Читать книгу While the Story-Log Burns - Thornton Waldo Burgess - Страница 6

Table of Contents

“I wonder why the Storyteller wants us to be early tonight,” said Brother as with Nancy and David he hurried down the road toward the Old House.

“And who it is that he said would be there tonight,” added Nancy.

“He said that it would be someone who knows more about Old Mother Nature than he does, but I guess he was just fooling about that unless—” David paused at the thought that had popped into his head.

“Unless what?” prompted Brother impatiently.

“Unless he meant the Old Hunter,” replied David. “I bet that is just who it is. I hope so. I like him. He tells true stories.”

But it wasn’t the Old Hunter who was talking with the Storyteller as the children joined the group at the foot of Esker Hill. He was a stranger whom none among them ever had seen before, although after the first few minutes he didn’t seem a stranger at all. Indeed, it seemed as if they had known him always. He was well on in years, even older than the Old Hunter, but he didn’t seem old. Perhaps it was because he was rather short, thin, wiry, quick in his movements. Perhaps it was because of his ready smile that lighted his whole face, and the twinkling keenness of his eyes that seemed, as Jimmy Andrews expressed it, “to see everything at once.”

Anyway even though always afterward the children spoke of him as old they did not think of him as old. It was a term of affection rather than a reflection on his age.

“Now that you are all here,” said the Storyteller, “I want you to meet a new friend of mine who is also an old friend. I met him in books long ago. This past summer I met him in person. Last fall when the Old Hunter paid us his first visit I told you that he knew more about birds and animals than anyone of my acquaintance. That is no longer true for here is one who knows even more about them, for all his life it has been his work and his pleasure to study Old Mother Nature and her children and about them, and to write about them and to teach others about them. He is what is called—what is such a person called?”

“A naturalist,” said Robert.

“Right,” replied the Storyteller. “He is a naturalist.”

“A really truly naturalist who knows about everything and tells the truth about things?” asked David earnestly, then grew red in the face as everybody laughed, the guest most heartily of all.

“No, laddie, not one who knows all about everything, but one who knows a little about some things and is trying to learn more,” said he.

“And who does tell the truth about things,” added the Storyteller. “Now, Mr. Naturalist, that tall stub up yonder is the watchtower of a barn owl. Every night he sits there for a while. It is almost time for him now. I have told these boys and girls that he is sort of a feathered cop, that he has saved some chickens and some hay for me, but I suspect that they think I was spoofing them. I have had them come early tonight so that they may look for some evidence for or against old Monkey-face, as they call him, and I have invited you here to explain the evidence and to give us some inside information, the truth that David here always wants, about owls and hawks and how most of them serve man.”

From a pocket he took something which he held out on the palm of his hand. It was an oval ball of what looked like matted hair and was perhaps an inch and a half long and nearly an inch in diameter. “Here,” said he, “is a bit of evidence. Rally around, all of you, and take a good look at it. Then go up and look for some more evidence like it on the ground around that stub on which Monkey-face sits. Off with you now, and see who will be the best nature detective.”

A lively scramble up the hill followed. There was a shout of “I’ve found one!” from Freddie almost as soon as he reached the old stub. On hands and knees the children searched in the grass and among the leaves, excited squeals from the girls and shouts from the boys announcing the finding of those queer pellets. More than twenty had been found when at the call of the Storyteller the search ended and the children raced down the hill.

Little Mary was the last and just as she reached the bottom she stopped abruptly with a startled shriek that drew all eyes just in time to see a small form shoot up out of the grass at her feet and sail through the air in a beautiful arc straight toward the Old Naturalist, who chanced to be standing some eight or nine feet from Mary and facing her. He knew instantly what had happened and was ready for the frightened little creature that a second later struck against him. He caught it. At once the children crowded around to see what he had and to ply him with eager questions.

“What is it?”

“Is it a bird?”

“Couldn’t it see you?”

“What kind of a bird is it?”

The Storyteller came to the rescue, putting a stop to the jostling and crowding, quieting the noise. “How do you think you would feel if a lot of giants as tall as that big elm tree should come crowding and yelling around you?” he asked. “Just about the way that little prisoner our good friend has there does, I fancy,” he added, answering his own question. Silence followed immediately.

The Old Naturalist smiled as he looked around at the flushed eager faces. “It isn’t a bird, although I don’t wonder that some of you took it to be when you saw it sailing through the air. You know the Indians used to say that among the animals there are seven sleepers. Well, this is one of them that I am holding here, the smallest sleeper of them all, and one of the first to retire. Indeed, it is about time now for him to retire for the winter. Does anyone know who it is?”

For a moment or so there was no reply. It was the Storyteller who broke the silence. Said he, “I think, Mr. Naturalist, that it must be Nimbleheels the Jumping Mouse whom you have there.”

“A mouse!” exclaimed Jimmy. “I’ve seen lots and lots of mice but never one that could jump the way that one did.”

“That,” said the Old Naturalist, “is because you never before saw a jumping mouse. This little fellow is, for his size, one of the greatest jumpers in the world. If a deer could leap as far in proportion to its size it would clear more than one hundred feet at every bound. This pretty little chap can cover ten to twelve feet and you may be sure that he won’t be so easily caught again. He was so startled that he jumped without first looking. When he finally did see me it was too late to avoid me. You know the old saying, ‘Look before you leap.’ This is an example of what may happen if you forget. The reason he can jump so is because he is built like a kangaroo. He has long hind legs and feet and little short front ones. Now come one at a time and have a good look at him so that the next time you see one you will recognize it.”

Frances was first. “Oh, the pretty little thing!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know a mouse could be so pretty. I thought all mice wore dark gray coats, but this one has a fawn colored one, almost yellow.”

“And see his white waistcoat,” said the Old Naturalist.

“My goodness, look at the length of that tail!” exclaimed Rosemary, who was next.

“That is his balancing pole,” said the Old Naturalist.

Rosemary looked at him suspiciously. “How can a tail be a pole?” she wanted to know.

The Old Naturalist chuckled. “That is just a manner of speaking, my dear,” said he. “Perhaps you have seen a tightrope walker holding a long pole across in front of him. It is to help him keep his balance. This long slender tail does the same thing for this little mouse. It helps him keep his balance in the air during one of those long jumps. If he should lose his tail, or part of it, he might be able to jump just as far but he would never know how he was going to land. He would just turn over and over in the air and might land on his back or facing the direction he had just come from.”

When all the children had inspected his little captive the Old Naturalist told them to stand back. “What are you going to do?” asked David.

“Let him go,” was the reply. Thereupon there was a chorus of protests and two or three expressed the wish that they might have him for a pet.

“All right. If you can catch him you may have him,” replied the Old Naturalist with a twinkle in his eyes, and stooping he quickly released little Nimbleheels. Instantly he was in the air in one of those marvelous jumps. He had covered more than ten feet when he landed. Another equally long jump followed, then three or four shorter ones, after which they saw him no more.

“Good-by, little Nimbleheels. Sleep tight all winter,” cried Jean softly.

“And take care that old Monkey-face doesn’t see you,” added the Storyteller. “That reminds me. In all this excitement we have almost forgotten about that evidence you found. We’ll take it down to the Old House now and find out if it is for or against Monkey-face.”

When they arrived at the Old House they found a table covered with brown paper and placed under a strong light. Pockets were emptied of the evidence and it was spread out on the table. In eager curiosity the children gathered around as the Old Naturalist took out his pocketknife and a pair of slender forceps. He picked up one of the pellets.

“What are those things anyway?” Brother wanted to know.

“When you eat cherries what do you do with the seeds, or stones, as some folks call them?” asked the Old Naturalist.

“Spit them out,” was the prompt response.

“Of course,” said the Old Naturalist. “You spit them out because your stomach cannot digest them. These pellets are the owl’s cherry-stones so to speak. Bones and hair and feathers are not digestible, so they are not allowed to go beyond the bird’s crop. When the owl swallows a mouse it goes first into the crop. There, in a way difficult to understand, all the hair and bones are removed and rolled into pellets such as these. The owl then spits these out just as you would spit out cherry stones. Perhaps you noticed that these pellets feel something like felt. That is because they are of fine hair matted or pressed together and that is what felt is. Of course this means that Monkey-face has been living on small animals. If he had been eating birds there would be feathers mixed in, and so far I haven’t seen a feather.

“Now the question is, what kind or kinds of animals has the owl been catching? We’ll open one of these pellets.”

With knife blade and forceps he carefully pulled one of the pellets apart. “Ha!” said he, “I thought as much.” In his forceps he held up a piece of bone. “That,” he explained, as he laid it to one side, “is part of the skull of a mouse. I can even tell you what kind of a mouse. It was one of those short-tailed, stout-bodied little fellows you sometimes get a glimpse of running in the grass, a meadow mouse or field mouse. It goes by both names.”

He opened another pellet. “More meadow mouse bones,” said he.

A dozen pellets yielded the same results. Then he found a skull that was different and put this aside. A moment later he exclaimed in triumph and held up a jaw bone. “Rat!” said he.

“I wonder if that was a brother of the rats that got so many of my chickens in the spring before Monkey-face appeared on the scene,” said the Storyteller, and at once the children remembered that he had said that his chickens had been saved by Monkey-face.

When the last pellet had been examined bones of two rats and of four species of mice had been identified, with several times as many meadow mice as of the others taken together. Not a single feather or bone of a bird was found.

“That doesn’t mean that a barn owl never catches a bird,” explained the Old Naturalist. “He does now and then, but it is seldom unless he happens to take up his abode in a city where it is difficult to catch rodents, and where starlings happen to be numerous—and a nuisance. Do you know what meadow mice eat?”

“Seeds,” Billy promptly replied.

“Some seeds,” agreed the Old Naturalist, “and some insects, but chiefly grasses. It has been estimated by those who know about such matters that in a single year one hundred meadow mice on an acre of meadow will eat one ton of green grass. This would make half a ton of cured hay. That number of mice to an acre is not at all unusual. Often it is very much greater and you can understand why when I tell you that a single pair of these little rodents have been known to have seventeen families in one year. It would be possible for one pair of these mice to have one million descendants at the end of a year if nothing happened to any of them during the twelve months. So you see if Mother Nature didn’t provide some checks these little rodents would increase to such numbers that they would eat all the food on which man depends.”

“I get it!” cried Jimmy. “The mice and rats do so much damage that they are really outlaws and old Mother Nature just appointed a lot of cops, such as owls and hawks and foxes and some others, to keep the outlaws down. Now I see how old Monkey-face saved the hay for you.” Jimmy looked over at the Storyteller and grinned.

The Storyteller nodded and the Old Naturalist smiled. “That is it, my boy,” said he. “Most owls and hawks do a very great deal of good for man and very little harm. You saw how that long tail of that jumping mouse enabled him to keep his balance. I told you how an accident to that tail would upset his balance. When not interfered with Mother Nature maintains a balance in life. When men and boys through ignorance and stupid prejudice kill the feathered and furred policemen she has provided to keep the outlaws under control they upset that balance. Well, now that you have seen the evidence for or against old Monkey-face, what is your verdict?”

“I think,” replied Frances, “that he must be one of our very best friends.”

“You are quite right, my dear. The barn owl is one of the most useful of all birds to man. Mr. Storyteller, you are fortunate to have Monkey-face for a neighbor. I congratulate all of you on your verdict,” said the Old Naturalist, and his warm smile brought answering smiles as he looked around the circle.

By this time the hour was too late for a story. “I don’t care,” said David. “It was better than most stories because it was all true.”