Part 19

The poor innocent little Dragon did not know any better. He tried to swallow the poached egg. The moment he did, it stuck in his throat, and poisoned him. At once his toes sank into the ground. He turned green all over, and his head was changed into a strange new flower. There it is to this day, standing silently where it can hear the brook a-prattling. Its body is green all over, and its head is yellow and its jaws are wide open with a poached egg stuck in its throat. And that is how it all came about. Some call it Toad Flax, and some call it Butter and Eggs, but we who know how it happened call it the Dragon and the Poached Egg.

Poor dear little Yellow Dragon!

TALE 32

The Fairy Bird or the Humming-bird Moth

When I was a schoolboy, a number of my companions brought the news that the strangest bird in the world had come that day to our garden and hovered over the flowers. It was no bigger than a bumble-bee. "No! It was not a humming-bird," they said, "it was smaller by far, much more beautiful, and it came and went so fast that no one could see it go."

Every guess that I made seemed not to fit the wonderful bird, or help to give it a name that would lead us to its history in the books. The summer went by, several schoolmates saw the Wonderbird, and added stories of its marvellous smallness and mysterious habits. Its body, they said, was of green velvet with a satin-white throat; it had a long beak--at least an inch long--a fan-tail of many feathers, two long plumes from its head, "the littlest feet you ever have seen," and large lustrous eyes that seemed filled with human intelligence. "It jest looked right at you, and seemed like a fairy looking at you."

The wonder grew. I made a sketch embodying all the points that my companions noted about the Fairy Bird. The first drawing shows what it looked like, and also gives the exact size they said it was.

It seemed a cruel wrong that let so many of them see the thing that was of chief interest to me, yet left me out. It clearly promised a real fairy, an elfin bird, a wonderful messenger from the land I hungered to believe in.

But at last my turn came. One afternoon two of the boys ran toward me, shouting: "Here it is, the little Fairy Bird, right in the garden over the honeysuckle. C'mon, quick!"

I rushed to the place, more excited than I can tell. Yes, there it was, hovering over the open flowers--tiny, wonderful, humming as it swung on misty wings. I made a quick sweep of my insect net and, marvellous to relate, scooped up the Fairy Bird. I was trembling with excitement now, not without a sense of wickedness that I should dare to net a fairy--practically an angel. But I had done it, and I gloated over my captive, in the meshes. Yes, the velvet body and snowy throat were there, the fan-tail, the plumes and the big dark eyes, but the creature was not a bird; it was an insect! Dimly now I remembered, and in a few hours, learned, as I had feared, that I had not captured a young angel or even a fairy--it was nothing but a Humming-bird Moth, a beautiful insect--common in some regions, scarce in some, such as mine--but perfectly well known to men of science and never afterward forgotten by any of that eager schoolboy group.

TALE 33

Ribgrass or Whiteman's-Foot

If you live in the country or in a small town, you will not have to go many steps, in summer time, before you find the little plant known as Ribgrass, Plantain, or Whiteman's-foot. If you live in a big city, you may find it in any grassy place, but will surely see it, as soon as you reach the suburbs. It grows on the ground, wherever it can see the sun, and is easily known by the strong ribs, each with a string in it when you pull the leaf apart. The Indians call it Whiteman's-foot, not because it is broad and flat, but because it came from Europe with the white man; it springs up wherever he sets his foot, and it has spread over all America. Gardeners think it a troublesome weed; but the birds love its seed; canary birds delight in it; and each plant of the Ribgrass may grow many thousands of seeds in a summer.

How many? Let us see! Take a seed-stalk of the Plantain and you will find it thickly set with little cups, as in the drawing. Open one of these cups, and you find in it five seeds. Count the cups; there are two hundred on this stalk, each with about five seeds, that is, one thousand seeds; but the plant has five or more seed-stalks, some have more (one before me now has seventeen), but suppose it has only ten; then there are 10,000 seeds each summer from one little plant. Each seed can grow up into a new plant; and, if each plant were as far from the next as you can step, the little ones in a row the following summer would reach for nearly six miles; that is, from the City Hall to the end of Central Park, New York.

On the third year if all had the full number of seed, and all the seed grew into plants, there would be enough to go more than twice round the world. No wonder it has spread all over the country.

TALE 34

Jack-in-the-Pulpit

Once upon a time there was a missionary named the Rev. John T. Arum, who set out to preach to the Indians. He had a good heart but a bitter, biting tongue. He had no respect for the laws of the Indians, so they killed him, and buried him in the woods. But out of his grave came a new and wonderful plant, shaped like a pulpit, and right in the middle of it, as usual, was the Reverend Jack hard at it, preaching away.

If you dig down under the pulpit you will find the preacher's body, or his heart, in the form of a round root. Taste it and you will believe that the preacher had a terribly biting tongue, but treat it properly, that is boil it, and you will find out that after all he had a good little heart inside. Even the Indians have discovered his good qualities and have become very fond of him.

TALE 35

How the Indian Pipe Came

In the last tale you learned the fate of the Rev. John T. Arum, and the origin of Jack-in-the-Pulpit. But you must not suppose for a moment that the Indians decided in a hurry to kill the missionary. No, they had too much sense of fair play for that. They held a great many councils first to find some way of curbing his tongue, and making him mind his own business. In fact, they got into the habit of holding a council every few minutes to discuss the question, no matter where they were or what else they were doing. So that pretty nearly every part of the woods was in time used for a council ring to discuss the fate of the Rev. John T. Arum.

Of course, you know that no Indian can hold a council without smoking the Peace Pipe, and when the council is over, he empties out the ashes of the pipe. So that when all those councils were over, when the matter was settled, when the missionary was buried, and when the warrior had gone to the ghost land, there came solemnly poking its white bowl and stem from under the leaves an Indian pipe, at the very spot where the Councillors had emptied the ashes. It is a beautifully shaped pipe, with a curved and feathered stem, but it has none of the bright colours of the old Peace Pipe. It cannot have them for this is only a ghost Pipe to show where the council used to be; and one pipe there is for each council held on that spot, so you see how many, many councils the Indians had, before they killed the troublesome preacher. And sometimes you can find a pipe that has the bowl still filled with ghost tobacco or even a little red ghost fire, showing that the warriors had to hurry away before that council was finished. Whenever you find the ghost pipe in the woods, you are sure to see close by either a log, a bank or a rock on which the Councillors sat to talk it over.

TALE 36

The Cucumber Under the Brownie's Umbrella

The Indians had Brownies, only they called them Pukwudjies, and I am going to tell you a story of an Indian Brownie.

Whenever the Indians got together for a council, the Brownies did the same thing, in the woods near by. It was a kind of Brownie Fair, and some of the little people used to have stands and sell refreshments. Berries were scarce in the springtime, but the Brownies were very fond of cucumber. So there were always one or two Cucumber Brownies, who set up their little umbrellas, and sold slices of Cucumber to the others.

When it was time to go home, or when the sun got so hot that the cucumbers were likely to spoil, they would bury them in the ground, but leave the umbrella to mark the place. And there they are yet; many a time have I found the umbrella, and dug under it to find the cucumber. It is delicious eating; everything that Brownies like is. You can find it, and try it. It is one of the things that Monapini taught Ruth Pilgrim to eat. (Tale 18).