Posts tagged ‘fiction’
One morning a little rabbit sat on a bank.
As soon as they had passed, little Benjamin Bunny slid down into the road, and set off-with a hop, skip, and a jump-to call upon his relations, who lived in the wood at the back of Mr. McGregor’s garden.
That wood was full of rabbit holes; and in the neatest, sandiest hole of all lived Benjamin’s aunt and his cousins-Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.Old Mrs. Rabbit was a widow; she earned her living by knitting rabbit-wool mittens and muffatees (I once bought a pair at a bazaar). She also sold herbs, and rosemary tea, and rabbit-tobacco (which is what we call lavender).
Little Benjamin did not very much want to see his Aunt.He came round the back of the fir-tree, and nearly tumbled upon the top of his Cousin Peter.
Peter was sitting by himself. He looked poorly, and was dressed in a red cotton pocket-handkerchief.
“Peter,” said little Benjamin, in a whisper, “who has got your clothes?”Peter replied, “The scarecrow in Mr. McGregor’s garden,” and described how he had been chased about the garden, and had dropped his shoes and coat.Little Benjamin sat down beside his cousin and assured him that Mr. McGregor had gone out in a gig, and Mrs. McGregor also; and certainly for the day, because she was wearing her best bonnet.
Peter said he hoped that it would rain.At this point old Mrs. Rabbit’s voice was heard inside the rabbit hole, calling: “Cotton-tail! Cotton-tail! fetch some more chamomile!”Peter said he thought he might feel better if he went for a walk.
They went away hand in hand, and got upon the flat top of the wall at the bottom of the wood. From here they looked down into Mr. McGregor’s garden. Peter’s coat and shoes were plainly to be seen upon the scarecrow, topped with an old tam-o’-shanter of Mr. McGregor’s.
Little Benjamin said: “It spoils people’s clothes to squeeze under a gate; the proper way to get in is to climb down a pear-tree.”Peter fell down head first; but it was of no consequence, as the bed below was newly raked and quite soft.It had been sown with lettuces.
They left a great many odd little footmarks all over the bed, especially little Benjamin, who was wearing clogs.
Little Benjamin said that the first thing to be done was to get back Peter’s clothes, in order that they might be able to use the pocket-handkerchief.They took them off the scarecrow. There had been rain during the night; there was water in the shoes, and the coat was somewhat shrunk.Benjamin tried on the tam-o’-shanter, but it was too big for him.
Then he suggested that they should fill the pocket-handkerchief with onions, as a little present for his Aunt.Peter did not seem to be enjoying himself; he kept hearing noises.
Benjamin, on the contrary, was perfectly at home, and ate a lettuce leaf. He said that he was in the habit of coming to the garden with his father to get lettuces for their Sunday dinner.(The name of little Benjamin’s papa was old Mr. Benjamin Bunny.)The lettuces certainly were very fine.
Peter did not eat anything; he said he should like to go home. Presently he dropped half the onions.
Little Benjamin said that it was not possible to get back up the pear-tree with a load of vegetables. He led the way boldly towards the other end of the garden. They went along a little walk on planks, under a sunny, red brick wall.The mice sat on their doorsteps cracking cherry-stones; they winked at Peter Rabbit and little Benjamin Bunny.
Presently Peter let the pocket-handkerchief go again.
They got amongst flower-pots, and frames, and tubs. Peter heard noises worse than ever; his eyes were as big as lollipops!He was a step or two in front of his cousin when he suddenly stopped.
This is what those little rabbits saw round that corner!Little Benjamin took one look, and then, in half a minute less than no time, he hid himself and Peter and the onions underneath a large blanket…
The cat got up and stretched herself, and came and sniffed at the basket.Perhaps she liked the smell of onions!Anyway, she sat down upon the top of the basket.
She sat there for five hours.I cannot draw you a picture of Peter and Benjamin underneath the basket, because it was quite dark, and because the smell of onions was fearful; it made Peter Rabbit and little Benjamin cry.The sun got round behind the wood, and it was quite late in the afternoon; but still the cat sat upon the basket.
At length there was a pitter-patter, pitter-patter, and some bits of mortar fell from the wall above.The cat looked up and saw old Mr. Benjamin Bunny prancing along the top of the wall of the upper terrace.He was smoking a pipe of rabbit- tobacco, and had a little switch in his hand.He was looking for his son.
Old Mr. Bunny had no opinion whatever of cats. He took a tremendous jump off the top of the wall on to the top of the cat, and cuffed it off the basket, and kicked it into the greenhouse, scratching off a handful of fur.The cat was too much surprised to scratch back.
When old Mr. Bunny had driven the cat into the greenhouse, he locked the door.Then he came back to the basket and took out his son Benjamin by the ears, and whipped him with the little switch.Then he took out his nephew Peter.
Then he took out the handkerchief of onions, and marched out of the garden.
When Mr. McGregor returned about half an hour later he observed several things which perplexed him.It looked as though some person had been walking all over the garden in a pair of clogs-only the footmarks were too ridiculously little!Also he could not understand how the cat could have managed to shut herself up inside the greenhouse, locking the door upon the outside.
When Peter got home his mother forgave him, because she was so glad to see that he had found his shoes and coat. Cotton-tail and Peter folded up the pocket-handkerchief, and old Mrs. Rabbit strung up the onions and hung them from the kitchen ceiling, with the bunches of herbs and the rabbit-tobacco.
The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin
The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin
This is a Tale about a tail-a tail that belonged to a little red squirrel, and his name was Nutkin. He had a brother called Twinkleberry, and a great many cousins: they lived in a wood at the edge of a lake.
In the middle of the lake there is an island covered with trees and nut bushes; and amongst those trees stands a hollow oak-tree, which is the house of an owl who is called Old Brown.
One autumn when the nuts were ripe, and the leaves on the hazel bushes were golden and green-Nutkin and Twinkleberry and all the other little squirrels came out of the wood, and down to the edge of the lake.
They made little rafts out of twigs, and they paddled away over the water to Owl Island to gather nuts. Each squirrel had a little sack and a large oar, and spread out his tail for a sail.
They also took with them an offering of three fat mice as a present for Old Brown, and put them down upon his door-step. Then Twinkleberry and the other little squirrels each made a low bow, and said politely-“Old Mr. Brown, will you favor us with permission to gather nuts upon your island?”
But Nutkin was excessively impertinent in his manners. He bobbed up and down like a little red CHERRY, singing-“Riddle me, riddle me, rot-tot-tote! A little wee man, in a red red coat!bA staff in his hand, and a stone in his throat; if you’ll tell me this riddle, I’ll give you a groat.” Now this riddle is as old as the hills; Mr. Brown paid no attention whatever to Nutkin. He shut his eyes obstinately and went to sleep.
Now this riddle is as old as the hills; Mr. Brown paid no attention whatever to Nutkin. He shut his eyes obstinately and went to sleep.>The squirrels filled their little sacks with nuts, and sailed home in the evening.
But next morning they all came back again to Owl Island; and Twinkleberry and the others brought a fine fat mole, and laid it on the stone in front of Old Brown’s doorway, and said-“Mr. Brown, will you favor us with your gracious permission to gather some more nuts?”
But Nutkin, who had no respect, began to dance up and down, tickling old Mr. Brown with a NETTLE and singing-“Old Mr. B! Riddle-me-ree! Hitty Pitty within the wall, Hitty Pitty without the wall; If you touch Hitty Pitty,Hitty Pitty will bite you!”Mr. Brown woke up suddenly and carried the mole into his house. He shut the door in Nutkin’s face.
Presently a little thread of blue SMOKE from a wood fire came up from the top of the tree, and Nutkin peeped through the key-hole and sang-“A house full, a hole full! And you cannot gather a bowl-full!”
The squirrels searched for nuts all over the island and filled their little sacks. But Nutkin gathered oak-apples-yellow and scarlet-and sat upon a beech-stump playing marbles, and watching the door of old Mr. Brown.
On the third day the squirrels got up very early and went fishing; they caught seven fat minnows as a present for Old Brown. They paddled over the lake and landed under a crooked chestnut tree on Owl Island.
Twinkleberry and six other little squirrels each carried a fat minnow; but Nutkin, who had no nice manners, brought no present at all. He ran in front, singing-“The man in the wilderness said to me, ‘How may strawberries grow in the sea?’ I answered him as I thought good-‘As many red herrings as grow in the wood.” ‘But old Mr. Brown took no interest in riddles-not even when the answer was provided for him.
On the fourth day the squirrels brought a present of six fat beetles, which were as good as plums in PLUM-PUDDING for Old Brown. Each beetle was wrapped up carefully in a dock leaf, fastened with a pine-needle-pin. But Nutkin sang as rudely as ever-“Old Mr. B! riddle-me-ree! Flour of England, fruit of Spain, Met together in a shower of rain; Put in a bag tied round with a string, If you’ll tell me this riddle, I’ll give you a ring! “Which was ridiculous of Nutkin, because he had not got any ring to give to Old Brown.
The other squirrels hunted up and down the nut bushes; but Nutkin gathered robin’s pin-cushions off a briar bush, and stuck them full of pine-needle-pins.
On the fifth day the squirrels brought a present of wild honey; it was so sweet and sticky that they licked their fingers as they put it down upon the stone. They had stolen it out of a bumble BEES’ nest on the tippity top of the hill. But Nutkin skipped up and down, singing-“Hum-a-bum! buzz! buzz! Hum-a-bum buzz!As I went over Tipple-tineI met a flock of bonny swine; Some yellow-nacked, some yellow backed! They were the very bonniest swine That e’er went over the Tipple-tine.”
Old Mr. Brown turned up his eyes in disgust at the impertinence of Nutkin. But he ate up the honey!
The squirrels filled their little sacks with nuts. But Nutkin sat upon a big flat rock, and played ninepins with a crab apple and green fir-cones.
On the sixth day, which was Saturday, the squirrels came again for the last time; they brought a new-laid EGG in a little rush basket as a last parting present for Old Brown. But Nutkin ran in front laughing, and shouting-“Humpty Dumpty lies in the beck, With a white counterpane round his neck, Forty doctors and forty wrights, Cannot put Humpty Dumpty to rights!”
Now old Mr. Brown took an interest in eggs; he opened one eye and shut it again. But still he did not speak.
Nutkin became more and more impertinent-“Old Mr. B! Old Mr. B! Hickamore, Hackamore, on the King’s kitchen door; All the King’s horses, and all the King’s men, Couldn’t drive Hickamore, Hackamore, Off the King’s kitchen door!”Nutkin danced up and down like a SUNBEAM; but still Old Brown said nothing at all.
Nutkin began again-“Arthur O’Bower has broken his band, He comes roaring up the land! The King of Scots with all his power, Cannot turn Arthur of the Bower!”Nutkin made a whirring noise to sound like the WIND, and he took a running jump right onto the head of Old Brown! . . .Then all at once there was a flutterment and a scufflement and a loud “Squeak!” The other squirrels scuttered away into the bushes.
When they came back very cautiously, peeping round the tree-there was Old Brown sitting on his door-step, quite still, with his eyes closed, as if nothing had happened. But Nutkin was in his waistcoat pocket.
This looks like the end of the story; but it isn’t.
Old Brown carried Nutkin into his house, and held him up by the tail, intending to skin him; but Nutkin pulled so very hard that his tail broke in two, and he dashed up the staircase, and escaped out of the attic window.
And to this day, if you meet Nutkin up a tree and ask him a riddle, he will throw sticks at you, and stamp his feet and scold, and shout-“Cuck-cuck-cuck-cur-r-r-cuck-k!”
The Tailor of Gloucester
The Tailer of Gloucester
In the time of swords and periwigs and full-skirted coats with flowered lappets-when gentlemen wore ruffles, and gold-laced waistcoats of paduasoy and taffeta-there lived a tailor in Gloucester. He sat in the window of a little shop in Westgate Street, cross-legged on a table, from morning till dark. All day long while the light lasted he sewed and snippeted, piecing out his satin and pompadour, and lutestring; stuffs had strange names, and were very expensive in the days of the Tailor of Gloucester. But although he sewed fine silk for his neighbors, he himself was very, very poor-a little old man in spectacles, with a pinched face, old crooked fingers, and a suit of thread-bare clothes.
He cut his coats without waste, according to his embroidered cloth; they were very small ends and snippets that lay about upon the table-“Too narrow breadths for naught-except waistcoats for mice,” said the tailor. One bitter cold day near Christmastime the tailor began to make a coat-a coat of cherry-colored corded silk embroidered with pansies and roses, and a cream colored satin waistcoat-trimmed with gauze and green worsted chenille-for the Mayor of Gloucester. The tailor worked and worked, and he talked to himself. He measured the silk, and turned it round and round, and trimmed it into shape with his shears; the table was all littered with cherry-colored snippets. “No breadth at all, and cut on the cross; it is no breadth at all; tippets for mice and ribbons for mobs! for mice!” said the Tailor of Gloucester.
When the snowflakes came down against the small leaded window-panes and shut out the light, the tailor had done his day’s work; all the silk and satin lay cut out upon the table. There were twelve pieces for the coat and four pieces for the waistcoat; and there were pocket flaps and cuffs, and buttons all in order. For the lining of the coat there was fine yellow taffeta; and for the button-holes of the waistcoat, there was cherry-colored twist. And everything was ready to sew together in the morning, all measured and sufficient-except that there was wanting just one single skein of cherry-colored twisted silk.
The tailor came out of his shop at dark, for he did not sleep there at nights; he fastened the window and locked the door, and took away the key. No one lived there at night but little brown mice, and they run in and out without any keys! For behind the wooden wainscots of all the old houses in Gloucester, there are little mouse staircases and secret trap-doors; and the mice run from house to house through those long narrow passages; they can run all over the town without going into the streets.
But the tailor came out of his shop, and shuffled home through the snow. He lived quite nearby in College Court, next the doorway to College Green; and although it was not a big house, the tailor was so poor he only rented the kitchen. He lived alone with his cat; it was called Simpkin.
Now all day long while the tailor was out at work, Simpkin kept house by himself; and he also was fond of the mice, though he gave them no satin for coats! “Miaw?” said the cat when the tailor opened the door. “Miaw?” The tailor replied-“Simpkin, we shall make our fortune, but I am worn to a raveling. Take this groat (which is our last fourpence) and Simpkin, take a china pipkin; buy a penn’orth of bread, a penn’orth of milk and a penn’orth of sausages. And oh, Simpkin, with the last penny of our fourpence buy me one penn’orth of cherry-colored silk. But do not lose the last penny of the fourpence, Simpkin, or I am undone and worn to a thread-paper, for I have NO MORE TWIST.”
Then Simpkin again said, “Miaw?” and took the groat and the pipkin, and went out into the dark. The tailor was very tired and beginning to be ill. He sat down by the hearth and talked to himself about that wonderful coat. “I shall make my fortune-to be cut bias-the Mayor of Gloucester is to be married on Christmas Day in the morning, and he hath ordered a coat and an embroidered waistcoat-to be lined with yellow taffeta-and the taffeta sufficeth; there is no more left over in snippets than will serve to make tippets for mice–” Then the tailor started; for suddenly, interrupting him, from the dresser at the other side of the kitchen came a number of little noises-Tip tap, tip tap, tip tap tip! “Now what can that be?” said the Tailor of Gloucester, jumping up from his chair. The dresser was covered with crockery and pipkins, willow pattern plates, and tea-cups and mugs.
The tailor crossed the kitchen, and stood quite still beside the dresser, listening, and peering through his spectacles. Again from under a tea-cup, came those funny little noises-Tip tap, tip tap, Tip tap tip! “This is very peculiar,” said the Tailor of Gloucester; and he lifted up the tea-cup which was upside down.
Out stepped a little live lady mouse, and made a curtsey to the tailor! Then she hopped away down off the dresser, and under the wainscot. The tailor sat down again by the fire, warming his poor cold hands, and mumbling to himself–“The waistcoat is cut out from peach-colored satin-tambour stitch and rose-buds in beautiful floss silk. Was I wise to entrust my last fourpence to Simpkin? One-and-twenty button-holes of cherry-colored twist!” But all at once, from the dresser, there came other little noises: Tip tap, tip tap, tip tap tip! “This is passing extraordinary!” said the Tailor of Gloucester, and turned over another tea-cup, which was upside down.
Out stepped a little gentleman mouse, and made a bow to the tailor! And then from all over the dresser came a chorus of little tappings, all sounding together, and answering one another, like watch-beetles in an old worm-eaten window-shutter- Tip tap, tip tap, tip tap tip! And out from under tea-cups and from under bowls and basins, stepped other and more little mice who hopped away down off the dresser and under the wainscot.
The tailor sat down, close over the fire, lamenting-“One-and-twenty button-holes of cherry-colored silk! To be finished by noon of Saturday: and this is Tuesday evening. Was it right to let loose those mice, undoubtedly the property of Simpkin? Alack, I am undone, for I have no more twist!” The little mice came out again, and listened to the tailor; they took notice of the pattern of that wonderful coat. They listening to one another about the taffeta lining, and about little mouse tippets. And then all at once they all ran away together down the passage behind the wainscot, squeaking and calling to one another, as they ran from house to house; and not one mouse was left in the tailor’s kitchen when Simpkin came back with the pipkin of milk!
Simpkin opened the door and bounced in, with an angry “G-r-r-miaw!” like a cat that is vexed: for he hated the snow, and there was snow in his ears, and snow in his collar at the back of his neck. He put down the loaf and the sausages upon the dresser, and sniffed. “Simpkin,” said the tailor, “where is my twist?” But Simpkin set down the pipkin of milk upon the dresser, and looked suspiciously at the tea-cups. He wanted his supper of little fat mouse! “Simpkin,” said the tailor, “where is my TWIST?”
But Simpkin hid a little parcel privately in the teapot, and spit and growled at the tailor; and if Simpkin had been able to talk, he would have asked: “Where is my MOUSE?” “Alack, I am undone!” said the Tailor of Gloucester, and went sadly to bed. All that night long Simpkin hunted and searched through the kitchen, peeping into cupboards and under the wainscot, and into the tea-pot where he had hidden that twist; but still he found never a mouse! Whenever the tailor muttered and talked in his sleep, Simpkin said “Miaw-ger-r-w-s-s-ch!” and made strange horrid noises, as cats do at night. For the poor old tailor was very ill with a fever, tossing and turning in his four-post bed; and still in his dreams he mumbled-“No more twist! no more twist!” All that day he was ill, and the next day, and the next; and what should become of the cherry-colored coat? In the tailor’s shop in Westgate Street the embroidered silk and satin lay cut out upon the table-one-and-twenty button-holes-and who should come to sew them, when the window was barred, and the door was locked?
But that does not hinder the little brown mice; they run in and out without any keys through all the old houses in Gloucester!
Out of doors the market folks went trudging through the snow to buy their geese and turkeys, and to bake their Christmas pies; but there would be no Christmas dinner for Simpkin and the poor old Tailor of Gloucester. The tailor lay ill for three days and nights; and then it was Christmas Eve, and very late at night. The moon climbed up over the roofs and chimneys, and looked down over the gateway into College Court. There were no lights in the windows, nor any sound in the houses; all the streets of Gloucester was fast asleep under the snow. And still Simpkin wanted his mice, and he mewed as he stood beside the four-post bed.
But it is in the old story that all the beasts can talk, in the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning (though there are very few folk that can hear them, or know what it is that they say). When the Cathedral clock struck twelve there was an answer-like an echo of the chimes-and Simpkin heard it, and came out of the tailor’s door, and wandered about in the snow. From all the roofs and gables and old wooden houses in Gloucester came a thousand merry voices singing the old Christmas rhymes-all the old songs that ever I heard of, and some that I don’t know, like Whittington’s bells.
First and loudest the cocks cried out: “Dame, get up, and bake your pies!” “Oh, dilly, dilly, dilly!” sighed Simpkin. And now in a garret there were lights and sounds of dancing, and cats came from over the way. “Hey, diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle! All the cats in Gloucester-except me,” said Simpkin. Under the wooden eaves the starlings and sparrows sang of Christmas pies; the jack-daws woke up in the Cathedral tower; and although it was the middle of the night the throstles and robins sang; the air was quite full of little twittering tunes.
But it was all rather provoking to poor hungry Simpkin! Particularly he was vexed with some little shrill voices from behind a wooden lattice. I think that they were bats, because they always have very small voices-especially in a black frost, when they talk in their sleep, like the Tailor of Gloucester. They said something mysterious that sounded like-“Buz, quoth the blue fly, hum, quoth the bee,Buz and hum they cry, and so do we!”and Simpkin went away shaking his ears as if he had a bee in his bonnet.
From the tailor’s shop in Westgate came a glow of light; and when Simpkin crept up to peep in at the window it was full of candles. There was a snippeting of scissors, and snappeting of thread; and little mouse voices sang loudly and gaily-“Four-and-twenty tailors, went to catch a snail,The best man amongst them, durst not touch her tail,She put out her horns, like a little kyloe cow,Run, tailors, run! or she’ll have you all e’en now!”Then without a pause the little mouse voices went on again:”Sieve my lady’s oatmeal, grind my lady’s flour,Put it in a chestnut, let it stand an hour-“
“Mew! Mew!” interrupted Simpkin, and he scratched at the door. But the key was under the tailor’s pillow, he could not get in.The little mice only laughed, and tried another tune-“Three little mice sat down to spin, pussy passed by and she peeped in.What are you at, my fine little men? Making coats for gentlemen.Shall I come in and cut off yours threads? Oh, no, Miss Pussy, you’d bite off our heads!””Mew! Mew!” cried Simpkin.”Hey diddle dinketty?” answered the little mice-“Hey diddle dinketty, poppetty pet! The merchants of London they wear scarlet;Silk in the collar, and gold in the hem, so merrily march the merchantmen!”
They clicked their thimbles to mark the time, but none of the songs pleased Simpkin; he sniffed and mewed at the door of the shop.”And then I bought, a pipkin and a popkin, a slipkin and a slopkin,All for one farthing–and upon the kitchen dresser!” added the rude little mice.”Mew! scratch! scratch!” scuffled Simpkin on the window-sill; while the little mice inside sprang to their feet, and all began to shout at once in little twittering voices: “No more twist! No more twist!” And they barred up the window shutters and shut out Simpkin.But still through the nicks in the shutters he could hear the click of thimbles, and little mouse voices singing-“No more twist! No more twist!”
Simpkin came away from the shop and went home, considering in his mind. He found the poor old tailor without fever, sleeping peacefully.Then Simpkin went on tip-toe and took a little parcel of silk out of the teapot, and looked at it in the moonlight; and he felt quite ashamed of his badness compared with those good little mice!When the tailor awoke in the morning, the first thing which he saw upon the patchwork quilt, was a skein of cherry-colored twisted silk, and beside his bed stood the repentant Simpkin!When the tailor awoke in the morning, the first thing which he saw, upon the patchwork quilt, was a skein of cherry-colored twisted silk, and beside his bed stood the repentant Simpkin!
“Alack, I am worn to a raveling,” said the Tailor of Gloucester, “but I have my twist!” The sun was shining on the snow when the tailor got up and dressed, and came out into the street with Simpkin running before him. The starlings whistled on the chimney stacks, and the throstles and robins sang-but they sang their own little noises, not the words they had sung in the night.”Alack,” said the tailor, “I have my twist; but no more strength-nor time-than will serve to make me one single button-hole; for this is Christmas Day in the Morning! The Mayor of Gloucester shall be married by noon-and where is his cherry-colored coat?” He unlocked the door of the little shop in Westgate Street, and Simpkin ran in, like a cat that expects something. But there was no one there! Not even one little brown mouse! The boards were swept clean; the little ends of thread and the little silk snippets were all tidied away, and gone from off the floor.
But upon the table-oh joy! the tailor gave a shout-there, where he had left plain cuttings of silk-there lay the most beautifullest coat and embroidered satin waistcoat that ever were worn by a Mayor of Gloucester.
There were roses and pansies upon the facings of the coat; and the waistcoat was worked with poppies and corn-flowers. Everything was finished except just one single cherry-colored button-hole, and where that button-hole was wanting there was pinned a scrap of paper with these words-in little teeny-weeny writing-NO MORE TWISTAnd from then began the luck of the Tailor of Gloucester; he grew quite stout, and he grew quite rich.
He made the most wonderful waistcoats for all the merchants of Gloucester, and for all the fine gentlemen of the country round. Never were seen such ruffles, or such embroidered cuffs and lappets! But his button-holes were the greatest triumph of it all. The stitches of those button-holes were so neat-so neat-I wonder how they could be stitched by an old man in spectacles, with crooked old fingers, and a tailor’s thimble. The stitches of those button-holes were so small-so small-they looked as if they had been made by little mice!
The Tale of Peter Rabbit
Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were-Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter. They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a very big fir tree.
“Now, my dears,” said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, “you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor. Now run along, and don’t get into mischief. I am going out.”
Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella, and went through the wood to the baker’s. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns.
Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries;
But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor’s garden, and squeezed under the gate! First he ate some lettuces and some French beans; and then he ate some radishes; And then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.
But round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr. McGregor!
Mr. McGregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving a rake and calling out, “Stop thief.”
Peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate. He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.
After losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that I think he might have got away altogether if he had not unfortunately run into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his jacket.
It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new. Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself.
Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the top of Peter; but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind him.
And rushed into the toolshed, and jumped into a can. It would have been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not had so much water in it.
Mr. McGregor was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the toolshed, perhaps hidden underneath a flowerpot. He began to turn them over carefully, looking under each.
Presently Peter sneezed- “Kertyschoo!” Mr. McGregor was after him in no time, and tried to put his foot upon Peter, who jumped out of a window, upsetting three plants. The window was too small for Mr. McGregor, and he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to his work.
Peter sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with fright, and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also he was very damp with sitting in that can. After a time he began to wander about, going lippity-lippity-not very fast, and looking all around. He found a door in a wall; but it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath.
An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying peas and beans to her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to the gate, but she had such a large pea in her mouth that she could not answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry.
Then he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor filled his water cans. A white cat was staring at some goldfish; she sat very, very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive. Peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her; he has heard about cats from his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny.
He went back towards the toolshed, but suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of a hoe- scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch. Peter scuttered underneath the bushes. But presently, as nothing happened, he came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow, and peeped over. The first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor hoeing onions. His back was turned towards Peter, and beyond him was the gate!
Peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black-currant bushes.
Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care. He slipped underneath the gate, and was safe at last in the wood outside the garden. Mr. McGregor hung up the little jacket and the shoes for a scarecrow to frighten the blackbirds.
Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir tree. He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit-hole, and shut his eyes. His mother was busy cooking; she wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the second little jacket and pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a fortnight!
I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening. His mother put him to bed, and made some chamomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter! “One tablespoonful to be taken at bedtime.”
But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper.
Click here for vocabulary words.
The new McGuffey fourth reader: An Adventure with Wolves
AN ADVENTURE WITH WOLVES
Some forty years ago I passed the winter in the wilderness of northern Maine. I was passionately fond of skating, and the numerous lakes and rivers, frozen by the intense cold, offered an ample field to the lover of this pastime.
Sometimes my skating excursions were made by moonlight; and it was on such an occasion that I met with an adventure which even now I cannot recall without a thrill of horror.
I had left our cabin one evening just before dusk, with the intention of skating a short distance up the Kennebec, which glided directly before the door. The night was beautifully clear with the light of the full moon and millions of stars. Light also came glinting from ice and snow-wreath and incrusted branches, as the eye followed for miles the broad gleam of the river, that like a jeweled zone swept between the mighty forests that bordered its banks.
And yet all was still. The cold seemed to have frozen tree, air, water, and every living thing. Even the ringing of my skates echoed back from the hill with a startling clearness; and the crackle of the ice, as I passed over it in my course, seemed to follow the tide of the river with lightning speed.
I had gone up the river nearly two miles, when, coming to a little stream which flows into the larger, I turned into it to explore its course. Fir and hemlock of a century’s growth met overhead, and formed an archway radiant with frost-work. All was dark within; but I was young and fearless, and I laughed and shouted with excitement and joy.
My wild hurrah rang through the silent woods, and I stood listening to the echoes until all was hushed. Suddenly a sound arose,—it seemed to come from beneath the ice. It was low and tremulous at first, but it ended in one long wild howl.
I was appalled. Never before had such a sound met my ears. Presently I heard the brushwood on shore crash as though from the tread of some animal. The blood rushed to my forehead; my energies returned, and I looked around me for some means of escape.
The moon shone through the opening at the mouth of the creek by which I had entered the forest; and, considering this the best way of escape, I darted toward it like an arrow. It was hardly a hundred yards distant, and the swallow could scarcely have excelled me in flight; yet, as I turned my eyes to the shore, I could see several dark objects dashing through the brushwood at a pace nearly double in speed to my own. By their great speed, and the short yells which they occasionally gave, I knew at once that these were the much-dreaded gray wolves.
The bushes that skirted the shore now seemed to rush past with the velocity of lightning, as I dashed on in my flight to pass the narrow opening. The outlet was nearly gained; a few seconds more, and I would be comparatively safe. But in a moment my pursuers appeared on the bank above me, which here rose to the height of ten or twelve feet. There was no time for thought; I bent my head, and dashed wildly forward. The wolves sprang, but, miscalculating my speed, they fell behind, as I glided out upon the river!
I turned toward home. The light flakes of snow spun from the iron of my skates, and I was some distance from my pursuers, when their fierce howl told me they were still in hot pursuit. I did not look back; I did not feel afraid, or sorry, or glad; one thought of home, of the bright faces awaiting my return, and of their tears if they never should see me,—and then all the energies of body and mind were exerted for escape.
I was perfectly at home on the ice. Many were the days that I had spent on my good skates, never thinking that they would one day prove my only means of safety.
Every half-minute a furious yelp from my fierce attendants made me but too certain that they were in close pursuit. Nearer and nearer they came. At last I heard their feet pattering on the ice; I even felt their very breath, and heard their snuffing scent! Every nerve and muscle in my frame was strained to the utmost.
The trees along the shore seemed to dance in an uncertain light, my brain turned with my own breathless speed, my pursuers hissed forth their breath with a sound truly horrible, when all at once an involuntary motion on my part turned me out of my course.
The wolves close behind, unable to stop, and as unable to turn on smooth ice, slipped and fell, still going on far ahead. Their tongues were lolling out, their white tusks were gleaming from their bloody mouths, their dark shaggy breasts were flecked with foam; and as they passed me their eyes glared, and they howled with fury.
The thought flashed on my mind that by turning aside whenever they came too near I might avoid them; for, owing to the formation of their feet, they are unable to run on ice except in a straight line. I immediately acted upon this plan, but the wolves having regained their feet sprang directly toward me.
The race was renewed for twenty yards up the stream; they were almost close at my back, when I glided round and dashed directly past them. A fierce yell greeted this movement, and the wolves, slipping on their haunches, again slid onward, presenting a perfect picture of helplessness and disappointed rage. Thus I gained nearly a hundred yards at each turning. This was repeated two or three times, the baffled animals becoming every moment more and more excited.
At one time, by delaying my turning too long, my bloodthirsty antagonists came so near that they threw their white foam over my coat as they sprang to seize me, and their teeth clashed together like the spring of a fox-trap. Had my skates failed for one instant, had I tripped on a stick, or had my foot been caught in a fissure, the story I am now telling would never have been told.
I thought over all the chances. I knew where they would first seize me if I fell. I thought how long it would be before I died, and then of the search for my body: for oh, how fast man’s mind traces out all the dread colors of death’s picture only those who have been near the grim original can tell!
At last I came opposite the cabin, and my hounds—I knew their deep voices—roused by the noise, bayed furiously from their kennels. I heard their chains rattle—how I wished they would break them!—then I should have had protectors to match the fiercest dwellers of the forest. The wolves, taking the hint conveyed by the dogs, stopped in their mad career, and after a few moments turned and fled.
I watched them until their forms disappeared over a neighboring hill; then, taking off my skates, I wended my way to the cabin with feelings which may be better imagined than described. But even yet I never see a broad sheet of ice by moonlight without thinking of that snuffing breath, and those ferocious beasts that followed me so closely down that frozen river.
DEFINITIONS:
- Glinting: glancing, glittering.
- Zone: belt.
- Velocity: swiftness.
- Fissure: crack.
The Tale of Solomon Owl Chapter XXII IT WAS SOLOMON’S FAULT
Chapter XXII IT WAS SOLOMON’S FAULT
Reddy Woodpecker had a very good reason for not laughing when he met Solomon Owl. Of course, he knew nothing whatever of Solomon’s new hiding place in the haystack. And that very morning Reddy had invited a party of friends to go with him to the hemlock grove where Solomon Owl had always lived, “to have some fun,” as Reddy had explained.
For a long time he had knocked and hammered and pounded at Solomon Owl’s door. But for once Solomon’s great pale face did not appear.
“Where’s the fun?” Reddy’s friends had wanted to know, after they had waited until they were impatient.
And Reddy Woodpecker could only shake his head and say:
“I can’t understand it! It’s never happened like this before. I’m afraid Solomon Owl has lost his hearing.”
Reddy Woodpecker’s friends were no more polite than he. And they began to jeer at him.
“You didn’t hammer loud enough,” one of them told him.
So he set to work again and rapped and rapped until his head felt as if it would fly off, and his neck began to ache.
Still, Solomon Owl did not appear. And the party broke up in something very like a quarrel. For Reddy Woodpecker lost his temper when his friends teased him; and a good many unpleasant remarks passed back and forth.
Somehow, Reddy felt that it was all Solomon Owl’s fault, because he hadn’t come to the door.
Of course, Reddy had no means of knowing that all that time Solomon Owl was sleeping peacefully in Farmer Green’s haystack in the meadow, a quarter of a mile away.
It was a good joke on Reddy Woodpecker. And though no one had told Solomon Owl about it, he was not so stupid that he couldn’t guess at least a little that had happened.
Solomon Owl continued to have a very pleasant time living in the meadow. Since there were many mice right close at hand, little by little he visited the woods less and less. And there came a time at last when he hardly left the meadow at all.
Not flying any more than he could help, and eating too much, and sleeping very soundly each day, he grew stouter than ever, until his friends hardly knew him when they saw him.
“Solomon Owl is a sight–he’s so fat!” people began to say.
But his size never worried Solomon Owl in the least. When he became too big for his doorway in the haystack, it was a simple matter to make the opening larger–much simpler than it would have been to make himself smaller. And that was another reason why he was delighted with his new home.
At last, however, something happened to put an end to his lazy way of living. One day the sound of men’s voices awakened him, when he was having a good nap in the haystack. And he felt his bedroom quiver as if an earthquake had shaken it.
Scrambling to his doorway and peeping slyly out, Solomon saw a sight that made him very angry. A hayrack stood alongside the stack; and on it stood Farmer Green and his hired man. Each had a pitchfork in his hands, with which he tore great forkfuls of hay off the stack and piled it upon the wagon.
Solomon Owl knew then that his fine hiding place was going to be spoiled. As soon as the horses had pulled the load of hay away, with Farmer Green and the hired man riding on top of it, Solomon Owl crept out of his snug bedroom and hurried off to the woods.
He was so fat that it was several days before he could squeeze inside his old home in the hollow hemlock. And for the time being he had to sit on a limb and sleep in the daylight as best he could.
But to his surprise, Reddy Woodpecker troubled him no more. Reddy had drummed so hard on Solomon’s door, in the effort to awake him when he wasn’t there, that Aunt Polly Woodchuck told him he would ruin his bill, if he didn’t look out. And since the warning thoroughly alarmed him, Reddy stopped visiting the hemlock grove.
In time Solomon Owl grew to look like himself again. And people never really knew just what had happened to him. But they noticed that he always hooted angrily whenever anybody mentioned Farmer Green’s name.
THE END
The Tale of Solomon Owl Chapter XXI AT HOME IN THE HAYSTACK
Chapter XXI AT HOME IN THE HAYSTACK
After what happened when he came to his door without remembering to take off his red nightcap, Solomon Owl hoped that Reddy Woodpecker would stop teasing him.
But it was not so. Having once viewed Solomon’s red cap, Reddy Woodpecker wanted to see it some more. So he came again and again and knocked on Solomon’s door.
Solomon Owl, however, remembered each time to remove his nightcap before sticking his head out. And it might be said that neither of them was exactly pleased. For Reddy Woodpecker was disappointed; and Solomon Owl was angry.
Not a day passed that Reddy Woodpecker didn’t disturb Solomon’s rest at least a dozen times. Perhaps if Solomon had just kept still inside his house Reddy would have grown tired of bothering him. But Solomon Owl—for all he looked so wise–never thought of that.
But he saw before a great while that he would have to make a change of some sort–if he wanted to enjoy a good, quiet sleep again.
For a long time Solomon Owl pondered. It was a great puzzle–to know just how to outwit Reddy Woodpecker. And Solomon almost despaired of finding a way out of the difficulty. But at last an idea came to him, all in a flash. He would take his daytime naps somewhere else!
Solomon spent several nights looking for a good place to pass his days. And in the end he decided on the meadow. It would be convenient, he thought, when he was hunting meadow mice at dawn, if he could stay right there, without bothering to go into the woods to sleep.
Since there were no trees in the meadow, but only a few scrubby bushes along the stone wall, one might naturally make the mistake of thinking that there could not possibly be a nook of any kind that would suit Solomon Owl, who could never sleep soundly unless his bedroom was quite dark.
But there was one hiding place that Solomon liked almost as well as his home in the hollow hemlock. And that was Farmer Green’s haystack. He burrowed into one side of it and made himself a snug chamber, which was as dark as a pocket–and ever so much quieter. What pleased Solomon most, however, was this: Nobody knew about that new retreat except himself.
Even if Reddy Woodpecker should succeed in finding it, he never could disturb Solomon by drumming upon the haystack. If Reddy tried that trick, his bill would merely sink noiselessly into the hay.
So Solomon Owl at last had a good day’s rest. And when he met Reddy Woodpecker just after sunset, Solomon was feeling so cheerful that he said “Good-evening!” quite pleasantly, before he remembered that it was Reddy who had teased him so often.
“Good-evening!” Reddy Woodpecker replied. He seemed much surprised that Solomon Owl should be so agreeable. “Can you hear me?” Reddy asked him.
“Perfectly!” said Solomon.
“That’s strange!” Reddy Woodpecker exclaimed. “I was almost sure you had suddenly grown deaf.” And he could not understand why Solomon Owl laughed loud and long.
“Wha-wha! Whoo-ah!” Solomon’s deep-voiced laughter rolled and echoed through the woodland.
But Reddy Woodpecker did not laugh at all.
The Tale of Solomon Owl Chapter XX A PAIR OF RED-HEADS
Chapter XX A PAIR OF RED-HEADS
In the woods there was hardly one of Solomon Owl’s neighbors that couldn’t point out the big hemlock tree where he lived. And mischievous fellows like Reddy Woodpecker sometimes annoyed Solomon a good deal by rapping loudly on his door. When he thrust his head angrily out of his house and blinked in the sunlight, his tormentors would skip away and laugh. They laughed because they knew that they had awakened Solomon Owl. And they dodged out of his reach because he was always ill-tempered when anybody disturbed his rest in the daytime.
Solomon Owl did not mind so very much so long as that trick was not played on him too often. But after a time it became one of Reddy Woodpecker’s favorite sports. Not only once, but several times a day did he go to the hemlock grove to hammer upon Solomon’s hollow tree. And each time that he brought Solomon Owl to his door Reddy Woodpecker laughed more loudly than ever before.
Once Solomon forgot to take off his nightcap (though he wore it in the daytime, it really was a nightcap). And Reddy Woodpecker was so amused that he shouted at the top of his lungs.
“What’s the joke?” asked Solomon Owl in his deep, rumbling voice. He tried to look very severe. But it is hard to look any way except funny with a nightcap on one’s head.
As luck had it, Jasper Jay came hurrying up just then. He had heard Reddy Woodpecker’s laughter. And if there was a joke he wanted to enjoy it, too.
Jasper Jay, alighting in a small hemlock near Reddy Woodpecker, asked the same question that Solomon Owl had just put to his rude caller.
“What’s the joke?” inquired Jasper Jay.
Reddy could not speak. He was rocking back and forth upon a limb, choking and gasping for breath. But he managed to point to the big tree where Solomon Owl lived.
And when Jasper looked, and saw Solomon’s great, round, pale, questioning face, all tied up in a red nightcap, he began to scream.
They were no ordinary screams–those shrieks of Jasper Jay’s. That blue-coated rascal was the noisiest of all the feathered folk in Pleasant Valley. And now he fairly made the woods echo with his hoarse cries.
“This is the funniest sight I’ve ever seen!” Jasper Jay said at last, to nobody in particular. “I declare, there’s a pair of them!”
At that, Reddy Woodpecker suddenly stopped laughing.
“A pair of what?” he asked.
“A pair of red-heads, of course!” Jasper Jay replied. “You’ve a red cap–and so has he!” Jasper pointed at Solomon Owl (a very rude thing to do!).
Then two things happened all at once. Solomon Owl snatched off his red night-cap–which he had quite forgotten. And Reddy Woodpecker dashed at Jasper Jay. He couldn’t pull off his red cap, for it grew right on his head.
“So that’s what you’re laughing at, is it?” he cried angrily. And then nobody laughed any more–that is, nobody but Solomon Owl.
Solomon was so pleased by the fight that followed between Jasper Jay and Reddy Woodpecker that his deep, rumbling laughter could be heard for half an hour–even if it was midday. “Wha-wha! Whoo-ah!” The sound reached the ears of Farmer Green, who was just crossing a neighboring field, on his way home to dinner.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “I wonder what’s happened to that old owl! Something must have tickled him–for I never heard an owl laugh in broad daylight before.”
The Tale of Solomon Owl Chapter XIX THE SLEET STORM
Chapter XIX THE SLEET STORM
It was winter. And for several days a strong south wind had swept up Pleasant Valley. That–as Solomon Owl knew very well–that meant a thaw was coming. He was not sorry, because the weather had been bitterly cold.
Well, the thaw came. And the weather grew so warm that Solomon Owl could stay out all night without once feeling chilled. He found the change so agreeable that he strayed further from home than was his custom. Indeed, he was far away on the other side of Blue Mountain at midnight, when it began to rain.
Now, that was not quite so pleasant. But still Solomon did not mind greatly. It was not until later that he began to feel alarmed, when he noticed that flying did not seem so easy as usual.
Solomon had grown heavy all at once–and goodness knows it was not because he had overeaten, for food was scarce at that season of the year. Moreover, Solomon’s wings were strangely stiff. When he moved them they crackled.
“It must be my joints,” he said to himself. “I’m afraid this wetting has given me rheumatism.” So he started home at once–though it was only midnight. But the further he went, the worse he felt–and the harder it was to fly.
“I’ll have to rest a while,” he said to himself at last. So he alighted on a limb; for he was more tired than he had ever been in all his life.
But he soon felt so much better that he was ready to start on again. And then, to his dismay, Solomon Owl found that he could hardly stir. The moment he left his perch he floundered down upon the ground. And though he tried his hardest, he couldn’t reach the tree again.
The rain was still beating down steadily. And Solomon began to think it a bad night to be out. What was worse, the weather was fast turning cold.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to stay in bed a week after this,” he groaned. “If I sit here long, as wet as I am, while the thaw turns into a freeze, I shall certainly be ill.”
Now, if it hadn’t been for the rain, Solomon Owl would have had no trouble at all. Or if it hadn’t been for the freezing cold he would have been in no difficulty. Though he didn’t know it, his trouble was simply this: The rain froze upon him as fast as it fell, covering him with a coating of ice. It was no wonder that he felt strangely heavy–no wonder that he couldn’t fly.
There he crouched on the ground, while the rain and sleet beat upon him. And the only comforting thought that entered his head was that on so stormy a night Tommy Fox and Fatty Coon would be snug and warm in their beds. They wouldn’t go out in such weather.
And Solomon Owl wished that he, too, had stayed at home that night.
From midnight until almost dawn Solomon Owl sat there. Now and then he tried to fly. But it was no use. He could scarcely raise himself off the ground.
At last he decided he would have to walk home. Fortunately, a hard crust covered the soft snow. So Solomon started off on his long journey.
Flying, Solomon could have covered the distance in a few minutes. But he was a slow walker. By the time he reached his home among the hemlocks the sun was shining brightly–for the rain had stopped before daybreak.
Solomon wondered how he would ever succeed in reaching his doorway, high up in the hollow tree. He gazed helplessly upward. And as he sat there mournfully the bright sunshine melted the ice that bound his wings. After a time he discovered that he could move freely once more. And then he rose quickly in the air and in a twinkling he had disappeared into the darkness of his home–that darkness which to him was always so pleasant.
Swiss Family Robinson Chapter 3
Chapter 3
At break of day I was waked by the crowing of the cock. I summoned my wife to council, to consider on the business of the day. We agreed that our first duty was to seek for our shipmates, and to examine the country beyond the river before we came to any decisive resolution.
My wife saw we could not all go on this expedition, and courageously agreed to remain with her three youngest sons, while Fritz, as the eldest and boldest, should accompany me. I begged her to prepare breakfast immediately, which she warned me would be scanty, as no soup was provided.
We began our preparation; we each took a game-bag and a hatchet. I gave Fritz a pair of pistols in addition to his gun, equipped myself in the same way, and took care to carry biscuit and a flask of fresh water. The lobster proved so hard at breakfast, that the boys did not object to our carrying off the remainder; and, though the flesh is coarse, it is very nutritious.
I proposed before we departed, to have prayers, and my thoughtless Jack began to imitate the sound of church-bells “Ding, dong! to prayers! to prayers! ding, dong!” I was really angry, and reproved him severely for jesting about sacred things. Then, kneeling down, I prayed God’s blessing on our undertaking, and his pardon for us all, especially for him who had now so grievously sinned. Poor Jack came and kneeled by me, weeping and begging for forgiveness from me and from God. I embraced him, and enjoined him and his brothers to obey their mother. I then loaded the guns I left with them, and charged my wife to keep near the boat, their best refuge. We took leave of our friends with many tears, as we did not know what dangers might assail us in an unknown region. But the murmur of the river, which we were now approaching, drowned the sound of their sobs, and we bent our thoughts on our journey.
The bank of the river was so steep, that we could only reach the bed at one little opening, near the sea, where we had procured our water; but here the opposite side was guarded by a ridge of lofty perpendicular rocks. We were obliged to ascend the river to a place where it fell over some rocks, some fragments of which having fallen, made a sort of stepping-stones, which enabled us to cross with some hazard. We made our way, with difficulty, through the high grass, withered by the sun, directing our course towards the sea, in hopes of discovering some traces of the boats, or the crew. We had scarcely gone a hundred yards, when we heard a loud noise and rustling in the grass, which was as tall as we were. We imagined we were pursued by some wild beast, and I was gratified to observe the courage of Fritz, who, instead of running away, calmly turned round and presented his piece. What was our joy when we discovered that the formidable enemy was only our faithful Turk, whom we had forgotten in our distress, and our friends had doubtless dispatched him after us! I applauded my son’s presence of mind; a rash act might have deprived us of this valuable friend.
We proceeded, and entering a little wood that extended to the sea, we rested in the shade, near a clear stream, and took some refreshment. We were surrounded by unknown birds, more remarkable for brilliant plumage than for the charm of their voice. Fritz thought he saw some monkeys among the leaves, and Turk began to be restless, smelling about, and barking very loud. Fritz was gazing up into the trees,
“We rested in the shade, near a clear stream,
and took some refreshment.”
when he fell over a large round substance, which he brought to me, observing that it might be a bird’s nest. I thought it more likely to be a cocoa-nut. The fibrous covering had reminded him of the description he had read of the nests of certain birds; but, on breaking the shell, we found it was indeed a cocoa-nut, but quite decayed and uneatable.
Fritz was astonished; where was the sweet milk that Ernest had talked of?
I told him the milk was only in the half-ripe nuts; that it thickened and hardened as the nut ripened, becoming a kernel. This nut had perished from remaining above ground. If it had been in the earth, it would have vegetated, and burst the shell. I advised my son to try if he could not find a perfect nut.
After some search, we found one, and sat down to eat it, keeping our own provision for dinner. The nut was somewhat rancid; but we enjoyed it, and then continued our journey. We were some time before we got through the wood, being frequently obliged to clear a road for ourselves, through the entangled brushwood, with our hatchets. At last we entered the open plain again, and had a clear view before us. The forest still extended about a stone’s throw to our right, and Fritz, who was always on the look-out for discoveries, observed a remarkable tree, here and there, which he approached to examine; and he soon called me to see this wonderful tree, with wens growing on the trunk.
On coming up, I was overjoyed to find this tree, of which there were a great number, was the gourd-tree, which bears fruit on the trunk. Fritz asked if these were sponges. I told him to bring me one, and I would explain the mystery.
“There is one,” said he, “very like a pumpkin, only harder outside.”
“Of this shell,” said I, “we can make plates, dishes, basins, and flasks. We call it the gourd-tree.”
Fritz leaped for joy. “Now my dear mother will be able to serve her soup properly.” I asked him if he knew why the tree bore the fruit on its trunk, or on the thick branches only. He immediately replied, that the smaller branches would not bear the weight of the fruit. He asked me if this fruit was eatable. “Harmless, I believe,” said I; “but by no means delicate. Its great value to savage nations consists in the shell, which they use to contain their food, and drink, and even cook in it.” Fritz could not comprehend how they could cook in the shell without burning it. I told him the shell was not placed on the fire; but, being filled with cold water, and the fish or meat placed in it, red-hot stones are, by degrees, introduced into the water, till it attains sufficient heat to cook the food, without injuring the vessel.
We then set about making our dishes and plates. I showed Fritz a better plan of dividing the gourd than with a knife. I tied a string tightly round the nut, struck it with the handle of my knife till an incision was made, then tightened it till the nut was separated into two equally-sized bowls. Fritz had spoiled his gourd by cutting it irregularly with his knife. I advised him to try and make spoons of it, as it would not do for basins now. I told him I had learnt my plan from books of travels. It is the practice of the savages, who have no knives, to use a sort of string, made from the bark of trees, for this purpose. “But how can they make bottles,” said he. “That requires some preparation,” replied I. “They tie a bandage round the young gourd near the stalk, so that the part at liberty expands in a round form, and the compressed part remains narrow. They then open the top, and extract the contents by putting in pebbles and shaking it. By this means they have a complete bottle.”
We worked on. Fritz completed a dish and some plates, to his great satisfaction, but we considered, that being so frail, we could not carry them with us. We therefore filled them with sand, that the sun might not warp them, and left them to dry, till we returned.
As we went on, Fritz amused himself with cutting spoons from the rind of the gourd, and I tried to do the same with the fragments of the cocoa-nut; but I must confess my performances were inferior to those I had seen in the museum in London, the work of the South Sea islanders. We laughed at our spoons, which would have required mouths from ear to ear to eat with them. Fritz declared that the curve of the rind was the cause of that defect: if the spoons had been smaller, they would have been flat; and you might as well eat soup with an oyster-shell as with a shovel.
We proceeded towards a pleasant wood of palm-trees; but before reaching it, had to pass through an immense number of reeds, which greatly obstructed our road. We were, moreover, fearful of treading on the deadly serpents who choose such retreats. We made Turk walk before us to give notice, and I cut a long, thick cane as a weapon of defence. I was surprised to see a glutinous juice oozing from the end of the cut cane; I tasted it, and was convinced that we had met with a plantation of sugar-canes. I sucked more of it, and found myself singularly refreshed. I said nothing to Fritz, that he might have the pleasure of making the discovery himself. He was walking a few paces before me, and I called to him to cut himself a cane like mine, which he did, and soon found out the riches it contained. He cried out in ecstasy, “Oh, papa! papa! syrup of sugar-cane! delicious! How delighted will dear mamma, and my brothers be, when I carry some to them!” He went on, sucking pieces of cane so greedily, that I checked him, recommending moderation. He was then content to take some pieces to regale himself as he walked home, loading himself with a huge burden for his mother and brothers.
We now entered the wood of palms to eat our dinner, when suddenly a number of monkeys, alarmed by our approach, and the barking of the dog, fled like lightning to the tops of the trees; and then grinned frightfully at us, with loud cries of defiance. As I saw the trees were cocoa-palms, I hoped to obtain, by means of the monkeys, a supply of the nuts in the half-ripe state, when filled with milk. I held Fritz’s arm, who was preparing to shoot at them, to his great vexation, as he was irritated against the poor monkeys for their derisive gestures; but I told him, that though no patron of monkeys myself, I could not allow it. We had no right to kill any animal except in defence, or as a means of supporting life. Besides, the monkeys would be of more use to us living than dead, as I would show him. I began to throw stones at the monkeys, not being able, of course, to reach the place of their retreat, and they, in their anger, and in the spirit of imitation, gathered the nuts and hurled them on us in such quantities, that we had some difficulty in escaping from them. We had soon a large stock of cocoa-nuts. Fritz enjoyed the success of the stratagem, and, when the shower subsided, he collected as many as he wished.
We then got up, I tied some nuts together by their stems, and threw them over my shoulder. Fritz took his bundle of canes, and we set out homewards.
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