WOODLAND TALES
WOODLAND TALES
BY
ERNEST THOMPSON SETON
[Illustration]
WITH 100 DRAWINGS
BY
THE AUTHOR
AUTHOR OF "WILD ANIMALS AT HOME," "WILD
ANIMALS I HAVE KNOWN," "TWO LITTLE SAVAGES,"
"BIOGRAPHY OF A GRIZZLY," "LIFE
HISTORIES OF NORTHERN ANIMALS," "ROLF IN
THE WOODS," "THE BOOK OF WOODCRAFT."
CHIEF OF THE WOODCRAFT LEAGUE OF AMERICA
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1922
COPYRIGHT, 1905, 1920, 1921, BY
ERNEST THOMPSON SETON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT 1903, 1904, BY THE CENTURY COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
PREFACE
_To the Guide_
These Mother Carey Tales were written for children of all ages, who have
not outgrown the delight of a fairy tale. It might almost be said that
they were written chiefly for myself, for I not only have had the
pleasure of telling them to the little ones, and enjoying their quick
response, but have also had the greater pleasure of thinking them and
setting them down.
As I write, I look from a loved window, across a landscape that I love,
and my eye rests on a tall beautiful pine planted with my own hands
years ago. It is a mass of green fringes, with gem-like tips of buds and
baby cones, beautiful, exquisitely beautiful, whether seen from afar as
a green spire, or viewed close at hand as jewellery. It is beautiful,
fragile and--unimportant, as the world sees it; yet through its
wind-waved mass one can get little glimpses of the thing that backs it
all, the storm-defying shaft, the enduring rigid living growing trunk of
massive timber that gives it the nobility of strength, and adds value to
the rest; sometimes it must be sought for, but it always surely is
there, ennobling the lesser pretty things.
I hope this tree is a fair image of my fairy tale. I know my child
friends will love the piney fringes and the jewel cones, and they can
find the unyielding timber in its underlying truth, if they seek for it.
If they do not, it is enough to have them love the cones.
All are not fairy tales. Other chapters set forth things to see, thing
to do, things to go to, things to know, things to remember. These,
sanctified in the blue outdoors, spell "Woodcraft," the one pursuit of
man that never dies or palls, the thing that in the bygone ages gifted
him and yet again will gift him with the seeing eye, the thinking hand,
the body that fails not, the winged soul that stores up precious
memories.
It is hoped that these chapters will show how easy and alluring, and how
good a thing it is.
While they are meant for the children six years of age and upward, it is
assumed that Mother (or Father) will be active as a leader; therefore it
is addressed, first of all, to the parent, whom throughout we shall call
the "Guide."
* * * * *
Some of these stories date back to my school days, although the first
actually published was "Why the Chicadee Goes Crazy Twice a Year." This
in its original form appeared in "Our Animal Friends" in September,
1893. Others, as "The Fingerboard Goldenrod," "Brook-Brownie," "The
Bluebird," "Diablo and the Dogwood," "How the Violets Came," "How the
Indian Summer Came," "The Twin Stars," "The Fairy Lamps," "How the
Littlest Owl Came," "How the Shad Came," appeared in slightly different
form in the _Century Magazine_, 1903 and 1904.
* * * * *
My thanks are due to the Authorities of the American Museum who have
helped me with specimens and criticism; to the published writings of Dr.
W. J. Holland and Clarence M. Weed for guidance in insect problems; to
Britton and Browne's "Illustrated Flora, U. S. and Canada"; and to the
Nature Library of Doubleday, Page & Co., for light in matters botanic;
to Mrs. Daphne Drake and Mrs. Mary S. Dominick for many valuable
suggestions, and to my wife, Grace Gallatin Seton, for help with the
purely literary work.
Also to Oliver P. Medsger, the naturalist of Lincoln High School, Jersey
City, N. J., for reading with critical care those parts of the
manuscript that deal with flowers and insects, as well as for the ballad
of the Ox-eye, the story of its coming to America, and the photograph of
the Mecha-meck.
CONTENTS
Things to See in Springtime
_The Seeing Eye_
TALE NO. PAGE
1. Blue-eyes, the Snow-child, or the Story of Hepatica 3
2. The Story of the Dawnsinger, or How the Bloodroot Came 5
3. The Prairie-girl with Yellow Hair 6
4. The Cat's-eye Toad, a child of Maka Ina 11
5. How the Bluebird Came 14
6. Robin, the Bird that Loves to Make Clay Pots 17
7. Brook Brownie, or How the Song Sparrow Got his Streaks 20
8. Diablo and the Dogwood 20
9. The Woolly-bear 23
10. How the Violets Came 25
11. Cocoons 26
12. Butterflies and Moths 28
13. The Mourning-cloak Butterfly or the Camberwell Beauty 30
14. The Wandering Monarch 32
15. The Bells of the Solomon Seal 35
16. The Silver Bells of the False Solomon Seal 37
Things to See in Summertime
17. How the Mouse-bird made Fun of the Brownie 43
18. The Pot-herb that Sailed with the Pilgrims 44
19. How the Red Clover Got the White Mark on Its Leaves 47
20. The Shamrock and Her Three Sisters 51
21. The Indian Basket-Maker 53
22. Crinkleroot; or Who Hid the Salad? 56
23. The Mecha-meck 61
24. Dutchman's Breeches 63
25. The Seven Sour Sisters 65
26. Self-heal or Blue-curls in the Grass 65
27. The Four Butterflies You See Every Summer 67
28. The Beautiful Poison Caterpillar 72
29. The Great Splendid Silk-moth or _Samia Cecropia_ 77
30. The Green Fairy with the Long Train 79
31. The Wicked Hoptoad and the Little Yellow Dragon 82
32. The Fairy Bird or the Humming-bird Moth 85
33. Ribgrass or Whiteman's-Foot 88
34. Jack-in-the-Pulpit 91
35. How the Indian Pipe Came 91
36. The Cucumber Under the Brownie's Umbrella 93
37. The Hickory Horn-Devil 95
Things to See in Autumntime
38. The Purple and Gold of Autumn 103
39. Why the Chicadee Goes Crazy Twice a Year 104
40. The Story of the Quaking Aspen or Poplar 107
41. The Witch-hazel 109
42. How the Shad Came and How the Chestnut Got Its Burrs 112
43. How the Littlest Owl Came 113
44. The Wood-witch and the Bog-nuts 114
45. The Mud-dauber Wasp 117
46. The Cicada and the Katydid 121
47. The Digger Wasp That Killed the Cicada 123
48. How the Indian Summer Came 126
Things to See in Wintertime
49. The North Star, or the Home Star 129
50. The Pappoose on the Squaw's Back 131
51. Orion the Hunter, and his Fight with the Bull 133
52. The Pleiades, that Orion Fired at the Bull 134
53. The Twin Stars 136
54. Stoutheart and His Black Cravat 137
55. Tracks and the Stories They Tell 138
56. A Rabbit's Story of His Life 140
57. The Singing Hawk 144
58. The Fingerboard Goldenrod 145
59. Woodchuck Day--February Second 149
Things to Know
_The Story of The Trail_
60. How the Pine Tree Tells its Own Story 153
61. Blazes 155
62. Totems 155
63. Symbols 159
64. Sign Language 161
65. The Language of Hens 161
66. Why the Squirrel Wears a Bushy Tail 162
67. Why the Dog Wags His Tail 163
68. Why the Dog Turns Around Three Times Before Lying Down 164
69. The Deathcup of Diablo 165
70. The Poison Ivy, or the Three-fingered Demon of the Woods 169
71. The Medicine in the Sky 170
72. The Angel of the Night 172
Things to Do
_The Thinking Hand_
73. Bird-nesting in Winter 177
74. The Ox-eye Daisy or Marguerite 179
75. The Monkey-hunt 181
76. The Horsetail and the Jungle 185
77. The Woods in Winter 186
78. The Fish and the Pond 187
79. Smoke Prints of Leaves 189
80. Bird-boxes 189
81. A Hunter's Lamp 193
82. The Coon Hunt 194
83. The Indian Pot 195
84. Snowflakes 197
85. Are you Alive? Farsight 199
86. Are you Alive? Quicksight 200
87. Are you Alive? Hearing 200
88. Are you Alive? Feeling 201
89. Are you Alive? Quickness 202
90. Are you Alive? Guessing Length 203
91. Are you Alive? Aim or Limb-control 204
92. A Treasure Hunt 205
93. Moving Pictures 205
94. The Natural Autograph Album 207
95. The Crooked Stick 208
96. The Animal Dance of Nana-bo-jou 209
97. The Caribou Dance 212
98. The Council Robe 216
Things to Remember
_The Winged Soul that Stores up Precious Memories._
99. How the Wren Became King of the Birds 221
100. The Snowstorm 222
101. The Fairy Lamps 223
102. The Sweetest Sad Song in the Woods 225
103. Springtime, or the Wedding of Maka Ina and El Sol 227
104. Running the Council 228
105. The Sandpainting of the Fire 229
106. The Woodcraft Kalendar 231
107. Climbing the Mountain 233
108. The Omaha Prayer 235
A List of Books by the Author 236
INTRODUCTION
_Mother Carey_
All-mother! Mater Cara! I have never seen you, but I hungered so to know
you that I understood it when you came, unseen, and silently whispered
to me that first time in the long ago.
I cannot tell the children what you look like, Mother Carey, for mortal
eye hath never rested on your face; and yet I can offer them a portrait,
O strong Angel of the Wild Things, neither young nor old--Oh! loving One
that neither trembles nor relents!
* * * * *
A mink he was, a young mink and foolish. One of a happy brood, who were
seeing the world with their mother--a first glimpse of it. She was
anxious and leading, happy and proud, warning, sniffing, inviting,
loving, yet angersome at trivial disobedience, doling out her wisdom in
nips and examples and shrill warnings that all heeded; except this one,
the clever fool of the family, the self-satisfied smart one. He would
not be warned, the thing smelt so good. He plunged ahead. Mother was a
fool; he was wiser than Mother. Here was a merry feasting for him. Then
_clank_! The iron jaws of a trap sprang from the hiding grass, and
clutched on his soft young paws. Screams of pain, futile strainings,
writhings, ragings and moanings; bloody jaws on the trap; the mother
distraught with grief, eager to take all the punishment herself, but
helpless and stunned, unable to leave; the little brothers, aghast at
this first touch of passion, this glimpse of reality, skurrying, scared,
going and coming, mesmerized, with glowing eyes and bristling
shoulder-fur. And the mother, mad with sorrow, goaded by the screaming,
green-eyed, vacant-minded, despairing--till a new spirit entered into
her, the spirit of Cara the All-mother, Mother Carey the Beneficent,
Mother Carey the wise Straightwalker. Then the mother mink, inspired,
sprang on her suffering baby. With all the power of her limbs she sprang
and clutched; with all the power of her love she craunched. His screams
were ended; his days in the land were ended. He had not heeded her
wisdom; the family fool was finished. The race was better, better for
the suffering fool mink; better for the suffering mother mink.
The spirit left her; left her limp and broken-hearted. And away on the
wind went riding, grimly riding her empire.
Four swift steeds for riding, has she, the White Wind, the West Wind,
the Wet Wind and the Waking Wind. But mostly she rides the swift West
Wind.
She is strong, is Mother Carey, strong, wise, inexorable, calm and
direct as an iceberg. And beneficent; but she loves the strong ones
best. She ever favours the wise ones. She is building, ceaselessly
building. The good brick she sets in a place of honour, and the poor one
she grinds into gravel for the workmen to walk on.
She loves you, but far less than she does your race. It may be that you
are not wise, and if it seem best, she will drop a tear and crush you
into the dust.
Three others there be of power, like Mother Carey: Maka Ina who is
Mother Earth; El Sol, the Sun in the Sky, and Diablo the Evil Spirit of
Disease and Dread. But over all is the One Great Spirit, the Beginning
and the Ruler with these and many messengers, who do His bidding. But
mostly you shall hear of Mother Carey.
It is long ago since first I heard her whisper, and though I hear better
now than then, I have no happier memory than that earliest message.
"Ho Wayseeker," she called, "I have watched your struggle to find the
pathway, and I know that you will love the things that belong to it.
Therefore, I will show you the trail, and this is what it will lead you
to: a thousand pleasant friendships that will offer honey in little
thorny cups, the twelve secrets of the underbrush, the health of
sunlight, suppleness of body, the unafraidness of the night, the delight
of deep water, the goodness of rain, the story of the trail, the
knowledge of the swamp, the aloofness of knowing,--yea, more, a crown
and a little kingdom measured to your power and all your own.
"But there is a condition attached. When you have found a trail you are
thereby ordained a guide. When you have won a kingdom you must give it
to the world or lose it. For those who have got power must with it bear
responsibility; evade the one, the other fades away."
This is the pledge I am trying to keep; I want to be your Guide. I am
offering you my little kingdom.
THINGS TO SEE IN SPRINGTIME
[Illustration: Blue-eyes the Snow Child]
Things to See in Springtime
TALE 1
Blue-eyes, the Snow Child, or The Story of Hepatica
Have you ever seen El Sol, the Chief of the Wonder-workers, brother to
Mother Carey? Yes, you have, though probably you did not know it; at
least you could not look him in the face. Well, I am going to tell you
about him, and tell of a sad thing that happened to him, and to some one
whom he loved more than words can tell.
Tall and of blazing beauty was El Sol, the King of the Wonder-workers;
his hair was like shining gold, and stood straight out a yard from his
head, as he marched over the hilltops.
Everyone loved him, except a very few, who once had dared to fight him,
and had been worsted. Everyone else loved him, and he liked everybody,
without really loving them. Until one day, as he walked in his garden,
he suddenly came on a beautiful white maiden, whom he had never seen
before. Her eyes were of the loveliest blue, her hair was so soft that
it floated on the air, and her robe was white, covered with ferns done
in white lace.
He fell deeply in love with her at once, but she waved a warning hand,
when he tried to come near.
"Who are you, oh radiant princess? I love you even before I hear you
speak."
"I am Snowroba, the daughter of the great King Jackfrost," she said.
"I love you as I never loved any one. Will you marry me? I am the King
of the Wonder-workers. I will make you the Queen."
"No," said she, "I cannot marry you, for it is written that if one of my
people marry one of your people, she will sink down and die in a day."
Then El Sol was very sad. But he said, "May I not see you again?"
"Yes," she answered, "I will meet you here in the morning, for it is
pleasant to look on your beauty," and her voice tinkled sweetly.
So she met him in the morning, and again on the third morning. He loved
her madly now, and though she held back, he seized her in his arms and
kissed her tenderly.
Then her arms fell weakly to her sides, and her eyes half closed as she
said: "I know now that the old writing spake truth. I love you, I love
you, my love; but you have killed me."
And she sank down, a limp white form, on the leafy ground.
El Sol was wild with grief. He tried to revive her, to bring her back.
She only whispered, "Good-bye, my love. I am going fast. You will see me
no more, but come to this place a year from now. It may be Maka Ina will
be kind, and will send you a little one that is yours and mine."
Her white body melted away, as he bent over it and wept.
He came back every morning, but saw Snowroba no more. One year from that
day, as he lingered sadly over the sacred spot, he saw a new and
wonderful flower come forth. Its bloom was of the tenderest violet blue,
and it was full of expression. As he gazed, he saw those eyes again; the
scalding tears dropped from his eyes, and burned its leaves into a
blotched and brownish colour. He remembered, and understood her promise
now. He knew that this was their blue-eyed little one.
In the early springtime we can see it. Three sunny days on the edge of
the snowdrift will bring it forth. The hunterfolk who find it, say that
it is just one of the spring flowers, out earlier than any other, and is
called Liverleaf, but we Woodcrafters know better. We know it is
Hepatica, the child of El Sol and Snowroba.
TALE 2
The Story of the White Dawnsinger
or
How the Bloodroot Came
Have you noticed that there are no snow-white birds in our woods during
summer? Mother Carey long ago made it a rule that all snow-white
landbirds should go north, when the snow was gone in the springtime. And
they were quite obedient; they flew, keeping just on the south edge of
the melting snow.
But it so happened that one of the sweetest singers of all--the
snow-white Dawnsinger with the golden bill and the ruby legs--was flying
northward with his bride, when she sprained her wing so she could not
fly at all.
There was no other help for it; they must stay in that thicket till her
wing grew strong again.
The other white birds flew on, but the Dawnsinger waited. He sang his
merriest songs to cheer her. He brought her food: and he warned her when
enemies were near.
A moon had come and gone. Now she was well again, and strong on the
wing. He was anxious to go on to their northern home. A second warning
came from Mother Carey, "White birds go north."
But the sunny woodside had become very pleasant, food was abundant, and
the little white lady said, "Why should we go north when it is so much
nicer right here?"
The Dawnsinger felt the same way, and the next time the warning came,
"White birds go north," he would not listen at all, and they settled
down to a joyful life in the woods.
They did not know anything about the Yellow-eyed Whizz. They never would
have known, had they gone north at their right time. But the Yellow-eyed
Whizz was coming. It came, and It always goes straight after white
things in the woods, for brown things It cannot see.
Dawnsinger was high on a tree, praising the light in a glorious song,
that he had just made up, when It singled him out by his whiteness, and
pierced him through.
He fell fluttering and dying; and as she flew to him, with a cry of
distress, the Yellow-eyed wicked Whizz struck her down by his side.
The Chewinks scratched leaves over the two white bodies, and--I
think--that Mother Carey dropped a tear on the place.
That was the end of the White Dawnsinger and his bride. Yet every year,
at that same place, as the snow goes, the brown leaves move and part,
and up from beneath there comes a beautiful white flower.
[Illustration: The Story of the White Dawnsinger]
Its bloom threads are yellow like the Dawnsinger's beak, and its stem is
ruby like his legs; all the rest is snow-white like his plumes. It
rises, looks about, faces the sun, and sings a little odour-song, a
little aroma-lay. If you look deep down into the open soul of the
Dawnsinger you will see the little golden thoughts he sings about. Then
up from the same grave comes another, just the same, but a little
smaller, and for a while they stand up side by side, and praise the
light. But the Wither-bloom that haunts the flowers as the Yellow-eyed
Whizz does the birds, soon finds them out; their song is ended, their
white plumes are scattered, and they shrink back into their grave, to be
side by side again.
You can find their little bodies, but deal gently with them, for they
are wounded; you may make them bleed again.
And when you hear the Chewinks scratching in the underbrush, remember
they are putting leaves on the grave of the White Dawnsinger.
* * * * *
Surely you have guessed the secret; the flower is the Bloodroot, and the
Whizz is the Sharp-shinned Hawk.
TALE 3
The Prairie-girl with Yellow Hair
[Illustration: The Prairie-girl]
Tall and fair was the Prairie-girl. She was not very pretty, but her
form was slender and graceful, and her head was covered with a mass of
golden hair that made you see her from afar off. It has been whispered
that she was deeply in love with El Sol, for wherever he went, she
turned her head to look at him; and when she could not see him, she
drooped and languished. But he never seemed to notice her. As she grew
older her golden head turned white, and at last the swish of Mother
Carey's horses carried away all her white hair, and left her old, bald,
and ugly. So she pined and died, and Maka Ina buried her poor little
body under the grass. But some say it was Father Time that blew her hair
away, and that El Sol had the body cremated.
* * * * *
If you look on the lawns or the fields in springtime, you are sure to
find the Prairie-girl. The Guide can show her to you, if you do not
know her. But he will call her "Common Dandelion," and I do not know of
any flower that has so many things for us children to remember.
If you are learning French, you will see how it got the name
"Dandelion"; it used to be written _dent de lion_; that is, "tooth of a
lion"; because its leaves are edged with sharp teeth, like a lion's jaw.
Its golden-yellow flower is said to open when the Swallows arrive from
the south, that is, in April; and though it blooms chiefly in springtime
it keeps on blooming till long after the Swallows fly away. It certainly
thrives as long as the sun shines on it, and fades when the cold dark
season comes. But I have seen it out in November; that is, the Dandelion
blooms for fully nine months. I do not know of any other flower that
does; most of them are done in one month.
When the yellow flower is over, its place is taken by a beautiful globe
of soft, white plumes; this is why the story says its golden hair turns
white with age. The children believe that this woolly head will tell you
the time of day. You hold it up, then pretend you are Father Time
blowing her hair away, blow a sharp puff with your breath, then another
and another, till the plumes are blown away. If it takes four blows,
they say it means four o'clock; but it is not a very true clock.
Some children make a wish, then blow once and say, "this year"; the
second time, "next year"; the third time, "some time"; the fourth time,
"never." Then begin all over, and keep on as long as any plumes are
left, to tell when the wish is coming true.
Now pull the head off the stalk. You will find it leaves a long, open
tube that sounds like a trumpet when you blow through it from the small
end. If you force your finger into the big end, and keep pushing, you
split the tube into two or three pieces; put these in your mouth and
they will curl up like ringlets. Some children hang these on their ears
for ornaments. Take a stalk for each year of your age; pull its head
off. Then you will find that the top end will go into the bottom and
make a ring. Use all the stalks you have gathered, to make a chain; now
throw this chain into a low tree. If it sticks the first time, your wish
will come true this year. Each time it falls puts your wish a year
farther away.
This may not be true; but it is a game to play. Some big girls use it,
to find out when they are going to be married.
Now dig up the whole plant, root and all--the gardener will be much
obliged to you for doing so--take it home, and ask the Guide to make the
leaves into a salad; you will find it good to eat; most Europeans eat it
regularly, either raw, or boiled as greens.
Last of all, ask the Guide to roast the root, till it is brown and
crisp, then grind it in a coffee-mill, and use it to make coffee. Some
people think it better than real coffee; at any rate, the doctors say it
is much healthier, for it is nourishing food, and does not do one any
harm at all. But perhaps you will not like it. You may think all the
time you are eating the body of the poor little Prairie-girl, who died
of love.
TALE 4
The Cat's-eye Toad, a Child of Maka Ina
When you were little, O Guide! didn't you delight in the tales of gnomes
or _nibelungen_, those strange underground creatures that lived hidden
from the light, and busied themselves with precious stones and metals?
How unwillingly we gave up those glad beliefs, as we inevitably grew old
and lost our fairyland eyes!
[Illustration: The Cat's eye Toad (life size)]
But you must not give up all your joyful creeds; you must keep on
believing in the weird underground dwarfs; for I am going to tell you of
one that the cold calculating Professor Science has at last accepted,
and that lives in your own back-yard. That is, the Cat's-eye Toad or
Spadefoot. It is much like a common Toad, but a little smoother, the
digging spade on its hind foot is bigger and its eye, its beautiful
gold-stone eye, has the pupil up and down like that of a Cat, instead of
level as in its cousin, the warty Hoptoad.
But the wonderful thing about the Cat's-eye is that it spends most of
its life underground, coming out in the early springtime for a few days
of the most riotous honeymoon in some small pond, where it sings a loud
chorus till mated, lays a few hundred eggs, to be hatched into tadpoles,
then backs itself into its underground world by means of the boring
machine on its hind feet, to be heard no more that season, and seen no
more, unless some one chance to dig it out, just as Hans in the story
dug out the mole-gnome.
In the fairy tale the Shepherd-boy was rewarded by the gnome for digging
him out; for he received both gold and precious stones. But our gnome
does not wish us to dig him out; nevertheless, if you do, you will be
rewarded with a golden fact, and a glimpse of two wonderful jewel eyes.
According to one who knows him well, the Cat's-eye buries itself far
underground, and sleeps days, or weeks, _perhaps years_ at a time. Once
a grave-digger found a Cat's-eye three feet two inches down in the earth
with no way out.
How and when are we then to find this strange creature? Only during his
noisy honeymoon in April.
Do you know the soft trilling whistle of the common Hoptoad in May? The
call of the Cat's-eye is of the same style but very loud and harsh, and
heard early in April. If on some warm night in springtime, you hear a
song which sounds like a cross between a Toad's whistle and a Chicken's
squawk, get a searchlight and go quietly to the place. The light will
help you to come close, and in the water up to his chin, you will see
him, his gold-stone eyes blazing like jewels and his throat blown out
like a mammoth pearl, each time he utters the "squawk" which he intends
for a song. And it is a song, and a very successful one, for a visit to
the same pond a week or two later, will show you--not the Cat's-eye or
his mate, they have gone a-tunnelling--but a swarm of little black
pin-like tadpole Cat's-eyes, born and bred in the glorious sunlight but
doomed and ready, if they live, to follow in their parents' tracks far
underground. Sure proof that the song did win a mate, and was crowned
with the success for which all woodland, and marshland song first was
made.
TALE 5
How the Bluebird Came
Nana-bo-jou, that some think is the Indian name for El Sol and some say
is Mother Carey, was sleeping his winter's sleep in the big island just
above the thunder-dam that men call Niagara. Four moons had waned, but
still he slept. The frost draperies of his couch were gone; his white
blanket was burnt into holes. He turned over a little; then the ice on
the river cracked like near-by thunder. When he turned again, it began
to slip over the big beaver-dam of Niagara, but still he did not awake.
[Illustration: How the Bluebird Came]
The great Er-Beaver in his pond, that men call Lake Erie, flapped his
tail, and the waves rolled away to the shore, and set the ice heaving,
cracking, and groaning; but Nana-bo-jou slept on.
Then the Ice-demons pounded the shore of the island with their clubs.
They pushed back the whole river-flood till the channel was dry, then
let it rush down like the end of all things, and they shouted together:
"Nana-bo-jou! Nana-bo-jou! Nana-bo-jou! Wake up!"
But still he slept calmly on.
Then came a soft, sweet voice, more gentle than the mating turtle of
Miami. It was in the air, but it was nowhere, and yet it was in the
trees, in the water, and it was in Nana-bo-jou too. He felt it, and it
awoke him. He sat up and looked about. His white blanket was gone; only
a few tatters of it were to be seen in the shady places. In the sunny
spots the shreds of the fringe with its beads had taken root and were
growing into little flowers with beady eyes, Spring Beauties as they are
called now. The small voice kept crying: "Awake! the spring is coming!"
Nana-bo-jou said: "Little voice, where are you? Come here."
But the little voice, being everywhere, was nowhere, and could not come
at the hero's call.
So he said: "Little voice, you are nowhere because you have no place to
live in; I will make you a home."
So Nana-bo-jou took a curl of birch bark and made a little wigwam, and
because the voice came from the skies he painted the wigwam with blue
mud, and to show that it came from the Sunland he painted a red sun on
it. On the floor he spread a scrap of his own white blanket, then for a
fire he breathed into it a spark of life, and said: "Here, little voice,
is your wigwam." The little voice entered and took possession, but
Nana-bo-jou had breathed the spark of life into it. The smoke-vent wings
began to move and to flap, and the little wigwam turned into a beautiful
Bluebird with a red sun on its breast and a shirt of white. Away it
flew, but every year it comes as winter wanes, the Bluebird of the
spring. The voice still dwells in it, and we feel that it has lost
nothing of its earliest power when we hear it cry: "Awake! the spring is
coming!"
TALE 6
Robin, the Bird that Loves to Make Clay Pots
Everyone knows the Robin; his reddish-brown breast, gray back, white
throat, and dark wings and tail are easily remembered. If you colour the
drawing, you will always remember it afterward. The Robin comes about
our houses and lawns; it lets us get close enough to see it. It has a
loud, sweet song. All birds have a song[A]; and all sing when they are
happy. As they sing most of the time, except when they are asleep, or
when moulting, they must have a lot of happiness in their lives.
Here are some things to remember about the Robin. It is one of the
earliest of all our birds to get up in the morning, and it begins to
sing long before there is daylight.
Birds that live in the trees, _hop_; birds that live on the ground,
_walk_ or _run_; but the Robin lives partly in the trees and partly on
the ground, so sometimes he hops and sometimes he runs.
[Illustration: The Robin Making Clay Pots]
When he alights on a fence or tree, he looks at you and flashes the
white spots on the outer corners of his tail. Again and again he does
this. Why? That is his way of letting you know that he is a Robin. He is
saying in signal code--flash and wig-wag--"I'm a Robin, I'm a Robin, I'm
a Robin." So you will not mistake him for some bird that is less loved.
The Robin invented pottery before men did; his nest is always a clay pot
set in a little pile of straws. Sometime, get a Robin's nest after the
bird is done with it; dry it well, put it on the fire very gently; leave
it till all the straws are burned away, and then if it does not go to
pieces, you will find you have a pretty good earthen pot.
The Robin loves to make these pots. I have known a cock Robin make
several which he did not need, just for the fun of making them.
A friend of mine said to me once, "Come, and I will show you the nest of
a crazy Robin." We went to the woodshed and there on a beam were six
perfectly good Robin nests all in a row; all of them empty.
"There," said my friend. "All of these six were built by a cock Robin in
about ten days or two weeks. He seemed to do nothing but sing and build
nests. Then after finishing the last one, he disappeared. Wasn't he
crazy?"
"No," I said, "not at all. He was not crazy; he was industrious. Let me
finish the chapter. The hen Robin was sitting on the eggs, the cock bird
had nothing else to do, so he put in the time at the two things he did
the best and loved the most: singing and nest-building. Then after the
young were hatched in the home nest, he had plenty to do caring for
them, so he ceased both building and singing, for that season."
I have often heard of such things. Indeed, they are rather common, but
not often noticed, because the Robin does not often build all the extra
nests in one place.
Do you know the lovely shade called Robin's-egg blue? The next time you
see a Robin's nest with eggs in it you will understand why it was so
named and feel for a moment, when first you see it, that you have found
a casket full of most exquisite jewels.
Next to nest-building, singing is the Robin's gift, and the songs that
he sings are full of joy. He says, "_cheerup, cheer up, cheerily
cheer-up_"; and he means it too.
TALE 7
Brook Brownie, or How the Song Sparrow Got His Streaks
[Illustration: Brook Brownie]
His Mother was the Brook and his sisters were the Reeds,
They, every one, applauded when he sang about his deeds.
His vest was white, his mantle brown, as clear as they could be,
And his songs were fairly bubbling o'er with melody and glee.
But an envious Neighbour splashed with mud our Brownie's coat and vest,
And then a final handful threw that stuck upon his breast.
The Brook-bird's mother did her best to wash the stains away;
But there they stuck, and, as it seems, are very like to stay.
And so he wears the splashes and the mud blotch, as you see;
But his songs are bubbling over still with melody and glee.
TALE 8
Diablo and the Dogwood
[Illustration: The Dogwood Bloom]
What a glorious thing is the Maytime Dogwood in our woods! How it does
sing out its song! More loudly and clearly it sings than any other
spring flower! For it is not one, but a great chorus; and I know it is
singing that "The spring, the very spring is in the land!"
I suppose if one had King Solomon's fayland ears, one might hear the
Dogwood music like a lot of church bells pealing, like the chorus of the
cathedral where Woodthrush is the preacher-priest and the Veeries make
responses.
It was Adam's favourite tree, they say, in the Garden of Eden. And it
grew so high, flowered so wonderfully, and gave so much pleasure that
Diablo, who is also called the Devil, wanted to kill it. He made up his
mind that he would blight and scatter every shining leaf of its snowy
bloom. So one dark night he climbed a Honey Locust tree near the gate,
and swung by his tail over the wall, intending to tear off all the
lovely blossoms. But he got a shock when he found that every flower was
in the _shape of a cross_, which put them beyond his power to blight. He
was furious at not being able to destroy its beauty, so did the worst he
could. Keeping away from the cross he bit a piece out of the edge of
every snowy flower leaf, and then jumped back to the Honey Locust tree.
The Locust was ashamed when she found that she had helped Diablo to do
such a mean bit of mischief, so she grew a bristling necklace of strong
spikes to wear; they were so long and sharp that no one since, not even
Diablo himself, has ever been able to climb that Honey Locust tree.
But it was too late to save the Dogwood bloom. The bites were out, and
they never healed up again, as you can see to this very day.
TALE 9
The Woolly-bear
[Illustration: The Woolly-bear (the moth is 1-1/4 life size)]
Do you know the Woolly-bear Caterpillar? It is divided into three parts;
the middle one brown, the two ends black. Everyone notices the
Woolly-bear, because it comes out in early spring, as soon as the frost
is over, and crawls on the fences and sidewalks as though they belonged
to it. It does not seem to be afraid of any one or anything. It will
march across the road in front of a motor car, or crawl up the leg of
your boot. Sometimes when you brush it off with your hand, little
hairs are left sticking in your fingers, because it is really like a
small porcupine, protected by short spears sticking out of its skin in
all directions. Here at the side of the picture, is one of these hairs
seen under a microscope.
Where did the Woolly-bear come from? It was hatched from an egg last
summer.
And now what is going to happen? It will stuff itself with rib-grass or
other low plants, till it has grown bigger; then it will get a warning
from the All-mother to prepare for the great change. In some low dry
place under a log, stone or fence-rail, it will spin a cocoon with its
own spikey hairs outside for a protector. In this rough hairy coffin it
will roll itself up, for its "little death," as the Indians call it, and
Mother Carey will come along with her sleeping wand, and touch it, so it
will go into sound sleep, but for only a few days. One bright sunny
morning old Mother Carey comes around again, touches the Woolly-bear
bundle-baby, and out of it comes the Woolly-bear, only now it is changed
like the Prince in the story into a beautiful Moth called the
Tiger-Moth! Out he comes, and if you look up at one end of the coffin he
is leaving, you may see the graveclothes he wore when first he went to
sleep. Away he flies now to seek his beautiful mate, and soon she lays a
lot of eggs, from each of which will come another little Woolly-bear to
grow into a big Woolly-bear, and do it all over again.
TALE 10
How the Violets Came
The Meadow she was sorry
For her sister Sky, you see,
'Cause, though her robe of blue was bright,
'Twas plain as it could be.
And so she sent a skylark up
To trim the Sky robe right
With daisies from the Meadow
(You can see them best at night).
And every scrap of blue cut out
To make those daisies set
Came tumbling down upon the grass
And grew a violet.
TALE 11
Cocoons
Everyone loves to go a-hunting. Our forebears were hunters for so many
ages that the hunting spirit is strong in all of us, even though held in
check by the horror of giving pain to a fellow being. But the pleasure
of being outdoors, of seeking for hidden treasures, of finding something
that looks at first like old rubbish, and then turns out to be a
precious and beautiful thing, that is ours by right of the old
law--finders, keepers. That is a kind of hunting that every healthy
being loves, and there are many ways and chances for you to enjoy it.
Go out any time between October and April, and look in all the low trees
and high bushes for the little natural rag-bundles called "cocoons."
Some are bundle-shaped and fast to a twig their whole length. Some hang
like a Santa Claus bag on a Christmas tree; but all may be known by
their hairiness or the strong, close cover of fine gray or brown fibre
or silk, without seams and woven to keep out the wet.
[Illustration: Cocoons]
They are so strongly fastened on, that you will have to break the twig
to get the bundle down. If it seems very light, and rattled when you
shake it, you will likely see one or more small, sharp, round holes in
it. This means that an insect enemy has destroyed the little creature
sleeping within. If the Cocoon is perfect and seems solid and heavy,
take it home, and put it in a cardboard, or wooden box, which has a wire
screen, or gauze cover. Keep it in a light place, not too dry, till the
springtime comes; then one day a miracle will take place. The case will
be cut open from within, and out will come a gorgeous Moth. It is like
the dull, dark grave opening up at the resurrection to let forth a
new-born, different being with wings to fly in the heavens above.
In the drawing I have shown five different kinds of bundle-baby, then at
the bottom have added the jug-handled bundle-baby of the Tomato worm; it
does not make a Cocoon but buries itself in the ground when the time
comes for the Great Sleep. Kind Mother Earth protects it as she does the
Hickory Horn-Devil, so it does not need to make a Cocoon at all.
There is a wonderful story about each of these bundle-babies. You will
never get weary if you follow and learn them, for each one differs from
the last. Some of them I hope to tell you in this book, and before we
begin I want you to know some of the things that men of science have
learned, and why a Butterfly is not a Moth.
TALE 12
Butterflies and Moths
Do you remember the dear old fairy tale of Beauty and the Beast? How
Beauty had to marry the Beast to save her father's life? But as soon as
she had bravely agreed to sacrifice herself--as soon as she gave the
fateful "Yes" the Beast stood up on his hind legs, his horns, hoofs and
hide rolled off, and he was turned back into his true shape, a splendid
young Prince whom she could not help loving; and they lived happy ever
after.
Do you know that just such transformations and happy weddings are going
on about us all the time? The Beast is an ugly Caterpillar, the Princess
Beauty is the Butterfly or the Moth. And when the Beast is changed into
the Prince Charming and meets with Princess Beauty, they are just as
madly happy as they tell it in the fairy books. I know it, for I have
seen the transformation, and I have seen the pair go off on their
wedding flight.
Men of science have been trying to explain these strange
transformations, and to discover why the Prince and Princess do not need
to eat or drink, once they have won their highest form, their life of
wings and joy. But they have not got much farther than giving names to
the things we have long loved and seen as children, dividing the winged
wonders into two big families called Butterflies and Moths.
Do you know the difference between a Butterfly and a Moth?
Taken together they make a large group that are called Scale-wings,
because they alone among insects, have scales or tiny feathers like dust
on the wings. Butterflies are Scale-wings that fly by day, and have
club-shaped feelers; they mostly fold one wing against the other when
they alight, and in the chrysalis, or bundle-baby stage, they are naked
and look like an African ear-drop.
Moths are Scale-wings that fly by night, and have switch or
feather-shaped feelers; they keep their wings spread open when they
alight, and in the bundle-baby stage, they are wrapped in a cocoon.
There are some that do not keep to these rules, but they are rare, and
the shape of the feelers will tell whether it is a Moth or a Butterfly.
All of these Scale-wings are hatched from eggs, and come first, as a
worm, grub, or caterpillar; next as a chrysalis pupa or bundle-baby;
last as the winged creature. That is, first a Beast and last a Beauty.
Each of them must at one time be the ugly one, before the great change
comes. But I must tell you a truth that the Fairy Books left out, and
which maybe you have guessed--Princess Beauty too was at one time forced
to live and look like a Beast, till she had fought her own fight, had
worked out her own high destiny, and won her way to wings.
TALE 13
The Mourning-cloak Butterfly, or the Camberwell Beauty
There was once a lady who dwelt in Camberwell. She was so good to see
that people called her "The Camberwell Beauty." She dressed so
magnificently that her robe was covered with gold, and spangled with
precious stones of most amazing colours. Especially proud was she, of
the row of big blue diamonds that formed the border; and she loved to go
forth into the world to see and be seen; although she knew that the
country was full of robbers who would be sure to steal her jewels if
they could. Then she made a clever plan, she kept on the beautiful
things that she loved to dress in, but over all she hung a black velvet
mourning cloak which nobody could possibly want to steal. Then she went
up and down the roads as much as she pleased.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Mourning-cloak Butterfly (3/4 life size)]
Well, this story may be not quite true, but it is partly true, and the
beautiful lady is known to-day as the Mourning-cloak Butterfly. There it
is, plain to be seen, the black mourning cloak, but peeping from under
it, you can see the golden border and some of the blue diamonds too,
if you look very carefully.
In the North Woods where I spent my young days, the first butterfly to
be seen in the springtime was the Mourning-cloak, and the reason we saw
it so early in the season, yes, even in the snowtime, was because this
is one of the Butterflies that sometimes sleep all winter, and so live
in two different seasons.
Its eggs are laid on the willows, elms, or poplars, in early springtime.
The young soon hatch, and eat so much, and grow so fast, that five weeks
after the eggs are laid, and three after they are hatched, the
caterpillar is full grown, and hangs itself up as a chrysalis under some
sheltering board or rail. In two weeks more, the wonderful event takes
place, the perfect Butterfly comes forth; and there is another
Mourning-cloak to liven the roadside, and amaze us with its half-hidden
beauty.
TALE 14
The Wandering Monarch
Did you ever read the old Greek story of Ulysses, King of Ithaca, the
Wandering Monarch, who for twenty years roamed over sea and land away
from home--always trying to get back, but doomed to keep on travelling,
homesick and weary, but still moving on; until his name became a byword
for wandering?
[Illustration: MONARCH BUTTERFLY
"The Wanderer" in Three Stages: Cocoon, Caterpillar, and Butterfly]
In our own woods and our own fields in America we have a Wandering
Monarch--the "Big Red Butterfly" as we children called it--the "Monarch"
as it is named by the butterfly catchers.
It is called the "Wanderer" chiefly because it is the only one of our
Butterflies that migrates like the birds. In the late summer it
gathers in great swarms when the bright days are waning, and flies away
to warmer lands. I have often seen it going, yet I do not remember that
I ever saw it come back in the springtime; but it comes, though not in
great flocks like those that went south.
