And yet the Beet himself was not quite easy; for talk as he would, what he had called fiddle-faddle seemed ingenious when he thought it over, and he would like to have persuaded himself that he grew layer upon layer, too. But it wouldn't do.

Perhaps, in fact, the bold little Turnip-Radishes alone, from their solid, substantial growth, were the only ones free from misgivings, and believed that everybody ought to do as they did themselves.

What a disturbance there was, to be sure! And it got worse and worse, and they called on the winds and fleeting clouds, the sun, and moon, and stars above their heads, to stay their course awhile, and declare who was right and who was wrong; who was using, who abusing his gifts and powers; who was making most, who least, of the life and opportunities they all enjoyed; whose system was the one the rest must all strive to follow—the one only right.

But they called and asked in vain; till one evening, the clouds which had been gathering over the garden for days began to come down in rain, and sank swiftly into the ground, where it had been needed for long. Whereupon there was a general cry, "Here comes a messenger; now we shall hear!" as if they thought no one could have any business in the world but to settle their disputes.

So out came the old inquiries again:—who was right—who was wrong—who had got hold of the true secret? But the Cress made no inquiry at all, only shook with fright under the rain; for, thought she, the hour of my shame and degradation is come: poor useless creature that I am, I shall never more hold up my head!

As to the Carrot, into whose well-dug bed the rain found easiest entrance, and sank deepest, he held forth in most eloquent style upon the whole affair; how it was started, and what he had said; how much he had once hoped; how much he now feared.

Now, the Rain-drops did not care to answer in a hurry; but as they came dropping gently down, they murmured, "Peace, peace, peace!" all over the beds.

And truly they seemed to bring peace with them as they fell, so that a calm sank all around, and then the murmur proceeded:—"Poor little atoms in a boundless kingdom—each one of you bearing a part towards its fulness of perfection, each one of you endowed with gifts and powers especially your own, each one of you good after its kind—how came these cruel misgivings and heart-burnings among you? Are the tops of the mountains wrong because they cannot grow corn like the valleys? Are the valleys wrong because they cannot soar into the skies? Does the brook flow in vain because it cannot spread out like the sea? Is the sea only right because its waters only are salt? Each good after its kind, each bearing a part in the full perfection of the kingdom which is boundless, the plan which is harmony—peace, peace, peace upon all!"

Nor was it broken again. Only once or twice, that year, when the Carrots were gathered, there came up the strangest growths—thick distorted lumps, that had never struck properly down.

The gardener wondered, and was vexed, for he prided himself on the digging of the carrot-bed. "Anything that had had any sense might have gone down into it, he was sure," he said. And he was not far wrong; but you see the Carrot had had no sense when he began to speculate, and tried to be something he was not intended to be.

Yet the poor clumsy thing was not quite useless after all. For, just as the gardener was about to fling it angrily away, he recollected that the cook might use it for soup, though it could not be served up at table—such a shape as it was!...

And this was exactly what she did.



THE WIND AND THE FLOWERS

By Mrs. Alfred Gatty

"What a fuss is made about you, my dear little friends!" murmured the Wind, one day, to the flowers in a pretty villa garden. "I am really quite surprised at your submitting so patiently and meekly to all the troublesome things that are done to you! I have been watching your friend the gardener for some time to-day; and now that he is gone at last, I am quite curious to hear what you think and feel about your unnatural bringing up."

"Is it unnatural?" inquired a beautiful Convolvulus Major, from the top of a tapering fir-pole, up which she had crept, and from which her velvet flowers hung suspended like purple gems.

"I smile at your question," was the answer of the Wind. "You surely cannot suppose that in a natural state you would be forced to climb regularly up one tall bare stick such as I see you upon now. Oh dear, no! Your cousin, the wild Convolvulus, whom I left in the fields this morning, does no such thing, I assure you. She runs along and climbs about, just as the whim takes her. Sometimes she takes a turn upon the ground; sometimes she enters a hedge, and plays at bo-peep with the birds in the thorn and nut-trees—twisting here, curling there, and at last, perhaps, coming out at the top, and overhanging the edge with a canopy of green leaves and pretty white flowers. A very different sort of life from yours, with a gardener always after you, trimming you in one place, fastening up a stray tendril in another, and fidgeting you all along—a sort of perpetual 'mustn't go here'—'mustn't go there.' Poor thing! I quite feel for you! Still I must say you make me smile; for you look so proud and self-conscious of beauty all the time, that one would think you did not know in what a ridiculous and dependent position you are placed."

Now the Convolvulus was quite abashed by the words of the Wind, for she was conscious of feeling very conceited that morning, in consequence of having heard the gardener say something very flattering about her beauty; so she hung down her rich bell-flowers rather lower than usual, and made no reply.

But the Carnation put in her word: "What you say about the Convolvulus may be true enough, but it cannot apply to me. I am not aware that I have any poor relations in this country, and I myself certainly require all the care that is bestowed upon me. This climate is both too cold and too damp for me. My young plants require heat, or they would not live; and the pots we are kept in protect us from those cruel wire-worms who delight to destroy our roots."

"Oh!" cried the Wind, "our friend the Carnation is quite profound and learned in her remarks, and I admit the justice of all she says about damp and cold, and wire-worms; but,"—and here the Wind gave a low-toned whistle, as he took a turn round the flower-bed—"but what I maintain, my dear, is, that when you are once strong enough and old enough to be placed in the soil, those gardeners ought to let you grow and flourish as nature prompts, and as you would do were you left alone. But no! they must always be clipping, and trimming, and twisting up every leaf that strays aside out of the trim pattern they have chosen for you to grow in. Why not allow your silver tufts to luxuriate in a natural manner? Why must every single flower betied up by its delicate neck to a stick, the moment it begins to open? Really, with your natural grace and beauty, I think you might be trusted to yourself a little more!"

And the Carnation began to think so, too; and her colour turned deeper as a feeling of indignation arose within her at the childish treatment to which she had been subjected. "With my natural grace and beauty," repeated she to herself, "they might certainly trust me to myself a little more!"

Still the Rose Tree stood out that there must be some great advantages in a gardener's care, for she could not pretend to be ignorant of her own superiority to all her wild relations in the woods. What a difference in size, in colour and in fragrance!

Then the Wind assured the Rose he never meant to dispute the advantage of her living in a rich-soiled garden; only there was a natural way of growing, even in a garden; and he thought it a great shame for the gardeners to force the Rose Tree into an unnatural way, curtailing all the energies of her nature. What could be more outrageous, for example, than to see one rose growing in the shape of a bush on the top of the stem of another? "Think of all the pruning necessary," cried he, "to keep the poor thing in the round shape so much admired! And what is the matter with the beautiful straggling branches, that they are to be cut off as fast as they appear? Why not allow the healthy Rose Tree its free and glorious growth? Can it be too large or too luxuriant? Can its flowers be too numerous? Oh, Rose Tree, you know your own surpassing merits too well to make you think this possible!"

And so she did, and a new light seemed to dawn upon her as she recollected the spring and autumnal prunings she regularly underwent, and the quantities of little branches that were yearly cut from her sides, and carried away in a wheel-barrow. "It is a cruel and a monstrous system, I fear," said she.

Then the Wind took another frolic round the garden, and made up to the large white Lily, into whose refined ear he whispered a doubt as to the necessity or advantage of her thick powerful stem being propped up against a stupid, ugly stick! He really grieved to see it! Did that lovely creature suppose that Nature, who had done so much for her that the fame of her beauty extended throughout the world, had yet left her so weak and feeble that she could not support herself in the position most calculated to give her ease and pleasure? "Always this tying up and restraint!" pursued the Wind, with an angry puff. "Perhaps I am prejudiced; but as to be deprived of freedom would be to me absolute death, so my soul revolts from every shape and phase of slavery!"

"Not more than mine does!" cried the proud white Lily, leaning as heavily as she could against the strip of matting that tied her to her stick. But it was of no use—she could not get free; and the Wind only shook his sides and laughed spitefully as he left her, and then rambled away to talk the same shallow philosophy to the Honeysuckle that was trained up against a wall. Indeed, not a flower escaped his mischievous suggestions. He murmured among them all—laughed the trim cut Box-edges to scorn—maliciously hoped the Sweet Peas enjoyed growing in a circle, and running up a quantity of crooked sticks—and told the flowers, generally, that he should report their unheard-of submission and meek obedience wherever he went.

Then the white Lily called out to him in great wrath, and told him he mistook their characters altogether. They only submitted to these degrading restraints because they could not help themselves; but if he would lend them his powerful aid, they might free themselves from at least a part of the unnatural bonds which enthralled them.

To which the wicked Wind, seeing that his temptations had succeeded, replied, in great glee, that he would do his best; and so he went away, chuckling at the discontent he had caused.

All that night the pretty silly flowers bewailed their slavish condition, and longed for release and freedom: and at last they began to be afraid that the Wind had only been jesting with them, and that he would never come to help them, as he had promised. However, they were mistaken; for, at the edge of the dawn, there began to be a sighing and a moaning in the distant woods, and by the time the sun was up, the clouds were driving fast along the sky, and the trees were bending about in all directions; for the Wind had returned,—only now he had come in his roughest and wildest mood,—knocking over everything before him. "Now is your time, pretty flowers!" shouted he, as he approached the garden; and "Now is our time!" echoed the flowers tremulously, as, with a sort of fearful pleasure, they awaited his approach.

He managed the affair very cleverly, it must be confessed. Making a sort of eddying circuit round the garden, he knocked over the Convolvulus-pole, tore the strips from the stick that held up the white Lily, loosed all the Carnation flowers from their fastenings, broke the Rose Tree down, and levelled the Sweet Peas to the ground. In short, in one half-hour he desolated the pretty garden; and when his work was accomplished, he flew off.

Meanwhile, how fared it with the flowers? The Wind was scarcely gone before a sudden and heavy rain followed, so that all was confusion for some time. But towards the evening the weather cleared up, and our friends began to look around them. The white Lily still stood somewhat upright, though no friendly pole supported her juicy stem; but, alas! it was only by a painful effort she could hold herself in that position. The Wind and the weight of rain had bent her forward once, beyond her strength, and there was a slight crack in one part of the stalk, which told that she must soon double over and trail upon the ground. The Convolvulus fared still worse. The garden beds sloped towards the south; and when our friend was laid on the earth—her pole having fallen—her lovely flowers were choked up by the wet soil which drained towards her. She felt the muddy weight as it soaked into her beautiful velvet bells, and could have cried for grief: she could never free herself from this nuisance. Oh that she were once more climbing up the friendly fir-pole! The Honeysuckle escaped no better; and the Carnation was ready to die of vexation, at finding that her coveted freedom had levelled her to the dirt.

Before the day closed, the gardener came whistling from his farm work, to look over his pretty charges. He expected to see a few drooping flowers, and to find that one or two fastenings had given way. But for the sight that awaited him he was not prepared at all. Struck dumb with astonishment, he never spoke at first, but kept lifting up the heads of the trailing, dirtied flowers in succession. Then at last he broke out into words of absolute sorrow:—"And to think of my mistress and the young lady coming home so soon, and that nothing can be done to these poor things for a fortnight, because of the corn harvest! It's all over with them, I fear;" and the gardener went his way. Alas! what he said was true; and before many days had passed, the shattered Carnations were rotted with lying in the wet and dirt on the ground. The white Lily was languishing discoloured on its broken stalk; the Convolvulus flowers could no longer be recognized, they were so coated over with mud stains; the Honeysuckle was trailing along among battered Sweet Peas, who never could succeed in shaking the soil from their fragrant heads; and though the Rose Tree had sent out a few straggling branches, she soon discovered that they were far too weak to bear flowers—nay, almost to support themselves—so that they added neither to her beauty nor her comfort. Weeds meanwhile sprang up, and a dreary confusion reigned in the once orderly and brilliant little garden.

At length, one day before the fortnight was over, the house-dog was heard to bark his noisy welcome, and servants bustled to and fro. The mistress had returned; and the young lady was with her, and hurried at once to her favourite garden. She came bounding towards the well-known spot with a song of joyous delight; but, on reaching it, suddenly stopped short, and in a minute after burst into a flood of tears! Presently, with sorrowing steps, she bent her way round the flower-beds, weeping afresh at every one she looked at; and then she sat down upon the lawn, and hid her face in her hands. In this position she remained, until a gentle hand was laid upon her shoulder.

"This is a sad sight, indeed, my darling," said her mother's voice.

"I am not thinking about the garden, mamma," replied the young girl, without lifting up her face; "we can plant new flowers, and tie up even some of these afresh. I am thinking that now, at last, I understand what you say about the necessity of training, and restraint, and culture, for us as well as for flowers. The Wind has torn away these poor things from their fastenings, and they are growing wild whichever way they please; and I might perhaps once have argued, that if it were their natural way of growing it must therefore be the best. But I cannot say so, now I see the result. They are doing whatever they like, unrestrained; and the end is,—my beautiful garden is turned into a wilderness."



PHIL'S ADVENTURES AMONG THE ANIMALS

Phil, the little seven year old boy who makes the acquaintance of different animals in these stories, had an attack of brain fever at the orphanage, where he had been taken after the death of his father and mother. It was while he was ill, and the matron and boys were hunting for him, that he thought he wandered away and, under the guidance of Mother Nature, made the acquaintance of a lot of new friends.



AT HOME WITH THE BEAVERS

By Lillian M. Gask

The air was as warm as summer, and the murmur of the big brown velvet Bee that hovered over a purple flower made Phil think of the garden at home. A tiny Humming-Bird, gleaming against the willows like a spot of fire, flashed quickly past him, and lingered for a moment on a swaying branch; she had travelled nearly four thousand miles on those small wings of hers to reach her summer quarters, and even now was not at her journey's end.

Phil turned his head to look at her, and as he did so he found to his great joy that his stiff white collar had disappeared. So, too, had the drab serge suit and the clumsy hob-nailed boots that had hurt him so. Instead, he wore a single garment of some soft brown, the colour of earth, girdled by a broad green belt that felt like velvet. His feet were bare, and as he buried them in the thick grass on which he lay, he sighed with pleasure.

"Good morning," remarked someone in rather hoarse tones close at his elbow, and one of the quaint animals he had seen the night before shuffled awkwardly towards him with what was evidently intended for a pleasant smile. "Mother Beaver," Nature had called her, he remembered, and he had a dim idea that she had offered to take him under her care until he knew his way about the forests. He sat up now so that he might see her better, for in the daylight she looked stranger still. Her body, nearly three feet long, was covered with glossy hair; her tail was paddle-shaped and smooth, while her strong white tusks would have given her quite a fierce expression but for her twinkling eyes. These were very bright and most inquisitive, as if she found him quite as curious as he did her.

"Good morning," she repeated with friendly emphasis, as Phil tried in vain to think of something to say. "Where are your manners, young man? Haven't you learnt yet that it isn't polite to stare?"

"I beg your pardon," said Phil, smiling shyly at her. "I never knew that animals could speak until last night, and it's rather startling at first, you know. Do you mind telling me where I am?"

"In North America, on the banks of one of its swiftest rivers," she returned, proudly. "You are coming to school with me, I hear. I hope you are quick and industrious—we have too many idlers already, and there's any amount of work to be done before the autumn."

"I dare say you're as bright as any, if the truth were told. Can you swim?"

Phil nodded joyfully; an old sailor had taught him during a long happy summer he had spent by the sea, and had been quite proud of his pupil.

"Not that it would matter if you had never learnt," said Mother Beaver, struck by a sudden thought, "for Nature has made you an exception to all her rules. What is an exception? Well, you must wait until Father Beaver comes if you want it properly explained, but it means that while you are Nature's guest you will be able to do all those things that a small boy wouldn't be able to do in the usual way; such as breathe under water, for instance, as you will in a moment, when you come to my winter home. You will change your size, too, without knowing anything about it, just when and where it is most convenient, so that you can sit in nests, or run down burrows, as easily as the creatures to which they belong. And you'll never feel hungry, unless there is something near that you can eat, or thirsty, unless you are within easy distance of a stream. In short, my dear, Nature has been particularly kind to you for this one year; after that you'll be just an ordinary boy again."

Phil was rather bewildered; it sounded much too wonderful to be true, but Mother Beaver, seemed quite in earnest.

"Are you ready?" she said. "Then follow me. We're going to my winter lodge, where my young ones are still waiting for me. Their father and I only left it this morning to look round, for spring comes suddenly here in the north, and a day or two ago it was quite cold. The flowers are in bloom, the Bees say, before they have time to notice their buds, and the trees spread out their leaves in a single night. The winter has only just gone."

Phil followed her to the water's edge through clumps of rushes, and saw before him a cluster of dome-shaped houses, like giant thimbles, in the centre of the stream. Many were some feet above the surface of the water; they were covered with a smooth coating of hard mud, and so far as he could see they had no entrance.

"Did you make those?" he asked, as she led him on to the dam, so that he might get a better view of them. He was amazed that such an insignificant creature as the beaver could build such fortresses.

"Of course we did," she answered in matter-of-fact tones. "Yes—they took a long time, but we worked together, and worked with a will. The walls, you'll notice, are more than six feet thick. They have to be very strong," she added mysteriously. Phil wanted to ask her why, but she seemed so troubled that he said "How do you get in?" instead.

"Take a header and see," she told him, splashing from the dam and diving straight down, with Phil behind her, until they reached the deep projection, or "angle" as it is called, beneath which lay the entrance to her own particular home. It was very near the bed of the river, where the frost would not be likely to reach even in bitter weather.

"Here we are!" she cried, shaking the water off her tail as she scrambled through. Phil noticed that she was as agile in the water as she was clumsy on land, and that two toes on each foot were webbed.

Inside the winter house were three young Beavers, all very wide awake and covered with brown and glossy fur. Their three little beds were nicely arranged along the side of the wall, while two vacant ones, somewhat larger, and belonging to Father and Mother Beaver, were on the other side. The centre of the chamber was left free to move about in, and was so beautifully clean that Phil was sure Mother Beaver would be as particular about muddy boots as the matron at school. He was very glad he had left his behind him—bare feet were much more comfortable.

"Yes, my children," Mother Beaver was saying, as she patted each affectionately, "the time has come for us to go to the woods. Your father is exploring now, so that he may know where you can find the juiciest roots, and how far it is safe to venture. He will meet us before dusk."

She busied herself in smoothing their fur, while they stared hard at Phil. Under their shining chestnut hair was a thick soft coat of greyish brown, and Mother Beaver seemed very anxious that this should lie quite flat.

"They're very thin," she said, regretfully, "but then it has been a long winter, and our larder is nearly empty. We live on bark entirely when we are down here," she explained to Phil, as she made sure that all was straight before she left. "We find it very nourishing and tasty, though you might think it dry. Before the frosts come we lop off branches of willows and other trees, and sink them under layers of stones close to our houses. Last fall we laid in a larger supply than usual, for we knew the spring would be late in coming; but our neighbours had such enormous appetites that it soon went. Our neighbours? Yes—they live on the other side of our lodge; but we don't visit—it isn't our way."

With a last look round she left the winter house, and though Phil swam more quickly than he had ever done before, she and her young ones were first on the river bank.

"But we're good friends," she went on (Phil shook himself as she had done, and noticed with pleasure that his brown coat was dry in a moment), "and always work together in building or repairing our dams and houses. That's why they call us 'Social' Beavers. Some cousins of ours (there are not many of them, I believe) live quite alone."

The young Beavers had a fine time of it that bright spring day. Phil found them most amusing play fellows, for when they had satisfied their hunger on succulent roots and tender shoots they were quite ready for any game that he suggested. They were all in the highest spirits when Father Beaver came on the scene.

He was thinner than any of them, and much more serious. Phil was inclined to be frightened of him at first, but soon found him as kindly as the rest. He smoothed Phil's hair for him as if he were a son of his own, and asked to look at his teeth.

"H'm," he remarked thoughtfully. "They won't be much use for felling trees, but I daresay you can help us in other ways. We must set to work in the early summer," he continued, turning to Mother Beaver, "for there is a lot of rebuilding to be done this fall."

"Rebuilding?" echoed Phil. He had loved his bricks, and to make castles in the sand; building those dome-shaped houses must be great fun.

"Certainly," replied Father Beaver. "Our dam must be enlarged, and a new lodge put up. We shall want all the help we can get. Later on, when we have got up our strength, we must begin to cut those saplings."

Phil was feeling rather tired, so, while the young Beavers started another game, he sat with their parents, trying to understand what they meant when they spoke of "IT."

"I feel sure IT is somewhere about," said Father Beaver moodily. "I came across ITS traces two or three miles away."

Mother Beaver sighed. "There is no use in borrowing trouble," she said. "We must just keep a sharp look-out, and get our work done quickly. I'm glad now that we made those extra holes in the bank, though it did seem rather unnecessary at the time."

"Those holes, my son," said Father Beaver, in answer to Phil's inquiry, "lead to the deep tunnels in which we take refuge when we are pursued by our enemies. There we are comparatively safe, but in the open country or in the woods, owing to our clumsy movements on land, we are at their mercy."

His voice was gloomy, and it made Phil sad to think that such gentle animals as beavers had enemies.

"If they catch you, do they swing you up high, and make you all sick and giddy?" he asked, with a vivid recollection of the terrors of the barn.

"Worse," said the Beaver, shortly. "The hunters trap and kill us for our valuable fur, and IT—the Wolverene—actually eats us! This is why we go to so much trouble to make our houses secure, so that when the frost has hardened the thick layer of mud which we place each fall over the thatch of stones and driftwood, neither teeth nor claws can penetrate the hard surface."

Mother Beaver had shuffled off to her young ones, who were making up for the short commons of the winter by eating all the green shoots that came in their way. Their father, settling himself comfortably in the shelter of a low bush, invited Phil to sit beside him and have a chat.

"You want to learn our ways," he said, looking at him indulgently. "They are easy to understand, for though we are more skilled in building, perhaps, than other creatures, it is chiefly for our industry that we are noted. Nature has taught us to think ahead and provide for the future. I suppose you know what 'thinking ahead' means?"

"Not ezzactly," said Phil honestly, with a longing look at the young Beavers. The smallest of them appeared to have rolled himself into a round ball, and Phil couldn't help thinking what first-rate bats the others' broad tails would make.

The Beaver drew back his wandering attention with a light flap of his tail.

"One thing at a time," he counselled. "If I take the trouble to talk to you, the least you can do is to listen.... About looking ahead. If you had 'looked ahead' and learnt your geography the other day, instead of making paper boats in preparation time, you would have known that a continent wasn't 'a piece of land surrounded by water' and they wouldn't have called you—"

"Don't say it!" Phil entreated, and Father Beaver laughed and changed the subject.

"The Social Beavers to which we belong," he said, "live in small colonies, and work together for the general good. A certain number of us, whom hunters call 'the Idlers,' refuse to help at all, and are satisfied to live in tunnels instead of houses. These are usually sorry for their idleness when it is too late, for they are often captured by fur hunters, who know where to look for them, and easily dig them out. That is, if IT does not find them first."

"IT?" questioned Phil, snuggling closer to Father Beaver and speaking in an awed whisper.

"The Wolverene," he amended. "My wife cannot bear the sound of his name when she is weak from fasting, so we call him 'IT' at this time of the year. He carried off our eldest daughter last summer. She was proud and wilful, and would not stay by her mother's side.... She had a lovely tail."

"Don't you think we should be settling in for the night?" asked Mother Beaver, bustling back to them with a delicate green bough, from which she had stripped the leaves, as a titbit for Phil. She was surprised to hear that he was not hungry, until he reminded her how early that afternoon a dapper Bee in a velvet coat had invited him to a feast of honey. The Queen of the Fairies might have envied him that meal, so exquisite were the flower-cups in which he found it.

"Of course, if you prefer honey to fresh bark," she said disappointedly. To please her Phil nibbled one end of the bough, and found it very bitter. He was thankful when her thoughts were distracted to her young ones, whose coats had to be nicely smoothed before they went to bed. Ere long they were all curled up under the thorny branches of a wild brier. Phil crept in between them, and was soon asleep, while the two old Beavers watched in turn to see that all was well.

The next few weeks were a delightful holiday for Phil. Day after day he roamed the woods with the gentle Beavers, making friends with the Bees and Squirrels, and finding out their haunts. Sometimes he caught brief glimpses of other creatures, who glanced at him shyly and scampered off. He learnt to keep a sharp look out for the dreaded Wolverene, and was so curious to see him that he almost hoped that he might come. Nature had promised that nothing should harm him, and he would protect the Beavers.

Father Beaver devoted many hours to his young visitor. He told him much about woodcraft, and how Nature protected some of her weakest creatures against their foes by giving them the shape and colour of their surroundings. The little brown twig on the bough before them, he pointed out, was in reality a Caterpillar which Birds would have devoured long since if he had attracted their attention. The small dead leaf among the vines was a gorgeous Butterfly when he unfolded his wings, the under sides of which were a dingy brown.

"You will find this wherever you go," said Father Beaver, "Nature always protects her own."

"How does she protect you and me?" Phil asked him curiously, only half understanding.

"By giving us our wits," said the Beaver simply. "If you don't use them it is not her fault. When you grow up strong, and wise, and fearless, you will be able to protect others as well as yourself. As for us, it was she who first taught us how to build. But for her we should be at the mercy of the Wolverene all through the winter, when he is fierce with hunger, and very strong. There is the Wild Cat, too. Sometimes we hear her tearing at our roof, and snarling with rage. It is a horrible sound to listen to on a still dark night."

"Why didn't you stay in England? There are no Wild Cats or Wolverenes in the woods at home—only Birds and Rabbits, and harmless creatures such as those."

Father Beaver gnawed a strip of bark from a young birch tree before he answered. "The Wolverene is not our worst enemy," he said slowly. "Beavers were driven from your shores by Man. Yes—" as Phil gave a little start of surprise—"we used to build in many of your streams and rivers; in Wales we were well known, and I have heard that in the time of Hoel-dda, the great Welsh lawgiver, one hundred and twenty pence—then a very large sum—was offered for each Beaver's skin. You see we were much thought of even in those days, though I must say I wish it had been for something else than for our fur. We are still to be found along some of the large rivers of Europe, such as the Rhone and Danube, and in many lakes; but the Rhone Beavers are solitary animals and do not build houses, dwelling instead in burrows, which go far down into the earth."

"Do those hunters you spoke of often come after you, Father Beaver?"

"Yes, my son," said the Beaver sorrowfully, "for our fur is in greater demand than ever. In the winter, which is the 'hunting season,' they do their best to force our houses with heavy weapons, and if we take to the water beneath the ice, and swim to our tunnels in the river side, they sound the ice above the banks with an iron chisel, which tells their practised ears the exact spot where our holes are to be found. Then they dig us out—and that is the end of us."

"I'm very sorry, dear Beaver," Phil whispered, stroking the shining fur that brought such trouble on its possessors. "I'll tell them all when I leave the woods how cruel it is to hunt you, and p'raps they won't any more."

Father Beaver smiled mournfully. "There's always the Wolverene," he said. "His other name is the Glutton. It just exactly suits him, for he can eat more at a sitting than any other creature of his size. How does he look? Something like a small bear, with thick coarse hair of blackish brown. Until he shows his double row of glistening teeth, you would never guess how ferocious he could be. His muzzle, as far as his eyebrows, and his large paws (they are so large that his trail is sometimes mistaken for that of a bear) are the colour of ebony. His horrible claws are as white as milk, and the natives use them for necklaces. I wish they had them all," he finished with a deep sigh. "I can't help thinking he'll pounce on us some day soon."

But nothing was seen of the Wolverene as time went on, and Father Beaver became quite gay. His coat filled out, and grew more glossy than ever; he would be "a portly old gentleman" before long, Mother Beaver told him; and at this he began to talk of tree-felling, for he did not like the idea of losing his figure.

"There is a time for work and a time for play," said Mother Beaver, looking smilingly at her young ones. "The time for work has not come yet, though it will soon be here. Let them play in the sunshine yet awhile."



TWO ENEMIES OF THE BEAVERS

By Lillian M. Gask

Father Beaver had left his family to its own devices for some time; he had been exploring the winding river, and diving under waterfalls in sheer delight at his own strength. He was full grown now, and fond as he was of his little wife and children, the roaming instinct was strong. The morning he rejoined them he was in great form.

"What have you been doing with yourself?" inquired Mother Beaver, eyeing him suspiciously, when she had told him all her news. The glossy fur at the back of his neck bore marks of recent bites, and there was an ugly tear in one of his ears.

Father Beaver looked at the sky.

"There is a lovely maple tree not far from here," he said, as if he had not heard her question. "I girdled it on my way back just now, and you'll find plenty of syrup oozing from it if you go there to-morrow."

The young Beavers sniffed eagerly, but Mother Beaver was not to be put off.

"You have met the Otter," she cried, her eyes growing very big, "and you've been fighting."

Father Beaver chuckled. "Last summer," he said, turning to Phil, "I was only two years old, and that Otter punished me so severely that but for Mother Beaver there, who came to my rescue in the nick of time, I should have been done for. But now—well, he will never trouble me again!"

Phil looked at him with a new reverence. The Otter, he knew, was a fierce foe to Beavers, with whom he disputed the lordship of the river; that Father Beaver should have conquered him single handed filled him with awe.

"Let us hear all about it!" cried Mother Beaver, coming quite close to him. But he brushed her aside good-humouredly, and spoke of other things.

"The Night Wind says that the frosts will come early this fall," he remarked, "and we are well into the summer now. There is a fine plantation of willows on the river-bank, only waiting for us to fell them. We will get to work at once. I shall be downright glad to begin."

"So shall we all," said Mother Beaver heartily. "Holiday-making is well enough for a while, but if we did not use our teeth on something harder than soft bark and lily roots, they would soon grow dull."

"Yours are as bright as the gleam of the moon on the water, my love," said Father Beaver with a glance of admiration; and Mother Beaver gave him an affectionate push, which was as near to a hug as she could go.

When they reached the group of trees that Father Beaver had planned to attack first, other Beavers belonging to the colony were already at work. These nodded kindly to Phil, but were too much absorbed in what they were at to take much notice of him. Mother Beaver was deputed to see what he could do, while the young Beavers were given a first lesson by their proud father.

Choosing a stout young sapling very close to the bank, Mother Beaver gnawed round it with her sharp, chisel-like teeth, taking care to bite most deeply on the side nearest the water, so that it might fall towards the stream and be quickly floated. In a very few moments it toppled over, cut clean through, and Mother Beaver looked round for another.

"We'll try that big one over there," she cried, with an approving glance at her young ones, who were hard at work on some slender willows. Phil hesitated and flushed, for he did not know how to begin. Mother Beaver touched him pityingly with her small forepaw.

"I forgot your teeth were so small and weak, my dear. It's not your fault, so you need not be ashamed. When I have felled the tree, you shall drag it down to the bank. That will be a great help, and leave us free for felling."

The tree took much longer to fell than the sapling had done, for the trunk was nearly as thick as a man's body. Phil was immensely interested to see how Mother Beaver set about her task; he had guessed from the first that she was remarkably clever, but now he was quite sure of it.

First of all she made a deep cut through the bark which circled the trunk as far from the ground as she could conveniently reach. Some three or four inches lower she cut a second ring, and then, slowly and surely, dug out the wood from between, splinter by splinter, with those sharp teeth of hers.

The day wore on, and still she worked. Father Beaver offered to help her; each time he came she sent him back. It was growing dusk; Phil saw that now the trunk of the tree between the cuts went in like a lady's waist. Each time that Mother Beaver drew out a splinter this "waist" became more slender still; a very little further, and the tree would have been cut right through, but Mother Beaver knew when to stop.

"Come away," she cried quickly to Phil; "at the next gust of wind that tree will fall, and only foolish creatures run knowingly into danger. I should be crushed beneath it if I drew out another splinter. Some of our family have already met their deaths that way; they were too impulsive, and did not stop to think."

The Night Wind came singing through the forest, and the branches of the big tree quivered; with a low groan it crashed to earth, and Phil found that it took all his new strength to drag the heavy mass down to the bank.

"I s'pose you'll all take a rest now," he said persuasively, for he was longing to hear about Father Beaver's encounter with the Otter, and thought that he would not mind trying some of that maple syrup himself. But the Beavers were only just getting into their work, as they told him gaily, though he, of course, might take a nap.

They were still at it when he awoke next morning.

"We shall go on until not a tree on this spot is left standing," Mother Beaver declared, cheerfully; and he quite believed her.

By the afternoon his arms began to ache, and the Beavers had found him so useful that one of the elders of the colony had remarked that he should have nothing to say against it if he wished to stay with them altogether. Phil thought this very kind of him; but, much as he liked the Beavers, there were many other animals that he wanted to meet. Perhaps Mother Beaver guessed something of this, for she told him pleasantly to go off to the woods.

"You'll work all the better to-morrow," she said; and Father Beaver flapped his tail by way of dismissal.

As neither she nor their father would hear of the young Beavers taking a holiday too, Phil wandered off by himself into the depths of the forest, where the beautiful golden sunlight, which had much ado to force its way through the thick leaves, was making long ladders on the moss. Some small red berries, quite sweet and tasting like strawberry cream, drew him further and further in; a Squirrel threw him a nut and turned aside, as if too lazy to play, and a drowsy Bee mistook his yellow head for honey, much to her own dismay. Phil felt uncommonly drowsy himself, in spite of his long night's rest, and was thinking of taking forty winks when a gentle rustle in the branches made him look up quickly. It was the Wolverene.

For a moment Phil thought that he must be mistaken; surely that benign looking animal, so very like his own brown bear, could not be the Beaver's voracious enemy? He was patting the boughs as a playful kitten might have done, and rolling himself over with surprising ease. His small brown eyes gazed at Phil good-naturedly, as if to read his thoughts.

"I don't look such a desperate character, do I?" he asked complacently. "My wife—I must really introduce you to her—thinks I am quite a fine fellow, and my two young sons adore me. I'll take you home to supper, and you shall see them. They are barely ten days old."

Phil was very curious to see the young Wolverenes, but somehow he did not think it would be fair to the Beavers to be on such friendly terms with an animal that ate them. So he thanked him most politely and said he must be going on.

The Wolverene left off his playful patting of the branches and showed his teeth in an ugly smile.

"All right," he said resentfully. "I know what that means, of course. The Beavers have been setting you against me, just as I thought. They had better look out, for I have only been waiting until they grew a bit fatter. That 'Father Beaver' of yours will make me a remarkably good supper. Give him my love if you happen to see him."

He leapt as he spoke from the upper branch of one tree to the lower branch of another, a distance of some twenty feet, and disappeared. A low chuckle came from the ground close by, and Phil was delighted to see a small brown Rabbit, exactly like those that had played in the woods at home, sitting up on his hind legs. He was shaking with laughter, and his comical little nose was wrinkled up until it nearly met his eyes.

"Good for you!" he cried. "That Wolverene is a terror—I know him well. He would question and cross-question you about the Beavers until you were nearly addled, and then he would persuade them that you had been telling tales. Mischievous creatures such as he are best left alone, even if you are sure they cannot harm you. He is as much hated by Sable and Marten hunters as he is by all of us, for he has such a wonderful sense of smell that he scents out the stores of provisions they hide in case of need, and wastes all that he does not eat. He makes their traps useless, too—but that isn't to save the Sables, but because he wants the bait. The only creatures that can get the better of him are the Grizzlies; when they come down from the mountains they make a meal of him."

Not until the Rabbit had talked himself out of breath had Phil a chance of asking him the shortest way back to the river.

"Won't you let us give you a shake-down for the night?" he said by way of answer. "Our burrow is large enough to take you in, and I could tell you many stories of these woods."

"I'll come some other time, if you don't mind," said Phil. "I should like to find the Beavers now, and put them on their guard."

"Quite so!" agreed the Rabbit. "I shouldn't be surprised if that old rascal paid them a visit to-night. He'll guess their whereabouts from the trees they have cut down, and will try to punish you through them."

Phil hurried back as quickly as his legs could carry him, not even stopping to look at the splendid Birds that fluttered amongst the vines. A gorgeous Butterfly, spotted with crimson and purple, offered his services as a guide, but it was almost dusk before Phil reached the little colony of Beavers.

They were still working away, as busily as ever. Although he had only been gone a few hours, they had done wonders; more than half of the group of trees they had chosen were already down, for they had "worked together, and worked with a will," as Mother Beaver had said.

Phil's news was received with much concern, and Father Beaver hastily summoned a conference. All Beavers under a year old were at once dismissed from work, and commanded to wait by the entrances to the tunnels beneath the banks, so that in case of surprise they might be under cover, and Phil was posted as sentinel while the elder Beavers finished felling the trees they had already begun. This done, they decided to leave them where they were for the present, and to make for the other side of the river.

Father Beaver was the last to cross; as he dived from the bank there was a stealthy tread among the rushes, and the gleaming eyes of the Wolverene followed him through the water. But for Phil's warning there would have been at least one Beaver less that night.

It was some days before the busy little animals began their work again, for they knew that the Wolverene might still be on the watch for them, and have crossed the river himself. So they "lay very low," as Father Beaver put it, keeping to the thick undergrowth of the brushwood, or playing hide-and-seek with their young ones in the deeply tunnelled banks. Phil soon found that though each tunnel had a separate entrance, they all led to the same spot, within easy reach of the winter houses. He was never tired of admiring these, but Father Beaver brushed his praise aside, so far as they were concerned.

"Come and look at our dam," he said. "It's a very fine one, though perhaps I ought not to say so." The dam stretched quite two-thirds across the river, and was curved, somewhat in the shape of a half crescent.

"That is because the current here is very rapid," explained the Beaver, "and an arch is stronger than a straight line, as your own bridge builders know. If the current were gentle, our dam would be straight, and this would give us much less trouble. But a rapid current is very useful, for if we have to go any distance for our building materials, it brings them quickly down to us, without any special effort on our part."

"So that was why we carried all the trees that you had felled quite close to the river bank?"

"Exactly. When we are ready to build we shall push all those into the current, and some of us will be waiting by our dam to stop them as they float past. See how the branches of the willow are sprouting!"

They had reached the dam by this time; it seemed to Phil like a thick hedgerow on a solid bank, for not only were the willow branches in full leaf, but the poplars and birches, used to repair it from time to time, had taken root also.

"If the snow on the mountains melts too rapidly, and flows down to the river in torrents, the water behind our dam is still quite calm, and our houses, built in its shelter, are undisturbed. We must always have a deep body of water in which to build our lodges; so when we take a fancy to some small river or creek in which the water is likely to be drained off at any time, Nature teaches us to build our dam right across the river, in order that we may prevent this."

"How do you start building the dam?" asked Phil.

"If we are going to build a straight one, we guide two of the largest trees that we have felled to the spot we have chosen, placing them side by side, and leaving a space between. If some of their branches make them lie too high for our purpose, we nibble these off, working under water quite easily, and coming up every few minutes to breathe. (No—not more often than that, I assure you. Nature has arranged this for us, so that we can more easily escape our enemies.) These branches we place vertically in front of the big logs, adding other branches and small trees in the same way. Most of our wood, however, we lay crosswise, and almost horizontally. The spaces in between are filled with mud and stones, which we mix together to form a kind of cement. We bring the mud in tiny handfuls, holding it under our throats by means of our forepaws, and often making as many as a thousand journeys backward and forward from the bank before we have enough. We always build by night, you know, and for a long time no man could say just how we worked. Perhaps the Night Wind told in the end."

"How do you manage when you want your dam to be curved, as this one is?" asked Phil.

"Then we use smaller logs in the same way, shaping the dam as we work. You would not believe the strength of ours, unless you saw how it stood the shock of the floating ice as it came pounding against it at the end of the winter. Our houses we build in much the same way, but more roughly."

"I think they're wonderful," said Phil respectfully, and Father Beaver, trying not to look too pleased, moved his flat tail and cried "Tut, tut!"

"The Night Wind told me a wonderful story the other day—that some eight or nine years ago an Englishman took some Social Beavers to a beautiful valley in his park in England, setting them free by the banks of a stream, where the trees grew thickly down to the very edge of the water, just as they do here. These Beavers, she says, set to work at once to build a dam across the stream, making a deep wide pool six times as large as the original brook, and six times as deep at the lower end."

"I wonder if it is true?" mused Phil

"I believe anything that the Night Wind tells me," said Father Beaver, thoughtfully. "She talks to us often when the sun goes down; sometimes she is merry, and sometimes sad, but always what she says is true. She brings the scent of the hunters in time to warn us that they are on our track; she knows when the frosts are coming, and when it is safe for us to leave our winter houses and take to the woods. For Nature often sends us messages through her. Of what are you thinking? Eh?"

Phil's thoughts had been wandering, and the Beaver's sharp eyes had found him out.

"I was thinking about that Otter," he said, truthfully. "I want to know how an Otter looks."

"Oh! That just depends where you happen to be when you see him. If you are on land, he seems to be a slender animal some three feet or so in length, covered with close brown fur, and with a broad and flattened head, and a thick, tapering tail; if you see him in the water, diving after the fish on which he feeds, he looks like a flash of lightning! For the water clings to the long shining hairs which lie over his close coat, and he glides through the stream so quickly that your eye can scarcely follow him. He is a brave creature; he will fight to the death when he is attacked—and a brave enemy should be honoured, even in death."

"How did you kill him, Father Beaver? Do tell me—I have been wanting to know all day."

"I didn't kill him at all, my son," Father Beaver replied serenely. "He had fastened on me with his sharp teeth before I knew that he was near, and I was doing my best to get free of him when another Otter, a rival of his, seized him from behind and dragged him off to fight him on his own account. I retired to a safe distance and watched the battle. It lasted until one was killed outright and the other mortally wounded. They will never trouble our waters more."

"Oh," said Phil. He was rather disappointed that the Beaver had not killed his enemy in single combat; Father Beaver seemed quite satisfied, however.

"There are so many of her creatures that Nature wishes you to make friends with," he went on as he took another admiring look at his dam, "that I don't suppose you will be allowed to stay with us much longer. But before you leave this part of the country, you must certainly pay a visit to the Ondatras, or Musk Rats. We don't care for them as neighbours, for they are apt to make holes in our dams, but they are quite well-meaning and intelligent. They build much as we do, though their work is not so lasting. And because they are gentle and very timid, Nature made them, you'll see, the colour of mud, so that when they are curled up and at rest on the bank of a stream, they are often mistaken for; small mounds of earth. There is a colony of Ondatras in a shallow creek some miles away. You will see them at their best at night, for they are sleepy during the day time."

All the time he had been speaking, Father Beaver had been looking up and down the banks for traces of the Wolverene. The Birds called "Good-night" to each other from the glowing maples; the crimson lights of the sunset fell over the river, and the new moon hung her shining crescent on the top of a giant fir.

"I think all's safe," said Father Beaver; and the work of tree-felling began again.



THE SQUIRREL'S STORY

By Lillian M. Gask

That very same evening Phil made his way to the home of the Musk Rats, or Ondatras. As he neared the creek the Beaver had pointed out to him, he saw a number of animals the size of big rats, with tails that were almost as long as their bodies, swimming hither and thither, and leaving trails of silver behind them. Others stood motionless upon the bank; so still were they that it was only their sparkling eyes that showed they were alive, until with a sudden plunge, they dived after their companions, striking their long tails smartly on the water as the Beavers did, and reappearing from beneath the broad green leaves of the water lilies on the other side.

Phil watched them silently for a time. They were like school boys, he thought, and he wondered what game they were playing. Sometimes a Musk Rat would lie quite flat on the surface of the stream, as if he were a floating leaf from some giant tree; in a moment he would be all life again, and, darting after his playmates, would race them round the creek.

"I think it would be very nice to be a Musk Rat," said Phil aloud, moving a little nearer the bank. In a second the creek was empty—not a single Ondatra was to be seen. Phil felt so disappointed that he was almost inclined to cry.

The water still rippled in the moonlight; all was still.

Presently a small brown head peeped out of a hole in the bank. Phil did not stir; he was afraid to breathe lest he might frighten the little thing away.

"Who is it?" cried a timid voice.

"A friend!" said Phil. And more small heads peeped at him questioningly.

"I am the Lady Ondatra," she cried, "and you are indeed most welcome. Will you join in our sports? The water is very smooth to-night, and as warm as milk."

Phil was nothing both. He was the same size now as they were, and could dive with the best of them; it was delightful to float on the surface of the water and watch the clouds chasing each other over the deep blue vault of the sky. The cry of the Night Owl came dreamily from the woods; a prowling Puma roared hungrily to his mate, but the pond of the Musk Rats was a happy playground, and they the merriest of comrades.

The hours flew by and the moonlight faded; the tips of the far off mountains were tinged with pink, and a Bird in the distance raised his morning song.

"It is time to go!" cried the Lady Ondatra to Phil; "come with me; I will show you my nest."

Phil found that it was exactly as the Beaver had told him, and that he could follow the Lady Ondatra quite easily through the winding tunnels, or branched canals, which had their entrances under the water. The one through which the Ondatra led him sloped upward gradually for quite a long distance; it ended in a wide chamber in which there were three other openings. The centre of it was nearly filled by a luxurious couch of water-lily leaves and sedges, where, curled up snugly and fast asleep, four baby Ondatras lay with their faces hidden. They were like little Beavers, Phil thought, and just about the size of full-grown mice.

Their mother spoke in a hushed whisper lest she should disturb them.

"I'm glad that you think we are pleasant creatures," She said. "We do harm to no one, and live on roots and leaves, perfectly happy if we are but let alone. We dread the fall—it is then that the hunters most often come, though sometimes they visit us in the spring. Ah me!"

"Are they after you, too?" cried Phil compassionately. "You are so small that I shouldn't have thought your skins would be much good to them!"

"Our fur, which is used in making hats, is highly esteemed," said the Lady Ondatra stiffly, "and our flesh, though musky, of such excellent flavour that the natives prefer us to Wild Duck."

Phil guessed that she was hurt, and did his best to soothe her by admiring her babies. No mother could have resisted this.

"Tell me all about the hunters—that is, if you don't mind," he said with diffidence, when they had quite made friends.

The Lady Ondatra did not mind. She seemed to take a fearful joy in describing the perils she had escaped, though she knew quite well that when the summer was over she might have to go through them all again.

"Sometimes they take us in traps," she said, "which they arrange so that in our struggles for freedom we are jerked into the water and drowned, for we cannot live without air for any length of time. The nature of our abode depends entirely upon the soil, and we do not always build. The Ondatras who make their homes altogether in burrows, they capture by stopping up all their air holes except one, and seizing them when they come up to breathe. When we live in marshy places we build winter houses, just as the Beavers do, though ours are not so strong, and less than three feet high above the surface of the swamp. When the ice freezes over them we make breathing holes in it, and protect these from the frost by a covering of mud. If the frost is so hard that our holes cannot be kept open, we die from suffocation."

"But you are safe from the hunters in your winter houses?"

The slender tail of the Lady Ondatra quivered as she drew closer to her babies.

"There were five of us last fall," she said, "and we lived in a snug little house on the marsh. Our beds were beautiful—so soft and dry—and we had all the food that we should need. We had settled ourselves for a happy winter when a long cruel spear crashed through our roof and wounded three of us. The walls of our house were rudely torn away, and I and my mate only escaped because the hunter lost his balance and stumbled into the mud. Fortunately, our summer tunnels were not yet blocked with snow and so cut off from us, or even then we could not have escaped him."

The baby Ondatras stirred uneasily in their sleep as if they were dreaming of dangers to come, and their mother patted them gently. With a whisper of thanks Phil said good-bye, and crept through the branching passages up to the earth again.

Early as it was, the Squirrels were already chattering to themselves as they scampered amongst the trees. A little black fellow, with a bushy tail that spread itself out like a beautiful feathery fan for some six or eight inches at the tip, dropped lightly down in front of Phil. His ebony fur was as fine as thistle-down; Phil was not surprised to hear that his name was "Feathertail."

"When are you coming to pay us a visit?" the little creature asked in jealous tones. "I have a fair, green nest in the fork of a top-most branch, and a lovely wife and three young babies, with skins as soft as silk."

"I couldn't climb high enough!" Phil said regretfully. He had been "a regular duffer" at climbing at school, and the bigger boys had often dragged him up a fairly tall tree and left him there, clinging helplessly to the boughs, until they were tired of jeering at him. He shivered now as he thought of it; then squared his shoulders. His grey eyes flashed; he would not say "I can't" again.

"I'll do it somehow!" he cried. The Black Squirrel ran off to give notice of his visit, and Phil fixed, his whole mind upon climbing that tree.

"Press your knees against it, and use your hands," whispered a voice in his ear. "That's right,—now swing yourself round and take hold of the branch above you. So! You're getting on famously. Well done!"

Phil knew that it was Nature who spoke to him, and he felt so proud of her praises that he almost forgot the Squirrels. But three small heads, and a larger one, which belonged to a very proud mother, peeped over the nest to welcome him, and Feathertail waited beside it. Phil laughed to think of his doubts as to whether the branch would bear him; slender as it was it barely stirred beneath his weight.

The baby Squirrels were charming little things; he sat in the nest with them, and laughed with glee as the Wind rocked it to and fro, while Feathertail told him how it was only this spring that he had come to these woods.

"Their mother and I used to live in those heights you see in the distance there, under that rosy cloud. But the Grey Squirrels came, and drove us out—we couldn't stand the noise they made, and their rough ways frightened us. So Nature told us about this wood, and here we feel quite safe."

"So do I," said Phil, stroking the prettiest baby Squirrel gently. "What a jolly little chap this is. I wish I could take him home with me when I go back—I s'pose I'll have to go back some day," he finished with a sigh.

The mother Squirrel fluffed out her fur in wild alarm, and Feathertail darted forward ready to protect his family.

"How could you suggest such a thing?" he asked indignantly, when Phil had managed to convince him that he meant no harm. "It is bad enough for an ordinary Squirrel to be taken away from his forest home and shut in a small cramped prison, but for us it means almost certain death, for we cannot stand captivity.... A cousin of mine—'twas the Wind that told me—was caught by some travellers and put in a tiny cage where she had scarcely room to turn. Of course she died, and they 'couldn't think why'! I wonder if they knew how cruel they were?"

His bright little eyes were clouded with grief, and it was not until he had raced to the top of a neighbouring tree and back again that he felt better. Even then he looked uneasy when Phil fondled his babies; as to the mother Squirrel, since that unfortunate remark of his, she had been clearly anxious to get rid of him.

"We will go to the stream," said Feathertail, when he saw that her anxiety was getting too much for her. Phil longed to ask if the baby Squirrels might come as well, but wisely refrained. He was sorry to leave that cosy nest on the waving branch; next time he came, he thought, he would be careful what he said.

The stream to which Feathertail led him was bordered by drooping ferns; it was so clear that it might have been a lady's mirror but for the tiny wavelets rippling from side to side.

"Don't you hear it singing as it trickles over the stone?" asked Feathertail. "It is the same song that the Wind sings, only more low and sweet.... Listen!"

Phil could hear nothing but the rustling of the leaves about them, and the soft flow of the sparkling water; but perhaps his ears were not so keen.

The Black Squirrel sat on the edge of the bank, and dipping his nose well under the surface of the stream, drank deeply and long. Then he placed himself jauntily on his hind feet, and washed his face with his forepaws, splashing them in the stream from time to time as if he thoroughly enjoyed it.

"We are the only Black Squirrels in the world," he said with melancholy pleasure. "We find our homes in the woods and heights of North America, and even here we are becoming more rare, for the Red and Grey Squirrels drive us from our haunts, and hunters trap us for our fur."

A cry from the bushes—the indignant protest of a Scarlet Tanager, that had been robbed by his mate of a fine fat insect—made Feathertail dart away. Phil waited in vain for his return.

"He has gone for good—that was quite enough to frighten him," remarked a little clucking voice that reminded Phil of the cry of a fluffy yellow chicken; and the daintiest little Squirrel he had yet seen whisked out from the brushwood and sat beside him. It was the Hackee, or Chipping Squirrel, and many a time Phil had seen him running in and out among the bushes; for the Hackee lives on the ground.

Now that he saw him closely, Phil noticed the beauty of the seven stripes that ran across his brownish-grey and orange fur. Five of these were jet-black, and two were white, tinged with flecks of yellow; the fur on his throat and underneath him was the colour of pure snow, and his forehead flamed with brilliant orange. He seemed on the best of terms with himself and all the world, and his small black eyes were full of fun and humour.

"Did Feathertail offer you any breakfast?" he asked, hopping close to Phil.

"No."

"I thought he wouldn't. He doesn't keep such stores as we do. Come with me."

His movements were so rapid that Phil almost lost sight of him before he gained the stump of the hollow tree which was, so to speak, his hall. Out of this hollow led several tunnels, down one of which the Hackee disappeared. Phil ran after him as quickly as he could, and with all his haste, admired the way in which his host had formed his winding gallery. Up and down it led them, through twists and turns that would have puzzled most Squirrels, let alone a boy, until they reached a large snug nest made of dry moss and grasses. It was empty, but still quite warm.

"Those young ones of mine ought to have been up and out more than an hour ago, lazy little creatures!" chuckled the Hackee. "I tell their mother that if they are not more independent before the new brood comes, she will have her hands full."

Diving into another gallery, the Hackee came to a full stop. Phil's eyes were scarcely yet used to "seeing in the dark," but he saw at length that they were standing before a heap of nuts, with grain in plenty, and many acorns; the Hackee had more than provided for his wants.

"We stay in these cosy burrows all through the winter snows," he said, "and only come out when the warm sunshine tells us that spring is here. To do this in comfort we work very hard in the fall to fill our storehouses with nuts and grain. This is only one of them—we have others in different places. Help yourself, and take as many nuts as you like," he went on hospitably. "Here—sit in this corner, and I will crack them for you."

But Phil preferred to crack his own nuts; his teeth, though the Beavers scorned them, were strong enough for this, he thought. They tasted like beaked hazel nuts, but where were the beaks? The Hackee laughed at his bewilderment.

"We carry home nuts in our cheek pouches, four at a time (Why four? Because five would be one too many, of course!), and we are much too sensible, as you might have guessed, to hurt ourselves by those sharp points. We bite them off tidily before we push them into our mouths with our fore-paws, as you will see if you watch us one day. It is fine to be a ground Squirrel, and much safer than living in trees. Down here we are safe from all our enemies—or almost all," he added in a whisper. Then his expression changed, and his sharp ears pointed forward.

"Hark!" he cried.

"Chip-munk-chip-munk!" The call was echoed through the galleries, and the Hackee's merry eyes were full of anger.

"How dare he come here!" he cried, "and calling me in that familiar way too! I'll let him know who is master in this burrow!"

The second Hackee came joyously down the passage, heedless of offence.

"Hallo," he cried, looking at Phil, "whom have we got here? That Nature child? To be sure. I—"

But Hackee the First interrupted him.

"You have no business to come down here uninvited," he said, fiercely. "I would have you know—"

Before he could finish, the other had flown at him. Their slender tails—Phil was not at all astonished when he heard afterwards that these sometimes were snapped across in battle—whirled round like Catherine wheels; two small furry bodies darted backward and forward; gleaming white teeth tried to take savage bites at soft pink noses. It was a wonder that the Hackees found room to turn as they did in that narrow tunnel.

Phil tried in vain to come between them; they pushed him aside as if he were a bundle of grass, and in a second were at each other again. He was afraid that, like the Otters, they would fight to the death.

But the pugnacious Hackees' rage was spent as suddenly as it had arisen. While Phil imagined they were only gathering their breath for another attack, they had both calmed down.

"I've just been showing him round," said Hackee the First, twisting his tail in Phil's direction.

"Seems a nice boy," said Hackee the Second, feeling Phil's nose anxiously. "I thought I might have bitten it off just now when you got in my way," he said to Phil with much relief, finding it was still there. "Never come between fighting creatures, boy—it's a thankless task."

Phil was quite sure that if he had been his usual size the Hackee would not have chucked him under the chin in that off-hand way, but he did not mind a bit. They were all three sitting before the storehouse, the best of friends, when both chipping Squirrels sprang to their feet in terrified accord, standing for a second as if paralysed with fear. For their keen sense of smell had told them of the approach of the one enemy they dreaded—the soft-footed, silent Stoat.

Now came the use of those twists and turns of the winding passages. Swift as were the movements of the Stoat, he was on strange ground, while the Hackees knew every inch of it. His savage eyes looked like vengeful green fire to Phil, who waited for him in the centre of the gallery, hoping to bar his way. But the Stoat passed by him as if he were not there, and Phil listened with dread for the strangled cry which would mean that one of the Hackees had met his doom. None came; the Stoat had missed a turn in the winding tunnel, and the flying Hackees reached the hollow tree in safety. Once there, it was easy to dive down another burrow and so baffle pursuit, but they were two very frightened Squirrels when at last they stopped for breath.



A DEN IN THE ROCKS

By Lillian M. Gask

The sun, like some mighty king in a fairy tale with a great gold crown, and flowing robes of pearl and rose colour, had long since risen above the mountain. A mist of heat hung over the valley, and the giant fir trees at the edge of the wood were like sentinels guarding a wonderland.

Down one of these, from which the bark had been completely stripped, came a singular animal with rough hair, and a short tail thickly set with quills. On seeing Phil, who had just left the home of the Squirrels, he rapped his tail smartly against a tree, almost dropping to the ground with fright. He recovered his balance just in time.

"I suppose you are that child of Nature's," he remarked, gruffly, "I am the Urson, the only Porcupine you'll find in North America, and I eat bark because I like it. Why do I take it from the top of the tree first? Because I prefer to work my way down. Why haven't I more quills if I am a Porcupine? If you use your eyes, you'll see that I am studded all over with them, though my hair is so thick and long that they are not particularly noticeable. How fond you are of questions! Is there anything more you want to know? I'm just going home."

"Couldn't you stay a little while, Mr. Urson? You look so—so interesting, and I should like to talk to you!"

The Urson showed his orange teeth in a sudden smile, and rubbed himself against Phil's arm as al friendly cat might have done. In spite of his crop of thick dark hair he was rather prickly, and Phil hoped that he would not want to sit on his lap.

"You're a bright little fellow," declared the Urson; "I can't think why they called you 'stupid.' Did you put out your quills and fight them?"

"No,—o," Phil acknowledged reluctantly. "I—I—ran away."

"Bad thing to do as a rule, though it hasn't turned out badly for you. When you go back, you must stand up to the boys if they tease you, and show them you have some spirit. Don't get in a temper, you know; but hold your own."

Phil thought it was all very well for a Porcupine full of quills to talk so bravely; for a small boy it was quite different.

"Not at all," said the Urson, as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. "They would leave you alone if you did not let them see you were so frightened. I am nervous myself, but I can keep a dog twice my own size at bay; if he comes too near I turn my; back and give him a taste of my tail, and a mouthful of quills into the bargain."

"Ah, but I haven't a tail, you see!" said Phil, and the Urson remarked that as that was the case he must learn to do without. Yawning at intervals, he told Phil how his great-great-grandfather ("a most distinguished inhabitant of this forest") had defended himself single-handed against the attack of an American Indian, coming off victorious in the fight, though leaving half his tail quills in the native's hands.

"And he used them to decorate his squaw's front hair!" said the Urson with disgust. The very thought of it made him so angry that he erected all his own quills until he was as completely protected as a knight in armour.

In a moment or two his anger subsided. "Would you like to see my home?" he asked, mindful of the fact that he, in common with all the other creatures of the wood, had been told by Nature to be kind to Phil. He did not seem too pleased when Phil said "Yes," for he was a most devoted father, and had heard before now of a human being taking a liking to a young Porcupine, and carrying him off to tame and bring up as his own. He grunted to himself under his breath as he went along, but Phil thought this was just his way.

The Urson's den was some distance off, in the midst of a cluster of rocks that had fallen to the valley from the mountain side. To reach it they had to cross the wood, and the Urson's progress was almost a royal one, for all the small wood things moved away at his approach. He walked deliberately, as if the woods belonged to him, and made no effort to subdue the rustling of his quills through the long grass. A hungry-looking Weasel with malicious eyes glared at him furtively, but came no nearer; he had "tried conclusions" with an Urson once, and would not venture again. A sharp-nosed Fox licked his longing lips and turned his head aside, while further on a greyish-brown animal huddled upon the lower branch of a spreading tree stretched out a savage paw, and drew it back. Those slender quills were painful things when they pierced the tender places between one's claws, and no delicious morsel behind the spears could make up for a swollen mouth that would be sore and smarting for days—so sore that its owner, unable to eat, might die from sheer starvation. So the Porcupine passed under the tree in safety, dawdling on purpose as he caught sight of the crouching figure above him.

"That's 'Peeshoo'—the Lynx," he laughed as they moved on. "She would make a grab at me if she dared, but she's afraid. You would not think to look at her, would you, that a blow from a stick would kill her at once? Yet so it is. That is because she is a coward at heart, for all her fierceness."

A snarl of rage from "Peeshoo" told Phil that she had overheard.

"She always snarls when I move out of her reach, though she dare not touch me," said the Urson, making himself into a bristling ball of defiance as he heard the sound. "I do that to remind her what she would have to face," he explained to Phil. "There's nothing like letting one's enemies see that one is ready for them. 'Don't attack, but always be ready to defend yourself; this is my motto, and a good one it is."

They were out of the wood soon and in the valley. The entrance that led to the Urson's den was so narrow that he had to make his quills lie very flat in order to creep through, but Phil, as it always happened, was just the right size. He was speedily introduced to Mrs. Urson and to "my small son."

The baby Porcupine was in reality anything but "small"; Phil found out afterwards that of all wild things he was the largest in proportion to the size of his parents. A big furry bundle of silky brown, his quills not yet having pushed their way through his thick hair, Phil thought him very comfortable to nurse, and Mrs. Urson was as pleased with his admiration of her offspring as the Lady Ondatra had been. His father, however, was inclined to be testy.

"He's just an ordinary young Porcupine," he said; "no more, no less. Don't put nonsense into his head, please—his mother is ready enough to do that."

Feeling rather uncomfortable on her account, Phil turned to Mrs. Porcupine, who did not seem in the least disturbed by her lord's reproaches.

"He wants a little change of air, poor dear," she said to Phil in a confidential whisper. "I expect he'll be leaving me soon—I know the signs."

The Urson caught her whisper, and his sharp little face grew sad.

"We've been very good friends," he said, looking round at her wistfully, "and it's a nice child; but there's something beyond these woods which is calling—calling. I don't think that I can stay much longer."

His mate moved close to him and touched his, nose with hers.

"You'll come back when the summer is over," she said, "and you will find us here."

"Shall I?" returned the Urson, doubtfully, more to himself than her. They had forgotten Phil, who was rather in the way. He was glad when the Mother Porcupine came back to the present, and asked him to try some fine spruce bark.

"I wish I could give you buckwheat," she remarked, "for it might be more to your taste. You're not hungry? That's very strange. We always are—when we're awake!" She finished her sentence with a wide yawn, and Phil took this as a hint that she wanted to go to sleep—which was indeed the case. He refused her kind offer of a bed for the day, and the Urson then insisted upon showing him a short cut through the wood. On the way he grew quite talkative.

"That's a Bee-tree," he said, as they passed a big maple with a hollow trunk. "The Bees may thank me that the Bears have not robbed them of their wealth long before now. That crooked branch, just half-way up, is a favourite resting-place of mine, and I allow no trespassing. If a Bear appears and begins to climb with the idea of scooping out honey from the entrance some feet higher, I go to meet him; Bears have tender noses, and don't care for quills. So they growl a bit and go down more quickly than they came up ... I wouldn't part with my quills for the strongest teeth in the world."

"Your own teeth seem a very good size," said Phil, taking a look at them.

"They're not so bad," said the Urson, modestly. "But I use them chiefly for stripping bark from the trees. As weapons of defence they would not serve me, for if I tried to bite I should expose my throat and nose, which are the unprotected parts of my body. If ever you see me asleep, you will notice that I hide my head between my forepaws; never expose your weak spot, you know!"

They had come to an open space, and the sun shone down upon them with glowing ardour; the Urson thought of his cool dark den, and hastily wished Phil "good-bye."

"There's 'Peeshoo' again," he said. "Have a chat with her if you like, but don't tell her where I live, or about my son. He's too young to show fight yet. Good day to you."

He walked off in that precise, deliberate way of his, but Phil was not to be left alone. The Lynx that he had caught sight of on the branch of the tree some time ago had been awaiting her opportunity, and came running towards him with a series of noiseless bounds. Her back was arched, and her feet outspread; she was not unlike a long-bodied and heavily-built cat, Phil thought, though her peculiar erect ears, tipped by an upright tuft of coarse black bristles, proclaimed her at once as the Lynx of North America, of which the Beavers had already told him. Her powerful feet were furnished with large white claws, almost hidden in her thick fur; her face was round, and her eyes as sharp and piercing as those of all her kind. She reached Phil's side as silently as if she were shod with velvet, and greeted him as if she had not seen him before.

"Come and sit by me, you lonely little fellow," she purred. "No—you needn't be frightened. ('I wasn't,' said Phil.) The only creatures that are afraid of me are the Hares and Foxes, and if I didn't eat them they would soon overrun the whole place; I do it out of kindness, you know."

She had seated herself on the ground as she was speaking, and made a soft and comfortable heap of fur. But Phil, though he, too, felt sleepy in the warm sunshine, was both to do as she suggested and use her back as a cushion.

"I've been very unjustly blamed," she began in a plaintive voice, when she had asked him what colour he thought her eyes, and whether he considered her fur becoming. "Settlers say that I am in the habit of dropping from trees on to the backs of Deer, and tearing their throats. They must mistake the Puma for me,—isn't it too bad?"

"Much too bad," agreed Phil, though he wondered a little if she were as innocent as she would have him believe. It was only politeness that kept him beside her, for he wanted to play with the Squirrels, who were much more to his liking. He could see one now beckoning to him from a great maple, as if he was very anxious to tell him something that he had heard. With a great effort Phil turned his attention to "Peeshoo"; she was talking of the Wolverene, which he could see that she did not love.

"He was so abominably greedy," she said, "and Wanted our share as well as his own. Quite early this morning he was after one of my Hares; it was a remarkably active little creature, and soon left him in the lurch. He caught a Rabbit or two and a few Birds, and might have been satisfied with those. But no—he wanted something larger, and ventured so near the mountains that a Grizzly Bear, who had strolled down to see what these woods were like, found him nosing about his breakfast, which he had just killed. What he said to the Grizzly I don't know, but it couldn't have pleased him, for with a single blow of his heavy paw the great Bear struck him down. That Wolverene will never try to rob me of my Hares again!"

"Was he quite killed?" Phil asked her anxiously, and "Peeshoo" smiled an ugly smile that showed her teeth and made Phil draw away from her.

"Don't you know yet what the paw of a big Grizzly is, child? It would kill a man, let alone an animal like the Wolverene. I keep out of the way of the Grizzlies myself—I find it wiser, and so will you."

But Phil knew well that even a Grizzly would not harm him, and he had always been fond of Bears. Some day he would go and see them; they were brave creatures, at any rate, and could tell him much that he longed to know.

"Peeshoo" talked on, but he scarcely heard her. So the Wolverene had been killed himself, instead of killing the Beavers, and for the present at least they would be safe. How glad Father Beaver would be, he thought; it was good news this time that he had to tell him, and as soon as he could get rid of "Peeshoo" he would hasten back to the colony. He did not mention the Beavers to her, for he thought it quite possible that she might eat other small animals besides Foxes and Hares; and he was learning to be very careful not to injure his friends.

When "Peeshoo's" hunger grew stronger than her interest in her companion, Phil and she parted company. Phil went straight to the river, and followed its course until he came to the Beavers' dome-shaped houses. Of the Beavers themselves there was no sign.