show the breeze, and changed about so as to make
{— a y a an unannounced approach. He strode swiftly
i » in the open places, and looking well to his rifle
“~"> came through a final thicket where a huge down
tree afforded a high and easy outlook, and mount-
ing its level trunk he saw the setting for a thrill-
ing scene—a face to face array of force, like hosts
arrayed for battle in the olden times, awaiting but
the word of onset.
There, black and fierce, was a Bear, a Bear of
biggest bulk, standing half out in the open, and
facing him some dozen steps away was a Boar, a
Razor-back of the tallest size, but smaller than the
Bear, and bearing a long scar on his face. Behind
and beside the Boar was a lesser Razor-back, with
the finer snout and shorter tusks of the female.
Hiding in the near thicket of alder were others of
their breed. At first Prunty thought but two or
three, then more were seen, some very small, till
it seemed a little crowd, not still, but moving and
changing here and there.
Then the Bear strode in a circle toward the other
80
Ieag s
AesOY yy} yA IBY ayy,
Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog
side of the bush, but the Boar swung round between,
and the little pigs, rushing away from the fearsome
brute, made many a squeak and haste to move,
went quickly indeed, save one, who dragged him-
self like a cripple; and red streaks there were on his ~~
flank as well as a dark smear on his neck.
Thus the pair stood facing, each still and silent.
Just a little curl there was on the scabby nose of the _
big Bear, for this was the brute of Kogar’s Creek,
and sometimes deep in his chest he rumbled as you
hear the thunder rumble in the hills to say it will be
with ye soon. And the Boar, high standing on his
wide-braced legs, made bigger by the standing
mane on his crested back, his snout held low, his
twinkling eyes alert, his great tusks gleaming, and
his jaws going “chop, chop”’ till the foam that gave
him his baby name was flecked on the massive
jowl.
The little pigs in the thicket uttered apprehen-
sive grunts, but the big one bade his time, without
a sound save the “chop” or “click” of his war
gear.
There was a minute of little action, as the great
ones stood, prepared, and face to face.
Who can measure the might of their moving
thoughts: the Bear urged only by revenge or the
lust of food, and backed by many little victories;
81
PS,
Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog
the Boar responding to the scream for help that stirs
the fighting Boar as the fire bell stirs the fire hall
horse, hastening with all the self-forgetfulness of a
noble nature to help one of his kind, and finding
it one of his brood, his very own, and, more, being
harried indeed by one he held in lifelong hate?
Thus every element was here supplied for a fright-
fulclash. Power, mighty power, lust, insanity, and
a doubtful courage, against lesser power with match-
less courage, and the lungs and limbs of a warrior
trained—Kogar’s Bear and Foam of the Prunty
Farm.
The big Bear moved slowly to one side, then
swung in a circle around the bush, whether to make
a flank attack on the Boar, or to strike at the young,
mattered not; for each way the great hog swung
between, resolute, head down, wasting no force in
mere bluster, silent but waiting, undismayed.
Then the Bear moved to the other side, mounted
a log, grunted, was minded to charge, put one paw
down this side the log, and Foam charged him. The
Bear sprang back. The Boar refrained. Another
swing, a feint, and the Bear rushed in. Ho! Scab-
face, guard yourself, this is no tender youngling
you’ve engaged.
Thud thud—thud—went the Bear’s huge paws,
and deep, short animal gasps of effort came. The
82
Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog
Boar’s broad back, all bristle-clad, received the
blows; they staggered but did not down him, and
his white knives flashed with upward slash, the
stroke that seeks the vitals where they are least
ingirt with proof. The champions reeled apart.
The Boar was bruised, but the Bear had half a
dozen bleeding rips. Great sighs, or sobs, or heavy
breathings there were from these, but from the ‘
crowded younglings just behind, a very chorus of
commingled fear and wrath.
This was the first, the blooding of the fight, and
now they faced and swung this way and that.
Each knew or seemed to know the other’s game.
The Boar must keep his feet or he was lost, the Bear
must throw the Boar and get a death grip with his
paws ere with his hinder feet he could tear him
open. The battle madness was on both.
Circling for a better chance went Kogar’s, con-
fronted still by the Boar. Again they closed, and
the Bear, flinging all his bulk on Foam, would have
thrown him by his weight, but the Boar was stout
and rip-ripped at the soggy belly, till the Bear
flinched, curled, and shrank in pain. Again and
again they faced, sparring for an opening. The
Bear felt safer on the log. On that he stood, and
strode and feinted a charge, till Foam, impatient
for the finish, forward rushed. The log was in the
83
Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog
way. He overleaped it, but this was not his field.
The trunks that helped the Bear were baulks to
him. Again they closed, and springing on his back
the Bear heaved down with all his might. Slash,
slash, went those long, keen, ivory knives. The
Bear was gushing blood, but Foam was going down;
the fight was balanced, but the balance turning for
the Bear. When silent, save for the noise of rush-
ing, another closed, another struck the Bear—Grizel
was on him with her force, the slashing of her knives
was quick and fast; the Bear lurched back. She
seized his hinder paw and crunched and hauled;
Foam heaved the monster from his back, and turned
and slashed and tore. The Bear went down!
Oh, Furies of the woods! What storm of fight!
The silent knives or their click—the deep-voiced
sob of pain and straining, the half-choked roar, the
weakening struggle back, the gasp of reddened
spray, the final plunge to escape, the slash, the
tear, the hopeless wail—and down went Kogar’s
with two like very demons tearing, rending, carving.
He clutched a standing tree-trunk that seemed to
offer refuge. They dragged him down. They
slashed his hairy sides till his ribs were grated bare.
They rent his belly open, they strung his bowels
out over the log like wrack weed ina storm. They |
knived and heaved till the dull screams died, all
> 84
is)
~ ‘)
Sy
Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog
movement ceased, and a bloody, muddy mass was
all that was left of the Kogar’s Bear.
And Prunty gazed like one who had no thought
of time or space, or any consciousness but this: he
was fighting that fight himself. He watched the
strong hog warrior win, and felt the victory was his
own. He loved him: yes, loved him as a man of
strength must love a brave, hard fighter. He saw
the great, big-hearted brute come quickly to him-
self, turn wholly calm, and the little pigs come fear-
fully to root and tear at the fallen foe, then rush
away in fright at some half-fancied sign of life.
He saw the gentleness the mates showed each to
each, and ever there were little things that told of
, a bond of family love. Animal, physical love, if
, ye will, but the love that endures and fights, and
, still endures. And the man looked down at the
, thing that his hands were clutching, the long, shiny,
: deadly thing for murder wrought, and ready now
prepared. A little sense of shame came on him,
. and it grew. ‘‘He saved my Iil’ gel, and this was
“ my git-back.” Then, again, with power returned
the feelings of the day when his Lizette, the only
,, thing he had on earth to love, came home ablaze
» to tell of the rattlesnake fight —with power these
’ feelings came, and he was deeply moved as then.
Her words had sudden value now. Yes, she was
85
Foam—A Razot-Backed Hog
ry, right. ‘There were other and better ways to save
Sima : the crops.
- 4h Ss, ‘His mannish joy in force and fight rose in him
j ; 4 * =| \ strong, and he blustered forth: ‘‘ Gosh, what a scrap!
\s, r ) That was the satisfyingest fight I ever seen. My!
* how they tore and heaved! Kill him? Gosh! you
bet, for me, he can roam the swamps till he dies of
a gray old age.”
The great Boar’s mate turned now to lead the
brood away. They rollicked off in quick forget-
fulness, the wounded one came last, except that very
last of all was Foam, with many rips that stood
for lifelong scars, but strength unspent; and as he
swung, he stopped, and glancing back, he saw his
foe was still, quite still, so went.
The frond ferns closed the trail, the curtain
dropped. And the Vultures swung and swung on
angle wings, for here indeed was a battlefield, anda
battlefield means feasting.
86
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XX
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2 ot “My
we GERE My ain
sr * 2g be: A poor timid mother was in such fear of. Now he
LA - . ; would examine it. He came down to the place,
eat g : then sniffed about, yielded to his habit of feeling
MJ J, ae in the mud as he glanced this way and that, when
Ae ae “P . Bsnap, splash, and Way-atcha was a prisoner held
firmly by one paw in a horrible trap of steel.
Now he thought of mother, and raised the long
soft whicker that is the call of his kind, but mother
was far away. He himself had made sure of that,
and he remembered the clam shell, but all his
efforts to pull away or bite off that horrid hard
thing were useless; there it clung to his paw, and
hanging to it was a sort of strong twisted root that
held him there. All night long in vain he whick-
ered, whimpered, and struggled. He was worn out
and hoarse as the sun came up, and when Indian
Pete came around he was surprised to find in his
Muskrat trap a baby Coon, nearly dead with cold
and fright, and so weak that he couldn’t even bite.
The trapper took the little creature from the
trap and put him alive in his pocket, not knowing
exactly what he meant to do with him.
On the road home he passed by the Pigott home-
~ | stead and showed his captive to the children.
4 The little Coon was still cold and miserable, and
‘| when put into the warm arms of the oldest girl he
106
atin Oke
se
a
‘
*
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g
Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon
snuggled up so contentedly that he won her heart
and she coaxed her father into buying Way-atcha,
as the Indian named the captive in his own tongue.
Thus the wanderer found a new and very differ-
ent home. He was so well taken care of here that
in a few days he was all right again. He had chil-
dren to play with instead of hrothes and sisters, *)
and many curious things to eat instead of frogs,
but still he loved to dabble his own brown paws
in the mud or anything wet whenever he could get
the chance. He did not eat milk and bread like a
cat or other well-behaved creature; he always put
in his paws to fish out the bread, bit by bit, jand
commonly ended by spilling the milk.
A MERRY LIFE ON THE FARM
There was one member of the household that
Way-atcha held in great fear; that was Roy the
sheep-dog, house-dog, watch-dog, and barnyard
guard in general. When first they met Roy
growled and Way-atcha chirred. Both showed in
the bristling shoulder hair that they were deeply
moved; each in the smell of the other was instinc-
tively aware of an enemy in an age-long war. The
Pigott children had to exercise their right of eminent
domain to keep the peace; but the peace was kept.
Roy learned to tolerate the Coon in time, the Coon
107
a eh
bas
wt
Way-Atcha, the Coon—Raccoon
became devotedly fond of Roy, and not two weeks
had gone before Way-atcha’s usual napping couch
was right on Roy’s furry breast, deep in the wool,
cuddled up with all the dog’s four legs drawn close
against him.
As he grew stronger he became very mischievous.
He seemed half monkey, half kitten, full of fun
always, delighted to be petted, and always hungry,
and soon learned where to look for dainties. The
children used to keep goodies in their pockets for
him, and he learned that fact so well that when a
stranger came to the house Way-atcha would
gravely climb up his legs and seek in all his pockets
for something to eat.
On one occasion he had been missing for some
hours, always a suspicious fact. When Mrs.
Pigott went into the storeroom, stocked now with
the summer preserves, she was greeted with the
whining call of Way-atcha, more busy than words
can tell. There he was wallowing up to his eyes
in plum jam, digging down into a crock of it like
a washwoman into her tubs, feeling and groping
for what? He had gorged himself till he could
eat no more, and now prompted by his ancient
woodland memories he was gropping with his paws
among the jam and juice to capture all the plum
stones, each in turn to be examined and cast aside.
108
Way-Atcha, the Coon—Raccoon
The floor was dotted with stones, the shelf was
plastered with the jam of the many pots examined.
The Coon was unrecognizable except for his bright
eyes and face, but he came waddling, whining,
slushing down from the shelf across the floor to
climb up Mrs. Pigott’s dress, assured, he believed,
of a cordial welcome. Alas! what a cruel disap-
pointment he got!
One day Mr. Pigott set a hen with thirteen eggs.
The next day Way-atcha was missing. As they
went about calling him by name they heard a faint
reply from the hen-house, the gentle ‘whicker”
that he usually gave in answer. On opening the
door, there they saw Way-atcha sprawling on his
back in the hen’s nest perfectly gorged, and the
remains of the thirteen eggs told that he was re-
sponsible for a piece of shocking destruction. Roy
was the proper guardian of the hen-house. No
tramp, no Fox, no Coon from the woods could enter
that while he was on guard. But alas! for the con-
flict of love and duty: in his perplexity the dog had
unwittingly followed the plan of a certain great
man who said, ‘In case of doubt, be friendly.”
Farmer Pigott bore with Way-atcha for long
because the children were so fond of the little
rascal. But the climax was reached one day when
the Coon, left alone in the house, discovered the
109
_ Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon
ink bottle. First he drew the cork and spilled
the ink about, then he dabbled his paws in it after
his usual manner, and found a new pleasure in
laying the inky paws on anything that would take
a good paw-mark. At first he made these marks
on the table, then he found that the children’s
school books were just the things and gave much
better results. He paw-marked them inside and
out, and the incidental joy of dabbling in the wet
resulted in frequent re-inking of his paws. Then
the wall paper seemed to need touching up. This
lead to the window curtains and the girls’ dresses,
and then as the bedroom door was open Way-
atcha scrambled on the bed. It was just beautiful
the way that snow-white coverlet took the dear
little paw-marks as he galloped over it in great
glee. He was several hours alone, and he used up
all the ink, so that when the children came in from
school it looked as though a hundred little Coons
had been running all over the place and leaving
black paw-marks. Poor Mrs. Pigott actually
cried when she saw her beautiful bed, the pride
of her heart. But she had to relent when Coonie
came running to her just the same as usual, hold-
ing out his inky arms and whining “errr err” to be
taken up and petted as though he were the best
little Coon in the world.
IIo
Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon
But this was too much. Even the children had
no excuse to offer; their dresses were ruined.
Way-atcha must go; and so it came about that
Indian Pete was sent for. Way-atcha did not @
like the looks of this man, but he had no choice. Sy
He was bundled into a sack and taken away by * «
CO
wt
the half-breed, much to Roy’s bewilderment, for
he disliked the half-breed and despised his dog.
Why they should let iat stranger carry off a member
of his family was a puzzle. Roy growled a little,
sniffed hard at the hunter’s legs, and watched him
without a tailwag as he went off with the bulging
bag.
THE ANCIENT FOE
It was the end of summer now, the Hunting
Moon was at hand; the hunter had a new hound
to train, and here was the chance to train him on
Coon. Way-atcha had no claim on Peter’s af-
fection, and nothing educates a dog for Coon so
much as taking part in a Coon run and kill.
This was then to be the end of Way-atcha. The
trapper would use him, sacrifice him, to train his
hunting dog. As he neared his shanty that dog
came bounding forth, a lumbering half-breed hound,
with a noisy yap which he uttered threefold when
he sniffed the sack that held Way-atcha.
Tit
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aan
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Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon
And this was the way of the two: in the log
stable the Coon was given a box, or little kennel,
“Lh where he could at least save his life from the dog.
ee Howler was brought in on a chain and encouraged
e to attack the Coon with loud “‘sic hims.” Brave
of as a lion, seeing so small a foe, he rushed forward,
but was held back with the chain, for it was not
time for a ‘“‘kill.” Many times he charged, to be
restrained by his master.
ee Way-atcha was utterly puzzled. Why should
7m those other two-legged things be so kind and this
Why should Roy be so friendly and
4 so hostile?
yy fh; this yellow brute so wicked and cruel? Each time
the big dog charged, poor little Way-atcha felt in
7 him the fighting spirit of his valiant race stirred
up, and faced the brute snarling and showing all
his teeth.
But he would quickly have been done to death
by the foe had not the half-breed held the chain.
Only once was the dog allowed to close. He seized
the Coon cub by the neck to give the death shake,
but nature gave the Coon a strong, loose skin.
The shake was scarcely felt, and Way-atcha clamped
his teeth on Howler’s leg with a grip that made him
yell; then the half-breed dragged the dog away.
That was enough for lesson No. 1. Now they
hated each other; the bitter feud was on.
II2
Way-Atcha, the Coon—Raccoon
Next day a lesson was given again for both, and
both learned other things: Way-atcha that that
hole, the kennel, was a safe refuge; the cur, that
the Coon could clutch as well as bite.
The third day came and the third lesson. Wait-
ing for the cool of the evening, the hunter dropped
the Coon into a bag, took down his gun, called
the noisy dog, and made for the nearest stretch
of woods, for the trailing and treeing of the Coon
was to be the climax of the course of training.
Arrived at the timberland, Pete’s first care was
to tie the dog to a tree. Why? Certainly not
out of consideration for the Coon, but for this:
the Coon must be allowed to run and get out of
sight, otherwise the dog does not try to follow it
by track. Once he has to do this to find his prey,
his own instinctive prompting makes him a trailer
and he follows till he sights the quarry, then at-
tacks, or if it trees, as is usual, he must ramp and
rage against the trunk to let the hunter know the
Coon is there. This is the training of a Coon dog;
this was the plan of Indian Pete.
So the dog was chained to a sapling; the Coon
was carried out of reach, and tumbled from the
sack. Bewildered at first, but brave, he glared
about, then seeing his tall enemy quite near he
rushed open-mouthed at him. The half-breed
113
OOO EH CTR Asana ite
caw Se)
Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon
ran away in some alarm, but laughing. The dog
rushed at the Coon till the chain brought him up
with a jerk, and now the Coon was free from all
attack, was free to run. And then how he ran!
With the quick instinct of a hunted race, he dashed
away behind a tree to get out of sight, and, zig-
zagging, bounded off, seeking the thickest cover,
running as he never had run before.
Back came the half-breed to release the dog.
Tight as a guy-rope was the chain that held that
crazy, raging cur, so tight the chain that he could
not get the little slack he needed to unhook the
snap. Cursing the dog, jerking him back again
and again, he fumbled to unhook the snap; and
as he jerked and shouted, the dog jerked more
and barked, so made it harder. Two or three
minutes indeed he struggled to release the chain,
and then he had to catch and hold the dog so as
«to free him by slipping his collar. Away went the
dog to the place where last he saw the Coon.
But the victim was gone; those precious three
minutes meant so much, and responsive to the
hunter’s “sic him” “sic him” the dog raced around.
His nostrils found the trail, instinctively he yelped,
then followed it, at every bound a yelp. Then he
lost it, came back, found it again, and yelped,
and slowly followed, or if he went too fast he lost
114
Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon
it. And Pete ran, too, shouting encouragement,
for all of this was in the plan. The Coon no doubt
was running off, but soon the dog would find him,
and then—oh, it never fails—the Coon climbs up
the easiest tree, which means a small one always;
the dog by yapping down below would guide the
man, who coming up would shoot the Coon, which
falling disabled would be worried by the dog, who
thus has learned his part for future cooning, and
thenceforth flushed with victory be even keener
than his master for the chase.
Yes, that was the plan; it had often worked
before, and did so now, but for one mishap. Way-
atcha did not climb a slender tree. As soon as
he was far away, thanks to that fumbled chain, and
heard the raging of the two behind, he climbed
the sort of tree that in his memory had been most
a thing of safety to him. The big hollow maple
was the haven of his youth, and up the biggest
tree in all the woods he clambered now.
His foes came on; the dog was learning fast,
was sticking to the trail. His master followed
till they reached the mighty sycamore, and ‘‘Here,”
said Howler, “we have treed him!” What the
half-breed said we need not hear. He had brought
his rifle, yes, but no axe. The Coon was safe in
some great cavernous limb, for nowhere could they
115
Www VNN A
=.
vg
ad
Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon
see him, and the tree could not be climbed by man.
The night came down and Pete with his yapping
dog went home defeated.
THE BLESSED HOLLOW TREE
2 So luck was with Way-atcha, luck and the in-
fluence of his early days, that built in with his
, nature the secret of his race: this is their true
abiding place—the hollow tree. The slender
if tee ay second growth most often near is a temptation
) anda snare, but the huge hollow trunk is a strong
fortress and a sure salvation.
Rested and keen was he, when the blackest
hours came with a blessed silence; so forth he
went and after many a “‘hark” and “‘spy”’ he swung
himself to the ground in the big woods and gal-
J loped away and away, nor stopped to feed till
Ay, u he found himself far in the wide swamplands of
we Pad Cone Kilder Creek, in the home of his early days and
—!
NY 3 Ss the land of his kindred.
—= =a a: A Coon coming back after months away is a
=>, is, stranger to his people. His form is forgotten or
< 2 changed, his place is filled. Only one thing holds
oe among this folk of smells, that is his smell, that was
his passport, the proof that he was theirs, and
slowly he ‘‘came back,” not as the young of such a
one, but as a tribal member in good standing, and
116
Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon
with them ever learning, and teaching too, till the
inner urge asserts itself and he breaks with the
band, to cleave to a mate from the band. So they
leave their kind, and seek, as their parents sought,
some quiet spot where huge and hollow trunks hold
yet the ground, where the precious land is made
beautiful by its very worthlessness. And here,
by the All-mother led, they raise their brood and
teach a little more than they were taught, for times
have changed. The leagues of big tall woods are
gone, only the skimpy remnants by the water stay,
only the useless trunks on the useless land, as
ploughmen think. They give no harbor to the -
one-time forest kings, but lure the black-masked
dweller of the hollow trunk, and wise is he with
growing need for wisdom. He comes not forth by
day; he goes not far by night. He runs the top of
every fence, so leaves a broken trail. He lives on
woodland creekside food. He shuns all clash with
men. He never shows himself to them unless they
chance to know his way. High in the noonday sun
he lies at times to take the sunning that is balm for
many an ill; and in the night, when the moon is
sinking, he may splash and forage by the swampy
shores. There tracks of divers size next day give 7”
record of the night prowl. But ye may not see him
unless by rare mischance; he is more alert than
117
\
~N
me Vie
a
Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon
you, and ready to vanish in his hollow tree, for the
world has many hunting dogs, with but one Roy.
He knows you not, but he knows that there is many
an Indian Pete.
Ye long to meet and know him, oh, ye Kindly
Singing Woodsmen! Ye guarantee respect, yea,
reverence, for the Dryad of thehollowtrees! Would
I might be your introducing guide!
T have sought, sought lovingly, to meet him in the
low, wet woods of Kilder Creek. Many times have
I put tempting corn in forks and other altars a#
my offering to the Ringtail. And the corn is al-
ways gone, I never know just how, but I see at
divers times and trails the marks of that dexterous
human-fingered paw, or the mussel shell with
broken hinge, or the catfish fins, and know that still
he dwells close by, that still he scoffs at bellowing
hounds, nor has deep fear of any but the shameless
axe that would steal his consecrated tree. What
would I not give to have him let me see him as
one sees a nearby Friend; but that is what he will
not. All my privilege is this: to see the pattered
pigmy human tracks when in the hours of morning
sun I seek along the lake, or sometimes, when the
autumn’s night is black, I get the long-drawn roll-
ing song, “ WAill-ill-all-a-loo, whill-illl-ill-a-loo, whill-
118
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9 —y =e" me Ave “= 4
= SE =—
—_ z TENN “D> —
—— = =< 4 ~ ZB
Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon
a-loo,” the love song of Way-atcha the Ringtail
Coon-Racoon that wanders still, makes love and
lives, like the remaining prophet of a bygone simple
faith, that being true, will some time come again
to rule, but is waiting, hiding, waiting now, till the
fire has passed away.
119g
IV
Billy, the Dog
That Made Good
IV
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
SILLY BILLY
E WAS the biggest fool pup I ever
saw, chuck full of life and spirits,
always going at racing speed,
generally into mischief; breaking
his neck nearly over some small
matter; breaking his heart if his
master did not notice him, chewing up clothing, hats,
and boots, digging up garden stuff that he could not
eat, mistaking every leg of every chair and table for
a lamp-post, going direct from wallow in the pigstye
tofrolic in the baby’s cradle, getting kicked in the ribs
by horses and tossed by cows, but still the same
hilarious, rollicking, endlessly good-natured, ener-
getic fool pup, and given by common consent the
fit and lasting name of ‘‘Silly Billy.”
It was maddening to find on the first cold morn-
ing that he had chewed up one’s leather glove, but
it was disarming to have that irrepressible, good-
123 i
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
natured little idiot come wagging his whole latter
end south of the short ribs, offering the remaining
glove as much as to say that “one size was enough
for any one.” You had to forgive him, and it did
not matter much whether you did or not, for the
children adored him. Their baby arms were round
his neck as much of the time as he could spare from
his more engrossing duties, and, ina figurative sense,
those protecting arms were around him all the time.
As their father found out, when one day the puppy
pulled down a piece of sacking that hung on the
smokehouse pipe, upsetting the stove and burning
up the smokehouse and all the dry meat init. Bob
Yancy was furious, his whole winter’s meat stock
gone. He took his shotgun and went forth deter-
mined to put that fool dog forever out of mischief.
But he met the unexpected. He found his victim
with two baby arms about his fuzzy neck: little
Ann Yancy was hugging her ‘‘doggie,” and what
could ke do? ‘It’s my Billy! You shan’t touch
him! Go way, you naughty Daddy!” And the
matter ended in a disastrous defeat for daddy.
Every member of the family loved Silly Billy,
but they wished from the bottom of their hearts
that he might somehow, soon, develop at least a
glimmer of common dog sense, for he was already
past the time when with most bull terriers the irre-
124
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
sponsible exuberance of puppyhood is ended.
And though destined to a place among his master’s
hunting dogs, he, it was judged, was not yet ripe
enough.
Bob Yancy was a hunter, a professional—there
are a few left—and his special line was killing Bears,
Mountain Lions, Lynxes, Wolves, and other such
things classed as “‘ varmints” and for whose destruc-
tion the state pays a bounty, and he was ever ready
to increase the returns by ‘‘taking out” amateur
hunters who paid him well for the privilege of being
present.
Much of this hunting was done on the high level
of “the chase.” The morning rally, the far cast
for a trail, the warming hunt, the hot pursuit, and
the finish with a more or less thrilling fight. That
was ideal. But it was seldom fully realized. The
mountains were too rough. The game either ran
off altogether, or, by crossing some impossible
barrier, got rid of the hunters and then turned on
the dogs to scatter them in flight.
That was the reason for the huge Bear traps
that were hanging in Yancy’s barn. Those dread-
ful things would not actually hold the Bear a pris-
oner, but when with a convenient log they were
gripped on his paw, they held him back so that the
hunters, even on foot, could overtake the victim.
125
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
The dogs, however, were the interesting part of
the pursuit. Three kinds were needed: exquisite
trailers whose noses could follow with sureness the
oldest, coldest trail; swift runners for swift game,
and intelligent fighters. The fighters had, of course,
to be brave, but intelligence was more important,
for the dogs are expected to nip at the bayed
quarry from behind and spring back from his
counter blow rather than to close at final grips.
Thus there were bloodhounds and greyhounds as
well as a bulldog in the Yancy pack, and of course,
as always happens in a community of diverse bloods,
there were some half-castes whose personal worth
had given them social prestige, and was accepted
as an offset to doubtful pedigree. Most of the
pack had marked personality. There was Croaker,
a small lady hound with an exquisite nose and a
miserable little croak for a bay. You could not
hear her fifty feet away, but fortunately Big Ben
was madly in love with her; he followed her every-
where and had a voice like the bell for which he was
named. He always stuck close to Croaker and
translated her feeble whispers into tones that all
the world within a mile or two could understand.
Then there was Old Thunder, a very old, very
brave dog, with a fine nose. He was a combination
of all good gifts and had been through many fights,
126
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
escaping destruction only thanks to the admirable
sagacity that tempered his battle rage. Though
slow and feeble now, he was the acknowledged
leader of the pack, respected by dogs and men.
THE PROFESSIONAL ROUGH
The bulldog is more conspicuous for courage than
discretion, so that the post of “bulldog to the pack”’
was often open. The last bulldog had been buried
with the bones of their last Grizzly. But Yancy
had secured a new one, a wonder. He was the
final, finished, and perfect product of a long line of
fighting bulldogs kept by a famous breeder in an-
other state. And when the new incumbent of the
office arrived it was a large event to all the hunters.
He was no disappointment: broad of head and
chest, massive in the upper arm and hard in the
flank, a little undershot perhaps, but a perfect beast
of the largest size. Surly and savage beyond his
kind, the hunters at Yancy’s knew at once that
they had a fighting treasure in the Terrible Turk.
It was with some misgiving that he was turned
loose on the ranch. He was so unpleasant in his
manner. There was a distinct lack of dogginess
about him in the gentle sense, and never did one of
his race display a greater arrogance. He made no
pretence of hiding his sense of contemptuous superi-
127
a“
oe
4, oye KR
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
ority, and the pack seemed to accept him at his own
value. Clearly they were afraid of him. He was
given the right of way, avoided indeed by his future
comrades. Only Silly Billy went bounding in
hilarious friendliness to meet the great one; and a
moment later flew howling with pain to hide and
whimper in the arms of his little mistress. Of course,
in a world of brawn, the hunters had to accept
this from their prizefighter, and see in it a promise
of mighty deeds to come in his own domain.
In the two weeks that passed about the ranch the
Terrible Turk had quarrelled with nearly every
hound in the pack. There was only one indeed
that he had not actually injured: that was Old
Thunder. Once or twice they confronted each
other, as when Thunder was gnawing a bone that
the Turk seemed to want, but each time Thunder
stood his ground and showed his teeth. ‘There was
a certain dignity about Thunder that even a dog
will feel, and in this case, without any actual con-
flict, the Terrible Turk retired, and the onlookers
hoped that this argued for a kindly spirit they had
not hitherto seen in him.
October was glowing on the hills, and long un-
wonted peeps of distant snowpeaks were showing
themselves through thinning treetops when word
came that Old Reelfoot, a famous cattle-killing
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
Grizzly, had reappeared in the Arrow-bell Cattle
Range, and was up to his old tricks, destroying live
on
stock in a perfect mania for destruction. There ol a
was a big reward offered for the destruction of ‘ o¥ :
Reelfoot, several times that held out for an ordinary Wek { :
Bear. Besides, there was really a measure of glory wee 7 Nf
attached to it, for every hunter in the country for ey eu ag *e)
several years back had tried to run Reelfoot = em ®
down, and tried in vain. Coan
Bob Yancy was ablaze with hunter’s fire when
he heard the news. His only dread was that some
rival might forestall him. It was a spirited pro-
cession that left the Yancy Claim that morning,
headed for the Arrow-bell Ranch; the motley
pack straggling along or forging ahead till ordered
back in line by the huntsman. There was the
venerable Thunder staidly trotting by the heels
of his old friend Midnight, Yancy’s coal-black
mare; and just before was the Terrible Turk with
his red-rimmed eyes upturned at times to measure
his nearness to the powerful black mare’s hoofs.
Big Ben was fast by Croaker, of course, and the
usual social lines of the pack were all well drawn.
Next was a packhorse laden with a huge steel
Bear trap on each side, then followed packhorses
with the camping outfit and other hunters, the
cook, and the writer of this story.
129
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
Everything was in fine shape for the hunt.
Everything was fitly ordered and we were well
away when a disconcerting element was tumbled
OS-~FF in among us. With many a yap of glee, there,
4 , oi" bounding, came that fool bull terrier, Silly Billy.
Bits y J ; Like a June-bug among honeybees, like a crazy
schoolboy in a council room, he rollicked and
ee yapped, eager to be first, to be last, to take lib-
erties with Thunder, to chase the Rabbits, to bay
the Squirrels, ready for anything but what was
Oa wanted of him: to stay home and mind his own
~ business.
Bob might yell ‘‘Go home!” till he was hoarse.
Silly Billy would only go off a little way and look
hurt, then make up his mind that the boss was
“only fooling” and didn’t mean a word of it, and
start in louder than ever. He steered clear of the
Turk but otherwise occupied a place in all parts
of the procession practically all the time.
No one wished him to come, no one was willing
to carry him back, there was no way of stopping
him that little Ann would have sanctioned, so
Silly Billy came, self-appointed, to a place on the
first Bear hunt of the season.
That afternoon they arrived at the Arrow-bell
Ranch and the expert Bear-man was shown the
latest kill, a fine heifer barely touched. The
130
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
Grizzly would surely come back for his next meal.
Yes, an ordinary Grizzly would, but Reelfoot was
an extraordinary animal. Just because it was
the Bear fashion to come again soon, he might not
return for a week. Yancy set a huge trap by this
“kill” but he also sought out the kill of a week
gone by, five miles away, and set by that another
gaping pair of grinning cast steel jaws.
Then all retired to the hospitable ranch house,
where Turk succeeded in mangling a light-weight
sheep-dog and Silly Billy had to be rescued from
a milky drowning in the churn.
Who that knows the Grizzly will be surprised to
hear that that night brought the hunters nothing,
and the next was blank? But the third morning
showed that the huge brute had come in craftiness
to his older kill.
I shall not forget the thrills of the time. We had
passed the recent carcass near the ranch. It lay
untouched and little changed. We rode on the
five miles to the next. And before we were near
we felt there was something doing, the dogs seemed
pricked up, there was some sensation in the air.
T could see nothing, but, while yet a hundred yards
away, Bob was exulting, “A catch this time sure
enough.”
Dogs and horses all were inspired. The Terrible
131
1
MEAL HOURS.
cr
Ad
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f
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
Turk, realizing his importance, breasted his way to
the front, and the rumbling in his chest was grand
as an organ. Ahead, behind, and all around him,
was Silly Billy yapping and tumbling.
There was the carcass, rather “high” now but
~!-2 untouched. The place of the trap was vacant,
log and all were gone; and all around were signs
of an upset, many large tracks, so many that
scarcely any were clear, but farther on we got the
sign most sought, the thirteen-inch track of a
monster Grizzly, and the bunch on the right paw
stamped it as Reelfoot’s trail.
I had seen the joy blaze in Yancy’s eye before,
but never like now; he glowed with the hunter’s
heat, and let the dogs run free, and urged them on
with whoops and yells of ‘Sic him, boys!” ‘Ho,
boys!” “Sic him!” Not that much urging was
needed, the dogs were possessed of the spirit of the
day. This way and that they circled, each for
himself. For the Bear had thrashed around a
while before at length going off. It was Croaker
that first had the real trail. Big Ben was there to
let the whole world know, then Thunder indorsed
the statement. Had it been Plunger that spoke
the rest would have paid no heed, but all the pack
knew Thunder’s voice, and his judgment was not
open to question. They left their devious different
132
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
tracks, and flocked behind the leader, baying deep
and strong at every bound, while Turk came hurry-
ing after and Silly Billy tried to make amends in
noise for all he lacked in judgment.
Intoxicating moments those for all the hunt.
However civilized a man may be, such sounds and
thoughts will tear to tatters all his cultured ways
and show him up again a hunting beast.
Away we went, the bawling pack our guides.
Many a long detour we had to make to find a horse-
man’s road, for the country was a wilderness of
rocky gullies, impenetrable thickets, and down
timber, where fire and storm had joined to pile
the mountain slope with one dead forest on another.
But we kept on, and before an hour the dinning of
the pack in a labyrinth of fallen trees announced
the Bear at bay.
No one who has not seen it can understand the
feelings of that hour. The quick dismount, the
tying of the nerve-tense horses, the dragging forth
of guns, the swift creep forward, the vital ques-
tions, ‘How is he caught? By one toe that will
give, and set him free the moment that he charges,
or firmly by one leg?” ‘‘Is he free to charge as
far as he can hurl the log? or is he stalled in trees
and helpless?”
Creeping from trunk to trunk we went, and once
133
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
the thought flashed up, ‘‘Which of us will come
back alive?” Oh, what a din those dogs were
making! Every one of them was in that chorus.
Yapping and baying, high and low, swaying this
way and that, which meant the Bear was charging
back and forth, had still some measure of freedom.
“Look out now! Don’t get too close!” said
Yancy. “Log and all, he can cover fifty feet
while you make ten, and I tell you he won’t bother
about the dogs if he gets a chance at the men. He
knows his game.”
THE FIERY FURNACE AND THE GOLD
There were more thrills in the woods than the
mere sounds or expectations accounted for. My
hand trembled as I scrambled over the down tim-
ber. It was a moment of fierce excitement as I
lifted the last limbs, and got my first peep. But it
was a disappointment. There was the pack, bound-
ing, seething, yelling, and back of some brush was
some brown fur, that was all. But suddenly the
brushwood swayed and forth rushed a shaggy
mountain of flesh, a tremendous Grizzly—I never
knew one could look so big—and charged at his
tormentors: they scattered like flies when one
strikes at a gathered swarm.
But the log on the trap caught on a stump and
134
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
held him, the dogs surged around, and now my view
was clear.
This is the moment of all in the hunt. This is
the time when you gauge your hounds. This is
the fiery furnace in which the metals all are tried.
There was Old Thunder baying, tempting the Bear
to charge, but ever with an eye to the safe retreat;
there was Croaker doing her duty in a mere an-
nouncement; there were the greyhounds yapping
and nipping at his rear; there in the background,
wisely waiting, reserving his power for the exact
proper time, was the Terrible Turk, and here and
there, bounding, yapping, insanely busy, was Silly
Billy, dashing into the very jaws of death again‘
and again, but saved by his ever-restless activity,
and proud of the bunch of Bear’s wool in his teeth.
Round and round they went, as Reelfoot made
his short, furious charges, and ever Turk kept
back, baying hoarsely, gloriously, but biding his
time for the very moment. And whatever side
Old Thunder took, there Turk went, too, and Yancy
rejoiced, for that meant that the fighting dog had
also good judgment and was not over-rash.
The fighting and baying swung behind a little
bush. I wanted to see it all and tried to get near,
but Yancy shouted out, “‘Keep back!” He knew
the habits of the Bear, and the danger of coming
135
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
into range. But shouting to me attracted the
notice of the Bear, and straight for Bob he charged.
Many a time before had Yancy faced a Bear, and
now he had his gun, but perched on a small and
shaky rotten log he had no chance to shoot, and
swinging for a clearer view, upraised his rifle with
a jerk—an ill-starred jerk—for under it the rotten
trunk cracked, crashed, went down, and Bob fell
sprawling helpless in among the tumbled logs,
and now the Grizzly had him in his power. ‘‘Thud,”
“crash” as the trap-log smote the trees that chanced
between; and we were horror-held. We had no
power to stop that certain death: we dared not
fire, the dogs, the man himself, were right in line.
The pack closed in. Their din was deafening;
they sprang on the huge haired flanks, they nipped
the soggy heels, they hauled and held, and did their
best, but they were as flies on a badger or as rats
on a landslide. They held him not a heart-beat,
delayed him not a whit. The brushwood switched,
the small logs cracked, as,he rushed, and Bob
would in a moment more be smashed with that
fell paw, for now no human help was possible,
when good old Thunder saw the only way—it
meant sure death for him—but the only way.
Ceased he all halfway dashing at the flank or heel
and leaped at the great Bear’s throat. But one
136
ATG ATES sea ‘Ber v ayy Surddeg ‘oovy srvag Brg ay) 07 Susuexy
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
swift sweep of that great paw, and he went reeling
back, bruised and shaken. Still he rallied, rushed
as though he knew it all must turn on him, and
would have closed once more, when Turk, the
mighty warrior Turk, the hope and valor of the
pack, long holding back,, sprang forward now and
fastened, gripped with all his strength—on the
bear? No, shame of shames—how shall I say
the truth? Ox poor old Thunder, wounded, bat-
tered, winded, downed, seeking to save his master.
On him the bulldog fastened with a grip of hate.
This was what he waited for, this was the time
of times that he took to vent his pent-up jealous
rage—sprang from behind, dragged Thunder down
to hold him gasping in the brushwood. The Bear
had freedom now to wreak revenge; his only
doughty foeman gone, what could prevent him?
But from the reeling, spieling, yapping pack there
sprung a small white dog, not for the monster’s
heel, not for his flank, or even for his massive
shoulder forging on, but for his face, the only place
where dog could count in such a sudden stound,
gripped with an iron grip above the monster’s
eye, and the huge head jerking back made that
small dog go flapping like a rag; but the dog hung
‘on. The Bear reared up to claw, and now we saw
‘a that desperate small white dog was Silly Billy,
" x 137
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
none else, hanging on with all his might and
weight.
Bob scrambled to his feet, escaped!
The huge brute seized the small white body in
paws like stumps of trees, as a cat might seize a
mouse he seized, and wrenched him quivering,
yes, tore his own flesh wrenching, and hurled him
like a bundle far aside, and wheeling for a moment
paused to seek the bigger foe, the man. The pack
recoiled. Four rifles rang, a long, deep, grating
snort, and Reelfoot’s elephantine bulk sank limp on
the storm-tossed logs. Then Turk, the dastard
traitor Turk, with chesty gurgle as a war-cry, closed
bravely on the dead brute’s haunch and fearlessly
tore out the hair, as the pack sat lolling back, the
battle done.
Bob Yancy’s face was set. He had seen it nearly
all, and we supplied the rest. Billy was wagging
his whole latter end, shaking and shivering with ex-
citement, in spite of some red stained slashes on his
ribs. Bob greeted him affectionately: “You
Dandy. It’s the finish that shows up the stuff a
Bear-dog is made of, an’ I tell you there ain’t any-
thing too good in Yancy’s Ranch for you. Good
old Thunder has saved my life before, but this is a
new one. I never thought you’d show up this
way.”
138
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
‘And you,” he said to the Turk, “I’ve just two
words for you: ‘Come here!’”’ He took off his belt,
put it through the collar of the Terrible Turk, led
him to one side. I turned my head away. A
rifle cracked, and when at length I looked Yancy
was kicking leaves and rubbish over some carrion
that one time was a big strong bulldog. Tried in
the fire and found wanting, a bully, a coward, a
thing not fit to live.
But heading all on the front of Yancy’s saddle
in the triumphal procession homeward was Billy,
the hero of the day, his white coat stained with red.
His body was stiff and sore, but his exuberant spirits
were little abated. He probably did not fully
understand the feelings he had aroused in others,
but he did know that he was having a glorious
time, and that at last the world was responding to
the love he had so bounteously squandered on it.
Riding in a pannier on a packhorse was Old
Thunder. It was weeks before he got over the
combined mauling he got from the Bear and the
bulldog, and he was soon afterward put in honor-
able retirement, for he was full of years.
Billy was all right again in a month, and when
half a year later he had shed his puppy ways, his
good dog sense came forth in strength. Brave asa
Lion he had proved himself, full of life and energy,
139
a.
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| Gin
vi
PS
Billy, the Dog That Made Good
affectionate, true as steel, and within two years he
was leader of the Yancy pack. They do not call
him “Silly” now, but “Billy, the pup that made
good.”
140
V
Atalapha, a Winged
Brownie
V
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie *
*I have always loved the Brownies so much, and so earnestly
wished to believe in them, that I have taught myself to do so, and
T want others to have that same pleasure. It is worth your while
looking up some good old books (not new ones) to learn, if you
wish to do so, just what a Brownie is. I think you could find
that all the good reliable authorities like Grimm, Andersen, etc.,
agree that the Brownie is a shy two-legged elfin wearing a fur
cloak, standing about a thumb high in his silent stockings,
though he never does stand that way.
He is distinguished from other two-legged dwarves by his
sharp-pointed ears and his sense of humor. He gets his living
by dancing over the treetops in the woods on moonlight nights
and differs from other fairies in being quite friendly to man. He
dwells in a cave or hollow tree, hiding all day, and either sleeps
all winter underground or steals away to some warm country;
though without feathers, he is blessed with marvellous powers of
flight. Besides which, he can talk without making a noise,
is invisible at will in the moonlight, and has many wonderful
powers that we children understand perfectly, but are beyond the
comprehension of our wisest grown-ups.
THE TWINS
HE Beavers had settled on the
little brook that runs easterly
from Mount Marcy, and built a
series of dams that held a suc-
cession of ponds like a wet stair-
way down the valley, making a
143
Wil
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
break in the forest that gave the sky a chance to
see its own sweet face in the pools below.
They were peaceful folk, the Beavers, and many
of the shy little hush-folk, that the fairy books tell
of, were glad and welcome to harbor and revel in the
pleasaunce these water-workers had created. Thus
it came about that the cool green aisle of the tim-
ber land was haunted, in the Beaver vale east of
Marcy.
The Rose Moon glowed on the pine-robed moun-
tain. The baby Beavers were learning to slap with
their tails, and already the chirring in high places
told of young birds grown and lusty. The peace of
the forest was abroad, for it was calm and cool in
the waning light.
The sun sets thrice each day in Marcy Vale:
First, when it drops so far that the tall timber on
the western slope steeps all below in a soft green
shade; this the sunset of the forest; again, when the
great rugged breast of Mother Marcy blocks out all
light from the trees; this is the sunset of the Moun-
tain; and last, when the western world rim receives
the light orb, the mountain’s brow turns red for a
moment, then ashy pale; this is the sunset of the
world. In a little while then all is dark, the sun
peoples go to sleep and the hush peoples of shadow-
land have now their day.
144
The portrait of a Brownie
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
The sunset of the forest had given the signal to
robin and tanager to begin their vesper song. The
sunset of the mount had issued the dew-time call
that conjures out of caves and hollow trees the small-
est of the winged Brownie folk, whose kingdom is
the twilight and whose dance hall is high above the
treetops.
Now they come trooping down the open aisle
above the Beaver ponds. Skimming and circling
on lightning wing, pursuing each other with shouts
that to them seemed loud and boisterous, though
to us they were merely squeaks and twitters too
thin and fine for any but the sharpest ears.
Up and down the waterway they dart, playing,
singing, hunting. Yes, hunting, for this is the time
and place of the evening meal and the prey they
catch and eat is—as befits such dainty coursers of
the air—the butterflies of the night. And when
one of those great fluffy things went fluttering by,
some two or three of the Brownie throng would
cease pursuing gnats and gauze flies, to have a
riotous breakneck speeder after the moth, and rend-
ing its fat body in the air among them, they scat-
tered its feathers to the wind and its framework
to the ground.
There was a fixed order for the coming of the
winged ones, an etiquette, not written, but ob-
145
Portrait
of a
Brownie
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
served: just as the smaller folk come earliest in any
procession, so the lesser Elfins in their scores were
first to arrive.
In half an hour the black-faced Brownies came in
hundreds, and the air over the tranquil Beaver
ponds was like that of a barnyard whose swallow
colony is strong.
The third sunset came and went. The shades of
night were sweeping up from the east. The robins
alone were singing in the gloaming, when beautiful
Borealis in his red and yellow robes skimmed down
the mountain-side and joined the jolly pirouetting
host that sang and circled in the upper shades.
A little later long-winged Serotinus skimmed into
the crowd, to be the advance courier of the last and
royalest of them all, that clad in frosted sable furs
swooped in on ample wings. Biggest, strongest,
rarest of the folk of Shadowland, the king of his
kind, the chief of the winged Brownies, and yet we
sordid blind ones have no better name for him than
Hoary Bat.
Darting up and down the waterway, chasing the
fat moths and big game of the night, noctua, samia,
lachnosterna, or stripping their bodies of legs and
wings to devour the soft parts in air, the great Bat
flew, first of the royal house to come. Sometimes
skimming low over the waters, sometimes shooting
146
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
skyward above the trees, sometimes spinning up
and down, faster than any of its lesser kin. One
not gifted with night eyes would have marvelled
to learn that in all this airy wheeling and speeding
she, for it was a Queen Bat, carried a heavy burden.
Clinging to her breast were two young Bats, her
offspring. They were growing fast and already a
heavy weight; but none who marked only the
mother’s flight would have guessed that she was so
trammelled and heavy laden.
Up and down the fairway of the water she
skimmed, or high above the trees where roam the
bigger flyers of the night, till she had caught and
eaten her fill, then after another hovering drink at
the Beaver pond she left the almost-deserted fly-
way and soaring over the treetops, she made up the
mountain-side to her home den, a knot-hole in a hol-
low maple too small to be entered by Marten or
Hawk or any creature big enough to do her harm.
THE SCHOOLING OF A BROWNIE
As June, the Moon of Roses, passed, the young
Bats grew apace. They were full furred now, and
their weight so great that the mother left them in
the den in the hollow branch each time she went
forth seeking food. Now she brought back the
bodies of her prey, moths and June-bugs; for the
147
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
young were learning to eat solid food, and when their
mother came home after the evening hunt, they
would meet her at the door with a soft chirring of
welcome, spring on the food she brought, and tussel
with each other for the pieces.
Two meals a day, or rather each night, is a rule
of the Bat life—one in the evening twilight, and
again in the morning twilight. And twice each day
the mother stuffed them with food, so they grew
and grew. The difference of their dispositions
was well marked now. The lesser brother was
petulant and a little quarrelsome. He always
wanted the June-bug that had not been given him,
and paid little heed to the warning “‘chirr” that his
mother sometimes gave to stop him scrambling
after his brother’s portion. But the bigger brother
was not easily provoked; he sought for peace.
What wonder that the mother found it pleasanter
to stroke and lick the big one’s fur than to be chit-
tered at by the little one.
June went by, July the Thunder Moon was half
gone, when a great event took place. The young
had been growing with wonderful rapidity. Though
far from being as heavy as the mother yet, they
were nearly as long and had a wing stretch that
was fully three-quarters of hers. During the last
few days they had dared to sit on their home
148
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
branch outside of the den, to wait for mother with
the eatables. Each time they saw her coming their
well-grown wings fluttered vigorously with excite-
ment, and more than once with such power that
the young bodies were lifted almost off their feet;
surely the time had come for the great experiment.
Instead of giving them the food that evening, the
mother Bat kept a little way off.
Holding the body of a cockchafer, she alighted
on a branch, and when the hungry little ones pur-
sued her clamoring, she kept just out of reach, and
continued on to the end of the branch. The little
ones scrambled after her, and just as they reached
the prize she launched into the air on her wings.
The Big Brother was next her. He had been
reaching for the food; the suddenness of the move
upset him. He lost his hold and in a moment was
falling through the air. He gave a little screech,
instinctively spread out his wings and flapped
very hard. Then lo! instead of falling, he went
fluttering forward, and before he knew it, was
fying!
It was weak and wabbly, but it was flight.
Mother was close at hand, and when he seemed to
weaken and failed to hold control, she glided under-
neath and took his weight upon her back. Wheel-
ing, she mounted with strong, sturdy strokes. Soon
149
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
again he was back to the home den and his maiden
flight was over. It was three days before Little
Brother would take his flight. And many a scold-
ing his mother gave him before he could be per-
suaded that he really had wings to bear him aloft,
if only he would try to use them.
From this time on the twins’ real life began.
Twice nightly they went flying with Mother to the
long wet valley through the timber, and though
at first they wearied before they had covered thrice
the length of the Beaver ponds, their strength grew
quickly, and the late Thunder Moon saw them
nearly full grown, strong on the wing, and rejoicing
in the power of flight. Oh! what a joy it was,
when the last streak of light was gone from the
western world rim, to scramble to the hole and
launch into the air—one, two, three—Mother,
Brother, and Little Brother to go kiting, scooting,
circling, sailing, diving, and soaring—with flutter,
wheel, and downward plunge. Then sharp with
hunger they would dart for the big abounding
game—great fat luna moths, roaring June-bugs,
luscious cecropias, and a thousand smaller game
were whizzing and flitting on every side, a plenteous
feast for those with wings of speed. One or two
small moths they seized and gobbled in mid-air.
Then a fat June-bug came booming by and away
150
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Re Gp SL foe?
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
went the youngsters twittering with glee, neck and
neck, and Mother hovering near. Within half
a pond length they were up to him, and pounced
and snapped, Little Brother and Big Brother.
But an unexpected difficulty arose. The June-bug
was so big and round, and clad in such hard-shell ge-t"
armor, that each time the young Bats pounced ¥ ;
and snapped, their little jaws could get no hold %
but sent the bug rebounding, safely speeding.
Snap, snap, snap, went the little Bats, but it
was like terriers snapping at an Armadillo, or kittens
at a Turtle. For the June-bug kept his legs tight
tucked and all the rest was round and hard.
Snap” went Brother at his head and ‘‘snap”
went Little Brother at his tail. They nearly
bumped into each other, but the booming bug
escaped, and Little Brother chittered angrily at
every one.
Then the Mother Bat came skimming by and
said in Bat language: “Now, children, watch me
and see how to manage those big hard things you
cannot bite.” She swooped after the roaring bug,
but making no attempt to use her teeth she sailed
over, then in a twinkling curled her tail with its
broad flap into a bag, and scooped the June-bug
in. Her legs helped to close the net; a quick
teach back of the supple neck and the boomer
51
Neer me RAS NNN SLU he ASHE EE ER
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
was seized by the head. Her hind feet clutched
it firmly, a few quick movements of her jaws: the
wing cases, the armored legs and horns went
down rattling into the leafage, and the June-bug’s
body was like a chicken trussed for eating, cleaned
of all but the meat.
Calling to the twins with a twittering squeak,
she took the fat lump in her teeth and flew onward
and upward, still calling. Then as they labored
in pursuit, she rose a little and dropped the big
luscious prize.
Away went Brother, and after went Little
Brother, in pursuit of the falling food. It fell
straight, they darted in zigzags. Again and again
they struck at it, but could not hold it. It was
surely falling to the ground, where it would be
lost, for no Frosted Bat would eat food from the
ground. But Mother swooped, and with her tail
scooped the round thing in again.
Once more she flew to the higher level above the
trees. Again she called to the brothers to try their
powers. And as the fat body dropped a second
time they resumed their eager zigzags. A little
screech of joy from Little Brother announced that
he had scooped the body, but he lost his wing
balance, and dropped the June-bug to recover
himself. It had not fallen twenty feet before
152
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
Brother dashed under sideways and up, then twit-
tered in needle tones of joy, for he had won the
prize and won it in fair play. The old Bat would
have eaten it on the wing, but the little ones were
not yet steady enough for that, so they flew to a
tall tree, and to a top branch which afforded a good
perch, and there they revelled in the spoils.
THE UNDOING OF LITTLE BROTHER
The Thunder Moon was worthy of its name.
Night after night there were thunderstorms that
prevented the Bats going out to hunt, and the
hardship of hunger was theirs, for more than once
they had to crouch in the home den while the skies
and trees shivered in thunder that shook down
drenching streams of rain. Then followed a few
clear days and nights with growing heat. Little
Brother, always petulant, chittered and crooned
in querulous notes, but Brother and Mother bore
it all silently. The home was surely very close,
but it was a safe refuge. At last Little Brother
would stand it no longer. The morning hunt was
over, that is the second meal, the east was showing
a dawning. All three had huddled in the old safe
home, but it got closer and hotter, another blazing
day was coming, and Little Brother, in spite of
warning chitters from his mother and bead-eyed
153
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
* wonder of his brother, crawled out of the den, and
hung himself Bat fashion, heels up, under a thick
and shady spruce bough close at hand.
Mother called once or twice, but he answered her
only with an impatient grunt, or not at all. He
‘was very well pleased to find it so much cooler
i and Pleasanter under this bough than in the den,
; ae eS Sthough in truth the blinding sun was far from
: 24 one agreeable.
oe an. The brightness and the heat grew and the bird
voices mostly died away. But there was one that
could be heard in sun or shadow, heat or twilight,
the loud ‘‘Jay, jay” of the Bluejay, the rampant,
rollicking, mischief bird, the spy and telltale of
the woods.
“Jay, jay!” he screamed, when he found a late
fledgling in the nest of a Vireo and gobbled the
callow mite as its parents wailed around. “Jay,
jay, too-rootel!’”’ he chortled as he saw a fat grass-
hopper left on a thorn by a butcher bird who be-
lieved in storing food when it was plenty. But
the Jay polished off the dainty, and hopped gayly
to a cleft tree into which some large insect had
buzzed. The Jay tapped with his bill; an angry
buzz gave warning.
“Nay, nay!” said the blue terror, and lightly
flitted to a tall fir out of reach of the angry hornets.
154
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
Here his keen eyes glancing around caught a
glimpse of a brownish-looking lump like an autumn
leaf or a moth cocoon.
“Took, took,” murmured the Jay. ‘What is
that?” It hung from the lower side of a limb.
The Jay hopped just above it. The slight jarring
of his weight caused two tiny blinky eyes to open,
but the sunlight was blinding, the owner was i
helpless, and with one fell blow of his sharp bill 4, a5
the Bluejay split its skull. The brown form of
the Bat shook in the final throe, fell from the,
perch and was lost to view, while the Bluejay
croaked and “‘he he’d’’ and went on in the rounds
of his evil life.
That was theend of Little Brother.
His mother and brother knew he was killed,
but they could see little of it in the brightness;
they were sure only of this: they never saw him
again.
But a man, a good naturalist, was prowling
through the woods that day with trout rod in
hand. It was too hot to fish. He was lying under
a tree in the shade when the familiar voice of the
Bluejay sounded above him. He saw nothing of
the bird. He knew nothing of its doings over-
head, but he did know that presently there flut-
tered down a beautiful form, the velvet and silver
155
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
clad body of a Great Northern Bat, and when the
wings had ceased to flutter, a closer glance showed
that the skull was split by a blow from some sharp
instrument. But the rare specimen was little
harmed; he gladly took it to an honored resting-
place. He had no answer to the riddle, but we
know it for the working out of the law: Obedience
is long life.
ATALAPHA’S TOILET
Atalapha, the Big Brother, now lived alone with
his mother, learning many things that were needful
to his life success; being taught by her, even as
she was, taught by her mother, chiefly through the
power of example, developing so fast that he was
full grown before the waning of the Thunder Moon,
and was far advanced for his age in all the wise
ways of Bats.
One of the first lessons was the making of his
toilet, for the winged Brownies are exquisitely
clean in their person. This was the way of his
; \washing; After dipping once or twice in the water
so the lower fur was dripping wet he would fly to
some well-known roost and hanging by first one
foot then by the other, would comb his fur all
over with the thumb that grows on each wing
bend; and then with finer applications of his teeth
156
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
and tongue, every part was dressed and licked as
carefully as a cat might dress her coat. And last
his wings are rubbed and massaged inside and out.
He would lick and pull at the membrane, and
stretch it over his head till every part was cleared
of every speck of dust, and the fur slick and clean
and fluffy soft.
He knew how to take the noisy June-bug in the
scoop net; how to snap the small but juicy May-
flies and mosquitoes in his mouth and cut their
wings with his side teeth. He could seize, strip,
pluck, bone, and eat a noctua or a snowy menas
without changing his line of flight. He knew that
a polopias was a hardshell and a stinger to be let
alone; some young Bats have lost their lives
through not knowing what a deadly creature is
this steel-blue mud-wasp. He knew that the
woolly luna, the fluffy samia, with her Owl-eyed
wings, or the blazing yellow basilona cannot be
scooped, but must be struck from above and de-
winged. So also with the lightning hawkmoth, |
the royal citheronia, and the giant cecropia, they “Ay
hardest of all to take, the choicest food in the air.
He learned to keep away from the surface of the ¢ ,
Beaver pond when the great trout were jumping,
and he had discovered the wonderful treat that
one may eat hovering in front of a high honey- | 4;
157 lune
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Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
tion. He knew the booming hoot of the Horned
Owl and the screech of the early Pigeon Hawk.
He could dart at full speed, without touching,
through an opening but little wider than one wing.
He could comb his left side with his right thumbnail.
He learned to enjoy teasing the great clumsy
Nighthawks; and when he saw one spreading its
enormous gape to close on some fat basilona, he
loved to dart between and in a spirit of mischief
and sport to bear the coveted morsel away. All
Great Northern Bats are marvellous on the wing,
but Atalapha was a marvel among the young of
his kind. He rejoiced in the fullness of his speed.
He gloried in the strength of his wings, and—shall
\I tell it?-—he became a little puffed up. Because
i”
ré/ he pleased his mother, and was a little abler than
his mates and had taken with credit the first steps
in the life journey, he reckoned himself a very
important being; and he thought he knew it all.
He had an awakening.
THE COMING OF THE BRIDEGROOMS
With the closing of the Thunder Moon Atalapha
found himself not only independent of his mother,
but also that she, in yet a larger sense, was becom-
158
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
ing independent of him. He was her equal in size,
and though they kept the same den, they came and
went more as they listed, often alone. Sometimes
they did not meet at all in the hunt.
With the opening of the Red Moon another great
change began. The mother left the den earlier,
left it sometimes as soon as the first shadows had
fallen on the forest, skimmed far away, he knew not
where, came home later, would sometimes go out
in the middle of the night, which is not the custom
of the Bat, would leave in the morning too early
for the morning meal, and come back perhaps near
sunrise, tired but excited. She had not now the
burden of nursing her young, and she filled out in
flesh, her fur fluffed softer than velvet, and its rich
brown, too, was frosted with silver tips that shone
like skifts of snow. Her eyes grew bright and her
cheeks, once so flat and thin, puffed out in rounded
shape of health and vigorous desire. Some great
change was setting in, and its first effect was to sep-
arate the mother from the son.
It was on the third or fourth day of the growing
change, on toward the time of morning meal—the
little star blink, when none but the faintest stars
are blotted out—Atalapha and his mother had not
yet aroused, when a strange sound came whinnying
through the calm, clear air. It was new to Atalapha
159
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
and gave him no special thrill; but on his young
mother it acted like a spell. She scrambled to the
doorway and Jaunched into the night with a long,
warbling, high-pitched, ““Hoooooo!” Atalapha lost
no time in following; and then in the starry night
it seemed that every star had a quavering voice,
was singing a soft, long, ““Hee-oo0,” “‘hee-ooo!”
in strains so high that human ear may hear them
not, in notes so soft and quavering that surely
these were the Brownie bugles blowing. From
everywhere and nowhere came the strains. But
darting up and out Atalapha realized that the air
was full of Bats, not the little black-faced things
like those he had scornfully hunted with all sum-
mer, but Great Northern Bats like himself and his
mother, and yet not just the same for they were
bigger, stronger, more richly clad, like folk of his
race, but nobles beside whom he was of common
kind.
What were they? Whence came they? Why
should they sing as he never had heard his people
sing? How beautiful and big and strong they
looked. What wondrous turns they made in air.
And as he gazed he saw a pair come swooping by.
One great handsome fellow with wings of eighteen
span, and fur like flame, when it whistled red or
yellow in the wind. And the smaller one! Could
160
ight
in the moonl
host
1€
Browni
ittering
The fl
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
it be? Yes! Atalapha could not mistake that
shoulder band of white, but he flew yet closer, and
saw with a strange little feeling of loss that the
silver collar-bearer was his mother. She sailed and
swooped in close companionship with the big splen-
did fellow. Atalapha knew it not, but this was his
father come back to his bride.
THE GREAT SOUTHERN TREK
The early meal was caught and eaten in the air;
and when the beams of the Little Morning whitened
the eastern screen, the new Bat host began to hide
itself for the day. Many went to old familiar
nooks; some went to the homes of their wives; but
many who had brought their mates with them on
this the great national wedding trip were left to
coost in the hemlock tops, chance hollow limbs, or
crannies in the rock.
Atalapha was already at home when the door
darkened, and in came his mother with her big
handsome mate. What a strong look he had, and
how his coat did shine. Probably he did not realize
that Atalapha was his child, for he showed his teeth
when the young Bat came too near the little mother,
and by a warning hiss sent him to the far side of the
den. He did no more than this, but Atalapha was
afraid. The young Bat did not clearly understand,
161
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
but he realized that this was no longer his home,
that the bond of the family was broken. So he
came no more, but sought a den for himself, feeling
as a child might feel when suddenly dropped from
being mother’s pet, for whom the world was made,
to being a poor little outcast. At best now he be-
longed to the low circle of the young Bats whose
powers were not yet formed. There was no joy
in Atalapha’s lone cell those days; but it was the
beginning of life for him. He learned that he was a
very unimportant person, and must begin at the
bottom and go it all alone. This was his humilia-
tion and his awakening.
The love dance of the Bats held sway supreme
through the first few days of August, then, though
its opening rapture waned, the Red Moon was a
Honey Moon to its end. And when the Hunting
Moon came on with shorter days and fewer kinds of
game, a new unrest possessed the kindred of the
silken wings.
Atalapha’s parents would go for long excursions,
swinging round the Marcy Mount, or sometimes a
group of many friendly pairs would soar above the
zone of the midnight game and circle high as though
trying their wings in some new flight.
Then came a day of climax. It was in the early
dawning; all had made their meal; Atalapha was
162
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
flying with some new acquaintances of the younger
set, when the soft singing “‘hee-o0, hee-oo’’ was taken
up by all and trooping together from divers parts
of the broad valley the long-winged coursers came.
They swirled like smoke around the cliffs of Marcy,
they careered in a body, then they began to ascend
in a great sweeping spiral. At first in one long
wreathing cloud, but later in two separate bodies,
and those with eyes to see would have known that
the upper swarm was wholly of males, the lower of
female Bats.
The clamor of their calling made a thin, fine
murmur in the upper air, but it was chilly there,
their voices died away and with one impulse they
turned to the south, as the mountain-top turned
red, and flew and flew and flew.
Every male of that gathering was there: instinc-
tively Atalapha had joined them, and they flew
with steady, uncurveted flight in ever-lengthening
procession, on and on, all day, ignoring the sun,
heeding not the pang of hunger, till in the evening
they straggled into a wood far to the southward,
and rested in the trees a while before beginning
to hunt for food.
The females, including the Little Mother, were
left behind in the shadows about Mount Marcy to
follow in another band when the males were well
163
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
ahead, for such is the way of the Great Northern
Bat.
For long after the arrival of the van, the he Bats
came straggling into that welcome woods. The
sun went down, the moon arose, and still belated
wanderers drifted in, yet some there were that
never came at all, that failed and fell by the way.
But early, among those that never flagged, was
Atalapha; he had attached himself to the big Bat
that really was his father, and flying as he flew, he
got the help of larger wisdom, for the old Bat
changed his course to fit the air currents. He
avoided a head wind. He sought for aiding blasts.
He shunned the higher ridges that make fighting
swirls of air. He neither speeded nor slacked nor
sailed, but kept up the steady, slow flap, flap, flap
that eats up miles and leagues and makes great
headway with the least of drain. So passed the
day on the first long trek, and Atalapha’s travels
and broader education had begun.
It was a night or two before the Bats were rested
enough to continue their journey. And now they
took shorter stages, for the frost fear that had come
upon them in the north was goading them no
longer. Now also they went at times by night.
At last they reached the sea and followed the main
shoreline with the land to the sunset side and the
164
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
endless blue to the east. Thus after the waning
of the Hunting Moon, the Leaf-falling Moon found
them in a land where there is no falling of the leaf,
where the trees are never bare.
Here in the groves of palms, where purple moths
and radiant fireflies make a fairy scene by night,
and nature’s table is prepared and spread in every
glade, Atalapha and the brethren of his race scat-
tered each to seek a hunting for himself. In little
groups at most they kept together, but no great
crowds, for kings go not in companies nor princes
in mobs. So also it is more often seen that the
greatest of the Bats is alone.
Their consorts, too, came drifting south to the
Jand of winters warm and never-failing food. But
they also lived their own lives, and if by chance
they met their mates among the palms, they passed
as merely kinsmen with whom they had no feud.
NORTHWARD, HOME AGAIN
Where there is no winter there can be no wonder-
ful spring. Only the land of dreadful cold can thrill
our souls with the glad yearly miracle of bees and
violets, where just a month before was snow and
fiercest frost. Yet even in the home of palms and
endless warmth the Spring Moon came with hidden
power; not a mighty change to hold the eye, but a
165
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
secret influence that reached all life. The northern
songbirds now showed different plumes. The Wild
Geese and the Cranes found things just the same in
this land of winter sun and food, but a change had
come inside. An unseen prompter persistent,
reiterant, unreasoning, sang in Atalapha’s heart:
“Away, away; up and away!” So it sang in every
heart, and the Bat host moved, as the prairie grass
is moved by the unseen wind, headed all one way,
turned in the moon of Wild Geese, moved in the
month of Greening Grass, swinging northward
with a common impulse, even as they had come to
the south in the autumn.
They made neither haste nor speed; but strag-
gling as before, in a larger company than before, it
might have been noted that in the Blue Mountains
many left the host that followed the white wailing
line of the sea, and took another course, for these
were summer dwellers in the far northwest.
Atalapha and his kindred of the pine woods kept
on. Their nightly journey and their nightly meals
covered the country as fast as it was won again by
victorious spring. One night a sudden change of
weather sent all the Bats into hiding-places, where
they huddled together and in many cases became
insensible from the cold. For three days they lay
hid and seeming dead, but all revived when the sun
166
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
grew warm again, and, reassembling, took up their
nightly northern trek.
Bats have a strong homing instinct, and group
after group dropped from the main route as they
reached the first river valleys or mountains that had
been their guides coming south. When at last the
far green woods loomed up ahead, Atalapha felt
the glad thrill of “Home again.” But it was not
so to be. His guides, the flying speeders, never
halted. He was free, of course, but another impulse
was on him. He had no conscious expression for
the fact, but he felt that this was a range for lady
Bats; now he was a big strong male.
Whither?
This is the rule of the tribe, grown up and estab-
lished for reasons unknown, except that it works out
well, that certain parts of the range are the homes
of the females, the nurseries of the young. The
males are supposed to go to the farther mountains,
to higher uplands, and remain till the time of the
great annual reunion, the nuptials of the tribe.
This is the law of the Bats. There are no stripes
or heavy tolls assigned or penalty expressed for
those who break it, excepting that the Bat who
lives where he should not live is left by himself,
shunned and despised by his kin.
Thus the Marcy Vale had no lasting hold on
167
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
Atalapha, and he flew with the dwindling troop
his father led, till the roaring Saranac was blue be-
neath their wings.
WINGS AND FRIENDSHIPS
Atalapha had been growing all winter. His
father no longer looked so very big and strong;
indeed the son had dimly felt that the once big
Bat was shrinking strangely. He himself was
two heads wider in his wing expanse, and the dull
yellow of his body fur had given place to rich ochre
and amber brown with a wonderful frosting like
silvery snow bespread on banks of gold. But these
things he neither knew nor thought of; his con-
scious pride was this: the speed and strength and
tireless force of his glorious silken wings.
On his wings he took his prey.
On his wings he eluded the Owls and late-flying
Hawks or climbing beasts that were his only foes.
On his wings he raced with his fellows or skidded
and glided, pirouetted and curveted in the air,
playing pranks with Owl and Nighthawk as a
greyhound plays round a Bear.
The appetite for food might quickly flag, but
the joy of speeding like a falling star while the
tang wind of the dawn went whistling past his
ears, the glory of a lightning swift career, with
168
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
none propelling but his own strong nervous force,
with quick codrdinate life in every film and fibre
of his frame, with exquisite sensibility of power
and risk and change of breath, with absolute con-
trol of every part and move. What greater joy
could there be to Old Mother Nature’s slow-made
perfect flying thing than this the perfect joy of
perfect flight ?
Men have so long been envious of the flies and
birds for their mastery of the air and pictured theirs
a life of Paradise restored, they have forgotten
that there is still another higher creature, a being
nearer to ourselves whose babes are born alive,
whose brain is on a higher plane than that of any
bird, whose powers perceptive are of exquisite
acuteness, whose make-up is attuned to sounds
and senses we labor hard to prove; that nature
made many a blundering trial with the scaled and
feathered folk, but all her finished summing up of
flight she centred in this her favorite, the high-
born, cave-born Bat, that clad in exquisite furs,
mounted on silent silken wings, equipped with
wonderful senses, has so long led his blameless
life so near our eyes, and yet so little on our ken.
With strength in his body and courage in his
heart, Atalapha now led the twilight host that
sallied forth from hollow tree or bosky hemlock
169
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
top. Each evening their routine was the same.
After sunset the horde of smaller Bats, then with
twilight the smaller group of the Great Northern
Bats. Leaving their den, they flew first to the
river, where they drank as they sped along. Then
for half an hour they hawked and fed on insects
taken on the wing. Last came a time of social
play, racing, chasing, games of tag and _ touch-
me-not, with others of a dangerous kind. One of
these, a favorite in time of heavy heat, was shoot-
ing the chutes where the Saranac leaps over a rocky
ledge to be forgotten in foam. The reckless young-
sters of the Bat fraternity would drop for a mo-
ment in the arrowy flood above the fall, and as
they were shot into the abyss, would ply their
dripping wings and sail through the spray-mist
to repeat the chute, perhaps. There was no lack
of danger in the sport, and more than one that
summer took the leap to be seen no more.
Still another game of hazard had a little vogue.
In the Saranac were great grown Trout; at the
rare times when the Northern Bats chanced out
before the sun was wholly gone, these Trout would
leap at flies that the lesser Bats were chasing, and
more than once a Bat that ventured low was leaped
at by the monster Trout and barely escaped.
Then in a spirit of daredevil did Atalapha skim
170
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
low and tempt the Trout to leap. None but the
largest would rise to such a bait. But rise they
did, and nothing saved the king of the air from
the king of the pool but a marvellous upward
bound of lightning speed. There was no lack of
excitement in it, but when at last a little Bat was
caught and gulped by a Trout of arrowy swiftness,
and Atalapha himself had the skin ripped from his
tail tip, the sport of trouting lost its charm.
Atalapha’s den was now a knot-hole in an oak.
The doorway was a tight fit as every cave-dweller
desires it, but inside was ample room and every
comfort that shape and sheltered place could give.
But on a luckless day it occurred to an unscrupu-
lous Flicker with defective property instincts that
he could improve this hole by enlargement and
convert it to uses of his own. So after listening
to his nagging tap, tap, tap, all one day, and seeing
the hole get unpleasantly large, Atalapha was
forced to seek another den.
The place of his choice was not unlike the first,
but the entry and den both were larger. Yet the
former was too small to admit a Red Squirrel, and
the Bat moved in.
Next morning when he returned from his early
meal and was going off to sleep, he was aroused
by a peculiar scratching. Then the hole was
171
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
darkened and in came a great furry creature with
big, black shiny eyes. At first it filled the Bat with
fear, for there was no escape. But it was only a
gentle mother Flying Squirrel looking for a nursery
den. To a being of such exquisite sense power as
a Bat, much knowledge comes without a sound or
a visible sign, and in some such hidden way a some-
thing told Atalapha, “Be not afraid. This gentle,
soft-furred, big-eyed creature will never do you
harm.”
Thus it was that Atalapha and Fawn-eyes came
to share the den, and when the babies of the Flying
Squirrel came, they found a sort of foster-brother
in the Bat. Not that he fed or tended them, but
each knew the other would do him no harm; both
kinds loved to be warm, and they snuggled together
in the common den, in closeness of friendship that
grew as the season passed.
THE WINGED TIGER AND THE UNKNOWN DEATH
“ Hoo-hoo-ho-hooooo !”” A deep, booming sound—
‘it came filling all the valley. Atalapha heard
it with a scornful indifference. Fawn-eyes heard
it with a little anxiety. For this was the hoot
of the Great Horned Owl, the terror of the woods,
the deadly, perhaps the deadliest, enemy of Bat
and Flying Squirrel. Both had heard it before,
172
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
and many times, but now it was so near that they
must be prepared to face and in some way balk
the flying death, or suffer hunger till it passed.
“ Hoo-hoo-hoooooooo0 /”’ it came yet nearer. Old
Fire-eyes and his mate were hunting in this valley
now. It behooved all lesser revellers to heed their’
every move, and keep in mind that the grim and
glaring tiger of the pines might any moment be
upon them. Atalapha asked no odds but clear
sky-way. Fawn-eyes had little fear except for her
brood, and for herself asked only a thicket of lac-
ing boughs. And both went forth as the shadows
fell.
Then came a rare and wrenching chain of ill
events! Fawn-eyes was doing her best to swoop
across a twenty-five-foot space, when the huge and
silent enemy perceived her, and wheeled with
lightning dash to win the prey. But she reached
the trunk and scrambling round took another flying
leap for the next tree, hoping to gain safety in some
mass of twigs, or, safer still, a hollow trunk that
was not far away. But the Owl was quick, and
wheeling, diving, darting, was ever coming closer.
The swooping of his huge bulk, the vast commotion
of his onset, caught Atalapha’s attention. Hecame
flying by, out of curiosity perhaps, and was roused
to find first that his enemy was astir and next that
173
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
the victim pursued was Fawn-eyes, his friend and
den mate. It takes but little to make a Bat swoop
for a foeman’s face, even though he turn before he
strike it, and the combination brought the big Bat
like an arrow at the Owl’s great head. He ducked
and blinked, and Fawn-eyes reached the hollow
tree, to scramble in and hide in a far small crack,
the Owl in close pursuit. Again Atalapha swooped
at the big bird’s head, rebounding as Old Fire-eyes
ducked, but rebounding—alas! right into the very
claws of the second Owl who had hurried when she
heard the snapping of her partner’s bill. And down
she struck! Had Atalapha been ten times as big
he would have been riddled, crushed, and torn;
but his body, small and sinewy, was over-reached.
Not the claws but the heel had struck, and drove
him down, so he dropped into the hollow tree,
and scrambling quickly found a sheltering cranny
in the wall.
Now was there a strange state of siege. Two
huge Owls, one out, one in the hollow trunk, and
in two lesser passages the Bat and the Flying
Squirrel. The Owls had never lost sight of their
prey, but they could not get their claws into the
holes. Again and again they forced in one armed
toe, but the furred ones crouching in their refuges
could by shrinking back keep just beyond the
174
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
reach of that deadly grip. Sometimes the Owl,
failing to reach with claw, would turn his huge
face to the place, snap his bill, and glare with those
shiny eyes or make the tree trunk boom with his
loud ‘‘ Hoo-hoo-hoo-ho!”’
Sometimes one of the monsters went off hunting.
But always one stayed there on guard; and so
the whole night passed. It was only when the
sunrise was at hand that remembrance of their
own unfed, unguarded nestlings took the Owls
away; and so the siege was ended.
There were other friendships and other hazards
in the life of Atalapha. Many of the male com-
munity were good fellows, to meet and pass in
friendly evening flight. His father, now quite
small it seemed, was of the brotherhood, meeting
and passing or ceding little courtesies of the road
as is the way of Bats; but he was a comrade, noth-
ing more.
Some of these Bats lived in little groups of two
or three, but most had a single cell where they slept.
The little Black and Brown-faced Bats might roost
in swarms, but the Great Northern Courser of
the night more often dens alone. This was the
habit of Atalapha, except during that brief summer
time that he shared his home with Fawn-eyes.
The perils of his life were first the birds of prey,
175
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
the silent, lumbering Owls; the late, or very early,
flying Falcons; the Weasel, or the Red Squirrel
that might find and enter his den while he slept;
the Trout that might leap and catch him as he
took his drink a-wing. And still worse than these
the deadly Acarus that lodges in the Bat’s deep
fur. It is sure that the more the Bats harbor
together in numbers, the more they are plagued
by the Acarus. Yet there is a remedy. Instinct
and example were doubtless the power that had
taught him, for Atalapha clearly knew that when
some Acarus lodged in his fur and made itself felt
as a stinging tickly nuisance, the only course for
him was a thorough hunt. Hanging himself up
by one foot, he worked with the other, aided by his
jaws, his lips, his tongue, and the supple thumbs
on either wing.
There was no part of his body that he could not
reach; in him the instinct of cleanliness was strong,
:2,6 SO he never suffered vermin in his fur. When, as
“2 Sit chanced, through no fault of his the den became
infested, there was but one remedy, that was move
out.
Yet one other peculiar menace was there in the
lives of the Saranac community. Far up on the
higher waters one of the big human things that can-
not fly had built a huge nest. Across the river, too,
176
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
it had made a thing like a smooth Beaver dam and,
Beaver-like, it had cut the trees for a wide space
around. All this was comprehensible, but there
was another strange affair. The two-legged thing
had built a huge round nest of stones in the side of a
hill and then when it was lined with tree trunks, it
glowed by night with the red mystery, and strange
fumes came pouring out, ascending to the sky in a
space which changed with the wind. .There was a
weird attraction about this high place of different
air. Bats would flutter near the furnace as it
glowed by night and sent an upward wind of heat
and pungent smell. Insects came, it is true, at-
tracted by the light, but surely the Bats did not
come for that, as there were plenty of insects else-
where. Perhaps it was to taste the tingling, danger-
ous vapors that they came, just as some men find
pleasure in teasing a coiled rattler or lingering
barely out of reach of a chained and furious Bear.
Some Bats came pursuing their lawful prey, and if
they chanced to be flying low might enter the outer
edge of the deadly gas before they knew, for it had
no form or hue.
Atalapha plunged right into the vapor of the
lime kiln once. He went gasping, sputtering
through, nearly falling, but was able to sustain his
flight till his breath came back, and slowly he
177
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Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
recovered. Others were less lucky, and more than
one of the birds of prey had learned to linger near
the fiery kiln, for feathered things as well as Bats
were often so stupefied by its fumes that they be-
came an easy prey.
If it had any naming in the memory of the Bats,
it was the Place of the Unknown Death.
ATALAPHA WOUNDED AND CAPTIVE
A good naturalist who found Bats worthy of his
whole life study has left us a long account of a Bat
roost where ten thousand of the lesser tribes had
colonized the garret of a country dweller’s home.
It was in a land of flies, mosquitoes, and many sing-
ing pests with stings, but all about the house was
an Eden where such insects were unknown. Each
Bat needs many hundred little insects every night,
what wonder that they had swept the region clear.
Slow-moving science has gathered up facts, and
deciphered a part of the dim manuscript of truth
that has in it the laws of life.
We know now that typhoid, malaria, yellow
fever, and many sorts of dreadful maladies are
borne about by the mosquitoes and the fly. With-
Fe oe out such virus carriers these deadly pests would
: ~ die out. And of all the creatures in the woods
#< there is none that does more noble work for man
178
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Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
than the skimming, fur-clad Bat. Perhaps he kills
a thousand insects in a night. All of these are
possibly plague-bearers. Some of them are surely
infected and carry in their tiny baleful bodies the
power to desolate a human home. Yes! every
time a Bat scoops up a flying bug it deals a telling
blow at mankind’s foes. There is no creature
winged or walking in the woods that should be
better prized, protected, blessed, than this, the
harmless, beautiful, beneficent Bat.
And yet, young Haskins of the Mill, when his
uncle gave him a shotgun for his birthday, must
need begin with practice on these fur-clad swallows
of the night that skimmed about the milldam when
the sun went down behind the nearer hills.
Again and again he fired without effect. The
flittering swarm was baffling in its speed or its
tortuous course. But ammunition was plentiful,
and he blazed away. One or two of the smaller
Bats dropped into the woods, while others escaped
only to die of their wounds. The light was nearly
gone from the western sky when Atalapha, too,
came swooping down the valley about the limpid
pond. His long, sharp wings were set as he sailed
to drink from the river surface. His unusual size
caught the gunner’s eye, he aimed and fired. With
a scream of pain the great Bat fell in the stream,
179
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
and the heartless human laughed triumphant, then
ran to the margin to look for his victim.
One wing was useless, but Atalapha was swim-
ming bravely with the other. He had nearly
reached the land when the boy reached out with
a stick and raked him ashore, then stooped to se-
cure the victim; but Atalapha gave such a succes-
sion of harsh shrieks of pain and anger that the
boy recoiled. He came again, however, with a tin
can; the wounded Bat was roughly pushed in with
a stick and carried to the house to be shut up ina
cage.
That boy was not deliberately cruel or wicked.
He was simply ignorant and thoughtless. He
had no idea that the Bat was a sensitive, high-
strung creature, a mortal of absolutely blameless
life, a hidden worker, a man-defender from the evil
powers that plot and walk in darkness, the real
Brownie of the woods, the uncrowned king of the
kindly little folk of Shadowland; and so in striking
down Atalapha the fool had harmed his own, but
the linking of his life with the inner chain of life
was hidden from him. Cruelty was far from his
thoughts; it began with the hunting instinct, then
came the desire to possess, and the gratification of
a kindly curiosity—all good enough. But the
methods were hard on the creature caught. The
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Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
boy pressed his nose against the close wire netting
and stared at the wet and trembling prisoner.
Then the boy’s little sister came, and gazed with
big blue eyes of fear and wonder.
“Oh, give it something to eat,” was her kind
suggestion. So bread, for which the wounded one
had no appetite, was pushed between the bars.
Next morning of course the bread was there un-
touched.
“Try it with some meat,” suggested one; so meat,
and later, fish, fruit, vegetables, and, lastly, in-
sects were offered to the sad-faced captive, with-
out getting any response.
Then the mother said: “Have you given it any
water?” No, they had never thought of that. A
saucerful was brought, and Atalapha in a fever
of thirst drank long and deeply, then refreshed he
hung himself from a corner of the cage and fell
asleep. Next morning the insects and all the
fresh meat were gone; and now the boy and his
sister had no difficulty in feeding their captive.
THE WINGS THAT SEE
Atalapha’s hurt was merely a flesh wound in the
muscle of his breast. He recovered quickly, and
in a week was well again. His unhinging had been
largely from the shock, for the exquisite nervous
_ 181
Wide,
pe
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
sensibilities of the Bat are perhaps unequalled
in the animal world, how fine none know that
have not been confronted with much evidence.
There was once, long ago, a cruel man, a student
of natural history, who was told that a Bat has
such marvellous gift of nerves, and such a tactile
sense that it could see with its wings if its eyes
were gone. He did not hesitate to put it to the
proof, and has left a record that sounds to us like
a tale of magic.
There was sickness in the small settlement, and
the doctor calling, learned of the children’s captive.
He knew of Spallanzani’s account and was minded
to test the truth; but he was not minded to rob a
fellow-being of its precious eyesight. He could
find other means.
Opening the cage, he seized the fur-clad prisoner,
then dropping deftly a little soft wax on each
eyelid, he covered all with adhesive plaster so
that the eyes were closed, absolutely sealed; there
was no possibility of one single ray of entering
light. And then he let the captive fly in the room.
Strong once more on the wing, Atalapha rose at
once, in wavering flight, then steadied himself
and, hovering in the air, he dashed for the ceiling.
But a moment before striking he wheeled and
skimmed along the cornice, not touching the wall,
182
iow WW a aw
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
and not in seeming doubt. The doctor reached
out to catch him, but the Bat dodged instantly
and successfully. The doctor pursued with an
insect net in hand, but the blinded Bat had some
other sense that warned him. Darting across the
room, he passed through the antlers of a Deer’s
head, and though he had to shorten wing on each
side, he touched them not. When the pursuing
net drove him from the ceiling, he flew low among
the chairs, passing under legs and between rungs
at full speed, with not a touch. Then in a mo-
ment of full career near the floor he halted and
hovered like a humming-bird before the tiny crack
under the door, as though it promised escape. All
along this he fluttered, then at the corner he fol-
lowed it upward, and, hovering at the keyhole,
he made a long pause. This seemed to be a way
of escape, for the fresh air came in. But he decided
that it was too small, for he did not go near, and he
certainly did not see it. Then he darted toward the
stove, but recoiled before too close. The roaring
draft of the damper held him a moment, but he
quickly flew, avoiding the stovepipe wire, and hov-
ered at another hairlike crack along the window.
Now the doctor stretched many threads in angles
of the room and set small rings of wire in the nar-
row ways. Driven upward from the floor, the
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Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
blinded prisoner skimmed at speed along the high
corners of the room, he dodged the threads, he
shortened wing and passed in full flight through
the rings, and he wheeled from every obstacle as
though he had perfect vision, exact knowledge of
its place and form.
Then, last, the doctor gave a crucial test. On
the table in the middle of the room he set a dish of
water and released a blue-bottle fly. Every one
present was cautioned to keep absolutely still.
Atalapha was hanging by his hind feet from a corner
of the room, vainly trying to scratch the covering
from his eyes. Presently he took wing again.
The dead silence reassured him. He began once
more his search for escape. He made a great
square-cornered flight all around the door. He
traversed at a wing length the two sides of the
sash, and then inspected the place where the
cross-bars met. He passed a mouse hole, with a
momentary pause, but hovered long at a tiny
knot-hole in the outer wall. Then reviving his
confidence in the silence of the room, he skimmed
several times round and, diving toward the pan,
drank as he flew. Now the fly that had settled on
the wall went off with a loud hum. Instantly
Atalapha wheeled in pursuit. It darted past the
Deer’s antlers and through the loops and zigzag
184
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
threads round here and there, but not for long.
Within half the room’s length the fly was snatched
in full career. Its legs and wings went floating
away and the body made a pleasant bite of food
for the gifted one.
What further proof could any ask, what stronger
test could be invented? The one with the won-
derful wings was the one with the tactile power
that poor blind man gropes hard for words to
picture, even in the narrow measure that he can
comprehend it.
Tired with the unwonted flight, Atalapha was
hanging from the wall. His silky seal-brown sides
were heaving just a little with the strain. The
butterfly net was deftly dropped upon him; then
with warm water and skilful care the plasters and
wax were removed, and the prisoner restored to
his cage, to be a marvel and to furnish talk for
many a day as “the Bat that could see with his
wings.”
Then in the second week of captive life there
was a change: the boy came no more with coarse
lumps of food, the sister alone was feeder and jailer,
and she was listless. She barely renewed the
water, and threw in the food, taking little note of
the restless prisoner or the neglected cage. Then
one day she did not come at all, and next day
185
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
after hasty feeding left the door unlocked. That
night Atalapha, ever searching for escape, trying
every wire and airhole, pushed back the door, then
skimmed into the room, and through an open win-
dow launched out into the glorious night again
upon his glorious wings, free! free! free! And
he swooped and sailed in the sweet fresh air
of the starry night, and sailed and soared and
sang.
And who shall tell the history of his bright young
jailers at the mill? Little is known but this: the
pestilence born of the flies alighted on that home,
and when the grim one left it there were two new
mounds, short mounds, in the sleeping ground that
is overlooked by the wooden tower. Who can tell
us what snowflake set the avalanche arolling, or
what was the one, the very spark which, quenched,
had saved the royal city from the flames. This
only we know: that the Bats were destroying
the bearers of the plague about that house; many
Bats had fallen by the gun, and the plague struck
in that house where the blow was hardest to be
borne. Wedonot know. It is a chain with many
links; we have not light to see; and the only guide
that is always safe to follow in the gloom is the
golden thread of kindness, the gospel of Assisi’s
Saint.
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Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
ATALAPHA MEETS WITH SILVER-BROWN
The Thunder Moon was passing now. Atalapha
was well and strong as ever, yes, more than ever
before. He was now in his flush of prime. His
ample wings were longest in the tribe, his fur was
full and rich; and strong in him was a heart of
courage, a latent furnace of desire. Strange im-
pulses and vague came on him at times. So he
went careering over the mountains, or fetching
long, sweeping flights over the forest lakes from
Far Champlain to Placid’s rippling blue.
The exuberant joy of flight was perhaps the
largest impulse, but the seeking for change, the
hankering for adventure were there.
He sailed a long way toward Marcy Mount one
night, and was returning in the dawning when he
was conscious of nearing a place of peril. A dull
glow in the valley ahead—the Unknown Death.
And he veered to the west to avoid that invisible
column of poison, when far to the east of him
he heard a loud screeching, and peering toward the
broad band of day that lay behind the eastern hill-
tops, he saw a form go by at speed with a larger
one behind it.
Curiosity, no doubt, was the first motive to draw
him near, and then he saw a Bat, one of his own
187
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
kind, a stranger to him and of smaller finer make
than his robust comrades on the Saranac. Its
form brought back memories of his mother, and
it was with something more than passing sympathy
he saw she was being done to death by a bird of
prey. It was early, but already the ravenous
Chicken-hawk was about and haunting a place
that had yielded him good hunting before. But
why should a Bat fear the Chicken-hawk? There
is no flyer in the sky that can follow the Great
Hoary Bat, but follow he did, and the Bat, making
wretched haste to escape and seeming to forget the
tricks and arrowy speed of her kind, was losing in
an easy race. Why? Something had sapped
her strength. Maybe she did not know what,
maybe she never knew, but her brain was reeling,
her lungs were choking, she had unwittingly crossed
the zone of the Unknown Death; and the Hawk
screeched aloud for the triumph already in sight.
The fierce eyes were glaring, the cruel beak was
gaping, the deadly talons reached. But the stim-
ulus of death so near made the numbed Bat dodge
and wheel, and again; but each time by a narrower
space escaped. She tried to reach a thicket, but
the Hawk was overcunning and kept between.
One more plunge, the victim uttered a low cry of
despair, when whizz past the very eyes of the
188
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
great Hawk went a Bat, and the Hawk recoiled
before he knew that this was another. Flash,
flap, flutter, just before his eyes, and just beyond
his reach, came the newcomer full of strength and
power, quicker than lightning, absolutely scorn-
ing the slow, clumsy Hawk, while Silver-brown
dropped limply out of sight to be lost in a hemlock
top.
Now the Hawk was roused to fury. He struck
and dived and swooped again, while the Bat
skimmed round his head, flirted in his face, de-
rided him with tiny squeaks, and flouted the fell
destroyer, teasing and luring him for a while, then
left him far away as the Sea-gull leaves a ship when
it interests him no longer.
There was no deep emotion in the part the big
Bat played, there was no conscious sex instinct,
nothing but the feeling of siding with his own kind
against a foe, but he remembered the soft velvet
fur of Silver-brown as he flew, and still remembered
it a little when he hung himself up for his day
sleep in the hollow he felt was home.
THE LOVE FIRE
The Red Moon rose on Saranac, and with it
many a growing impulse rose to culmination.
Atalapha was in his glorious prime; the red blood
189
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
coursing through his veins was tingling in its red-
ness. His limbs, his wings—those magic wings
that sightless yet could see—were vibrant with his
life at its floodtide rush. His powers were in their
flush. His coat responded, and the deep rich
yellow brown that turned pale golden on his throat,
and deepened into red on his shining shoulders,
was glossed on his back with a purple sheen, while
over all the color play was showered the silver
of his frosting; like nightly stars on a shallow
summer sea where the yellow tints of weeds gleamed
through, it shone; and massing on his upper arm
formed there a band of white that spanned his
shoulders, sweeping down across his throat like a
torc on the neck of some royal rover of the horde
that harried Rome, the badge of his native excel-
lence, the proof of his self-won fame.
Rich indeed was his vestment now, but his con-
scious pride was the great long-fingered pulsatory
wings, reaching out to grasp huge handfuls of the
blue-green night, reaching, bounding, throbbing,
as they answered to the bidding of the lusty heart
within. Whether as a bending bow to hurl him-
self, its arrow, up toward the silent stars, or to
sense like fine antennz every form or barricade, or
change of heat or cold, or puff of air, yes, even hill
or river far below, that crossed or neared his unseen
190
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
path. And the golden throat gave forth in silver
notes a song of joy. Sang out Atalapha, as every
sentient being sings when life and power and the
joy of life have filled his cup brimful.
And he whirled and wheeled, and shrilled his
wildest strain, as though his joy were rounded out
complete.
How well he knew it lacked!
Deep in his heart was a craving, a longing that
he scarcely understood. His life, so full, so strong,
was only half a life; and he raced in wanton speed,
or plunged like a meteor to skim past sudden death
for the very pride and glory of his power. And
skirling he spieled the song that he may have used
as a war song, but it had no hate in its vibrant
notes; it was the outbursting now of a growing,
starkening, urging, all-dominating wish for some
one else. And he wheeled in ever-larger lightning
curves; careering he met his summer mates, all
racing like himself, all filled with the fires of youth
and health, burning and lusty life, that had reached
a culmination—all tingling as with some pungent,
in-breathed essence, racing, strenuous, eager,
hungry, hankering, craving for something that
was not yet in their lives, seeking companionship,
and yet when they met each other they wheeled
apart, each by the other shunned, and circling,
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‘Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
yet voyaging in the upper air they went, drifting,
sailing alone, though in a flock, away to the far
southwest.
Fervent in the fervent throng and lightning
swift among the flashing speeders was Atalapha
in his new ecstatic mood. He had perhaps no
clear thought of his need and void, but a picture
came again and again in his mind, the form of a
companion, not a lusty brother of the bachelor
crew, but the soft, slight form of Silver-brown.
And as his feelings burned, the impulse grew and
his fleet wings bore him like a glancing star, away
and away to the valley where ten nights back he
had seen her drop as the Death Hawk stooped to
seize her.
Star! red star of the Red Moon nights!
Star blazing in the sky, as a ruddy firefly glowing
in the grass, as a lamp in a beacon burning!
Oh! be the wanderer’s star to-night and guide him
to the balm-wine tree!
Oh! shine where the cooling draft awaits the
fevered lips and burning!
The strong wings lashed on the ambient wind,
and that beautiful body went bounding, swinging,
bounding. High, holding his swift line, he swept
o’er Saranac and on. Low, glancing like an arrow
newly sped, he traversed Pitchoff’s many-shouldered
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Atalapha, 2 Winged Brownie
peak. Like a falling star he dropped to Placid’s
broad blue breast and made across the waving
forest heads.
For where? Did he know? For the upper
valley of the river, for the place of the Unknown
Death, for the woods, for the very tree in whose
bosky top he had had the last, the fleeting glimpse
of the soft little Silver-brown.
There is no hunger for which there is no food.
There is no food that will not come for the hunger
that seeks and seeks, and will not cease from seek-
ing. Speeding in airy wheels in the early night,
careering around the hemlock top as though it held,
and had held these many days, the magnet that
he had never realized till now—and many of his
brethren passing near wove mystic traceries in
the air; he sensed them all about, but heeded none
—a compass for a compass has no message—when
a subtle influence turned him far away, another
power, not eyes nor tactile wings; and he wheeled
with eager rush as one who sees afar a signal long
awaited.
There! Yes! A newcomer of his race, of dif-
ferent form perhaps, and size and coat, but these
were things he had no mind to see. This had a
different presence, an overmastering lure, a speech-
less bidding not to be resisted, a sparkling of the
193
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
distant spring to the sandworn traveller parched,
athirst.
Now sped he like a pirate of the air. Now fled
she like a flying yacht gold-laden, away, away, and
the warm wind whistled, left behind. But the pirate
surely wins when the prize is not averse to being
taken. Not many a span of the winding stream,
not many a wing-beat of that flight ere Atalapha
was skimming side by side with a glorified Silver-
brown. How rich and warm was that coat. How
gentle, alluring the form and the exquisite presence
that told without sounds of a spirit that also had
hungered.
“‘He-o00, he-ooo, he-ooo!” loud sang Atalapha
in ecstasy of the love dream that came true.
“He-oo0, he-ooo, he-ooo!”’ and she sailed by his side.
And as they sped the touch of lips or ears or wing-
tips was their lover greeting, or tilting each away,
as side by side they flew, their warm soft breasts
would meet and the beating hearts together beat in
time. The seeing wings supplied their comprehen-
sion in a hundred thrills, magnetic, electric, over-
whelming. So they sailed in the blue on their bridal
flight; so the hunger-mad joined in a feast of delight;
so the fever-burnt drank at the crystal spring, for
the moon that was full was the Red Love Moon,
and it blazed on the brawling river.
Atalapha, a Winged Brownte
THE RACE WITH THE SWALLOWS
The fiercer the fire the faster it fades; and when
seven suns had sunk on Marcy Vale, Atalapha and
his bride, and the merry mated host that came that
night from Saranac, were roaming in the higher
winds with calmer flights and moods. The coursers
of the night went often now alone. The ardor of
the honeymoon was over, and strange to tell with
the dulling of that fire the colors of their coats
dulled, too.
August the Red Moon passed, and according to
their custom the Bats prepared to go, like ancient
pilgrims, in two great flights, the males in one, their
consorts in a different later company.
Atalapha had seen no more of Silver-brown dur-
ing the last week than he had of many others, and
the law was easily obeyed. She was living with her
kind, and he with his.
Then came again the stirring times when the
nights turned cold. At last there was a nip of frost,
and a great unrest ran through the Bat community.
Next morning, after feed time, Atalapha made not
for his lurking place, but wheeled toward the open,
and after him the flittering host sailing and circling
high. They were not dashing in feverish excite-
ment as a month before, but wheeling upward as
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Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
with a common purpose, so when the great spiral
flock had soared so high that it was like smoke
reflected in the river far below, its leader wheeled
in a final wheel on the air current that suited him
best, all followed, and their journey was begun. A
troop of Swallows came fleet-winged from the north,
and so the two swarms went together.
It seems impossible for two swift creatures not
actually companions or mates to travel the same
road long without a race.
At first each Bat that happened to be near a
Swallow took care not to be left behind. But the
interest grew, and not half the first little valley
was crossed before the rivalry between chance
Swallow and chance Bat had grown till the whole
Swallow army was racing the whole army of Bats,
and Atalapha was matched with a splendid fellow
in steely blue, whose wings went whistling in the
wind.
Away they sped, keeping the same air level and
straggling out as the different individuals showed
their different powers. Who that knows the merry,
glancing Swallow can doubt that it must win?
Who that has watched the Northern Bat could
ever have a question? Yet the race was nearly
even. There were Bats that could not hold their
own with certain Swallows, and there were Swal-
196
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
lows that strained very hard indeed to keep near
the Bats. Both sped away at their swiftest pace.
Asecond valley was crossed and then a low range of
hills. Both armies now were strung out at full
length, and yet seemed nearly matched. But there
was one trick that the Swallows could not keep
from doing, that was curveting in the air. The
habit of zigzag flight was part of their nature. The
Bats often do it, too, but now, with speed as their
aim, they laid aside all playful pranks of flight, and,
level-necked like a lot of Wild Geese, flapping stead-
ily at a regular beat, beat, beat, dropping or rising
as their sensitive feelings showed was wise when the
air current changed, their wings went beat, beat,
beat. Another valley crossed, Atalapha made
better choice of the air levels, and his rival dropped
behind. His kinsmen followed. The Swallows
began to lose a little, then, losing ground, lost
heart; and before another river had been passed
the first of the Swallows had dropped behind the
last of the Bats, and silken wings had beaten
whistling plumes.
LOST ON THE WATER
Most migrants seek the sea if it be anywhere near
their course, no doubt because of the great guide
line of its margin. Down the Connecticut Valley
197
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
they had sped, and were not far from the sounding
shore when the leader of the Bats led his following
into hanging quarters for the day.
They were a tired lot, especially the youngsters,
whose first long flight it was, and when the evening
meal hour came most of them preferred to go on
sleeping. The night was waning, the morning was
coming, when the leader roused the host, and all
went out to hunt. The great game season was
over and food was so scarce that the sun arose while
many yet were hunting, and now it was time to be
moving on the long south march. Turning the gold
of his breast to the southward, Atalapha with his
friends in long array behind went swinging easily
down the valley to the sea, when a change of wind
was felt, a chilly blast from the north arose. The
leader soared at once to seek a pleasanter level, but
found it worse, then sank so far that at last they
were tormented with eddies answering to the con-
tour of the hills, and flitting low, were surprised
with a flurry of snow that sent them skurrying into
sheltered places, where they hung and shivered,
and so they passed the rest of that day and the
night, after a slowly gathered meal.
The dawn time came, and the Bats were all astir,
for the spirit of unrest was on them. The snow was
gone and the weather mild, so they held their course
198
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
till the crawling sea was far below them, and its
foaming sandy shore was the line that guided their
army now.
The day had opened fair, but they had not sailed
an hour before the sky was darkened, a noisy wind
was blowing in changing ways, and an overstream
of air came down that was stinging, numbing cold.
Wise Bats know that the upper air may be warm
when the world is cold, and Atalapha soaring led
in a long, strong, upward slope, and on a warmer
plane he sped away. But ina little while the world
below was hidden in a flying spume of fog that was
driven with whiteness, and in that veil the Bats
again were lost: only the few strong flyers near him
could be seen; but Atalapha sped on. He saw no
landmarks, but he had a winged thing’s compass
sense. So he flew high above the veiled world,
never halting or fearing—but on.
He would surely have kept the line and outflown
the storm but for a strange mischance that brought
him face to face with an ancient foe.
The mizzling fog and driving sleet had ceased for
a little so that he could see some distance around.
A few of his daily comrades were there, but among
them flying also was the huge brown form of a Hawk.
He was sailing and flapping by turns, and easily
wheeling southward rather than moving by direct
199
NS
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Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
flight. But as soon as he saw the Bat so near he
turned his cruel head with those hungry yellow eyes
and made for him, with the certainty that here was
an easy meal.
Atalapha was a little cold but otherwise fresh,
and he eluded the onset with scarcely an effort,
but the Hawk, too, was fresh. He swooped upward
again and again, so the flight became a succession
of zigzags. Then the fog and snow closedin. The
Hawk made another pounce which Atalapha easily
dodged with a swift upwheel that took him far from
danger of those claws, but also, as it happened, into
a thicker, chillier cloud than ever, and so far as he
could see, he was alone in space. His other sense,
the vision of his wings, was dulled by the cold; it
told him that the enemy was not so far away, but
that was all; and he sped in the white darkness of
the mist, as fast as he could, away from the boding
menace.
Still he went at his steady pace. He saw no more
of the Hawk, but the fog and the snow grew heavier;
then the wind arose and he followed, for he could
not face it, and flew on and on. The day should
have come in brightness, but the clouds were heavy
above, so he sailed and sailed. Then when sure he
was safe and would descend to rest, he lowered
through the snow-laden wind to find that there was
200
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
nothing below but the sea, heaving, expanding, ap-
palling, so he rose and flew again for a long, long
time, then he descended to find—the awful sea.
He arose once more, flew on and on and on, and still
on, but the sea was below him. Then the snow-
storm ceased, the sky cleared off as the sun began
to go down, and the Bat’s little eyes could glance
round and round to see nothing but heaving sea,
no sight of tree or land or any other Bats, nothing
but the dark, hungry waters. He flew, not knowing
whither or why, the only guide being the wind now
falling; he was no longer numbed with cold, but he
was wearied to the very bone.
Yet the only choice was go on or go down, so he
flapped and sailed as he had since the dawn, and
when the favoring breeze died away he soared a
little, hoping to find another helpful wind, and
sailed with his worn, weary wings—sailed as the
hunger pang weakened him—-sailed, not the least
knowing whither. Had he had the mind of an-
other being, that thought might have struck him
down, but his animal frame was strong, his vision of
danger was small, and he sailed ever onward and on.
THE REMORSELESS SEA
An hour, and another hour, slowly passed; the
sun had gone, the soft light that he loved was com-
201
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
ing down, but his spirit was failing. He did not
know where he was going, or whether he should
turn and follow the sun till he dropped. As soon as
the doubt came on him, he felt his strength go. He
kept on, but it was a feeble flutter, with little direc-
tion. Surely now the sea would swallow him up, as
it doubtless had done many of his fellows. His
courage never really failed till now. His flight was
drifting downward, when far behind he heard a
strange loud cry, a sound of many voices, and a
backward glance showed skimming low over the
water a far-flung string of long-winged birds, smaller
than Hawks, black and white, whistling as they
flew. The instinct to save himself caused him to
rise higher, but his flight was slow now, and the
broad-fronted horde of ocean roamers came up and
past him with a whirring and a whistling, to fade
in the gloom to the south.
They had paid no heed to him, yet when they
were gone they helped him. He did not know that
these were Golden Plovers migrating. He did not
know that they were headed for the ocean islands
where winter never comes, but the force of their
example was not lost. Example is the great teacher
of all wild things, and spurred by the clamorous
band, Atalapha took fresh heart and, following their
very course, flapped on, wearily, hungrily, slowly
202
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Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
for him, but on. The night wind followed the sun
for a time, but Atalapha put forth a little of his
feeble strength to rise till he found an upper breeze
that was warm and would help him.
All day from earliest dawn he had flown, in the
early part at least in peril of his life, not a bite had
he eaten, but on and on he kept, not the swift,
swooping flight of the arrowy Bat as he comes when
the shadows fall on Saranac, but slowly flapping and
low, like a Heron flying with heavy, flagging flight,
without curvet, but headed with steady purpose,
swerving not, and on.
Six hundred miles had he flown; his little breast
was heaving, the rich dark fur was matted with the
spray, the salt on his lips was burning, but on and
on he flew.
Flap,. flap, flap. There was no sound but the
moan of the sea, nor sight for his eyes to rest on,
nor hint that his magic wings could sense a place of
refuge; but on and feebly on.
Flap—flap—flap—there was naught but the
pitiless ocean, and the brave little heart was sink-
ing, and yet on—on.
Flap—flap. His eyes were long dimmed. His
wings were forgetting their captain, but on—on—
in the wake of the Plovers, still on.
The All-mother, inexorable, remorseless always,
203
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
sends, at least sometimes, a numb sleep to dull
the last pang, and the wing-wearied flyer was for-
getting—but on in a slow, sad rhythm that was
surely near the end, when away out ahead in the
darkness came a volume of sound, a whistling,
the same as had passed him.
Like a thrill it ran through his frame, like food
and drink it entered his body, and he bounded
away at a better pace. He put forth his feeble
weeny, strength and flew and flew. Then the clamor grew
%,—." loud. A great shore appeared, and all along the
ZA { strand were the Plovers running and whistling.
; ‘ Oh! haven! oh, heaven at last! Oh! rest. And
\ he sailed beyond the sand, there flung outspread,
shivered a little, and lay still.
/ ~~ 4 The remorseless All-mother, the kindly All-
if Soo that loves ever best her strong children,
aL 2S “SG came and stood over him. She closed his eyes in
a deathlike sleep, she flirted the sand sedge over
Pen la him, that no shore-mew nor evil creature of the
sea might do him harm. So he slept; and the
asad warm wind sang.
THE BROWNIES OF THE BLOOD ROYAL
The sandflies fluttered over him and the Plovers
whistled along the shore as he lay, when the sun
204
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
arose, but the All-mother was kind, had blown the
grass about him; it hid him from the hungry Gull
and from the sun’s noon rays. The little tide of
mid-ocean rose on the beach but did not reach him
in his deathlike sleep. The second tide had risen
and gone, and the sun had sunk in the dark western
waters before he stirred. He shivered all over,
then slowly revived; the captain awoke, took anew
the command of the ship—Atalapha was himself
once more. He was conscious but weak, and burnt
with a fervent thirst.
His wings were strong but bone-tired and stiff.
Spreading them out, he rose with an effort. The
water was there. He sailed over it and dipped his
lips only to sputter it out. Why had he forgotten?
Had not he learnt that lesson?
With parched and burning tongue he sailed in-
land. A broad, rocky pool was dragging down a
fragment of the bright sky to contrast it with
the dull ground. He knew this was right. He
sailed and dipped. Oh, joy! Sweet, sweet water!
Oh, blessed balm and comfort! Sweet and cool
with recent rain! He drank till the salt was washed
from his burning lips. He drank till the fever
fled, till his body’s pores were filled, till his wings
were cool and moist, and now his brain was clear,
and with strength renewed, he swept through the
205
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
air, and about that pool found a plenteous feast—
found food in a glad abundance.
* * * * * * *
Who would follow his unheroic winter life in
those isles of eternal summer? Or who will doubt
the spring unrest that surely comes, though there
be no vernalization of the hills? Or the craving
for home and at last the bold dash on a favoring
wind over ocean’s broad, pitiless expanse, with the
clamoring birds, and of his landing, not broken,
but worn, in the pines of a sandy coast, and the
northwest flight on the southeast wind, with his
kin once more, till again ere the change of the moon
he was back on the reaches of Saranac, chasing the
fat noctuas, scooping the green darapsas, or tear-
ing the orange tiger-moths that one time looked
so big and strong to him?
You may see him if you will, along the pond
above Haskins’ mill; you will know him by his
size and marvellous flight. You may see him, too,
if you spend a winter in the Bermudas, for he loves
to take that vast heroic flight just as an Eagle
glories in the highest blue for the joy of being
alone on the noblest plane of exploit.
Yet another thing you should know: If you seek
the cool green forest aisles made by the Beaver
206
Atalapha, a Winged Brownie
pond east of Marcy you will marvel when the
Winged Brownies come. They are there in merry
hordes; the least come first, and quite late in the
evening, if you watch, you will see a long-winged
Bat in velvet fur of silver-brown with a silver bar
on either shoulder. Still later in the season, if
you have wonderful eyes, you may see flying with
her two others of the royal blood, with orange fur
and silver on the shoulders, only in their case the
silver is complete and goes right across, exactly
as it does on Atalapha.
207
VI
The Wild Geese
of Wyndygoul
VI
The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul
THE BUGLING ON THE LAKE
HO that knows
the Wild North-
land of Canada
~ “can picture
wed FR that blue and
* green wilderness without
seisingt in his heart the trumpet “honk” of the Wild
Geese? Who that has ever known it there can fail
to get again, each time he hears, the thrill it gave
when first for him it sounded on the blue lake in
the frame of green? Older than ourselves is the
thrill of the gander-clang. For without a doubt that
trumpet note in springtime was the inspiring notice
to our far-back forebears in the days that were that pes LS
the winter famine was at end—the Wild Geese come, sellin oS
the snow will melt, and the game again be back * al * if ‘
on the browning hills. The ice-hell of the winter <3 ‘Zz :
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2Ir
The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul
time is gone; the warm bright heaven of the green
and perfect land is here. This is the tidings it
tells, and when I hear the honker-clang from the
flying wedge in the sky, that is the message it
brings me with a sudden mist in the eyes and a
choking in the throat, so I turn away, if another
be there, unless that other chance to be one like
myself, a primitive, a “hark back” who, too, re-
members and who understands.
So when I built my home in the woods and
glorified a marshy swamp into a deep blue
brimming lake, with Muskrats in the water and
..r intertwining boughs above, my memory, older
than my brain, harked hungry for a sound
that should have been. I knew not what; I
tried to find by subtle searching, but it was
chance in a place far off that gave the clue. I
want to hear the honkers call, I long for the clang
of the flying wedge, the trumpet note of ue long-
gone days.
So I brought a pair of the Blacknecks on an-
other lake, pinioned to curb the wild roving that
the seasons bring, and they nested on a little
island, not hidden, but open to the world about.
There in that exquisite bed of soft gray down were
laid the six great ivory eggs. On them the patient
mother sat four weeks unceasingly, except each
212
The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul
afternoon she left them half an hour. And round
and round that island, night and day, the gander
floated, cruised, and tacked about, like a war ship .
on patrol. Never once did the gander cover the
eggs, never once did the mother mount on guard.
I tried to land and learn about the nest one day.
The brooding goose it was that gave the danger call.
A short quack, a long, sharp hiss, and before my boat
could touch the shore the gander splashed between
and faced me. Only over his dead body might
my foot defile their islk-—so he was left in peace.
The young ones came at length. The six shells
broke and the six sweet golden downlings “‘peeped”
inspiringly. Next day they quit the nest in orderly
array. The mother first, the downlings closely
bunched behind, and last the warrior sire. And
this order they always kept, then and all other
times that I have knowledge of. It gave me food
for thought. The mother always leads, the father,
born a fighter, follows—yes, obeys. And what a
valiant guard he was; the Snapping Turtle, the
Henhawk, the Blacksnake, the Coon, and the vagrant
dog might take their toll of duckling brood or
chicken yard, but there is no thing alive the gander
will not face for his little ones, and there are few
things near his bulk can face him.
So the flock grew big and strong. Before three
213
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The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul
months they were big almost as the old ones, and
fairly fledged; at four their wings were grown;
their voices still were small and thin, they had not
got the trumpet note, but seemed the mother’s
counterparts in all things else. Then they began
to feel their wings, and take short flights across
the lake. As their wings grew strong their voices
deepened, till the trumpet note was theirs, and the
thing I had dreamed of came about: a wild goose
band that flew and bugled in the air, and yet came
back to their home water that was also mine.
Stronger they grew, and long and high their flights.
Then came the moon of falling leaves, and with
its waning flocks of small birds flew, and in the
higher sky the old loud clang was heard. Down
from the north they came, the arrow-heads of
geese. All kinsmen these, and that ahead without
a doubt the mother of the rest.
THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT
The Wild Geese on my lake turned up their
eyes and answered back, and lined up on the lake.
Their mother led the way and they whispered all
along the line. Their mother gave the word,
swimming fast and faster, then quacked, then
called, and then their voices rose to give the
“honk”; the broad wings spread a little, while they
214
The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul
spattered on the glassy lake, then rose to the
measured ‘‘Honk, honk”; soaring away in a flock,
they drifted into line, to join those other honkers
in the Southern sky.
“Honk, honk, honk!” they shouted as they sped.
“Come on! Come on!” they inspired each other
with the marching song; it set their wings aquiver.
The wild blood rushed still faster in their wilding
breasts. It was like a glorious trumpet. But— LS
what! Mother is not in the line. Still splashed ~
she on the surface of the lake, and father, too—. ES
and now her strident trumpet overbore their i"
clamorous “On, on! Come on!” with a strong A”
“Come back! Come back!” And father, too,
was bugling there. ‘‘Come back! Come back!”
So the downlings wheeled, and circling high above
the woods came sailing, skirting, kiting, splashing
down at the matriarchal call.
“What's up? What’s up?” they called lowly all
together, swimming nervously. ‘‘Why don’t we
go?” “What is it, mother?”
And mother could not tell. Only this she knew,
that when she gave the bugle note for all to fly, she
spattered with the rest, and flapped, but it seemed
she could not get the needed send-off. Somehow
she failed to get well under way; the youngsters
rose, but the old ones, their strong leaders, had
215
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The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul
strangely failed. Such things will come to all. Not
quite run enough no doubt. So mother led them to
the northmost arm of the lake, an open stretch of
water now, and long. They here lined up again,
mother giving a low, short double “honk” ahead, the
rest aside and yet in line, for the long array was
angling.
Then mother passed the word ‘‘Now, now,” and
nodding just a little swam on, headed for the south,
the young ones passed the word “Now, now,” and
nodding swam, and father at the rear gave his deep,
strong, “Now, now,” andswam. Soswam they all,
then spread their wings, and spattered with their
feet, as they put on speed, and as they went they
rose, and rising bugled louder till the marching song
was ringing in full chorus. Up, up and away,
above the treetops. But again, for some strange
reason, mother was not there, and father, too, was
left behind on the pond, and once again the bugle
of retreat was heard, “‘Come back! Come back!”
And the brood, obedient, wheeled on swishing
wings to sail and slide and settle on the pond, while
mother and father both expressed in low, short
notes their deep perplexity.
Again and again this scene took place. The
autumn message in the air, the flying wedges of
their kin, or the impulse in themselves lined up
216
The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul
that flock on the water. All the law of ceremony
was complied with, and all went well but the
climax.
When the Mad Moon came the mania was at
its height; not once but twenty times a day I saw
them line up and rise, but ever come back to the
mother’s call, the bond of love and duty stronger
than the annual custom of the race. It was a con-
flict of their laws indeed, but the strongest was,
obey, made absolute by love.
After a while the impulse died and the flock
settled down to winter on the pond. Many a long,
far flight they took, but allegiance to the older folk
was strong and brought them back. So the winter
passed.
Again, when the springtime came, the Blacknecks
flying north stirred up the young, but in a less de-
gree.
That summer came another brood of young.
The older ones were warned away whenever near.
Snapper, Coon, and ranging cur were driven off,
and September saw the young ones on the lake with
their brothers of the older brood.
Then came October, with the southward rushing
of the feathered kinds. Again and again that line
upon the lake and the bugle sound to “‘fly,” and the
same old scene, though now there were a dozen
217
The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul
flyers who rose and circled back when mother
sounded the “retreat.”
FATHER OR MOTHER
So through the moon it went. The leaves were
fallen now, when a strange and unexpected thing
occurred. Making unusual effort to meet this
most unusual case, good Mother Nature had pro-
longed the feathers of the pinioned wing and held
back those of the other side. It was slowly done,
and the compensating balance not quite made till
near October’s end. Then on a day, the hundredth
time at least that week, the bugle sang, and all
the marchers rose. Yes! mother, too, and bugling
louder till the chorus was complete, they soared
above the trees, and mother marshalled all her
brood in one great arrow flock, so they sailed and
clamoring sailed away, to be lost in the southward
blue—and all in vain on the limpid lake behind the
gander trumpeted in agony of soul, ““Come back!
Come back!” His wings had failed him, and in
the test, the young’s allegiance bound them to
their mother and the seeking of the southern
home.
.~.__ All that winter on the ice the gander sat alone.
ke On days a snow-time Hawk or some belated Crow
would pass above, and the ever-watchful eye of
218
The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul
Blackneck was turned a little to take him in and
then go on unheeding. Once or twice there were
sounds that stirred the lonely watcher to a bugle
call, but short and soon suppressed. It was sad to
see him then, and sadder still as we pondered, for
this we knew: his family never would come back.
Tamed, made trustful by life where men were kind,
they had gone to the land of gunners, crafty, piti-
less and numberless: they would learn too late the
perils of the march. Next, he never would take
another mate, for the Wild Goose mates for life,
and mates but once: the one surviving has no
choice—he finishes his journey alone.
Poor old Blackneck, his very faithfulness it was
that made for endless loneliness.
The bright days came with melting snow. The
floods cut through the ice, and again there were
part of the Jake and answered back:
“Honk, Honk, come back,
Come back. Come back!”
but the flying squads passed on with a passing
“honk!”
’ Brighter still the days, and the gander paddled
with a little exultation in the opening pond. How
219
The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul
ie we pitied him, self-deluded, faithful, doomed to a
= long, lone life.
a Then balmy April swished the woods with green;
the lake was brimming clear. Old Blackneck
never ceased to cruise and watch, and answer back
such sounds as touched him. Oh, sad it seemed
=< that one so staunch should find his burden in his
= very staunchness.
~. of 4 But on a day, when the peeper and the woodwale
{ ever waiting, was astir, and more than wont. Who
can tell us whence the tidings came? With head
at gaze he cruised the open pond, and the short,
: strong honk seemed sad, till some new excitation
SN raised the feathers on his neck. He honked and
“+. honked with a brassy ring. Then long before we
heard a sound, he was bugling the marching song,
and as he bugled answering sounds came—from
the sky—and grew—then swooping, sailing from the
blue, a glorious array of thirteen Wild Geese, to
sail and skate and settle on the pond; and their
loud honks gave place to softer chatter as they
crowded round and bowed in grave and loving
salutation.
There was no doubt of it. The young were now
mature and they seemed strange, of course, but this
was sure the missing mate: the mother had come
220
: aN, ~ sang, there came the great event! Old Blackneck,
f
+
£.
Mins
ot litte the
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wt
M,
The Wild Geese of Wyndygoul
back, and the faithful pair took up their life—and
live it yet.
The autumn sends the ordered flock afar, the
father stays perforce on guard, but the bond that
binds them all and takes them off and brings them
back is stronger than the fear of death. So I have
learned to love and venerate the honker Wild Goose
whom Mother Nature dowered with love unquench-
able, constructed for her own good ends a monu-
ment of faithfulness unchanging, a creature heir
of all the promises, so master of the hostile world
around that he lives and spreads, defying plagues
and beasts, and I wonder if this secret is not partly
that the wise and patient mother leads. The long,
slow test of time has given a minor place to the
valiant, fearless, fighting male; his place the last of
all, his mode of open fight the latest thing they
try. And by a law inscrutable, inexorable, the
young obey the matriarch. Wisdom their guide,
not force. Their days are long on earth and the
homeland of their race grows wide while others
pass away.
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VII
Jinny. The Taming
of a Bad Monkey
Vi
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad
Monkey
A DANGEROUS BRUTE
HE cage that arrived at Wardman’s
Menagerie was heavily bound with
iron, and labelled ‘ Dangerous”;
and when John Bonamy, the head-
keeper, came up close to peep in,
a hoarse “‘Koff, kof,” and a shock against the
bars warned him that the label was amply justified.
Through the grating his practised eye made out
the dark visage of a Hanuman, or Langur Monkey,
the largest and strongest of the kinds that come
from India, a female, but standing over three feet
high, and of bulk enough to be a dangerous
antagonist, even to a man.
The other keepers gathered around, and the
Monkey worked herself up into a storm of rage,
leaping against the bars whenever one of the men
225
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DAanceaous
" and {
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
came near enough to seem reachable. A scraper
put in to clean up a little was at once seized in her
paws, and mangled with her teeth. Keefe of the
monkey house felt called on to take charge of things,
and was peering in when suddenly a long, thin,
hairy arm shot out and snatched off the goggles he
was wearing, scratching his face at the same time,
and putting him in an awful temper, which the
merriment of the other men did nothing to allay.
The head-keeper had gone elsewhere, after giving
instructions, but the noise and fuss brought him
back. His trained ear detected signs of a familiar
happening.
“You’ve got to remember they’re human,” he
said, as he sent all the other keepers away and “‘sat
down beside that crazy Monkey, to talk to her.”
“Jinny,” said he, giving her the first she-name
that came handy, ‘‘now, Jinny, you and I have to
be friends, and we will be as soon as we get better
acquainted.”” So he kept on talking soothingly,
not moving hand or foot, but softly cooing to her.
She was very ugly at first, but, responding to the
potent mystery called personality, she gradually
calmed down. She ceased snorting, and sat
crouching in the filth at the back of the box, glower-
ing with restrained ferocity, nervously clasping one
skinny paw with the other. Bonamy did not mean
226
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
to move for some time, but the wind lifted his hat,
and as his hand flew up to seize it, the Monkey }* x
flinched, blinked, and again broke out in her sounds ‘ie
““Oh-ho!” said he. ‘Some one has been beating .%
you.” Now he noticed the scars and certain slight
wounds on her body; he remembered that she had
crossed in a sailing vessel, and a measure of all that
that meant came to him. He could imagine the
misery of that long, long voyage, the fearful, cease-
less rolling, the terrible seasickness that so many
monkeys suffer from, the shameful cruelty that he
more than suspected, the bad food, and last the
cramped and filthy cage before him. It was easy
to guess the fact: the Monkey had had a horrible
experience with men.
Bonamy was a born animal-man; he loved his
work among them. He could handle and ulti-
mately tame the most dangerous; and the more
difficult they seemed, the more he enjoyed the task
of winning them over. He could have controlled
that Monkey in a day, but he had other things to
attend to; so merely instructed the monkey-keeper
to cover the filthy travelling coop with canvas and
carry it to the hospital. Inside the big cage there
it was partly opened; and at nearly every rap of
the hammer the Langur gave a savage snort. Then
224
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
from a safe place outside, a keeper pulled open the
coop door.
Some animals would have dashed out at once,
but Jinny did not. She crouched back, glaring
defiantly from under her bushy moving brows,
and seemed less inclined to come out now than
when the coop was tightly nailed up.
Bonamy left her alone. He knew that it didn’t
do to hurry her. You can’t be polite in a hurry,
Lord Chesterfield says, and you must be polite to
win your animals. Moreover, the story that the
keeper read in her wounds showed that the human
species had a black past to live down in Jinny’s
estimation.
She did not leave the coop all day. But that
evening after sundown Bonamy peeped in, and
saw her in the big cage washing her face and hands
at the trough. Probably it was her first chance
to be clean since she had left India. No doubt
she had drunk what she needed, and now she
glanced nervously about the place. The food
supply she sniffed at, but did not touch; she walked
gingerly around the ironwork, rubbed her finger
on some fresh tar just outside the bars, smelt her
finger, came back and drank more water, caught a
flea on her thigh, then resumed her inspection
of the bars. But she did not touch the food. Like
228
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
ourselves, monkeys do not want to eat when they
are all upset, they want a drink of water and quiet.
Next day she was perched up high, so the keeper
put in his long hook to draw out the travelling coop.
She sprang at him and raged against the bars. He
tried to drive her back by prodding with the hook,
but that only made her worse.
Bonamy had often warned his men against get-
ting into a fight with the animals. ‘It does no
good and only spoils our show.” So Keefe came
to him, grumbling: he “couldn’t do nothing with
that crazy Monkey.” As soon as the two men
entered the building Jinny sprang toward them,
mad with rage; then Bonamy knew that Keefe
had done more than he had owned up to. He
sent him away and, standing very still, began to
talk to the Monkey. ‘Now, Jinny,” said he, “aren’t
you ashamed of yourself? Here, we want to be
you go on!”’ It took fully ten minutes of that
gentle talking and that strong, kind personality |
before the Monkey would listen to reason and get
calm. Sheclimbed up to the high shelf and sat there
scowling, lifting her eyebrows and watching this
big man, so different from the others she had met.
Realizing that the keeper had in some way in- |
curred the Monkey’s hate, he set about removing
229
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
the dirty coop, and managed it after one or two little
scenes, each one less violent than the last, but each
guided by his rule never to scare any animal, never
to hurt them, and always talk to them, very sofily.
He did not pretend that they knew what he said,
but he felt they got the idea that he was friendly,
and that was enough.
He soon found that it would not do to let Keefe
tend her at all—the sight of that man was enough to
set her crazy—so just because the taming promised
to be a difficult job, Bonamy undertook it himself.
JENNY FINDS A NEW LIFE
After a week in quarantine Jinny was wonder-
fully improved, her fur was clean, her scratches
healing, and she seemed less in terror of every
approaching sound. Bonamy now decided that
she was fit for the big show cage. There was a
small trap cage on the highest point of her quarters,
and watching till she was in that he pulled the
string, then transferred the little cage and its in-
mate to the big outdoor place with over a dozen of
other monkeys.
Of course she raged at the men during the re-
moval. But they got her safely placed, and knew
she would be quite a drawing card, for the public
does love a noisy, fighting animal.
230
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
As soon as she began to feel a little at home she
charged at the other monkeys, sending them helter
skelter and chattering to their highest perches,
while she walked up and down, puffing out little
snorts, raising and dropping -her bushy eyebrows,
and glaring defiantly at all the men outside.
The regular keeper came to feed her, and as usual
went inside in spite of her angry threats. As soon
as his back was turned she sprang and got him by
the leg. He was badly bitten and she was hurt
before she was driven off. But they knew now
that it was no bluff, she was a “‘bad Monkey.”
There seems to be a fascination about a thorough-
paced villain, and Jinny was so bad that she was
interesting. So yielding to an impulse, the big
man with the strong hands and the soft heart set-
tled down to his self-appointed task of bringing
her “‘in line.”
When he went to feed her she leaped up on a
high perch, snorting, glaring, making faces, jump-
ing up and down on all fours, daring him to enter.
He was not looking for trouble, so he did not go
in, but he was observing her keenly. One thing
was sure: Jinny was no coward, and that was a
great point; a brave animal is far easier to tame
than a coward, as every Zoo-man knows.
He fed and watered the monkeys in that cage as
231
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
well as he could from the outside, to avoid stirring
up Jinny, but she kept drifting around to the edge
of the cage where he happened to be, uttering a
low, menacing sound, scratching her ribs with
her little finger, jumping up and down, and oc-
casionally dashing at the bars. She bullied all
the other monkeys in the cage, too, but the man
noticed that she had not really harmed any of
them, even when she had good opportunity.
One morning before the public was in he was
witness of an unusual affair: there was one very
little Monkey that was terribly afraid of Jinny,
and he usually kept one eye on her. But now he
was at the front corner of the bars, wholly absorbed
in an attempt to steal a banana from the next cage.
He was so busy that for a moment or two he did
not look around. Meanwhile Jinny had sneaked
up softly, and now stood over him with her hands
raised about six inches above his back. The little
chap worked away unconsciously, barely reaching
the banana with one finger, which he would bore
into the fruit, then bring back to suck with gusto.
At length, turning to look behind, he found he
was trapped by his enemy.
In a moment he was a picture of abject terror.
He crouched screaming in the corner of the cage,
and Jinny, to the joy and surprise of the head-
232
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
keeper, stood quite still, raised her hands a little
higher, looked amused, he thought, and—let the
victim go.
“Well,” said he, “that settles it. I know she
is not a coward and she is not cruel. She’s not
a bad Monkey at all. She’s been abused, but she
is all right and I am going to handle her before a
month.”
Then he began his old proven method, never
scare her, move gently, go as often as he could,
and always talk to her softly. At first when he
came she would rush threateningly at the bars,
then, finding that procedure barren of all inter-
esting results, she gave it up in less than a week.
But she would sit high on some perch and glare at
him, scratching her ribs, puffing, and working her
eyebrows. He used to joke her about it, as he
phrased it, and in a fortnight could see he was
winning the fight.
All this time there had been no thorough «lean-
ing of the cage, only a ‘“‘long-scraper’’ clean-out,
so one morning he said: “‘I’ll go in and scrub up.”
The boss warned him not to go. ‘‘That’s a dan-
gerous Monk,” said he. “If she gets you by the
neck, you are done.”
But in he went. Jinny jumped up to her high
perch and began snorting, jumping, and scratch-
233
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
ing her ribs as usual. He kept one eye on her and
talked to her all the time he was in, and nothing
happened, but the boss warned him again. “You
look out or she’ll get you yet! Tl not be respon-
sible if you go in there again!’
It was only a question of time and patience now,
and Bonamy knew the business. Many visits,
unvaried gentleness, soft talkings, little gifts of
favorite food at each visit, and gradually resent-
ment gave way to toleration, toleration to interest,
and interest to attraction.
“Tl never forget the first time she let me scratch
her head with a stick,” said he. “TI felt as proud
as if I was a star batsman winning the pennant
on a home run.”
Thus she learned to look for his visits, and before
the month was up Jinny and he became pretty good
friends. His judgment of her was right: she had
a fine character, was unusually intelligent, and
only needed the chance he gave her. In her worst
rampaging she had never hurt any of the little
monkeys. She never seemed savage at women or
fi ‘3 ae children. She resented only the men. But now
ae Mr __ she was becoming quite tame even with them, ex-
oe; cept that she always hated Keefe, and the sight
Z of a sailorman roused her to fury.
a ‘~», But her friendship for Bonamy grew daily; she
A \ HKN/ Pp a y § y
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
would come running to meet him, and if he passed
the cage without noticing her, she would jump up
and down on all fours, scratching her ribs with her
little finger, and giving a peevish, “Errr, errr.”
She was in good health now, and mentally as
keen as a brier. She had more sense, the keeper
used to say, than “some humans he could name.”
With her renewal of life and strength, and the
total elimination of perpetual terror and sense of ss
cruelty, she developed a most lively disposition. \
She was full of tricks that were partly due to her
active brain and partly her physical energy. And
strange to say, she also showed that at bottom hers
was a most affectionate nature. As Bonamy said,
she turned out to be the best Monkey he ever
handled. She was worth more than a Lion to
draw the public. She could take the crowd away
from the Elephant and keep them, too, and seemed
to have a pride in it, she was so nearly human.
There was not an animal in the Zoo that the keep-
ers thought as much of as Jinny. They learned
to count on her now to “swing the whole thing” Ct
when there was a special day for school children.
{i
THE SOUL OF A MONKEY Wy \
Three months had barely gone since Jinny came,
and though not an important animal judged by
235
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
the catalogues of dealers, there is little doubt that
she was the head-keeper’s favorite. It was not
wholly because of his own triumph in converting
her from an outlaw into the “most lovable Monkey
he ever knew,” but because back of her bright
dark eyes there really seemed to be a personality
almost human; keenly alert, deeply affectionate,
and Bonamy’s morning walk to the office took
him invariably now to call first on Jinny.
One morning he was late in arriving. There
was a crowd of visitors around the cage as he went
by. Every few minutes a small outburst of ap-
plause or laughter showed that some of the animals
there were making hits with the audience, and
he was not surprised to catch a glimpse of Jinny
busy at her usual antics. He had indeed guessed
that it was her crowd, for she had more drolleries
than all the rest put together. She used to walk
a tight rope after chalking her feet with a piece
of chalk given her at first in play, but she was
taught to use it, and later learned to chalk the
end of her nose at the same time, to the joy of the
multitude. Her other specialty was to stand on
her head near the front bars, catch hold high up
with her hind feet, then swing herself up bodily
sidewise till her front feet had hold far above her
hind ones; then repeat the movement till she had
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
rolled herself all the way to the top, reversing the
loops to climb down again.
In spite of printed warnings, some woman passed
under the barrier and reached forward to pull
the tail of another Monkey who was crouching with
his back to the public, and came so near that Jinny
snatched her hat off, and putting it on her own
head, continued to perform, and drew still louder
rounds of applause from the crowd. There can be
no doubt that she appreciated the applause, for it
was noticed that she always did best for a crowd.
Most monkeys have a human side, but Jinny
was unusually gifted that way, and the head-
keeper had a personal interest in her, so that now
he went to his office with a sense of personal
pride.
Jinny meanwhile played her lively pranks to a
lively audience. Small boys threw peanuts which
she ignored, for her cheeks were already bulging
with them, and grown-ups threw bonbons which
she promptly rescued from the other monkeys, for
she was the largest in the cage and had the well-
earned reputation of being a dangerous fighter.
Every one but the owner of the lost bonnet was
convulsed with joy as she dissected it bit by bit,
and spat out the pieces that she tore from the trim-
ming. Then responding to the tenth encore, she
237
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Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
began her back somersaults up the iron-work. Just
as she was drawing herself up with her breast tight
against the bars, a coarse but foppish-looking man,
yielding to some incomprehensible, diabolic impulse,
reached out a long sword cane and stabbed the
monkey in the groin. With a scream of pain she
fell to the ground, and at once the scene was
changed. A wave of fear and dismay sent all the
lesser monkeys chattering to the high perches. The
near onlookers were shocked and were loud in their
cries of “Shame!” while those behind were strug-
gling to find out what had happened.
Why do men do these cruel things? That horri-
ble beast had actually stabbed that little Monkey
for the mere pleasure of inflicting pain.
After the first scream Jinny had fallen, then she
dragged herself to the far end of the cage, where
she sat moaning, with her hands on the wound.
The crowd had recoiled, but now gathered again.
Voices shouted, ‘‘Where’s the keeper?” ‘‘Send
for a policeman!” ‘That brute should be ar-
rested!”
The head-keeper was aroused by the noise. He
went quickly, sensing mischief. ‘What’s up?” he
shouted, and a number of answers were volunteered.
“Jinny’s hurt,” was the only clear one. And then
a small boy said excitedly: “I seen him doit. It
“a
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Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
was that there big feller. He stabbed her with 2
sword cane.”
But the big fellow had disappeared. It was just
as well, for the head-keeper was furious when he
heard that the victim was his favorite, and if he
had caught that human brute there might have
been another very unpleasant scene, and equally
unprofitable.
Jinny was moaning in the back of the cage.
The regular keeper had tried to help, but all her
old-time ferocity seemed aroused. He did not dare
to come near. As Bonamy hurried to the door,
the boss arrived and protested. ‘‘Now I advise
you not to go in, she’s dangerous. You know what
her temper is.” Yes, Bonamy knew better than
any of them, but he entered.
There in the far corner was Jinny, holding her
hand on the wounded side, moaning a little and
glaring defiance at all, much as she used to do in the
early days. She snorted savagely as he came near,
but he stooped down and talked to her. ‘Now,
Jinny, now, Jinny! I want to help you! Don’t
you know me, Jinny?”
At length he prevailed so far that she allowed him
to lift her hands and examine the wound, not big
but deep and painful. He washed it with antiseptic
and put on a sticking plaster. She moaned while
239
>
- a
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
he worked, then seemed quiet. When he left she
called him back in monkey fashion, a whining
“errr, errr,’”’ but he was obliged to go to his office.
Next morning she was no better, and had pulled
off the sticking plaster. He scolded her. ‘You
bad Jinny,” he repeated. She hid her eyes behind
her arm and allowed him to put on another sticker,
but she began to pull that off as soon as his back was
turned, and again was scolded till she seemed
ashamed, or afraid. Still it was off when next he
went to the cage.
Twice a day he went to see her now, and she kept
on just the same, sitting moaning in the back of the
cage with her hand on the place. She always bright-
ened up when he came in and gave that little
whining ‘‘errr, errr’? when he touched her. But her
wound did not heal: it looked swollen, raw, and
angry; and each day she was more upset when he
left her. Then it got to be too much of a scene;
she clung to him and kept moaning and, in monkey
fashion, begging him to stay. But she would not
let any one else come near, and he did not know how
to fit it in with his other work. So one day he
took the short cut. The boss said he was “‘crazy,”
but he did it. He took that Monkey up in his
arms, and she hung around his neck like a child as
he carried her to his office. She sat up in a chair
240
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey ( >,
and seemed quite bright, holding to the shawl he |
muffled around her and watching him all the time Ne
at his desk. Once in a while she would moan out ;
that whining “errr, errr.” Then he would reach j{ Spal |
out his hand and stroke her head. This pleased | /izmzun
her, and she would give one or two little petted “=
grunts and settle down. ee oe
But he had an unpleasant scene to face every time
he had to leave the office on business. It made
him feel so guilty that he transferred all the outside
work he could. It was very awkward, but he could
see now that Jinny wouldn’t last long, and he had
got so fond of her that he could not bear to cross her.
Mealtimes were making three breaks a day,
which meant three upsets, so he had his food sent
to him on a tray.
In a few days it was clear that Jinny was dying.
She could not sit up now, her brown eyes no longer
watched the clock that seemed alive, nor brightened
when he spoke to her. So he swung for her a little
hammock near his desk. In that she would lie
and watch him with a wistful look on her face, and
call him when he seemed to forget her presence.
Then he would give the hammock a little swing
that pleased her. He had to keep the books; she
did not like to see him doing that; it prevented him
looking at her. So he used to lay his left hand on
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
her head as he worked with the right. She would
hold one of her hands on her wound and tightly
grasp his with the other.
One night he had given her the little soup she
would take, had tucked her in her hammock as
usual, and was about to leave, but she moaned and
seemed to feel terribly about being left. She ut-
tered over and over that soft, “errr, errr,’ so that he
finally sent for some blankets and made up his
mind to stay with her. But he did not have a
chance to sleep. About nine o’clock she was
feebly holding one of his hands in her own, and he
was trying to check up some accounts with the
other, when she began calling in her whining voice,
but low and softly now, for she was very weak.
He spoke to her, and she had his hand, but that
was not enough. She wanted something more.
So he bent over her, saying, ‘What is it Jinny?”
and stroked her gently. She took both his hands
in hers, clutched them to her breast with convul-
sive strength, shivered all over, then lay limp and
still, and he knew that Jinny was dead.
He was a big strong man. Men called him
“rough,” but the tears streamed down his face as
he told me the story, and added: “TI buried her in
242
Jinny. The Taming of a Bad Monkey
the little corner lot that we keep for the real pets,
on a stake at the head I nailed a smooth teak board
for a memorial tablet, and on it wrote: “ Jinny—
the best Monkey I ever knew.” As I finished writ-
ing this I found I had used a part of the cage she
came in; and there on the back of it still, in large
letters describing little Jinny, was the label,
“ Dangerous |”
THE END
BOOKS BY ERNEST THOMPSON SETON
WILD ANIMALS I HAVE KNOWN, 1898
The stories of Lobo, Silverspot, Molly Cottontail, Bingo, Vixen,
The ae Mustang, Wully and Redruff. Price, $2.00. (Scrib-
ners.
THE TRAIL OF THE SANDHILL STAG, 1899
The story of a long hunt that ended without a tragedy. Price,
$1.50. (Scribners.)
BIOGRAPHY OF A GRIZZLY, 1900
The story of old Wabb from cubhood to the scene in Death
Gulch. Price, $1.50. (Century Company.)
LOBO, RAG AND VIXEN, 1900
This is a school edition of number one, with some of the stories
and many of the pictures left out. Price, soc. net. (Scribners.)
THE WILD ANIMAL PLAY, 1900
A musical play in which the parts of Lobo, Wahb, Vixen, etc., are
taken by boys and girls. Price, 50c. (Doubleday, Page & Com-
pany.)
THE LIVES OF THE HUNTED, 1901
The stories of Krag, Randy, Johnny Bear, The Mother Teal,
Chink, The Kangaroo Rat, and Tito, the Coyote. Price, $1.75 net.
(Scribners.)
PICTURES OF WILD ANIMALS, 1901
Twelve large pictures for framing (no text), viz., Krag, Lobo, Tito
Cub, Kangaroo Rat, Grizzly, Buffalo, Bear Family, Johnny Bear,
Sandhill Stag, Coon Family, Courtaut the Wolf, Tito and her
family. Price, $6.00. (Scribners.)
244
KRAG AND JOHNNY BEAR, 1902
This is a school edition of Lives of the Hunted with some of the
stories and many of the pictures left out. Price, soc. net. (Scribners.)
TWO LITTLE SAVAGES, 1903
A book of adventure and woodcraft and camping out for boys tell-
ing how to make bows, arrows, moccasins, costumes, teepee, war-
bonnet, etc., and how to make a fire with rubbing sticks, read Indian
signs, etc. Price, $1.75 net. (Doubleday, Page & Company.)
MONARCH, THE BIG BEAR OF TALLAC, 1904
The story of a big California grizzly that is living yet. Price,
$1.25 net. (Scribners.)
ANIMAL HEROES, 1905
The stories of a Slum Cat, a Homing Pigeon, The Wolf That Won,
A Lynx, A Jackrabbit, A Bull-terrier, The Winnipeg Wolf, and a
White Reindeer. Price, $1.75 net. (Scribners.)
BIRCH-BARK ROLL, 1906
The Manual of the Woodcraft Indians, first edition, 1902.
(Doubleday, Page & Company.)
WOODMYTH AND FABLE, 1905
A collection of fables, woodland verses, and camp stories. Price,
$1.25 net. (Century Company.)
THE NerUEeD HISTORY OF THE TEN COMMANDMENTS,
190)
Showing the Ten Commandments to be fundamental laws of all
creation. 78 pages. Price, soc.net. (Scribners.)
THE BIOGRAPHY OF A SILVER FOX, 1909
or Domino Reynard of Goldur Town, with 100 illustrations by the
author. 209 pages. Price, $1.50 net. ;
A companion volume to the Biography of a Grizzly. (Century
Company.)
LIFE HISTORIES OF NORTHERN ANIMALS, 1909
In two sumptuous quarto volumes with 68 maps and 560 drawings
by the author. Pages 1,267. Price, $18.00 net.
Said by Roosevelt, Allen, Chapman, and Hornaday to be the best
245
work ever written on the Life Histories of American Animals.
(Scribners.)
BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA, 1910
A handbook of Woodcraft, Scouting, and Life Craft including the
Birch-Bark Roll. 192 pages. Price, 50c. Out of print. (Double-
day, Page & Company.)
ROLF IN THE WOODS, 1911
The Adventures of a Boy Scout with Indian Quonab and little
dog Skookum. Over 200 drawings by the author. Price, $1.75 net.
(Doubleday, Page & Company.)
THE ARCTIC PRAIRIES, 1911
A canoe journey of 2,000 miles in search of the Caribou. 415
pages with many maps, photographs, and illustrations by the
author. Price, $3.50 net. (Scribners.)
THE BOOK OF WOODCRAFT AND INDIAN LORE, 1912
with over 500 drawings by the author. Price, $1.75 net. (Double-
day, Page & Co.)
THE FORESTER’S MANDAL, 1912
One hundred of the best-known forest trees of eastern North
America, with 100 maps and more than 200 drawings. Price, $1.00
in cloth, soc. in paper. (Doubleday, Page & Co.)
WILD ANIMALS AT HOME, 1913
with over 150 sketches and photographs by the author. 226 pages.
Price, $1.50 net. In this Mr. Seton gives for the first time his
personal adventures in studying wild animals. (Doubleday, Page
& Co.)
MANUAL OF THE WOODCRAFT INDIANS, 1915
The fourteenth Birch-Bark Roll. 100 pages. 25c. paper, 75C.
cloth. (Doubleday, Page & Co.)
WILD ANIMAL WAYS, 1916
More animal stories introducing a host of new four-footed friends,
with 200 illustrations by the author. Net. $1.50. (Doubleday,
Page & Co.)
THE INDIAN SIGN LANGUAGE (to be published 1916).
246
BY MRS. ERNEST THOMPSON SETON
(Published by DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.)
A WOMAN TENDERFOOT, 1901
A book of outdoor adventures and camping for women and girls.
How to dress for it, where to go, and how to profit the most by
camp life. Price, $2.00.
NIMROD’S WIFE, 1907
A companion volume, giving Mrs. Seton’s side of the many camp-
fires she and her husband lighted together in the Rockies from
Canada to Mexico. Price, $1.75 net.
247
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. ¥.
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