hungry. Here he would lie in the foliage, coiled upon a branch in such a way that no one could see him until an unsuspecting squirrel or bird came his way, when his ugly head would dart out and grab the unfortunate one. When he had squeezed the life out of it, he would drop the victim to the ground and crawl down and eat it at his leisure. Black lightning was not even bold and daring like Sparrowhawk, but he would steal about, poking his head under old stumps and in hollow logs that he might find a nest of baby rabbits or some young birds to devour. If the mother and father were gone, he would at once fall upon the helpless ones and eat them.  Like Sneak, Black lightning had no friends in the forest so that when he was run over by a wagon and his back nearly broken no one was sorry, and they all said it was a pity that he did not die. It was the latter part of June, and so pleasant in the woods that the birds and squirrels were always singing and chattering about it. I imagine they were afraid that man, who was so busy with farming and building, would not notice how sweet the air was, and how fair the flowers, so they were continually telling him less he should forget. Black lightning had been out for at least two weeks and, as he was always very hungry when he first appeared, he had been especially annoying to the birds and squirrels. No morning had passed at the tristing tree without some account of his terrible doings. He had found brown bird's nest hidden in the grass by a pathway and had devoured three fledglings that were just hatched. He had robbed nests of eggs by the dozen and Cock Robin's own family had narrowly escaped being devoured. He had even been in the treetops searching for nests and young birds. The birds and the squirrels considered that the trees belong to them. Black lightning was bad enough when he kept to the ground, but when he even came into the trees it was too much to bear, and so with good reason the indignation against the snake grew, until one morning Nimrod called a meeting especially to consider the case and see if something could not be done to rid the forest of this monster. Either red tail or danger the great white owl might have killed the snake for them, but both were enemies of the birds and squirrels, so help was not likely to come from that quarter, unless the owl or the hawk should find him some day asleep and carry him off of their own accord. One would never have guessed from the brightness of the sun or the fragrance of June roses that the little foresters were so sorely tried by the ravenous snake. Nor would he have guessed it had he seen the birds and squirrels as they assembled at the old oak, for they sang and chattered in their old merry manner. Finally Nimrod came sailing over the tops of the trees and that majestic way he had, and lighted on his usual perch which was the topmost bow of the tree. Then after the morning salutations had been exchanged and a few well-chosen words he explained the particular business before the meeting, and asked if anyone had any plan for the entrapping or the killing of black lightning. Frisk, the gray squirrel, thought that Bob, the old rabbit, might be appointed by the chairman to do the job, at which Bob looked anxious and thought that someone else might be found who could do it better. It was one thing to attack the snake when he was about to devour his family, but quite another to go after him and slay him when there was no family to inspire one. Of course no bird can attempt it, said Cock Robin, to which the thrush, the jay, the sparrow, the bobble-link, the Phoebe, and the score of others all assented with chirp and twitter. I don't see how a squirrel can do it either, exclaimed Redder, who always gave his opinion whether it was asked or not. This time, however, his opinion was echoed by Grayer, Chipmunk, and their sleepy cousin Flyer, and so that settled it as far as the squirrel family was concerned. The old crow looked down at his followers and chuckled. It amused him very much to see how willing each one was that someone else should attack the snake, and how reluctant each was to do it himself. It was a fine study of the willingness of people to put others in positions where they would not want to be themselves. Well, said Nimrod at last, I do not see but what we shall have to get the field-mouse to kill black lightning for us. Friend Field-mouse is not present this morning, and so cannot object. And the old crow chuckled again and looked down scornfully at his followers, who felt ashamed. I move that we hear from our wise chairman upon the subject.  Good! Good! cried all the little people, with cheer up and chatter. Nimrod straightened himself and looked down in a dignified manner at bird, squirrel, and rabbit. It greatly flattered and pleased him to be well spoken of, for he was the most vain of them all, a fact that the wise rabbit well knew. And he also knew that if anything was to be gotten from Nimrod, that this was the quickest and best way to get it. And he had a suspicion that Nimrod had some plan for ridding the woods of black lightning. Well, said Nimrod at length, when he had admired the plumage of his wing, which glistened in the sunlight, and greatly pleased him. I suppose that the crow family has famed for its sagacity. If it is not anything that I take any particular credit to myself for, but merely the advantage of being well-born, I indeed have a plan, which I will disclose if you will all be attentive and not interrupt me. Good! Good! cried all the birds and squirrels and chorus. Tell us, Nimrod, tell us! The old crow gave a long caw to clear his throat and began. Many, many years ago, long before the memory of any one now living, unless it is our dear friend, Turtle, who lives down at the Brookside, my great, great grandfather lived in these woods, and I dare say he has perched many a time upon this very branch where I am now standing. He was a large, strong crow and a fine flyer. But his greatest quality was his wisdom. It is often said in the crow family that I am like him. Here Nimrod paused to chuckle and admire his plumage. Well, my great, great grandfather took it into his head to travel.  So he decided to start out, and in order not to be flying around in a great circle, and finally come back where he started from, he decided to always travel towards the setting sun. He thought that when he was ready to come back he could travel towards the rising sun, and that would bring him safe back. It is a very wise plan, and one that none but the crow would have thought of. There was a great meeting of the crows to wish him a fine journey and good luck, and he set out. For days and months he traveled over hills and valleys, like these where we live, flying by day and roosting in the top of a fir tree by night. This was the safest way to do. Besides, he did not want to travel at night, for he had come upon this journey to see the country which he could not do at night. Finally the hills and valleys ceased, and the forest disappeared, and he came to great planes that stretched out as far as the eye could reach. He did not like this country as well as the wooded country, for it was hard to find a tree and which to roost at night. But there were lots of grain, and the planes were very fertile. By and by he came to a great river where he stopped for a bath, for the water had been so muddy for several days that he could not bathe. Then he flew on, greatly refreshed. Then there were more planes that lasted for weeks and weeks, and finally they grew sandy and barren with nothing but sagebrush and prickly plants. Finally one morning, when he had gotten very tired of the planes, he saw a mountain like those mountains he had known at home, only it was very much higher and was covered with snow. Up, up he mounted nearly to the sun before he crossed it. But there on the mountaintop were pines and spruces again, and he felt more at home. Then he traveled for days over the mountains and finally dropped down into the land of sunshine that ends by the great water which there is no crossing, so the bird folks told him who live in the land of sunshine. Here it was that my great great grandfather made the acquaintance of that remarkable bird the road-runner of which I am going to tell you. The little foresters all looked at each other with great astonishment, but as they had promised not to interrupt Nimrod they said nothing. Well, continued Nimrod, the road-runner is one of the most remarkable birds in the world. I think I may say that he ranks next to the crow, and my ancestor found out many strange things from him, among others how to kill snakes. At this statement by Nimrod there was such a chirping and twittering in the old tristing tree that the crow was obliged to cease his story for several minutes, but when quiet had at last been restored he continued. The one great enemy of the road-runner is the rattlesnake, who is always creeping about in the grass searching for the road-runner's nest that he may devour the eggs or young birds, or if he can find a young road-runner in the grass where he is just learning to fly, he will at once fall upon him and mangle him and finally swallow him without the slightest regret. The hateful thing cried all the little foresters in chorus. He is just like black lightning, said Cock Robin. Well, continued Nimrod, the road-runner does not take his injuries quietly as we do, but he at once sets to work to avenge himself. He searches about in the grass and along the sunny banks by the creek until he finds the snake, and then he follows him, never losing sight of him by day or night, until at last the snake lies down in a sunny spot to sleep, for all snakes are great sleepers. They all sleep through the winter, and many of them sleep half the summertime as well. When the road-runner sees the rattlesnake fall asleep, he knows that his hour has come. Then he and Mrs. Road-Runner set to work to gather the spines from the prickly pear tree, which are very sharp. They have to use great care in gathering them, or they will wound themselves, but they do not mind an occasional scratch when they think of their young dead birds and the revenge that they are going to heap upon the snake. When they have gathered a good pile of the spines, they go up to the sleeping snake very carefully and build a fence about him, using the spines for building material. So when the snake sleeps, he is all the time being surrounded by this terrible wall. Finally their work is done, and Mr. and Mrs. Road-Runner wait for the awakening of the snake. When the snake does awake, he stretches himself and looks about him. To his great astonishment, he finds a wall some three or four inches high, encompassing him on every side, and a little distance away, he sees the road-runners watching him. He is very angry, it is their doing. He will teach them better manners, and he coils himself for a spring, hissing and sounding his rattlers in an ominous way. But the road-runners do not fear him. This makes him more angry still, and he lashes with his tail, which strikes something sharp, and the snake turns and strikes viciously at the pile. To his great astonishment, the innocent looking sticks bite back. He strikes again, and a dozen sharp spines fasten in his head. Then great anger possesses him, and he strikes again and again, while the road-runners draw back to a safe distance. Around and around the rattler goes, striking and squirming, until at last he is filled with spines and bleeding from a score of places. Then in blind fury he bites himself and dies, the victim of his own poison. Good! Good! cried all the birds and squirrels and chorus. It serves him right, said Bob from his seat at the foot of the tree. If any one carries a deadly poison about as the rattlesnake does, he is quite sure to fall a victim to it himself sooner or later. Now, continued Nimrod, if you will all stop talking, I will tell you the details of my plan.  Firstly, we have no prickly pear tree, and we will have to use something else. Secondly, the bite of the black snake is not poisonous, and he cannot finish himself, so we will have to poison our brambles to make our plan a certain success. I want you all to set to work gathering brambles. Find the sharpest and the longest ones that you can. Go to the blackberry, the raspberry, the thorn apple, and the nettle. And some of you, like friend Thresher, whom the law protects, can get those sharp thorns from the hedge up at the farmhouse. When you have gathered your thorns, then find the most deadly poisons that you know. I do not need to tell you what they are. You all know the nightshade and the poison hemlock, the ivy, and the dogwood. Break the bark or the pulp of the plant or shrub with great care, lest you get poisoned yourself, and then wet the points of your brambles or spines with this poison. When you have once poisoned them, you must use the greatest care not to scratch yourself. When everything is ready, we will watch for this destroyer of our homes and our happiness, and serve him in such manner as he deserves. And without further words Nimrod dismissed the company, and they all went away, bent upon one errand, the destruction of black lightning. For several days there was great activity in the woods. Gathering spines and searching for poisonous plants occupied all of the time that was not spent in looking for food and attending to the young who needed great deal of attention at this time of year. After about a week Nimrod announced at the tristing tree that everything was in readiness, and told all to be on the watch for black lightning. For several days no one could discover him asleep, for he was very crafty and had kept the place of his napping a secret. But one sunny afternoon early in July he decided to take his nap out in the open upon a sand bank that pleased him, where he could bask in the warm sun and enjoy himself. If anything disturbed him he had a hole nearby where he could go. But what could harm him? Was he not master of the forest? Were they not all afraid of him? And did they not all flee when he approached? It was with these feelings that the old black snake stretched out on the sand bank and went to sleep. An hour later Kok Robin, who was always on the watch and had a grudge of his own to pay off, discovered the snake asleep and hastened to tell Nimrod, who at once summoned the rest of the company by a signal that had been agreed upon. Soon they were all at work carrying the brambles and spines that had been made so deadly with poisonous sap. They worked with a will, and in two hours there was a pile of bristling points about the ugly black snake and no opening on any side through which to escape. When their work had been completed they sat upon the trees and those of the company who could not fly sat at a safe distance on the ground for they knew that when the snake awoke he would be very angry and secretly they were all afraid of black lightning. At last their patience was rewarded for the snake began to move and then to stretch as snakes are apt to do after a nap and then he awoke. When he looked about at the bristling pile that surrounded him he thought he was dreaming, but when he looked up in the trees and saw the birds and squirrels looking down at him he knew that it was no dream. But the full peril of his situation did not at once appear to him. Who has done this, he hissed, raising his head angrily and glaring about him? We all had a hand in it, replied Nimrod from his perch a few feet above the snake, but I think I may say the plan was mine and the rest of the company helped me to carry it out. You will all pay for it, hissed the snake, snapping his jaws together in a manner that made the smaller birds and squirrels quake. I will kill an extra bird and an extra squirrel every day this summer to pay for this.  When you get out of that tangle, repeated Nimrod mockingly, we will all invite you to breakfast. At these words the snake lowered his head and a feeling of an easiness came over him, for he well knew the cunning of the crow and feared him in the confident way in which he spoke. Why have you done this, he asked at length, feeling that perhaps the best course was to parley? Why have you hunted us by day and night, robbing our nests and eating our young, asked Nimrod? Partly for breakfast and partly for sport, said the snake. We are not as cruel as you, replied Nimrod. We have not entrapped you for sport, but because we had to.  Destroyed me, hissed the snake, snapping his jaws furiously. We will see about that.  Nimrod cawed derisively, and the birds chirped and twittered, but some of the more timid flew away in fright.  He writhed with agony, and for once lost his self-control and again attacked his barriers. Faster and faster he struck, hissing and snapping his jaws and all the time lashing with his tail. The brambles flew in every direction, but he was fast filling with the deadly points. Over and over he went, moving so fast that the little foresters could scarcely see him. Finally his wriggling and thrashing ceased, and then they saw him filled with the deadly points and swollen to twice his usual size. At last, after terrible convulsions, he stretched himself out upon the sandbank and died, an object too hideous to look upon. Then the birds and the squirrels went quietly away, feeling well satisfied with the success of Nimrod's plan and their own hard work. But they had no feeling of revenge in the death of the snake, for they had destroyed him, as Nimrod had said, merely that they might live themselves.