Book: Children of the Wild

C >> Charles G. D. Roberts >> Children of the Wild



CHILDREN OF THE WILD

by

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS

Author of "Kings in Exile," "The Feet of the Furtive," etc.

New York
The MacMillan Company

1922







CONTENTS

I. THE LITTLE FURRY ONES THAT SLIDE DOWN HILL

II. THE BLACK IMPS OF PINE-TOP

III. YOUNG GRUMPY AND THE ONE-EYED GANDER

IV. LITTLE SWORD AND THE INKMAKER

V. ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP

VI. TEDDY BEAR'S BEE TREE

VII. THE SNOWHOUSE BABY

VIII. LITTLE SILK WING

IX. A LITTLE ALIEN IN THE WILDERNESS

X. WHAT HE SAW WHEN HE KEPT STILL

XI. THE LITTLE VILLAGER AND HIS UNFRIENDLY GUESTS

XII. THE BABY AND THE BEAR

XIII. THE LITTLE SLY ONE

XIV. THE DARING OF STRIPES TERROR-TAIL

XV. DAGGER BILL AND THE WATER BABIES





CHAPTER I

THE LITTLE FURRY ONES THAT SLIDE DOWN HILL

In the brown, balsam-smelling log cabin on the shores of Silverwater,
loveliest and loneliest of wilderness lakes, the Babe's great thirst
for information seemed in a fair way to be satisfied. Young as he was,
and city-born, the lure of the wild had nevertheless already caught
him, and the information that he thirsted for so insatiably was all
about the furred or finned or feathered kindreds of the wild. And here
by Silverwater, alone with his Uncle Andy and big Bill Pringle, the
guide, his natural talent for asking questions was not so firmly
discouraged as it was at home.

But even thus early in this adventurous career, this fascinating and
never-ending quest of knowledge, the Babe found himself confronted by a
most difficult problem. He had to choose between authorities. He had
to select between information and information. He had to differentiate
for himself between what Bill told him and what his Uncle Andy told
him. He was a serious-minded child, who had already passed through
that most painful period of doubt as to Santa Claus and the Fairies,
and had not yet reached the period of certainty about everything. He
was capable of both belief and doubt. So, naturally, he had his
difficulties.

Bill certainly knew an astonishing lot about the creatures of the wild.
But also, like all guides who are worth their salt, he knew an
astonishing lot of things that weren't so. He had imagination, or he
would never have done for a guide. When he knew--which was not
often--that he did _not_ know a thing, he could put two and two
together and make it yield the most extraordinary results. He felt it
one of his first duties to be interesting. And above all, he felt it
his duty to be infallible. No one could be expected to have implicit
faith in a guide who was not infallible. He never acknowledged
insufficient information about anything whatever that pertained to the
woods and waters. Also he had a very poor opinion of what others might
profess to know. He felt convinced that so long as he refrained from
any _too_ lively contributions to the science of animal life, no one
would be able to discredit him. But he was conscientious in his
deductions. He would never have permitted himself to say that blue
herons wore gum boots in wading, just because he had happened to find
an old gum boot among the reeds by the outlet of the lake, where the
herons did most of their fishing. He remembered that that gum boot was
one of a pair which had been thrown away by a former visitor to
Silverwater.

Uncle Andy, on the other hand, knew that there was an astonishing lot
_he didn't_ know about animals, and he didn't hesitate to say so. He
was a reformed sportsman, who, after spending a great part of his life
in happily killing things all over the earth, had come to the quaint
conclusion that most of them were more interesting alive than dead,
especially to themselves. He found a kindred spirit in the Babe, whose
education, along the lines of maiming cats and sparrows with sling shot
or air gun, had been absolutely neglected.

Uncle Andy was wont to say that there was only one man in all the world
who knew _all_ about all the animals--and that he was not Andrew
Barton, Esq. At this, Bill would smile proudly. At first this modesty
on Uncle Andy's part was a disappointment to the Babe. But it ended in
giving him confidence in whatever Uncle Andy told him; especially after
he came to realize that when Uncle Andy spoke of the only man in the
world who knew _all_ about animals, he did _not_ mean Bill.

But though the whole field of animal lore was one of absorbing interest
to the Babe, from the day when he was so fortunate as to witness a
mother fish-hawk teaching her rather unwilling and unventuresome young
ones to fly, it was his fellow babes of the wild that he was most
anxious to hear about. In this department of woods lore, Bill was so
deeply ignorant that, not caring to lean _too_ heavily on his
imagination, lest it should break and stick into him, he used to avoid
it quite obstinately. He would say--"Them youngsters is all alike,
anyhow, an' it ain't worth while to waste no time a-studyin' 'em!" So
here Uncle Andy had the field all to himself. Whenever he undertook to
enlighten the Babe on any such subject, Bill would go off somewhere and
scornfully chop down trees.

* * * * * *

Silverwater was fed by many brooks from the deep-wooded surrounding
hills. Toward one of these, on a certain golden afternoon, Uncle Andy
and the Babe were betaking themselves along the shadowy trail, where
the green-brown moss was soft under foot and their careful steps made
no noise. When they spoke it was in quiet undertones; for the spirit
of the woods was on the Babe, and he knew that by keeping very quiet
there was always the chance of surprising some fascinating mystery.

The two were going fishing--for Uncle Andy, with a finely human
inconsistency, was an enthusiastic fisherman, and the stream toward
which they were making their way was one of deep pools and cool
"stillwaters" where the biggest fish were wont to lie during the hot
weather. Uncle Andy had a prejudice against those good people who were
always sternly consistent, and he was determined that he would never
allow himself to become a crank; so he went on enthusiastically killing
fish with the same zest that he had once brought to the hunting of
beast and bird.

While they were yet several hundred yards from the stream, suddenly
there came to their ears, unmistakable though muffled by the
intervening trees, the sound of a brisk splash, as if something had
fallen into the water. Uncle Andy stopped short in his tracks,
motionless as a setter marking his bird. The Babe stopped likewise,
faithfully imitating him. A couple of seconds later came another
splash, as heavy as the first; and then, in quick succession, two
lighter ones.

For a moment or two the Babe kept silence, though bursting with
curiosity. Then he whispered tensely--"What's that?"

"Otter," replied Uncle Andy, in a murmur as soft as the wind in the
sedge-tops.

"Why?" continued the Babe, meaning to say--"But what on earth are they
doing?" and trusting that Uncle Andy would appreciate the
self-restraint of the monosyllable.

"Sliding down hill," muttered Uncle Andy, without turning his head.
Then, holding up his hand as a sign that there were to be no more
questions asked, he crept forward noiselessly; and the Babe followed at
his heels.

After two or three minutes the sounds were repeated in the same
succession as before--first two heavy splashes, and then two lighter
ones. Unable to ask questions, the Babe was obliged to think for
himself.

He had only a vague idea what otters were like, but he knew a good deal
about sliding down hill. He pictured to himself a high, rough bank
leading down to the water; but as not even Bill's daring imagination
would have represented the gamesome beasts as employing toboggans or
hand-sleds, he thought it must be rather bumpy and uncomfortable work
coasting over the roots and rocks on one's own unprotected anatomy.

The sounds continued, growing louder and louder, till the two
adventurers must have been within thirty or forty feet of the stream;
and they were creeping as noiselessly as a shadow slips over the grass,
in the hope of catching the merrymakers at their game. But suddenly
there came one great splash, heavy and prolonged, as if all the sliders
had come down close together. And then silence. Uncle Andy crouched
motionless for several minutes, as if he had been turned into a stump.
Then he straightened himself up with a disappointed air.

"Gone!" he muttered. "Cleared out! They've heard us or smelt us!"

"Oh!" exclaimed the Babe in a voice of deep concern; though, as a
matter of fact, he was immensely relieved, the strain of the prolonged
tension and preternatural stillness having begun to make him feel that
he must make a noise or burst.

Two minutes later they came out on the banks of the stream.

The stream at this point was perhaps twenty-five feet in width, deep,
dark, and almost without current. Only by noting the bend of the long
watergrasses could one tell which way it ran. The hither bank was low
and grassy, with a fallen trunk slanting out into the water. But the
shore opposite was some twelve or fifteen feet high, very steep, and
quite naked, having been cut by the floods from a ridge of clay. Down
the middle of this incline a narrow track had been worn so smooth that
it gleamed in the sun almost like ice.

As he stared across the water a dozen questions crowded to the Babe's
lips. But he realized in time that the answers to them were fairly
obvious to himself, and he heroically choked them back. Had he not
that very morning been rebuked by his uncle for asking too many of what
he called "footy" questions? But one burst forth now, in spite of
himself.

"What do they do it for?" he demanded--having perhaps a vague idea that
all the motives of the wild creatures were, or ought to be, purely
utilitarian.

Uncle Andy turned upon him a withering look; and he shifted his feet
uneasily, convicted of another "footy" question.

"What do you slide down hill for?" inquired Uncle Andy sarcastically.

"Oh!" said the Babe hastily. "I see. And now are we going to catch
some fish?"

But Uncle Andy had stood his rod in a bush and sat down on the fallen
tree; and now he was getting out his old black pipe.

"Well now," he answered presently, "I don't think it would be much use
trying. What do you think?"

"Of course not," answered the Babe. "Otter have scared 'em all away."

"You really are doing very well," said Uncle Andy, "if you _did_ ask
that one fool question. When we were creeping up on the otter, to try
and get a look at them while they were playing, you did very well
indeed. You stepped as light as a cat, and that's not easy mind, I
tell you, when one's not trained to it. You didn't even breathe too
hard--and I know you must have been just bursting with excitement.
You've got the makings of a first-rate woodsman in you, if you take
pains."

The Babe's small chest swelled with pride; for commendation from Uncle
Andy was a scarce article. He too sat down on the fallen trunk and
began digging at the bark with his knife to hide his exultation.

"I suppose now," went on Uncle Andy presently, when his pipe was
drawing well, "you know quite a lot about otter."

"Nothing at all but what Bill's told me," answered the Babe with fine
diplomacy.

"Forget it!" said Uncle Andy; and went on smoking in thoughtful
silence. Presently he remarked--"This otter family appears to have
been having a pretty good time!"

"Great!" said the Babe laconically.

"Well," continued Uncle Andy, regarding him with approval, "there was
once another otter family, away up on the Little North Fork of the
Ottanoonsis, that used to have such good times till at last they struck
a streak of bad luck."

"Did you know them?" asked the Babe.

"Well, not as you might say intimately," answered Uncle Andy, with a
far-away look in his grey eyes. "You see, they had no way of knowing
how nice I was, so they never admitted me into their family circle.
But I knew a lot more about them than they ever guessed, I can tell
you. When the flies weren't too bad I used to lie by the hour behind a
thick bush, never stirring a finger, and watch them."

"My, but how tired you must have got!" interrupted the Babe feelingly.

"I don't _have_ to twiddle my fingers, and scratch my head, and jump up
and down every two minutes and a half," said Uncle Andy rather
severely. "But, as I was going to say, they also got used to seeing me
sitting on the bank, quiet and harmless, till they no longer felt so
shy of me as they did of Jim Cringle, my guide. They knew Jim was an
enemy, and they gave him a wide berth always. But they seemed to think
I wasn't of much account."

"Oh!" protested the Babe politely. It did not seem to him quite right
that Uncle Andy should be regarded lightly, even by an otter.

"Well, you know, I _wasn't_ of much account. I was neither dangerous,
like Jim Cringle, nor good to eat, like a muskrat or a pickerel. So I
don't appear any more in this yarn. If you find yourself wondering how
I came to know about some of the things I'm going to tell you, just
make believe I got it from the chickadee, who is the most confidential
little chap in the world, or from the whisky-Jack, who makes a point,
as you may have observed, of knowing everybody else's business."

"Or from Jim Cringle?" inquired the Babe demurely.

But Uncle Andy only frowned. He always discouraged the Babe's attempts
at raillery.

"The two Little Furry Ones," he continued, after pressing down the
tobacco in his pipe, "were born in a dry, warm, roomy den in the bank,
under the roots of an old birch that slanted out over the water. The
front door was deep under water. But as the old otters had few enemies
to dread, being both brave and powerful, they had also a back entrance
on dry land, hidden by a thicket of fir bushes. The two furry 'pups'
were at first as sprawling and helpless as newborn kittens, though of
course a good deal bigger than any kittens you have ever seen. And
being so helpless, their father and mother never left them alone. One
always stayed with them while the other went away to hunt trout or
muskrat."

"Why, what _could_ get at them in there?" interrupted the Babe.

"You see," explained Uncle Andy graciously, "either a fox or a weasel
_might_ come in by the back door--if they were hungry enough to take
the risk. Or what was much more likely, that slim, black, murderous
robber, the mink, might come swimming in by the front entrance, pop his
narrow, cruel head above the water, see the youngsters alone, and be at
their throats in a twinkling. The old otters, who were very devoted
parents, were not running any risks like that, I can tell you."

"I guess not!" agreed the Babe, wagging his head wisely.

"Well," went on Uncle Andy, "just _because_ those level-headed old
otters were always ready for it, nothing happened. You'd better make a
note of that. If you are always ready for trouble when the other
fellow makes it, he will be pretty shy about beginning. That's why the
foxes and the weasels and the minks never came around.

"When the Little Furry Ones were about the size of five months' kittens
they were as handsome a pair of youngsters as you are ever likely to
set eyes upon. Their fur, rich and soft and dark, was the finest ever
seen. Like their parents, they had bodies shaped for going through the
water at a tremendous speed--built like a bulldog's for strength, and
like an eel's for suppleness."

"Not _slimy_!" protested the Babe, who had hated eels whole-heartedly
ever since the day when he had tried to take one off the hook.

"Of course not!" answered Uncle Andy impatiently. "As I was going to
say, they were shaped a good deal like those seals you've seen in the
Zoo, only that instead of flippers they had regulation legs and feet,
and also a tail. It was a tail worth having, too, and not merely
intended for ornament. It was very thick at the base and tapering,
something like a lizard's, and so powerful that one twist of it could
drive its owner through the water like a screw."

"Wish I could swim that way!" murmured the Babe, trying to do the
movement, as he imagined it, with his legs.

"But though the Little Furry Ones were just built for swimming,"
continued Uncle Andy, graciously overlooking the interruption, "they
were actually afraid of it. They liked to see their father or their
mother dive smoothly down into the clear, goldy-brown water of their
front door, and out into that patch of yellow sunlight shimmering on
the weedy bottom. But when invited to follow, they drew back into the
corner and pretended to be terribly busy.

"One fine morning, however, to their great delight they were led out by
the back door, under the bush, and introduced to the outside world.
How huge and strange it looked to them! For a few minutes they stole
about on their absurdly short, sturdy legs, poking their noses into
everything, and jumping back startled at the strange smells they
encountered; while their parents, lying down nearby, watched them
lazily. At last, beginning to feel more at home in this big, airy
world, they fell to romping with each other on the sunny bank, close
beside the water. Presently their parents got up and came over beside
them. The father slipped gracefully in, and began diving, darting this
way and that, and throwing himself half-way out of the water. It was
most interesting, I can tell you, and the two little Furry Ones stopped
their play, at the very edge of the bank, to watch him. But when he
called to them coaxingly to come in with him and try it, they turned
away their heads and pretended to think it wasn't worth looking at
after all. They would rather look at the trees and the sky, and kept
staring up at them as if perfectly fascinated. And _while_ they were
staring upwards in this superior way, they got a great surprise. Their
mother slily slipped her nose under them and threw them, one after the
other, far out into the water."

"Ow!" exclaimed the Babe with a little gasp of sympathy. He himself
felt the shock of that sudden, chill plunge.

Uncle Andy chuckled.

"That's just the way they felt," said he. "When they came to the top
again they found, to their surprise, that they could swim; and feeling
most indignant and injured they struck out straight for shore. But
there, between them and the good dry ground, swam their mother, and
would not let them land. They did not see how mothers could be so
heartless. But there was no help for it; so they swam out again very
haughtily and joined their father in mid-stream. And before they knew
it they were enjoying themselves immensely.

"And now life became much more interesting to them. For a bit it was
harder to keep them out of the water than it had been to get them into
it. They had their first lessons in fishing. And though they were too
clumsy at first to catch even a slow, mud-grubbing sucker, they found
the attempt most interesting. The stream just opposite their home was
deep and quiet, but a little way below, the current ran strong; and
once, having ridden down it gaily for a couple of hundred yards, they
found themselves unable to swim back against it. At first they battled
bravely and were most surprised to find themselves making so little
progress. Then they grew tired; and then frightened, and they were
just being carried off down stream by this strange, soft, irresistible
force when their mother arrived. The current was nothing to her. She
took them on her back, and shot off up stream again with them. After
that they would ride on her back, or on their father's whenever they
got tired. And their parents began to take them on long trips up and
down stream. You see, their housekeeping being so simple, they didn't
mind going away even for a couple of days at a time, and leaving the
house to look after itself."

"I don't think I'd like to be wet like that _all_ the time, even in
summer," remarked the Babe, shaking his head thoughtfully.

"Oh, they weren't that. They used to go ashore and, in spite of their
ridiculously short legs, make most respectably long journeys through
the woods to some other stream, pretending, I suppose, that the fish
over there had a different flavor. Sometimes, too, when they came upon
a patch of smooth, mossy ground, they would have a wild romp, as if
they had just been let out of school--a sort of game of tag, in which
the father and mother played just as hard as the youngsters. Or they
would have a regular tug of war, pulling on opposite ends of a stick,
till the moss was all torn up as if a little cyclone had loafed along
that way. Then one day they came to a clay bank, something like that
one across yonder. The old ones had been there before, but not for
some time, and the clay had got all dry and hard. But the father and
mother knew very well how to fix that. When they had slid down a
couple of times with their fur all dripping the track was smooth as
oil. As for the youngsters, you may depend upon it they did not need
any coaxing or persuasion to make them believe _that_ was a good game."

"I should think not!" murmured the Babe, looking longingly over the
stream to where the wet slide glistened in the sun, and wishing that he
might try it without any regard whatever to the seat of his little
trousers.

"Taking it all together it was a pretty jolly life, I can tell you,
there in the sweet-smelling, shadowy woods and sunny waters. Then one
day all at once, as quick as falling off a log, everything was changed."

Uncle Andy paused to relight his pipe. After a few seconds the Babe's
impatience got the better of him; and before he could stop himself he
blurted out "Why?" The moment he had spoken he knew it was a fool
question to ask, and he flushed. But to his grateful relief Uncle did
not seem to hear.

"A hunter from the city came that way. He had a good eye, a repeating
rifle, and no imagination whatever. With the luck that sometimes comes
to those fellows, he was sitting under a tree near the bank, staring
across at the otter-slide (which did not mean anything whatever or
suggest anything to him, but was merely a strip of bare clay), when the
otter family came to slide. The father started down. It was most
interesting--so the stranger under the tree, who was as spry as a
sparrowhawk, shot instantly; and the otter came down in a crumpled
heap. The mother might have escaped; but for just one second she
hesitated, glancing round to see if her little ones were out of danger.
That second was enough for the smart shot across the water. She
dropped. It was good shooting, of course. The two little ones,
horrified by the spiteful noise, and quite unable to understand what
had happened, shrank away into some thick bushes and lay very still,
waiting for their mother to come and tell them the danger was past."

"And she could never come!" murmured the Babe thoughtfully.

"Well, she didn't," snorted Uncle Andy, the discourager of sentiment.
Fairly reeking with sentiment himself, at heart, he disliked all
manifestation of it in himself or others. He liked it left to the
imagination. "They never stirred for an hour or more," he went on.
"Then at last they stole out and began looking everywhere for those
lost parents. All about the slide they hunted--among the bushes at the
top, in the water and the rushes at the bottom--but they found nothing.
For the man had come in his canoe and carried off his victims.

"All day long the two Little Furry Ones continued their search. But
you would not have known them for the same creatures as those which had
started out that morning. Then they had played carelessly and gone
boldly, thinking not of enemies and fearing none. Now they crept
noiselessly, sniffing this way and that, and never showing their noses
outside a thicket without first taking observations. For life was now
a very different matter with them. Never in all their lives before had
they come across so many hostile and threatening smells as they
encountered this one afternoon. But then, to be sure, they had never
looked for them before. They were all the time running into trails of
mink, or weasel, or wildcat; and it seemed to them as if the world had
suddenly become quite full of foxes. They were painfully surprised,
for they had never thought there were so many disagreeable creatures in
the world. You see, being so young and inexperienced, it never
occurred to them that one fox or one weasel could make quite a lot of
trails. So they kept having palpitations every other minute.

"It was just as well, however, that they got such an exaggerated idea
of the numbers of their enemies. For it was astonishing how quickly
the news got around that the old otters were dead. Toward sunset that
evening, when the two lonely youngsters, puzzled and miserable, stole
back to their old den under the bank, they found that a mink had dared
to kill a big trout in their own pool. There were the remains, and the
presumptuous intruder's tracks, almost at their very door. They were
indignant, and the thick hair bristled on their necks. But, realizing
suddenly how hungry they were, they did not scorn to eat the stranger's
leavings. Then they dived into their den; and after sniffing about and
whimpering lonesomely for a while, they curled themselves up close
together and went to sleep. It had been a strange and dreadful day.

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