Part 10

So Monax started out. Down the hall he went, pondering his instructions. If Mrs. Woodchuck had not gone back to tie another piece of red flannel around Mr. Woodchuck’s rheumatic knee, she might have observed that Monax moved slowly, as if in deep thought. But she observed nothing, and so said nothing.

Monax was in deep thought. He was trying to decide which was his right hand and which was his left. If he could only be sure of either one of them he could guess at the other one. He had to know before he got to the first of the two doors. Why were anybody’s two hands so much alike? How could anyone be sure which was which? He stopped and held up one, then the other; they looked just alike. He struck one of them against the wall; then the other, they felt just alike. He couldn’t stop long about it; if his mother caught him at it, she would probably suspect what was the matter with him, and his little journey into the world would be stopped before it began.

He came to the first door, and a sudden inspiration came to him. He never knew how it was, but he felt perfectly confident which was his right hand. It seemed perfectly simple, somehow. It was this one. So he turned out into the garden.

He didn’t see any corn-shocks. But he was not surprised at that. His mother had said maybe they would have been hauled away by this time. He looked ahead. Yes, there was the big stone. It did look a good deal like a cement horse-block. “But then,” he said to himself, “they make stone these days so that you can hardly tell it from cement.” He looked for the two scarecrows. If they were there he would know he was right. And there they were. They were awfully good imitations of men. One of them was walking about just a little. As he went by them, he noticed that neither of them had a gun, but he heard one of them say to the other, “Ever eat ’em?” “The young uns,” said the other, “are pretty good; old ones too tough.” Monax was much interested, but he was not frightened. On a page of the “Scientific American,” which his mother brought home a few weeks before, he had read about the talking pictures that Mr. Edison had invented. He hadn’t read of the talking scarecrows, but he had no doubt there were such. “You never can tell what these men will invent next,” he said as he moved leisurely by.

At the big stone he turned--this way--he said to himself. “It is surprising how sure I am about my right hand now.” He came to the edge of the field. There, just as his mother had said, was the barn. It looked more like a garage than a barn. But styles change. Anyway, there it was to the right, just as his mother had told him. “If you are sure of your direction everything else takes care of itself,” he said. “The location is right.”

He went into the barn. He noticed the odour; something like gasoline. He looked for the horses; none there. He glanced about for the basket of corn. All he saw, instead, was a bunch of waste lying on top of a big red tank. Where the horses ought to have been was an automobile. “Probably they have changed it over from a barn to a garage since mother was here,” he said; “if you are going to keep up with the times these days you can’t stay in the house; you’ve got to get out where things are doing.” It was no use to look for corn there. He had had no instructions to bring home gasoline. His mother used ammonia instead. So he took his time to look around the barn, and then moved leisurely out. Just a few yards to the right again, as his mother had said, was the corn-crib. He had never seen one before, and this one looked small to him. It looked more like a dog-house to him. But the location was right again--“always to the right,” his mother said.

The old wagon box wasn’t there. But at the back end of the corn-crib there was a board tacked up from the crib to the tree. That was probably one end of the scaffold that had held the wagon box. Of course they wouldn’t leave the wagon box there all the fall. Probably they were using it to haul corn, at that very moment, to that very crib.

Meantime Mrs. Woodchuck was growing very worried at home--for Monax had taken more time for his journey than his mother thought he would. Mr. Woodchuck’s knee was very bad, and whenever he had rheumatism he was more pessimistic than usual. “I tell you,” said he, “that boy will never get home. He doesn’t know his right hand from his left.” “I tell you he does,” said Mrs. Woodchuck; “I tried him on it just before he went.” “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mr. Woodchuck stuck to his position, “if he had turned out that left-hand door, into the garden and had gone to the garage instead of the barn. There is one thing sure; if he tries to get corn out of that dog kennel, he will find out his mistake.” Mr. Woodchuck’s lack of sympathy always irritated his wife.

“Keep still,” she said, “you will give me nervous prostration again if you keep saying such things.”

Monax had climbed up onto the board. He paused to look around a moment. Then thinking that he must not be quite so leisurely, he jumped quickly through the little window just under the roof.

Then things began to happen so fast that Monax could hardly keep track of them. For what Monax had really done was just what his father said he probably would do. He had turned to the left every time, where he ought to have turned to the right. He had gone through the garden instead of the cornfield, past the cement horse-block instead of the big stone, mistaken the garage for the barn, and now, worst luck of all, he had jumped into the dog kennel instead of into the corn-crib.

The old dog had been after the sheep and cows, and was fast asleep on the floor of his kennel. Still, he didn’t propose to lie there and be jumped on by a woodchuck--not in his own kennel. And Monax--well, perhaps he wasn’t surprised when, instead of landing on top of a crib of corn he fell clear to the bottom, and felt his feet touching something furry that moved. But it didn’t have time to move much. Monax felt that a crisis had arrived in his career, and it was time to act. He didn’t wait to look for the door of the kennel; he didn’t want to try any more new routes. He just rebounded off the back of the dog like a rubber ball from the pavement. Up he went, breaking the woodchuck record for the high jump, back through the window, onto the board, down to the ground quick as a flash. The dog was after him, but Monax was six feet ahead. Away he went, past the barn; the auto was just backing out; it came over Monax that it wasn’t a barn after all. He dodged under the machine; the dog had to run around it; three feet more gained. He went by the big stone at full speed,--it looked more than ever to him like a cement horse-block. Past the two scarecrows; he could see that they had moved quite a little since he passed them coming out, and one of them had a gun now. Bang, it went; he felt the shot pass through his tail, and it increased his speed to forty miles. He didn’t have much time to reflect, but it did come over him that those were not scarecrows, but men, and that what he had overheard them say a half hour before about the “young uns being good to eat” might possibly have had some reference to himself. On he sped, through the garden; it was perfectly plain now that it had never been a cornfield, and on like a flash through the garden door into the log-house, and into his father’s room--fluttering, trembling, and more dead than alive.

“Did you turn to the right?” asked his mother.

“I did--on the way back,” said Monax.

MRS. BUNNY’S DINNER PARTY

ANNA E. SKINNER

Reprinted from “The Churchman.”

“Are you ready, my dear?” said Mr. Bobtail, looking at his large watch. “Mrs. Bunny will expect us to come in good time to her dinner party.”

“I shall be ready in a few minutes, Mr. Bobtail. I wonder how many are invited. We always meet fine people at Mrs. Bunny’s house.”

Mrs. Bobtail brought out her little gray silk bonnet, and Mr. Bobtail’s best birch cane.

“Come,” she said, “it is a good half hour’s walk to Bramble Hollow. Shall we go around by the way of Cabbage-Patch Lane?”

“Oh, no, my dear, let us take a short cut through the meadow.”

Off they started arm in arm across the sunlit fields.

“See, there are Mr. and Mrs. Frisk gathering nuts,” said Mr. Bobtail. “Jack Frost shook the trees last night. There are plenty lying on the ground.”

“Good morning. How are all the little Friskies?” called Mrs. Bobtail.

“Oh, how do you do! They are quite well, thank you,” said Mrs. Frisk.

“The nuts are fine this fall, Mr. Frisk,” said Mr. Bobtail, shaking hands with his friend.

“Yes, indeed. We have gathered a great many for our winter store. But you see we dare not stop long in this open field.” Mr. Frisk dropped his voice and glanced about in all directions. Then he added, “This is hunting season, you know.”

“What! Do you mean you are afraid of hunters?” asked Mr. Bobtail in surprise.

“Indeed, we are,” said Mrs. Frisk, coming a little nearer. “From our cosy home up in the hollow of this tree we saw two hunters crossing the field this morning. When their dogs sniffed about the ground and barked up the tree, we held our breath in fear.”

“Yes,” added Mr. Frisk, “and in a short time we heard ‘bang! bang!’ I tell you we didn’t venture down to gather nuts for several hours.”

“How dreadful! And we are on our way to Mrs. Bunny’s dinner party,” said Mrs. Bobtail, looking in all directions; “do you think we had better go on, my dear?”

“Of course! Of course! I’ve never had the least fear of a gun! Let hunters bang away as much as they please, they will never frighten me.” Mr. Bobtail straightened up as he spoke, and tossed back his head. “Come, Mrs. Bobtail. Good day, my friends.”

“Good day. We hope you will have a pleasant time,” said Mr. Frisk.

“Isn’t Mr. Bobtail wonderfully brave?” said Mrs. Frisk, looking after her friends.

When they came near Bramble Hollow, Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail met some of their friends. There were Mr. and Mrs. Pinkeye, Mr. and Mrs. Longears, Mr. and Mrs. Cottontail,--all on their way to the dinner party.

Mr. and Mrs. Bunny were waiting for their guests. The little Bunnies had been told how to behave.

“Now, my dears,” their mother had said, “you may play out-of-doors while we are at dinner. When we have finished I’ll call you. Now no matter how hungry you are don’t dare peep in at the windows. And if anything happens to frighten you slip into the kitchen and wait there quietly until I come.”

Away scampered four happy little Bunnies.

At noon all the guests had reached Bramble Hollow. Mr. and Mrs. Bunny welcomed them, and in a little while all were seated around the table laughing and talking merrily.

“What fine salad this is, Mrs. Bunny,” said Mrs. Longears. “The cabbage hearts are very sweet this fall.”

Mrs. Bunny nodded pleasantly and said, “Do have some lettuce, Mr. Bobtail. I’m sure your long walk must have made you hungry.”

“I hope you will like our carrots,” said Mr. Bunny, helping himself to another. “Come, Mrs. Cottontail, let me help you to another serving of turnip tops.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bunny. What a pleasant home you have here in Bramble Hollow. Do hunters ever wander into this quiet corner?”

“Well, yes. They stroll through the hollow sometimes.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Cottontail.

“Our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Frisk, were telling us that they saw two hunters crossing the fields this morning,” said Mrs. Bobtail.

“This morning!” cried some of the guests, pricking up their ears.

“Come, come, my friends,” said Mr. Bobtail, laughing, “I see I shall have to quiet you. I never could see why so many rabbits are afraid of a gun! I have often stayed quietly under a hedge while a hunter fired shots as near to me as----”

“Bang! bang! bang!”

Four little Bunnies leaped through the window, and jumped right over the table, upsetting many of the dishes.

Mr. Bobtail darted off his chair at the same time, and rushed to a corner of the kitchen, where he stayed, shaking with fear.

The other guests did not move or speak for several minutes. Then Mrs. Bunny caught sight of Mr. Bobtail in the corner. “Come out, Mr. Bobtail,” she called, “I’m sure the hunters have gone into the next field.”

THE NUTCRACKERS OF NUTCRACKER LODGE

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

Mr. and Mrs. Nutcracker were as respectable a pair of squirrels as ever wore gray brushes over their backs. They lived in Nutcracker Lodge, a hole in a sturdy old chestnut tree overhanging a shady dell. Here they had reared many families of young Nutcrackers, who were models of good behavior in the forest.

But it happened in the course of time that they had a son named Featherhead, who was as different from all the other children of the Nutcracker family as if he had been dropped out of the moon into their nest. He was handsome enough, and had a lively disposition, but he was sulky and contrary and unreasonable. He found fault with everything his respectable papa and mama did. Instead of helping with up nuts and learning other lessons proper to a young squirrel,--he sneered at all the good old ways and customs of the Nutcracker Lodge, and said they were behind the times. To be sure he was always on hand at meal times, and played a very lively tooth on the nuts which his mother had collected, always selecting the best for himself. But he seasoned his nibbling with much grumbling and discontent.

Papa Nutcracker would often lose his patience, and say something sharp to Featherhead, but Mamma Nutcracker would shed tears, and beg her darling boy to be a little more reasonable.

While his parents, brothers, and sisters were cheerfully racing up and down the branches laying up stores for the winter, Featherhead sat apart, sulking and scolding.

“Nobody understands me,” he grumbled. “Nobody treats me as I deserve to be treated. Surely I was born to be something of more importance than gathering a few chestnuts and hickory-nuts for the winter. I am an unusual squirrel.”

“Depend upon it, my dear,” said Mrs. Nutcracker to her husband, “that boy is a genius.”

“Fiddlestick on his genius!” said old Mr. Nutcracker; “what does he _do_?”

“Oh, nothing, of course, but they say that is one of the marks of genius. Remarkable people, you know, never come down to common life.”

“He eats enough for any two,” said old Nutcracker, “and he never helps gather nuts.”

“But, my dear, Parson Too-Whit, who has talked with Featherhead, says the boy has very fine feelings,--so much above those of the common crowd.”

“Feelings be hanged,” snapped old Nutcracker. “When a fellow eats all the nuts that his mother gives him, and then grumbles at her, I don’t believe much in his fine feelings. Why doesn’t he do something? I’m going to tell my fine young gentleman that if he doesn’t behave himself I’ll tumble him out of the nest neck and crop, and see if hunger won’t do something toward bringing down his fine airs.”

“Oh, my dear,” sobbed Mrs. Nutcracker, falling on her husband’s neck with both paws, “do be patient with our darling boy.”

Now although the Nutcrackers belonged to the fine old race of the Grays, they kept on the best of terms with all branches of the squirrel family. They were very friendly to the Chipmunks of Chipmunk Hollow. Young Tip Chipmunk, the oldest son, was in all respects a perfect contrast to Master Featherhead. Tip was lively and cheerful, and very alert in getting food for the family. Indeed, Mr. and Mrs. Chipmunk had very little care, but could sit at the door of their hole and chat with neighbours, quite sure that Tip would bring everything out right for them, and have plenty laid up for winter.

“What a commonplace fellow that Tip Chipmunk is,” sneered Featherhead one day. “I shall take care not to associate with him.”

“My dear, you are too hard on poor Tip,” said Mrs. Nutcracker. “He is a very good son, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt he’s good enough,” said Featherhead, “but he’s so common. He hasn’t an idea in his skull above his nuts and Chipmunk Hollow. He is good-natured enough, but, dear me, he has no manners! I hope, mother, you won’t invite the Chipmunks to the Thanksgiving dinner--these family dinners are such a bore.”

“But, my dear Featherhead, your father thinks a great deal of the Chipmunks--they are our relatives you know,” said Mother Nutcracker.

“So are the High-Flyers our relatives. If we could get them to come there would be some sense to it. But of course a flying squirrel would never come to our house if a common chipmunk is a guest. It isn’t to be expected,” said Featherhead.

“Confound him for a puppy,” said old Nutcracker. “I wish good, industrious sons like Tip Chipmunk _were_ common.”

But in the end Featherhead had his way, and the Chipmunks were not invited to Nutcracker Lodge for Thanksgiving dinner. However, they were not all offended. Indeed, Tip called early in the morning to pay his compliments of the season, and leave a few dainty beechnuts.

“He can’t even see that he is not wanted here,” sneered Featherhead.

At last old papa declared it was time for Featherhead to choose some business.

“What are you going to do, my boy?” he asked. “We are driving now a thriving trade in hickory nuts, and if you would like to join us----”

“Thank you,” said Featherhead, “the hickory trade is too slow for me. I was never made to grub and delve in that way. In fact I have my own plans.”

To be plain, Featherhead had formed a friendship with the Rats of Rat Hollow--a race of people whose honesty was doubtful. Old Longtooth Rat was a money-lender, and for a long time he had had his eye on Featherhead as a person silly enough to suit the business which was neither more nor less than downright stealing.

Near Nutcracker Lodge was a large barn filled with corn and grain, besides many bushels of hazelnuts, chestnuts and walnuts. Now old Longtooth told Featherhead that he should nibble a passage into the loft, and set up a commission business there--passing out nuts and grain as Longtooth wanted them. He did not tell Featherhead a certain secret--namely, that a Scotch terrier was about to be bought to keep rats from the grain.

“How foolish such drudging fellows as Tip Chipmunk are!” said Featherhead to himself. “There he goes picking up a nut here and a grain there, whereas I step into property at once.”

“I hope you are honest in your dealings, my son,” said old Nutcracker.

Featherhead threw his tail saucily over one shoulder and laughed. “Certainly, sir, if honesty means getting what you can while it is going, I mean to be honest.”

Very soon Featherhead seemed to be very prosperous. He had a splendid hole in the midst of a heap of chestnuts, and he seemed to be rolling in wealth. He lavished gifts on his mother and sisters; he carried his tail very proudly over his back. He was even gracious to Tip Chipmunk.

But one day as Featherhead was lolling in his hole, up came two boys with the friskiest, wiriest Scotch terrier you ever saw. His eyes blazed like torches. Featherhead’s heart died within him as he heard the boys say, “Now we’ll see if we can catch the rascal that eats our grain.”

Featherhead tried to slink out of the hole he had gnawed to come in by, but found it stopped.

“Oh, you are there, are you, Mister?” cried the boy. “Well, you don’t get out, and now for a chase.”

And sure enough poor Featherhead ran with terror up and down through the bundles of hay. But the barking terrier was at his heels, and the boys shouted and cheered. He was glad at last to escape through a crack, though he left half of his fine brush behind him--for Master Wasp, the terrier, made a snap at it just as Featherhead was squeezing through. Alas! all the hair was cleaned off so that it was as bare as a rat’s tail.

Poor Featherhead limped off, bruised and beaten, with the dog and boys still after him, and they would have caught him if Tip Chipmunk’s hole had not stood open to receive him. Tip took the best of care of him, but the glory of Featherhead’s tail had gone forever. From that time, though, he was a sadder and a wiser squirrel than he ever had been before.

BUSHY’S BRAVERY

Mr. Squirrel was disappointed when he peeped his head out of his hollow tree early one morning. Not one nut was to be seen on the ground.

“Jack Frost did not come last night. I see no nuts anywhere. It will take a long time to get all we need from the tree, I fear,” he said to Mrs. Squirrel, who was standing close beside him.

“But Jack Frost will come to our tree,” she said. “He never fails. See, there’s Mrs. Bushytail out early. She seems to be looking around, too. Perhaps Jack Frost has shaken them down for her. Let’s run down and see.”

Away frisked Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel as fast as their legs could take them, to see what Jack Frost had done for their neighbour. But, no, he had not visited Mrs. Bushytail’s tree. She had looked all over the ground, and there wasn’t a nut in sight. She couldn’t explain it herself.

“Let us wait until to-morrow morning,” said Mrs. Squirrel, “he will be sure to come to-night. Then what fun Bushy and Frisky will have gathering them. They will have to work hard to get enough for our winter store. Boys love nuts, too,” she added with a sigh. “But we will wait.”

Morning came and frosty Jack had been there in earnest, for the nuts lay all over the ground.

“Now to work,” said Father Squirrel. “Come, Bushy and Frisky.”

It was a busy day for Mr. Squirrel’s family. They well knew how many, many nuts are needed for the winter’s store, and Mr. Squirrel kept telling Bushy and Frisky that they would have to work hard, and perhaps until the sun went down that day.