CHAPTER XV

THE THUNDER BIRD

The Indian's mind was full of poetry, and nature was like a book of poems to it! The seasons published the poems year by year.

Little Metacomet thought the cabin in the groves the most delightful of the hiding-places of nature, for the lands of the rivers and bays were to him the open world. He, too, liked the old haystack and the green haystack meadows.

There were great flocks of turkey-buzzards in those days, and they used to gather about the ponds. These strange awkward birds that slanted as they flew were yet picturesque, and the little prince would sometimes amuse himself by scaring them up with a cry like a loon. The night heron also came to these ponds, in the deep glens near the oaks. All the birds seemed to like the haystack.

It was a hot May-day afternoon, and Metacomet was at the groves. A cloud like peaks of pearl filled the northern sky, and began to turn black and to spread itself like a wing. The air was still, the heat sweltering; birds spread their wings in the trees, and sat songless with open bills. Crows flew low, and perched upon the haystack, cawing shrilly. Not a leaf stirred. Even the flowers drooped.

Timid Susan and Roger sat with the little prince in the cabin doorway.

Suddenly Metacomet said--

"It is coming!"

"What is coming?" said Roger.

"The thunder bird."

"I have never heard of that kind of a bird before. How does it look?"

"It is spreading out its wings now."

"Where?"

"In the sky--I can see him--his wings are black; they cover the grove. They will turn into fire in the sunset."

Susan looked up through the oak boughs into the clear air.

"He is beginning to shake his wings," said Metacomet. "He will flap his wings soon, and make the winds to roll."

A gust of wind shook the trees.

"He is flapping his wings now."

A low rumble was heard in the distance. The sun went out, and gusts of wind followed. The buzzards flew about wildly. There was a whirlwind, and everything seemed blowing away.

"He is spreading his wings," said the prince, "and he will spit fire soon; he shoots arrows. The haystack is gone clear away."

There came a flash of lightning, which was followed by loud thunder.

"He is shooting arrows," said the little prince.

"You mean the cloud," said Susan.

"He will fly over soon," continued the boy. "Then the rain will pour, and he will draw his bow beautiful, and all the birds will chirrup."

"A rainbow," said timid Susan.

"No, no, a bow like my bow, a bow full of fiery arrows, a bow that shows the Indian that bright things always follow dark things; there would be no bow, without the thunder bird. He puts all his arrows into his quiver as the sun goes down."

The cloud mounted high, thundered heavily and poured down rain, and the bow followed, lighting up its broken masses in the sunset.

"The sky is gathering up the arrows of fire," said the little prince.

"You see double," said Susan. "I saw no thunder bird until you showed it to me in my mind. We would call the way that you see things poetry."

Presently all the birds of the woods began to chirrup. The osprey mounted high, and screamed. The blue jay uplifted its crown. The leaves that had drooped freshened again. All nature was filled with joy.

"I am happy, aren't you?" said the prince.

"Yes, but what makes us all so happy, birds and all, even little rabbits? See the little bunnies crossing the ways. The very crows are happy. Oh, how good it seems to be alive!"

"I am glad that the thunder bird is gone," said Roger, "but we would not have felt all so glad if he had never come."

"No," said Susan, "but see, the very earth seems glad, with us. See the worms, bugs, and even little green snakes; I didn't know the earth contained so many things under ground. And here comes the little gray squirrel that buries its walnuts in the ground, each in a separate place; he must count."

"And hush, hear the quail whistle," said the prince.

Everything was glad after the thunder bird had flown away, and the night came with the earliest cricket, beautiful and still.