CHAPTER X. A Terrible Ride The hawk and the weasel are rival marauders, each carrying on his work of theft and murder in his own peculiar manner, and each doing terrible execution in field and forest. Of the two I have the most respect for the hawk. He is more open and above board in his thieving and murdering, and rarely kills when he is not hungry. But of all the four-footed creatures that inhabit New England, the weasel is the most despicable.  He kills two squirrels for every one that he eats, and all his other operations are carried on with the same cruelty and disregard for the lives of his fellow foresters. He is a destroyer, cruel and cunning, and more to be feared by the little foresters than any other creature. Even his looks are enough to make one shudder.  Sparrow hawk is quite as cruel, but he lacks the cunning of the weasel. He always carries on his work of destruction openly and with a fearlessness that is at least not cowardly. Ever since the day when red-tail had mistaken sneak the weasel for a chipmunk and had nearly caught him in the open, there had been war between them, although they dwelt so far apart there was little chance of their meeting. Sneak would not be caught in the open again, and red-tail lived so high up in the air he was quite out of the domain of the weasel, but each kept the grudge in his heart and bided his time. It was a hot afternoon in August. The locust was singing shrilly in the weeds by the roadside. From up in the pasture came the musical tinkle of a cowbell. A light breeze occasionally rustled the leaves, making a pleasant sound, but when this muffled murmur died away it was as still as night-time. It was too hot for the birds to sing or the squirrels to chatter. In fact the birds were away in the deep woods, molting and chirping softly to themselves. Suddenly there was a rustle, and a few frightened chirps from Chatterbox the chipmunk, a patter of small feet in the ferns, and a moment later he was seen running for a big maple at the top of his speed. A few feet behind him, gliding along with that easy motion, his cruel, hungry eyes fixed intently upon the little squirrel was Sneak, the free-booter and destroyer. Chatterbox scurried up the tree with the weasel in hot pursuit. Up, up they went, the squirrel running for his life and the weasel pursuing. I saw that it was hopeless for the squirrel, he would soon be at the top of the tree and at the mercy of the weasel, but I did not know all of the squirrel's prowess. Presently he stood upon the topmost branch of the tree, with the weasel but a few feet away. Poor little fellow I thought, and my hatred for Sneak doubled. But even as I looked, the chipmunk sprang from the limb, although it was fifty or sixty feet high, spread himself out flat like a turnover, and floated gracefully down through the air landing at my feet. Bravo! I cried. Well done, little chap! He did not wait to hear my compliments, but was off running for all he was worth. He evidently had not seen me before and had been greatly frightened by landing so near what he supposed another enemy. My astonishment had scarcely left me when I was treated to another surprise, for Red Tail, the old hen-hawk, sailed majestically into the very tree that Chatterbox had just left and perched upon the limb that the squirrel had occupied. They did not see me under the tree, and I stood very still, wishing to observe him. He was a magnificent bird, measuring, as I afterwards discovered, over five feet from tip to tip. His plumage shone like burnished silver in the sunlight, and his tail was a rich deep red. I had forgotten all about Sneak when a white spot upon a limb, not over a yard from the hawk, reminded me of him. It was Sneak without a doubt, for I could see the eager, restless motion of the head and his slim figure. Then to my great astonishment the slender form shot like a white streak through the air and landed upon the back of the hawk, and the weasel's head was buried in the feathers of the great bird just where the neck joins the body. And the meaning of it all flashed upon me. Greek had met Greek, and the old score would be settled. With a wild scream the hawk rose swiftly in the air, higher and higher it went, but I could see by the quick hard strokes of its wings the agony of the flight. Presently the hawk set its wings for a plunge downward and made a swoop, the swiftness of which no other bird can equal. Almost down to the tree he came, but as he turned in the air to ascend again I could see the weasel still clinging to his neck. Up, up, he went again, growing smaller and smaller, until he looked like a mere speck in the sky. I feared that I should lose sight of him and not see the end of this terrible struggle. But soon he began to descend again, and this time more rapidly than before, but he did not have his usual control of himself. His flight was ragged and uncertain. Once he lost the set of his wings and went over and over in the air, but with a great effort he balanced himself and came down like a falling star. When about fifty feet from the ground he turned over on his back and beat furiously with his wings, writhing and shaking himself. Then he flopped down upon the ground and went over and over. Here was Sneak's chance to escape from his perilous position and I thought he would take it. But not so. It was to be a fight to the finish, and he still clung to the neck of the hawk with a grip-like death. With a despairing scream the hawk rose again, going almost straight up. It was to be his last flight, and he had determined not to perish alone. If death was to come, it should come to both. When about forty rods up his great wings collapsed, and without a struggle he fell to the earth like a stone. I went to the spot where they had fallen, and there upon the ground was the magnificent hawk with his wings spread, and a stream of blood flowing from a hole in his neck that his enemy had made, and close beside him was the battered body of the weasel. They had fought the fight to a finish, but it had been a drawn battle, for both were dead. End of CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI. The Good Green Wood Whenever I pass along the city street and see its pale children trying to play ball or marbles in some vacant lot where there is hardly room to turn about, I always fall to pitying them, and to wishing that every child that comes into the world could spend its first twelve years in the country. Then no matter what he may do or where he may go in after he has these country memories to fall back on when the heart grows sick for the sweet green things and the sound of running water. It matters not if I am on the noisy streets of a great city, and the air is stifling with heat, for I have but to fall a dreaming to be a boy once more upon the old farm. Then the rude rumble of the heavy teams is changed to the murmur of summer breezes in leafy treetops, and the shrill cries of newsboys become bird-notes exquisitely tender and joyful.  If I had my way I should not only have all children born in the country, but would have them educated in its ways and particularly in woodcraft. I would show them where to look for the Arbutus and the Anemone, and teach them to tell each wildflower or shrub from its neighbor by both smell and sight. I would show them where the wintergreen and the partridge berry grow, and we would sit together upon some mossy knoll under a fragrant spruce and eat youngsters. Then as we sat there, munching and enjoying the freshness and beauty of all things about us, we would learn to distinguish the different bird-notes. We would learn to tell the sweet, cheery-cheery of the bluebird, and not to mistake it for the cheery-cheery of the robin which is louder and more abrupt. We would always know robin's plain cheer-up, cheer-up, but his other note is quite like that of the bluebird. The chickadee we would always know by his one sweet little song that never varies, and the Phoebe, too, we could not mistake, for his song is ever the same, just two plaintive notes. The woodpeckers, short, sharp, snipsnip, or his queer cackle we would never forget when once we had found him out. Then by degrees we would learn to tell all these little creatures by their song or their note of alarm which are quite different. To other birds there are that we never could mistake, the whipper-wills wild unearthly note, and the sad call of the cuckoo denoting rain. He is a much better prophet than men think him, for his note of warning is always followed by storm. The quail is a merry fellow whistling upon the bar post, but he, too, is given to watching the wind and the weather. Squirrels all sound very much alike, but you can always tell by the chattering and scolding that it is a squirrel, and then later on you will learn to tell the sharp bark of the red squirrel from the chirp of the chipmunk who was not so noisy. Besides knowing the birds by their song or plumage we would know their nesting places and their mode of life, not to rob or torment them, but that we might become acquainted with these little feathered friends and love them. Besides the way of the birds we would come to know all the little creatures of the wood and their haunts and manners and customs. From knowing the inhabitants of the woods it would be an easy and natural step to know the plants and flowers, and all the friendly trees that give us shade, fruit, and nuts, or if need be lay down their lives to keep us warm in the winter time. I would also teach my young people to know the points of the compass from the trees, who tell all observing folks which is north, so they never need get lost in the woods. Here are some of the plainest ways to tell the points of compass in the forest. All plant life, including the giant trees, love the sun and lean towards them for comfort and warmth. He is their father and friend, so if you will observe carefully what a woodsman calls the lean of the timber, you will see that the majority of the trees in any woods lean to the south. Then, if you will go around to the north side of the tree, you will find it covered with moss while there is none on the south side. What is the reason for this, you may ask? Moss grows in the shade or where the sun strikes least, and that would be on the north side of the trees. There is one more easy way of telling the points of compass and many smaller signs which it is harder to read. A very old man once told me that the topmost part of the hemlock as a rule points to the northwest. Besides knowing the forest in a general way, we should know it in detail and where its treasures are, where the first youngsters are found, and where the sweet Arbutus first thrusts its fragrant flowers through last year's mold, where the delicious strawberry grows along the sunny slopes of the pasture land and the first blueberries ripen. Then in mid-summer we would take our pals and go among the pines at the edge of the woods for blackberries, observing at the same time where the chestnuts hang the thickest and the walnuts promise well. In yonder thicket is a hemlock whose springy boughs will make the finest kind of bows, and this iron wood, if cut and peeled and allowed to season, will make a fish pole that would do the heart of a boy good. In short the marvels and the pleasures of the woods are so many that I could only mention a few of the most common. How well the poet Whittier knew these charms of nature, and how truly he has depicted the boy's delight in them in his barefoot boy, to whose world of wonder and mystery I refer you. O, for boyhood's time of June, crowding years in one brief moon, when all things I heard or saw, me their master waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, hummingbirds and honey-bees. For my sport the squirrel played, plied the snouted mole his spade, for my taste the blackberry cone purpled over hedge and stone, laughed the brook for my delight through the day and through the night. Standing at the garden wall, talked with me, from fall to fall, mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, mine the walnut slopes beyond, mine unbending orchard trees, apples of hasperities. Still as my horizon grew, larger grew my riches too. All the world, I saw or knew, seemed a complex Chinese toy fashioned for a barefoot boy. CHAPTER XII. OF THE LITTLE FORESTERS. A STORY OF FIELD AND WOODS. This is LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jim Gallagher. THE LITTLE FORESTERS. A STORY OF FIELD AND WOODS. By Clarence Hawks. CHAPTER XII. A NIGHT WITH ROUGH GROUFES. It was Christmas Eve and the great red sun was fast sinking behind the western hills, leaving a trail of fire as red as the pathway of a comet. Out of the east the shadow folk were trooping, driving the children of the sun before them over hill and valley and far away. It was pleasant though to think as one saw the sunlight and gladness retreating, that away on the other side of the world the children of the sun were driving the shadow people who were fleeing in terror before their bright faces. It was bitter cold and the wind howled dismally in the tree tops, making the great branches to groan and writhe as though they were possessed of feeling and had hurt them to be so violently handled. It seemed to Ruff Grouse as he swayed to and fro in the tree top where he was getting his supper, that the night had never looked so cheerless and uninviting. The wind rocked him so violently that he could hardly keep his perch, and occasionally, when it got more boisterous than usual, showers of snow rattled down upon him. But Ruff was a hearty fellow, and it was not these things that bothered him. He was having considerable difficulty in finding his supper. Mass did not bend so scarce in the whole course of his existence, and the buds had been kept back by the extreme cold so that there was very little nourishment in them, and beside all this the birch in which he was hard at work had been cropped by Ruff and his friends, and by two or three red squirrels until there was very little supper to be had, bad as it was. The cold numbed his toes so that he could hardly hold on, and presently the wind grew so violent that Ruff gave up on the task and flew into the top of a hemlock to shelter himself and get warm, and in the meantime to think of some new place to find supper. The lengthening shadows told him that he must be quick about it or else trust to the moon, which was not always a safe thing to do, as the moon was fickle, and budding by moonlight exposed one to the peril of being picked up by an owl, and danger, the great white owl who terrorized all the little foresters had long had his eye on Ruff following him persistently. But cold and hunger bred recklessness in Ruff that night, so at last he started off on a hazardous enterprise, which is no more or less than to get his supper off a fine-greening tree almost under the farmer's nose and within easy reach of the thunderclick. So he went sailing away over the treetops, flying as only a partridge can fly to the orchard. Pale white stars were just pricking through the steely blue sky, and the night would soon be on. Presently he plumped down in the greening tree and felt to work on the delicious buds, sopping frequently, though, to listen and to watch every changing light and shadow about the house. The tree was so near the buildings that it had not been touched by any of Ruff's friends, even the saucy red squirrels had shunned it, and the buds were very plenty. How sweet they were after the dry birch buds and how lucky he had been to think of it. Ruff's crop, that had been so empty, was filling fast, but it was dangerous work, and more than once he stopped and was about to take wing but lingered a minute longer to get just a few more buds. So intent was he on supper that he did not hear the shed-window lifted carefully or see the thunderclick thrust out, but a sense of impending danger made him look up and he saw it once his peril. With a quick spring, like the flight of an arrow he was off, flying low in hopes of put some friendly bush or fence between him and the marksman. But what bird, however strong of wing, can fly like the hailstones from the thunderclick that are propelled by lightning? There was a bright flash, a deafening roar, and a rush of the sharp pellets about Ruff. The force of the charge carried him several feet out of his course, and at first he thought he must fall, but with a great effort he nerved himself, stifled the pain, and flew on, for this was the only safe thing to do. When the smoke cleared away, the farmer saw a few feathers flying in the breeze while the old partridge was sailing for the woods forty rods away. I snum, he growled, giving the old gun a shake, if I ain't missed him again.  But he would have thought better of the gun had he seen the partridge plump down into the snow bank as soon as he reached the woods, and wriggled out of sight in the snow, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Poor Ruff snuggled as far down into the snow as possible, and then lay still, trying hard to forget the ache in his leg and the sharp pain in his wing. It was humiliating to have several of one's tail feathers shot away, and the beauty of that splendid fan upon which he so prided himself for the time being spoiled, but that was nothing compared to the possibility of a broken leg or wing. Both feathers would grow again, and at the best they were merely ornamental, but a leg or wing was quite another matter, and a partridge that could not fly might as well give up to the first fox that happened along. At the thought of a fox Ruff remembered the blood spots that he had left upon the snow, and he knew that it was very dangerous for him to be lying where he was, with so plain ascent to tell of his whereabouts, so with a great effort he wriggled out of the snow and flew up into a treetop. His wing was not broken, though it hurt him terribly to fly. But it was so cold in the treetop that he was numbed in a few minutes, and the wind cut him like a knife. He never could spend the night in the tree, he would have to find a new spot in which to burrow, and be careful not to leave ascent upon the snow. So he picked out a spot where it was drifted, and the snow looked soft, and plunged down in it with all his might.  It was quite warm down there, and Ruff would have been comfortable had it not been for his wounded leg and wing, but the cold snow felt soothing to them, drawing out the fever and quieting the pain, so that he soon fell asleep and dreamed of spring and of drumming on the old log to call some lady partridge about and begin the spring courting. While long he slept Ruff did not know, but suddenly he awoke with the same sensation of danger that he had felt just before the farmer shot him. He lay very still and listened, for nothing is ever gained by hasty action and a time of danger. He could hear a sound above him like something digging and then an occasional sniff.  It was Sir Reynard, and he was after him. The crafty old fox was hungry to-night. He had searched the laurel swamp for a rabbit, but having found none was on his way home to the spruces when he scented the bloodspots from Ruff's first plunge in the snow, and then by circling round and round he found his second plunge and was now digging stealthily for him. There was one hope of escape. Ruff had taken the precaution to burrow several feet in the snow towards a shallow place. He now hoped to reach this place in the drift before the fox reached him. He began quietly burrowing away from the sound of the fox's He could not dig very fast lest the fox might hear him, and all the time Sir Reynard was getting nearer and nearer to him. It was a fearful moment for Ruff, but his quick wit and strong nerve did not forsake him. At last he could feel the snow giving about him, but the fox was almost upon him, and he could hear his eager sniffing and frantic digging. With a quick motion he brushed the snow away, and with a whir of his wings rose in the air, but he was not quicker than the lithe fox that sprang at him as he rose. There was a snap of the hungry jaws, and Sir Reynard's teeth closed upon Ruff's toes, but not strongly enough to hold him, and the partridge broke away a word over the treetops into the darkness. I'll have you yet! snarled the fox, and the wind repeated his threat. I'll have you yet! I'll have you yet! Until it seemed to the partridge that the night was filled with terror. He flew for several minutes and then alighted in the top of the spruce to consider where to spend the night. He had barely settled into the treetop when he noticed a great white object in the branches above him, and a moment later he became aware of two big yellow eyes looking hunkerly down upon him. It was danger, the white owl, and the terror of the forest at night. It was lucky for Ruff that the top of the spruce was very thick, and that there were several brushy limbs between him and the owl. Woo-hoo! cried danger startled by Ruff's precipitate flight into the spruce. It took him a moment to collect his wits, and then he dove for the partridge. But Ruff, realizing his danger, slipped up between the friendly branches of the spruce and was off with the owl in hot pursuit. Ordinarily danger would have been no match for him in flight, but tonight with his crippled wing it was a race for life and death, danger having the advantage as he could see better than Ruff by night. He flew with a steady flop-flop, the sound of which made Ruff anxious to say the least. But the partridge, with all his native cunning, made sudden turns to the right and left, and each time the owl would fly by the turning-point, losing a few feet in the race. At last by turning, twisting, and dodging, Ruff drew away from his pursuer till he could no longer hear the monotonous flop-flop of his wings. Then he plunged into the top of another spruce to listen, and he heard the owl go by a few rods away, the sound of his wings dying away in the distance. For several minutes Ruff waited in anxious suspense for the return of the owl, but hearing nothing he concluded that he had eluded his pursuer, which was the case. He was tired and cold, the wind rocked the tree so violently that he could not sleep, even had his wounds permitted. He wondered whether it was better to stay in the tree-top all night and freeze to death, or to risk another dive in the snow with a chance of being picked up by a fox. Probably the same one that had disturbed him before would not do it again that night, for his flight from the owl had carried him several miles from home. After debating the question pro and con, Ruff decided that he would rather be eaten up at once than freeze by degrees, so he plunged down into the snow, and again the friendly winds blew the whole full and screamed him from all prying eyes. Once safely tucked in his snow-bed, where the cold drew the pain from his wound and the warm blanket shielded him from the wind and the cold, he fell asleep and slipped soundly until morning. When he awoke and wriggled painfully out of the snow, the sun was shining brightly and there was no evidence of the terrible experiences of the night before. Near at hand was a birch upon the buds of which Ruff got a hasty breakfast. He then took his bearings by the sun and the looks of the forest for he was several miles from home, and as he had come in the night did not at once know what direction to take. But presently he rose above the treetops and sailed away. To you and me there would have been very little to go by, but not so with Ruff. He had been born in the forest and had always lived there. He knew all of its winding avenues and devious turnings. Straight away he flew to the east and after a half-hours flight arrived at the old birch where he had tried to get his supper the night before. Presently Bob, the old cottontail who lived in the laurel swamp nearby, came hopping along under the spruces.  I say, old fellow, what is the matter with your tail? It looks as though someone had mistaken you for a goose and tried to pick you. But, on seeing the partridge's woe-begone look, he said, say, old chap, you haven't been shot at, have you? Then Ruff flew down upon the snow beside Bob and told him all of his experiences of the night before to the greatest astonishment of the rabbit. What ever possessed you to venture so near the house, asked Bob in genuine surprise, we consider you the most cautious of us all. I was hungry, said Ruff, and one would do almost anything if he is hungry. Sir Reynard is a bad one, said Bob, when Ruff came to that portion of his story.  You see if we don't. They did. When Ruff had finished his story, and both the rabbit and the partridge had heaped vials of wrath upon the fox and the owl, Bob hopped away to tell the news to Mrs. Rabbit, and Ruff went into the deep woods to rest after the terrible exertions of the night before. CHAPTER XIII 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. THE LITTLE FORESTERS A Story of Field and Woods by Clarence Hawks CHAPTER XIII Bob's Revenge Bob was the old cotton-tail, who sat at the foot of the tristing-tree during the morning and evening meetings. He was a prime favorite with the birds and squirrels, and was greatly respected by the other rabbits that lived in the city. But most of them lived way back in a large swamp, several miles from the beautiful grove that the Little Foresters inhabited. Bob's home was in the spruces, down by the swell. It was not as swampy as he would have liked, but there was a little laurel, some birches, and a thick growth of spruces that made a fine cover for a rabbit to hide in. Bob was a very clever rabbit, and his wisdom and foresight were often praised among the birds and squirrels. He knew every old log in the forest, and all the best places to hole, but he rarely did that when pursued, for it was more dangerous than staying outside. He preferred to stay above ground, dodging about in the spruces and hiding in brambles and tangles of laurel, where he was comparatively safe from his enemies. He would often sit for an hour at a time upon the end of an old log, planning what he would do if certain dangers came upon him, and there was no part of the woods where he had not some hiding place or way of escape. As he sat upon the log with his ears cocked and his bright restless eyes looking in every direction, he made a very pretty picture. He always seemed to be either listening or looking for something, and with good reason, for it was only by keeping a strict look out and by having those tall ears always cocked that Bob escaped his many enemies. Of all the small creatures of the woods the rabbit is the most beset with enemies, and his one refuge in peril is in his long nimble legs. It may seem strange to my little reader that anything should want to harm so pretty a creature as a rabbit, but the wild animals pray upon one another, and man prays upon them all. There was Redtail, who was always on the lookout that he might spy Bob in the open, and swoop down upon him. Danger, the great white owl, had the same ambition as the hawk, but he did his thieving and killing by night instead of by day. The farmhouse cat was always watching for him by the path, and Sir Raynard, the sly fox who lived in the ledges over in the pasture, had sworn that the young foxes should sup on rabbit some night, and Bob was the particular cottontail on whom he had his eye. Many a brisk race for life the fox had given the rabbit through the spruces, but thus far Bob had always eluded his enemy. Even at night when the rabbit went to sleep in a hollow log, or in one of the holes that he inhabited, he was not at all sure that when he awoke he might find a weasel hanging upon his neck, sucking his life blood. Or men might come with a hound and a ferret that would rush into the hole and scare him forth where he would be caught in a bag. So was it any wonder that Bob's ears and nose twitched nervously, and that his eyes seemed to be looking in all directions at once? Sir Raynard and Bob had never been friends, and for two years past open war had existed between them, and this was the way it came about. Bob was getting his breakfast one morning upon the bark of a yellow birch, when the fox happened along. Good morning, friend Rabbit, said the fox in his most gracious manner. May I come and help you gnaw that birch? You may have it all, replied the rabbit, hopping to the other side of a clump of bushes and watching the old fox closely, for he well knew that foxes did not gnaw birches, and Sir Raynard had some other motive than to gnaw the birch. Why do you always keep a bush between us, asked the fox, trying to smile, and at the same time not to have his teeth show? But Bob could see them plainly. Because your beauty dazzles me, and I cannot bear to look upon it all at once, replied the rabbit. Ah! said the fox, smiling in spite of himself, for he was quite vain. Let me come into this opening, so that you can get a good look at me. Then he stepped a little to one side, that he might clear a low bush, and bounded towards the cottontail. But Bob had been watching him, and was off before the fox had made his second spring. He was no match for Sir Raynard, running in the open, but here he could dodge and turn, winding out and in among the spruces where it was hard to go. Beside his hole was not far away, and all the time he was drawing nearer to it. Presently he shot down into his burrow, and Sir Raynard was left standing at the mouth, panting and licking his chops at the thought of what a good breakfast the rabbit would have made. It was a fine run we had, said Bob, looking up at the fox and smiling. It will start the blood, and help your appetite. At this taunt, and the thought of his empty stomach, the fox snapped his teeth together like a steel trap, and snarled, you had better not anger me too much, for we shall have a settling one of these days. I shall not always let you off so easy.  Oh, I could have caught you, if I had wanted to, replied the fox. But I saw that you were poor, and thought I had wait until you got fat. You had better not wait in these parts, said the rabbit. I heard the farmer complaining the other day that you had been catching his hens, and he said that your hide would be drying upon the barn within the week. Did he, asked the fox, feigning indifference? He will have to catch me before he can skin me.  I too heard him complaining. He said the rabbits had been eating his parsnips, and he knew the thief, and that he would come soon with the hound and ferret to rid the woods of him. I wish you would take yourself away from my hole, said the rabbit. Your beauty dazzles me, and hurts my eyes. I have no further use for you. Nor I for you, replied the fox. Good morning! And he was gone. A few moments later Bob heard him bark a short distance away. It was very strange, for a fox rarely barks in the daytime. But after a moment's thought it was plain to the rabbit. Sir Reynard had wished him to think he was gone, and so had barked. He was doubtless at that very moment, crouching behind the stump at the mouth of the hole, waiting for him to appear. Bob stayed in his hole all day, and well on into the evening. Then he went to his front door to listen, and after sitting there for several minutes and not hearing anything, he ventured forth. But he had not taken half a dozen hops when he heard a noise behind him. Looking about he saw the fox sitting in front of his hole, grinning and showing a fine set of teeth. Good evening, friend Rabbit, said the fox in his most gracious manner. You see I think so much of you that I have been hanging around all day. I could not bear to leave you so long alone. The cottontail squatted low to the ground, with his legs well under him ready for a spring. Didn't you get hungry? He asked carelessly, as though the fact that a fox was hungry was of small account to him, but he was quivering into every nerve. He had often thought of such a predicament as this, and had laid his plans well, but now he was face to face with the peril he was not so sure of his speed and steadiness, for it was a very dangerous thing that he was about to do, and any deviation from the right path by even six inches would end disastrously. He had often practiced the run. It was just fifteen jumps ahead, two sharp to the right, and then one long jump through something, and that was where the danger lay. Bob did not wait for the fox to make the first move, for his nerve was getting unsteady, but with a sudden movement, quick as a flash, he bounded away with the fox after him, only two jumps behind, and gaining a little at each jump. By the time they reached the little spruce, half of the distance between them had been gained by the fox. He was sure of his supper this time. Then the rabbit gave two quick jumps to the right. Later there were alderbushes, and it was a little dark, but Sir Reynard's jaws were almost upon him. Then Bob cleared a low alderbush, with the fox barely six feet behind him, but midway in the bush the fox stopped, and was hurled back as though by an unseen hand.  It was several moments before he knew quite what had happened, but when he finally aroused himself the rabbit was gone, and peering cautiously into the bush, from which he had just been so violently flung, he discovered a barbed wire fence. When he knew how completely he had been trapped by the cotton-tail, and from that hour he laid plans for Bob's destruction, and never by night or day did he lose sight of his purpose. If it had not been for the birds and the squirrels, all of whom loved Bob and hated Sir Reynard, it is very probable that the rabbit would have fallen prey to some of the many devices that the crafty old fox employed to catch him. But these little friends were always on the lookout for Bob, and if they spied the fox lying in wait for him they always warned him. Every morning Cock Robin would fly over to Bob's hole. He would always go early, before breakfast, that he might warn the rabbit if Sir Reynard was waiting for him behind the stump. Bob would come cautiously up to the mouth of his hole. Cock Robin would be sitting upon the top of a birch a few rods away, and if he said, cheery, cheery, Bob would know that the coast was clear and come hopping out. But if Cock Robin gave his note of alarm, quit, quit, quit, Bob would know that the fox was waiting for him and go back for another nap. Sir Reynard would glare up savagely at the robin when he heard him give the warning note, but the bird was well out of his way and did not fear him. Although he did fear that the fox might find a young robin by the path some day and eat it up for revenge, but this he would do anyway so it did not matter. Thus the days went on, with Sir Reynard planning trick after trick, and Bob dodging and avoiding his traps as best he might. But this being always hunted and feeling that he must not be off his guard for even a moment began to tell on the cottontail. He got nervous, grew poor, and was very wild, so that sometimes even his friends could not get near him to speak a word of encouragement. But with each day's failure Sir Reynard's wrath grew and he redoubled his efforts. His temper was not improved by having Mrs. Fox laugh and poke fun at him, saying that his cunning had forsaken him when a cottontail could outwit him. At last growing desperate with being hunted so long Bob decided to take matters into his own hands and try a little stratagem himself. This conclusion was greatly strengthened by his finding something in the path one day that he thought might aid him in carrying out his plan. It was not skillfully placed, but Bob at once told his friends that they might be on their guard. At the same time he took cockrobin and several other birds into his confidence and they covered this something that Bob had found with leaves, making it look as though the leaves had fallen from a bare limb just above the path. Bob then adopted a new mode of life. He got up very early every morning while the stars were still shining and went forth into the woods. He would then make a circuit of the spruces, taking care to leave a good trail in the dew, and finally come around to the place where he had buried something in the leaves when he would run and with a great spring jump over the spot where the leaves had fallen so thickly on the ground. Then he would make a circuit of the maple grove, coming back and jumping over exactly the same spot again, after which he would take a short turn down the road and another into the pasture. But this was Sir Reynard's domain, so he went very cautiously, pausing every few moments to listen, take bearings, and see where he could fly to if pursued. Here he always kept in the shadow of a bush and near cover. Some of the birds and squirrels who saw him on these morning runs warned him against leaving so many fresh tracks in the morning dew. Bob only chuckled at their warnings, and went on his way, hopping carefully along, always keeping his wits about him. Sir Reynard at once noticed the fresh tracks in the wet grass, and smiled a broad smile, for he thought that his enemy was getting careless, and felt sure that his patience would soon be rewarded by a rabbit breakfast. Finding the fresh rabbit tracks for several days in succession, Sir Reynard decided to be up the next morning betimes, and lay in wait for the unwary cottontail. So the next morning he arose before daybreak. Where are you going so early? asked Mrs. Fox. I am going to have one more try at that old bobtail, and unless I am mistaken you and the children will dine on rabbit to-day, so he set off through the woods with a light heart and with great assurance. When he came to the edge of the maple grove he sniffed the air cautiously. There was the scent of rabbit not far away. Presently he struck the track. It was very fresh. His enemy was not a dozen rods away. So Sir Reynard followed the trail boldly and swiftly, feeling that his hour of triumph was near at hand. A few rods further on he caught sight of the cottontail hopping leisurely along, and he quickened his pace, but was careful to go, very quietly. So keeping close to the ground, and stepping as light as a cat, he crept swiftly on. Then he heard a little note of alarm, from a brown bird in the thicket, but he did not mind it. Brownie had seen him and called down to Bob of his coming, but the rabbit did not hurry, for he was near to the spot where he always made the big jump. He was playing a game of life and death, and understood the risk that he ran. Presently he heard a twig snap in the thicket, not more than three rods away. Then he knew that he must be moving, so he hopped quickly to the spot where the dead leaves lay thickly upon the ground, gave his long spring, hopped into some small spruces, and squatted. There Reynard caught sight of him through the thicket, as he made the big jump. Ah-ha, my fine fellow, he thought, you are playing leapfrog, and little you know of my whereabouts, but I will teach you. He hoped to catch the rabbit at his play, and take him before he knew what had happened. There was no need of caution, now was the time to act boldly. So he moved swiftly into the open, going with head up, following by body scent and not sniffing the track. Had he been less reckless, and kept his nose to the trail, he might have scented danger. Along the path he came to the place where the ground was strewn with leaves, but he scented something in the thicket just beyond, his nostrils dilated, and his yellow eyes gleamed with a terrible fire. He sprang into the air with a half-stifled yelp of pain. There was a rustle in the leaves, the rattle of a chain, and Sir Reynard was snapping and biting furiously at a trap which was firmly fastened upon his forepaw, just above the joint. At first he thought to soon wrench himself free, but the jaws of the trap set tighter and tighter as he struggled. Then the horror of the situation came upon him, and he lay down in the leaves trembling and whining. Then a rustle in the thicket caught his attention, and he looked up to see old Bob squatting under the spruces looking at him. Ah! this is your doing, villain! he snarled, shaking his aching paw, and glaring at the rabbit with a wild fury in his cruel yellow eyes.  When you get that trap off your paw, repeated Bob, with great coolness, I will not mind your doing it, but I do not expect you will get off. You and I have long had an account to settle, and now we will settle it. I did not bear you any ill will at first, and would not have harmed you in this way had you not hunted me night and day, and made my life a burden. What I have done I have done in self-defense, so your blood is upon your own head. You have ruined me, snarled Sir Rainard, snapping at the trap and glaring at Bob. As Fox and the children will avenge my death. On the contrary, they will know nothing about it, said Bob. They will simply discover your hide upon the shed, up at the farmhouse, and conclude you were killed with the thunder-stick, as will be the case for even now I hear the farmer coming. Sir Rainard saw that Bob had spoken truly, for while he was still speaking, grips-sharp bark rang out, and they could hear the farmer calling him to heal. Good-bye, said the rabbit, it is nothing that I could help I simply had to save myself, and he hopped away through the thicket. A few moments later the terrible roar of the thunder-stick rang out on the morning air, and Bob knew that his enemy was dead, and that now he could again enjoy the sweet fields and the green woods as he had done in the good old days, before Sir Rainard came his way. CHAPTER XIV 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 Vincelli.  The delicious autumn, too, was nearly spent, and a feeling of wistfulness was on all the little foresters, longing for the joy that had gone, and a wish that they might in some way turn back the wheel of time and live those delightful days over again. Birds that had been fledglings in May and June were now as large as their parents, lying about with all the importance of grown-ups. Squirrels that had been bits of fuzz when the summer came, now frisked in the branches of the trees, and scolded and chattered away in a manner that made the woods ring and their parents very proud of them. October had come and gone, the nuts had fallen, and the winter's store had been laid up. It was nearing the time of separation, when the birds, the squirrels, and the rabbits would hold the last meeting of the season at the old tristing-tree where farewells were said, for some would fly away to their winter homes, while others would go into the deep woods or den up for the winter. They had become such good friends during the summer days that it was always hard to part in the autumn. Besides no one could tell what might happen before they met again. The night of the fifteenth of November was very cold, and when the little foresters awoke upon the sixteenth they discovered that there had been a light flurry of snow during the night, and that settled it as far as most of them were concerned. When the sun rose over the eastern hills, Nimrod came flying to the tristing-tree, sounding the call for the last meeting. At the sound of Nimrod's familiar call the little foresters came flying, running, and jumping to the tristing-tree, for all knew that it was to be the last meeting, and none wished to be late. But all did not respond to the call. For some had already said farewell, and started south. Even a month ago Blythe Bobbleink had said good-bye, and had flown away to the rice fields of the Carolinas. It was sad to have him go, and all the other birds missed the wonderful song that he always poured out so unstintingly.  Scarlet Tannager, and Oriole, two more sweet singers, had also said good-bye to stern New England, and flown away to Maryland or Virginia, I know not which, for sometimes they wintered in one place, and sometimes in the other. In this particular year they did not tell where they were going. But cock Robin was still here, and when the sun was warm he poured out such a flood of melody that one would have thought that summer was just coming in instead of going out. This morning he brought quite a flock of his fellow Robins, who had come in the night before from the north, and who were all going southward as fast as their wings could carry them. Friends, said Nimrod, when all had assembled, and beaks and noses had been counted. We are assembled for the last time this year, and as chairman of this company, and one in whom I think I may say you all have confidence, here Nimrod stopped to admire the glitter of his wing in the sunlight, and all the birds and squirrels cried, Yes, yes, go on, Nimrod. As chairman of this company, repeated the old crow, I shall in a few brief words sum up the summer's work, count over those things for which we ought to be truly grateful, and say a word of farewell to you all. But before I say these words I am going to tell you of a discovery I made the other day. It is something that concerns us all. Nimrod is always making discoveries, said Cock Robin. What is it, Nimrod? Well, continued the crow, you know we have not seen danger, the big white owl, for several days. We used to see him often enough, and always when we did not want to, but of late I think no one has seen him. Well, night before last I was awakened from a sound sleep by hearing him hoot. There is no mistaking his hoot, for no other owl make such hideous noises. I kept very still and listened, and could not locate the sound for a long time, but finally I decided it came from up towards the farmhouse. I thought it very strange, but went to sleep and dreamed upon it. The next morning I saw all of the people at the farmhouse go off down the road, and when they were out of sight I flew up and looked around. For a long time I could discover nothing out of the ordinary, but presently I saw a cage swinging in the big elm, and inside winking and blinking with his two yellow eyes was danger, the great white owl, the terror of the woods. I was so astonished that I nearly fell off the limb of the tree, upon which I was sitting, but of course danger did not see me as it was broad daylight. After watching him for a while I gave a derisive call. Who, who, asked danger, looking up, but he could not see me, for the sun was very bright.  It is your friend Nimrod, I said, going close to the cage. What a fine house you have here, when did you move in? Even Nimrod, he screeched, coming up to the bars and clutching them fiercely with his claws. You are no friend of mine, I would like to ring your silly neck, but it would not be worth my while.   It is a good place for him, and I trust that he has done the last of his thieving in these woods. He is too handsome for them to ever let him go, and when they tire of his silly hooting and blinking they will stuff him, and he will look as wise as ever and be quite as useful. Good, good! cried all the little foresters. We shall not have to fear him any more. No he will not trouble us any more, said Nimrod. And I think, my friends, that on the whole we have a great deal to be thankful for, and a very pleasant year to look forward to. You will remember how red-tail and sneak our two worst enemies perished together in that last desperate struggle. Our friend Bob, who sits at the foot of this tree, disposed of Sir Reynard for us in a very clever manner. I myself planned the destruction of black lightning, although you all helped me bravely. Now that many of our enemies are dead, the forest that is our home will be freer, greener, and pleasanter than ever. Now as the sun is getting high, and I know that many of you are anxious to be off, let me wish you all a pleasant winter, and a safe return to the green hills and the peaceful valleys that we love so well. And this is my advice to you. Remember your wits, never leave them behind, and you may need them when you least expect, for shot fly faster than birds, and man is very cunning. Good-bye, my friends, good-bye. High-ho for the Cumberland Mountains, cried Cockrobin, leaving his friends in a swift flight across the meadows. Jersey is the place for me, cried the brown thresher, following Cockrobin's lead. I'll build me a nest in a cave by the sea, on the coast of Virginia, twitted the barn swallow, and he skimmed away over the fields, flying just above the stubble. Way, way, piped the jay. What is their hurry? I shall stay on until the corn is in, and then I guess Long Island is good enough for me. If you don't get too far south, you don't have so far to fly back. Good-bye, sang the bluebird, and his pleasant cheery-cheery. I know a river called the Shenandoah, where the fields are evergreen, and the sun is always shining. I'll away to the valley of the Shenandoah. Well, Chip, said Nimrod, to the little squirrel as he frisked down the old oak, I don't see, but you and I, and a few friends, will have the forest all to ourselves this winter. Oh, no, cried several voices, I shall always be here, said rough grouse from a thicket nearby, and I, tapped the woodpecker from a dead limb, I may stay myself for a time, piped the jay. Chickery-D-D-D, came from the thicket, Chickery-D-D-D, I shall be here, and so will Snowbird and Grosbeak, and you yourself, Nimrod, you will not desert us. No, said the old crow, I shall not desert you. I'll stay in the deep woods, and you will occasionally see me when the weather is fine. But it made me feel lonesome for a moment, having them all fly away. But I see that we shall still be a goodly company, to hold the woods for them until they all come back. With these words he flew away to the cornfield, where there were still some kernels to be found upon the ground for his breakfast. The old tristing tree was vacant, no sound was heard in its branches, save the sighing and moaning of the cold November wind, and the rustle of withered leaves. Gone were the birds and the squirrels, gone were the leaves and the acorns, and the only thing to do was to wait patiently for that first sweet whisper of springtime. End of CHAPTER XIV. End of THE LITTLE FORESTERS, A STORY OF FIELD AND WOODS by Clarence Hawks.


What is going on guys welcome back to the channel and I appreciate you being here today I am back with another destiny top 5 and today we have top 5 WTF moments if it plays and just absolute craziness but before we get into that guys if you would like to support the channel go ahead and smash that like button and I do appreciate it I really do and if you have any amazing clip to send in send it into the email I just linked at the top of the video description stay tuned until the end of the video to find out about my monthly controller giveaway but let's get into this top 5 and at number 5 we have a clip sent in by DigitalCurse dragged to his death by a couple of cops absolutely hilarious. I've used the forest to create a simulation of your sparrow you're going to need it for that ramp. A ghost can do that. I just did. In at number 4 we have a clip sent in by BAM like a bus when you try and wipe the bus out in a second but fail and then he glitches out and does you over hilarious. Jesus Christ look at the health drop.  Oh my God. Kill him.  That aim oh my god. No. No. 3 we have a clip sent in by Gear4Bouncemen. One of the closest if not the closest SOS glitches I've ever seen. In at number 2 we have a clip sent in by CacheFlow429 two words gravity lance. What are you at? That's a light. Going around. Oh. Did you see that? Cripped that. Yo. In at number 1 we have a clip sent in by Bert as unbatt. One shield. Five guardians. Wow. Just wow. But guys that is the end of this top 5. If you enjoyed the video leave a like really does help me out and I appreciate the support. Remember submit any amazing clip you have to the email I've just linked in the video description and guys every month I give away a fully customizable controller for either Xbox or PlayStation since anywhere in the world. To be with a chance of winning make sure you are subscribed to the channel. Drop a like on the video and follow the Gleam link in the video description. It's fast simple and legit guys good luck to everybody who enters. On that note I am out and hopefully I will see you on that next one.