CHAPTER XII

A FLYING MOUSE

It was a lovely summer day. The long mornings in New England in June are almost days of themselves. Wild roses reddened the woods; there were water-lilies on the ponds, that filled the air with fragrance; the forest was all odor and song. It was glorious to live in days like these.

Little Metacomet had found a flying squirrel, and he hurried away from Sowams to the green groves of Swansea with the leathery little animal that performed such wonders among the tree-tops.

He showed his prize to Roger and his mother.

"This squirrel flies," said he. "He spreads himself out so--then he makes wings of himself, and he goes through the air so-o-o. He has far wings."

Timid Susan thought the flying squirrel a most extraordinary kind of a bird, and said--

"Let him go and run up the tall maple tree and see if he will fly."

Little Metacomet gave the "squirrel bird," as he called him, his liberty to run up the maple that was not connected with any other tree. A great oak stood near it, on the edge of the wood. The squirrel ran nimbly up the maple, and presently sailed away as on wings for the oak.

"That beats the cow that jumped over the moon," said Roger. "Did you ever know a rabbit to fly, or a deer or a moose?"

The prince laughed and shook his head.

"But I will bring you a flying mouse."

Timid Susan's eyes grew round.

"Wonder of wonders! a flying mouse. I have heard of singing mice, but never one that flew. How high can he fly?"

"All around the limb of a tree, and hang under the limb, and pick worms with his back toward the ground."

Metacomet went to the door.

"There is one now, look, look!"

He pointed to a witching little titmouse.

"That is not a mouse, but a bird," said Roger.

"No, no--he gets his living by his feet--see, see!"

The bird whirled around a dead limb, clinging to it with his feet. As he did this, picking grubs, he looked wonderfully like a mouse.

"Well, well," said Susan, wonderingly, "we will have to go to the hermit, and ask him what makes some squirrels fly, and some birds run about trees and under the limbs like mice. He knows everything, almost. Let me get my slat bonnet and we will go."

So once more they went to Blackstone's home, and asked him questions, after telling him the story of the bird squirrel and the mouse bird.

"What makes these creatures do such things?" asked timid Susan. "There seem to be a great many wonders in the world this year. What makes some squirrels fly?"

"Instinct," said the hermit.

"And now won't you tell us what is instinct--I don't seem to be gifted with much sense. You must know all these things."

"Instinct is instinct," said the hermit.

"How wonderful! I knew that you would know. 'Instinct is instinct.' Where did it come from?"

"From the divine wisdom in everything. Everything that lives has its own gift. It is Little Metacomet's gift to see into nature."

"What is my gift?"

"To have a good, true heart; that is the greatest of all gifts."

"Then you take me to be gifted woman. I will tell Joseph, my husband, the wood-chopper, of what you say. He will be proud of me then, and say--'What a wife I have got!' I will go home slowly, and get Little Metacomet to gather me some water-lilies, flying squirrels and mousing birds. Nature is proper interesting, if you only have eyes like Little Metacomet. He sees into things that we don't know about at all."

As she went out of the hermit's cabin, she looked up and said,

"There are hawks in the air."

Little Metacomet laid hold of her apron.

"There are hawks in the air," he said. "I can see. I'll keep them away for you; I will always keep you and Roger from harm. Hawks, hawks; there are hawks in the heart."

What did he mean, this boy of ten, this small philosopher?

Timid Susan caught Little Metacomet's meaning. There were hawks in the red man's heart, and there were Indians who were hostile to the white people. They were becoming more and more numerous, and his father the king sometimes found it difficult to restrain them from open violence.

"I hope I will never live to hear the war-whoop," said Susan, and Metacomet answered gravely,

"I hope you never will."