Читать книгу While the Story-Log Burns - Thornton Waldo Burgess - Страница 7
ОглавлениеThe Whistler
“Popcorn balls, oh boy!” exclaimed Willis as the Storyteller brought in a huge pan of white and golden balls and asked Frances to pass them around. When she came to Freddie he took two.
“Pig!” she whispered indignantly.
The Storyteller overheard it and laughed. “Freddie isn’t a pig, Frances,” said he. “He has simply been smart enough to count noses and make an estimate that there are two apiece all around and he’s getting his share. Freddie is right, so each take two and that will save passing them a second time. Billy, did you forget to bring the story-log?”
“No sir, I wouldn’t forget that!” Billy pulled a stick from behind the wood box and held it out. “Smell it,” said he. “It smells good. It’s cedar.”
“So it is—red cedar!” exclaimed the Storyteller in pretended surprise.
“I like to smell it but moths don’t. My mother has a chest made of it and keeps clothes in it ’cause the moths won’t go near that ol’ chest,” continued Billy.
The Storyteller nodded. “That makes it rather useful, doesn’t it? Do you know of any other special use for it?” he asked.
“Oh, I guess it’s used for lots of things,” replied Billy.
“You use it every day in school,” said the Storyteller.
“I know!” cried Nancy. “It’s used for making lead pencils!”
“Right you are, Nancy,” replied the Storyteller. “Now it seems to me that a log of such useful wood, even such a small one as this, and not the best of wood to burn, should have a good story in it. Suppose, Billy, you put it on the fire and we’ll soon find out.”
The chairs were drawn up around the hearth, Billy placed the log on the fire and the invocation was chanted. “It’s your log, Billy. Is there anyone in particular you would like to hear about?” the Storyteller asked.
“Yes sir. If you please I would like to hear how Whistler got such a good whistle,” replied Billy.
“Who is Whistler?” Rosemary wanted to know.
“He’s Johnny Chuck’s cousin and he lives in the mountains out West. I’ve read about him. He’s a marmot,” volunteered Willis.
“That is right,” said the Storyteller. “Whistler is a marmot, the hoary marmot. Sometimes he is called the gray marmot.”
“I’ve heard him and boy, can he whistle! It can be heard for more than a mile. I heard him when we were out in Glacier National Park last summer,” said Billy.
“Johnny Chuck can whistle too. I’ve heard him,” said Jimmy.
“Sure. I’ve heard him too. But if you think he can whistle you just ought to hear that cousin of his. He’s some whistler, I’m telling you,” retorted Billy.
“The story-log is burning!” cried Janet.
“So it is!” exclaimed the Storyteller. “And that means it is high time to begin the story. You all know that Old Man Coyote really belongs way out in the West, but was trapped and was made a prisoner in a park zoo from which he finally escaped to make his home in the Old Pasture, and hunt on the Green Meadows and in the Green Forest. That is how Peter Rabbit came to know him.
“Early one morning Peter, sitting safe in a bramble-tangle, watched Old Man Coyote stalking Johnny Chuck. Johnny was just a little way from his own doorstep getting his breakfast of sweet clover. Old Man Coyote wanted breakfast too, and was trying to get it. He wanted Johnny Chuck. Would he catch him? Peter hoped not. Peter sat up the better to watch. It was very exciting.
“Johnny was not careless. He kept popping up and dropping down. When he dropped down it was to get a few bites of clover. While he ate this he sat up and looked all around for danger. No, Johnny wasn’t careless. But despite his watchfulness he hadn’t discovered Old Man Coyote, and Peter was getting worried. If Old Man Coyote should get much nearer to him Johnny with his short legs would have hard work to reach his home before Old Man Coyote with his long legs could catch him.
“When Johnny Chuck sat up Old Man Coyote always lay as flat as possible, so flat that he was hidden in the grass. The instant Johnny dropped down for clover Old Man Coyote would creep forward swiftly, never taking his eyes from Johnny Chuck and dropping flat the instant Johnny started to sit up.
“Peter grew more and more anxious. He couldn’t bear to think of anything so dreadful happening to his friend. He tried to warn Johnny by thumping the ground with his hind feet, but it was useless; the distance was too great. How Peter did wish he had a good voice, a strong, loud voice.
“Finally Old Man Coyote seemed to be so near Johnny Chuck that Peter shut his eyes. He couldn’t look any longer. He didn’t want to see Johnny Chuck killed. Then he heard a distant whistle. He knew it. It was Johnny Chuck’s danger signal. Peter’s eyes flew open just in time to see Johnny’s black heels disappear through his doorway leaving Old Man Coyote standing on the doorstep, a picture of disappointment. Peter hugged himself for joy.
“A little later Old Man Coyote started to pass the bramble-tangle and stopped to grin in at Peter. Peter wasn’t afraid. Among those brambles he was quite safe. He knew it and he knew that Old Man Coyote knew it.
“ ‘You didn’t catch Johnny Chuck and I’m glad of it,’ said Peter, twitching his wobbly little nose in the most provoking manner.
“ ‘Not this time,’ agreed Old Man Coyote, grinning more broadly than before. ‘He was too quick for me.’
“ ‘You seem to be good-natured about it,’ ventured Peter, and indeed Old Man Coyote didn’t appear in the least put out because of his failure.
“ ‘Why shouldn’t I be? The chuck I fail to catch today may be mine tomorrow,’ replied Old Man Coyote.
“ ‘I heard Johnny whistle way over here,’ said Peter.
“ ‘Pooh! That’s nothing. You should hear his cousin, Whistler. There’s a fellow who can really whistle,’ replied Old Man Coyote.
“Peter pricked up his ears. ‘Am I to understand that Johnny has a cousin named Whistler?’ he asked. There was such a funny look of surprise on his face that Old Man Coyote chuckled.
“ ‘You certainly are, Brother Rabbit,’ he replied. ‘And a big handsome fellow he is. He lives out in the mountains of the Far West where I came from, and what a whistle he has! What a whistle!’
“Now Peter always had considered Johnny Chuck’s whistle a very good whistle. He had envied Johnny that whistle. ‘Pooh!’ said he. ‘I don’t believe he can whistle any better than Johnny Chuck. Now tell me honestly, can he?’
“It was Old Man Coyote’s turn for a question. ‘Have you ever heard Farmer Brown’s boy whistle on his fingers to call in that old nuisance, Bowser the Hound, when he was a long way off?’ ”
“I can whistle on my fingers,” interrupted Freddie, and did so, then looked abashed and stared into the fire.
The Storyteller looked hard and meaningly at Freddie, then resumed. “ ‘You don’t mean to tell me that Johnny’s cousin can whistle as loud as that!’ Peter exclaimed, his eyes big with wonder and a hint of unbelief.
“ ‘I do. I mean to tell you just that,’ retorted Old Man Coyote.
“Mingled wonder and curiosity prompted Peter to say, ‘If anyone but you, Mr. Coyote, had told me this I wouldn’t believe it. I wonder how he ever happened to get such a whistle.’
“ ‘He needed it so Old Mother Nature gave it to him. If you want me to I’ll tell you about it,’ replied Old Man Coyote as he stretched out comfortably beside the bramble-tangle.
“ ‘Please do,’ begged Peter.
“ ‘It happened a long time ago,’ began Old Man Coyote.”
“When the world was young,” interposed Jean, and in her turn stared into the fire. After a moment’s pause the Storyteller continued. “ ‘It seems to me that everything wonderful happened a long time ago,’ said Peter.
“Old Man Coyote chuckled. ‘You’re wrong, Peter,’ said he. ‘It is wonderful that such an addle-pated fellow as you has lived to hear this story. As I said before it happened a long time ago. When the first of all the gray or hoary marmots started out to find a place in the Great World they were high-minded, more so than any of their relatives. They chose to live high up among the rocks of the mountains. They were wise, were Mr. and Mrs. Marmot, for they had been quick to discover that their coats and the rocks were much of a color. So among the rocks they were safer from enemies. Then, too, there were fewer enemies living up there. Also, there were wonderful places down under the rocks in which to make a home, places from which it would be almost impossible for anyone, unless possibly Mr. Grizzly Bear, to dig them out.
“ ‘There they lived and there their children were born and grew up and scattered to make homes for themselves among the rocks. In turn they had children who did the same thing, so that by the time Mr. and Mrs. Marmot were great-great-grandparents there were many marmot homes widely scattered over the rocky slopes.
“ ‘Hard times came for the meat eaters and Puma the Panther wandered up to the timber line and discovered the marmots. For a time he no longer went hungry. Now the marmots had no voices worth mentioning, just enough to talk among themselves when visiting. They never had felt the need of anything more.
“ ‘Then one day as old Mr. Marmot sat on a rock watching for danger he saw one of his grandchildren also sitting on a rock far across a little valley. He saw, too, what the other did not see, Puma creeping up behind. He saw, but alas, he was helpless to warn that grandchild. Then it was that a great wish took possession of him, the wish for a far-reaching voice that he might give warning. He did the best he could, but it was useless. He tried and tried but all he could do was squeak, and it wasn’t much of a squeak at that.
“ ‘By chance Old Mother Nature came along just then. She saw at once that old Mr. Marmot was in great distress. She noticed that he kept his eyes fixed on a certain rock across the valley. Then she saw Puma creeping nearer and nearer that unsuspecting young marmot and she understood that great wish of Mr. Marmot’s. She reached over and tapped him on the back just as he tried his very hardest to squeak louder. Instead of a squeak there was a sharp, clear, piercing whistle that could be heard a long, long distance. At the sound of it the young marmot across the valley instantly ducked out of sight among the rocks. Puma the Panther leaped, but he was too late. He lashed his long tail from side to side. He was very, very angry.
“ ‘As for old Mr. Marmot, he was not only surprised but he was almost frightened by his own whistle and by the touch of Old Mother Nature. You see he hadn’t known that she was about. She smiled down at him. It was a pleasant smile that put him at his ease.
“ ‘ “That whistle is all your own, Mr. Marmot, and I shall give one just like it to every member of your family. You little people up here among the rocks need a warning signal and you shall have it as long as you make good use of it.” So said Old Mother Nature, and as suddenly as she had appeared she disappeared.
“ ‘So that is how Brother Marmot of the Far West got his whistle and a name at the same time. You see after that he always was called Whistler. Both the name and the whistle have remained in the family ever since and believe me, Brother Rabbit, that whistle is some whistle.’
“ ‘It must be,’ replied Peter, and added a bit wistfully, ‘I wish I could whistle.’
“Now all the popcorn balls are gone, all the story-log is gone, and it is time for boys and girls to be gone. Who brings the story-log next time?” concluded the Storyteller.
“I do,” said Frances.
“Good,” said the Storyteller. “And this time you must be sure to bring something with it, my dear.”
Frances looked puzzled. “What?” she asked wonderingly.
“A story,” replied the Storyteller, his eyes twinkling. “You will bring the story-log and you will tell the story.”
In dismay Frances protested. “I can’t do that. I don’t know any story. I just won’t come!”
“Not come!” exclaimed the Storyteller, his eyebrows lifting in mock consternation. “Don’t you know that without a story-log there can be no story night? You have to bring the story-log and this particular log must have a story with it or it won’t burn. You can’t let us down like that, you know. We won’t allow it. Will we?” he appealed to the others.
“No!” they shouted.
“That settles it,” declared the Storyteller.
“Now coats and hats and away you go!
For ’tis time for home and bed you know.”
