Part 9

The biggest little beaver tried to drag a smaller branch in the same way. When he rose on his hind-legs, so as to walk along more easily, he forgot to brace himself with his tail. The branch caught on a stone and tipped him backwards, heels over head. The two other babies were rolling a short log by pushing it with their noses. At the sound of their brother’s surprised squeals they gave the log a last wild poke. It seemed to make a jump over a bump, and then tumbled into a hole. There it stayed, though they pushed and pulled and puffed and grunted in trying to get it out again.

It happened that the father beaver reached the pond just in time to help mend the dam with his thick pole. A pointed log had jammed a hole in the dam. The water was beginning to pour through the hole with a rush. If the pond should run dry the doors of the tunnels would be left in plain sight. Then probably a wolf, or some other enemy, would hide there to catch the beavers on their way from the woods to their houses.

The old father pushed his pole into the water; then he jumped in, and, taking hold of it with his teeth, he swam out above the hole. When he let go the water carried the pole squarely across the break in the dam. The other beavers cut bushes and floated them down to weave across the hole. After that they scooped up mud and stones to plaster the dam till not a drop trickled through the mended places.

The next work to be done that autumn was to gather food for the winter. Some of the trees with the juiciest bark grew too far away to be easily dragged to the pond. All the grown-up beavers set to work to dig a canal. They dug and scooped and gnawed off roots, and dragged out stones, till they had made a long canal more than a foot deep. The water flowed into this from the pond. Then it was easy enough to float wood from the juicy trees down to the beaver village.

Even the babies could help in towing the wood down the canal and across the pond to the different houses. Some of the wood became so heavy with soaked-up water that it sank to the bottom beside the doors, and could be packed in a solid pile as easily as on land. Most of the wood, however, kept light enough to float. Instead of heaping new sticks on top, the beavers pushed them under the top branches. Then more was pressed under that, and more under that, till the pile reached to the bottom. In the winter, of course, the top sticks could not be eaten, because they would be frozen fast in the ice.

The autumn days were growing frostier and frostier. After mending the dam and gathering their woodpiles, the beavers plastered a last coat of mud all over the outside of their houses. The mud froze hard and made the little rooms inside as safe as a fort, with walls two feet thick. The babies carried leaves and grasses for their fresh beds. With a bundle tucked between his chin and fore-paw, each one hobbled along on three legs, “working like a beaver,” as the saying is.

One cloudy night, when the beavers were busy out in the woods, something soft and cold began to float down through the chilly air. The biggest baby felt a sting on his nose. When he put out his tongue to lick it he touched only a speck of water. Bits of white sifted on his fur and melted in drops. Presently the ground began to look lighter colored. Something fluttered about his head and settled on his eyelashes. He winked and sneezed and squeaked to the other babies. They had never seen a snowstorm before.

When they jumped into the pond to paddle home something sharp and brittle cracked and snapped in the icy black water. One of the little fellows caught a bit in his mouth. It smarted on his tongue and then it was gone. It was the first time that he had ever tasted ice.

The next night, when the beavers swam to the top of the pond, they bumped their heads against something hard. It cracked all around them. They pushed on, with the water lapping at the jagged edges. After they reached the shore they found it very tiresome to wade through the snow. Before the night was quarter past the old father hurried back to the pond. He was afraid that the ice might freeze too thick for them to break their way home again. He arched his back and slapped his tail on the water with an echoing whack to call the babies after him.

All winter long the beavers lived quietly in their little homes under the snow. Most of the time they slept, each on his own soft bed in the dark. Whenever they were hungry they paddled down the tunnel which led to the woodpile. Gnawing off some sticks they swam back with the bundles under their chins. They used the middle of the room for a dining-table. There they nibbled the bark. Then they carried the peeled sticks back into the pond. They did not like to have rubbish left on the floor.

Sometimes the babies grew restless and tired of staying still in the room. They swam out into the pond and moved about under the ice. They hunted for roots of the yellow water-lily. It must have been hard to hold their breaths long enough to dig up the roots and paddle away back into the house. Once the biggest baby almost had a fight with one of his playmates over a juicy root. They pulled at it so roughly that it was torn to pieces.

So the winter months slipped away. At last spring melted the ice on the pond. Here and there in the black water little brown heads came popping up. They went plowing toward shore, leaving v-shaped ripples stretching out behind. Up the banks scrambled the beavers,—mother beavers and father beavers, big brother beavers and big sister beavers, and all the little beavers who had been babies the year before.

Away roamed the fathers up the brook, to have a good time travelling all summer long. The grown-up brothers and sisters started out to build dams and houses of their own. The little fellows wandered into the woods to find their dinners of tender buds and twigs. The mothers ate the bark from fresh sticks, and then hurried back to carry milk to the new baby beavers, asleep on their soft beds at home.

THE RABBIT (HARE)

“THE TIMID ONE”

THE TIMID ONE

THE nest was a small hole scooped out of the turf and lined with bits of fur from the mother bunny’s breast. The five baby bunnies lay packed close together. Their long ears were pressed flat on their furry backs, and their hind-legs were doubled up under their round, little soft bodies.

Over them rested a blanket of dry grass and fur matted together. The sunlight outside shone through tiny holes here and there. Once the bravest bunny poked up the cover and tried to look out. All he could see was a little roof of green grasses interlacing above the nest. The grasses rustled in the summer breeze.

During the day the babies cuddled down fast asleep. Sometimes a red ant wandered into the nest. It clambered down from wisp to wisp of dead grass and scurried across the bunnies’ faces. That tickled so that they screwed up their pink noses and opened their round bright eyes for a drowsy minute. Once a big spider crawled upon the edge and stared at them with all its eyes, till the bravest bunny scared it away with a flap of his ears. Another time a bird flew down to the nest and pecked at the blanket till its bill stuck through and almost pricked one of the babies.

Toward evening the bunnies began to wake up for the night. They squirmed about, curling their toes, stretching their long legs, and cocking their ears to listen for the mother bunny’s step. At last they heard the soft thump-thump-thump of her furry paws as she came leaping over the grass from the bushes where she had been dozing. How joyfully the babies wriggled at sight of her! As soon as she had lifted the blanket and crept underneath they snuggled close to her. They were hungry for the warm milk which she had always ready for them to drink.

As the days passed the little bunnies began to grow too big for the nest. Their hind-legs felt stronger and stronger for jumping. Indeed, the bravest bunny had a naughty way of kicking his brothers and sisters. He set his heels against their soft sides and pushed in hard jerks, for the fun of making them squirm and squeal. Sometimes they kicked back, but not very often, because they were afraid to make much noise.

Their mother taught them to be as still as they could while she was absent. The only way for such helpless little creatures to escape being eaten by their many enemies was to keep out of sight. Snakes would not notice them if they stayed quiet in the nest. Hungry hawks and owls could not find out where they were hidden if they did not move. The bit of a blanket looked like a patch of dead grass. Foxes and wild-cats and the rest could not smell them so long as they lay still.

They were timid little things, and their ears seemed to be always twitching to catch the least sounds. On some warm afternoons they woke up early, and waited for the mother to bring their supper of milk. Outside they heard the plop of grasshoppers jumping from stem to stalk. The flutter of butterflies and the buzzing of bees over the clover-blossoms sounded loud enough. The shrill whirring of a locust made them tremble and quake. Perhaps they were afraid that it was something coming to eat them up.

When the bunnies were strong enough to leave the nest they went to live in the brush with their mother. Away they all galloped over the grass. Their long ears flapped up and down, and the furry soles of their hind-legs twinkled behind them. They did not stop to look around till they were safe in the shelter of the bushes. Then every one of them turned, and sat up on his haunches with his little fore-paws in the air. With their ears pointed forward, and their round eyes shining, they looked back at the grassy spot where they had lived in the hidden cosy nest.

At that very minute, when they were all so excited and happy, the old mother caught sight of a fox stealing after them. At a sign from her the little bunnies sat as still as if they were made of stone. They were almost the same color as the sticks and dry leaves around them. Nobody would notice them unless they should move.

But that sly old fox was not looking for them with his eyes; he was following their tracks, with his nose close to the ground. He smelled his way nearer and nearer. The trembling babies could see the sharp white teeth between his lips. His narrow eyes gleamed hungrily. Finally he crept so near that he could smell them in the air. They saw him lift his head and snuff in their direction, one of his fore-paws raised for the next step.

Suddenly the mother bunny sprang out before his face and darted off helter-skelter into the woods. She wanted to lead the fox away from her little ones. Away she dashed under the bushes and over the logs, up slopes and down gullies, dodging now this way now that. Once he was so close that he opened his jaws to seize her. At that she turned like a flash, and ran right between his legs. Then into a swamp she went bounding in great leaps. There the fox lost sight of her, and could not find her scent in the water. She left him nosing hungrily back and forth, while she hurried back to her babies. They were sitting as still as stones just where she had told them to stay.

Almost the first thing the mother bunny did, after gathering her family in the woods, was to find different holes for hiding-places. One hole was in a hollow stump, and another was in an old woodchuck-burrow. She told the little ones that they must not go near the holes, except when they could not escape in any other way. If they went often they would make a path, and then their enemies could find out their hiding-places.