playing with it. About one thing he was very particular. If he had meat
of any kind and there was water near, he always washed it carefully
before eating. In fact Tommy was very neat. It was born in him.

Sometimes daylight caught him far from his hollow tree. Then he would
look for an old nest of a hawk or crow and curl up in it to sleep the
day away. If none was handy and he could find no hollow tree or stump,
he would climb a big tree and stretch himself flat along one of the
big limbs and there sleep until the Black Shadows came creeping through
the Green Forest.

Once in a while he would be discovered by the sharp eyes of Sammy Jay
or Blacky the Crow, and then life would be made miserable for him until
he would be glad to wake up and seek some hiding-place where they could
not see him. It was for this reason chiefly that he always tried to get
back to his own snug den by the time jolly, round, red Mr. Sun shook
his rosy blankets off and began his daily climb up in the blue, blue
sky.

[Illustration: ONCE IN A WHILE, HE WOULD BE DISCOVERED]

One night he met Bobby Coon himself.

“Where do you live?” asked Tommy.

“Over on the Mountain,” replied Bobby.

“In a hollow tree?” asked Tommy.

“No. Oh, my, no!” replied Bobby. “I’ve got the nicest den in a ledge of
rock. No more hollow trees for me.”

“Why not?” demanded Tommy.

“They aren’t safe,” retorted Bobby. “I used to live in a hollow tree,
but I’ve learned better. I guess you’ve never been hunted. When you’ve
been nearly choked to death by smoke in your hollow tree, or had it cut
down with you in it and barely escaped by the skin of your teeth, you
won’t think so much of hollow trees. Give me a good rocky den every
time.”

“But where does the smoke come from, and why should my hollow tree be
cut down?” asked Tommy, to whom this was all new and very strange.

“Hunters,” replied Bobby briefly. “You wait until the cool weather
comes and you’ll find out what I mean.”

“But who are the hunters and what do they hunt us for?” persisted Tommy.

“My, but you are innocent!” retorted Bobby. “They are those two-legged
creatures called men, and I don’t know what they hunt us for. They just
do, that’s all. They seem to think it’s fun. I wish one of them would
have to fight for _his_ life. Perhaps he wouldn’t see so much fun in it
then. It was last fall that they drove me out of my hollow tree, and
they pretty nearly got me, too. But they won’t do it this year! You
take my advice and get a den in the rocks. Then you can laugh at them.”

“But what will they hunt me for? I haven’t done them any harm,”
persisted Tommy.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” retorted Bobby. “They do it
for _fun_. Have you tried the corn yet? It’s perfectly delicious. Come
on and we’ll have a feast.”

Now of course Tommy was ready for a feast. The very thought of it put
everything else out of his head. He shuffled along behind Bobby Coon
through the Green Forest, across a little stretch of meadow, and under
the bars of a fence into a corn-field. For a minute he sat and watched
Bobby. It was Tommy’s first visit to a corn-field and he didn’t know
just what to do. But Bobby did. Oh, yes, Bobby did. He stood up on his
hind legs and pulled one of the more slender stalks down until he
could get at the lowest ear. Then he stripped off the husk and took a
huge bite of the tender milky kernels.

“_Um-m-m_,” said Bobby Coon, and took another.

Tommy waited no longer. He found a stalk for himself, and two minutes
later he was stuffing himself with the most delicious meal he ever
had tasted. At least he thought so then. He forgot all about dens and
hunters. He had no thought for anything but the feast before him. Here
was plenty and to spare.

He dropped the ear he was eating and climbed a big stalk to strip
another ear. The first one was good but this one was better. Perhaps a
third would be better still. So he sampled a third. The moon flooded
the corn-field with silvery light. It was just the kind of a night that
all raccoons love, and in that field of plenty Bobby and Tommy were
perfectly happy. They did not know that they were in mischief. How
should they? The corn was no more than other green things growing of
which they were free to help themselves. So they wandered about, taking
here a bite and there a bite and wasting many times as much as they ate.

Suddenly, in the midst of their good time, there sounded the yelp of a
dog, and there was something about it that sent a chill of fright along
Tommy’s backbone. It was an excited and joyous yelp and yet there was
something threatening in it. It was followed by another yelp, and then
another, each more excited than the others, and then it broke into a
full-throated roar in which there was something fierce and terrifying.
It was coming nearer through the corn. Tommy looked over to where
he had last seen Bobby Coon. He wasn’t there, but a rustling of the
corn-stalks beyond told him that Bobby was running, running for his
life.

Tommy was in a panic. He never had had to run for his life before.
Where should he go? To the Green Forest of course, where there were
trees to climb. In a tree he would be safe. Then he heard another
sound, the shout of a man. He remembered what Bobby Coon had said about
trees and a new fear took possession of him. While he still hesitated,
the dog passed, only a few yards away in the corn. Tommy heard the
rustle of the stalks and the roar of his savage voice. And then
suddenly he knew that the dog was not after him. He was following the
tracks of Bobby Coon.

Swiftly Tommy stole through the corn and ran across the bit of meadow,
his heart in his mouth, to the great black bulk of the Green Forest.
He ran swiftly, surprisingly so for such a clumsy-looking fellow. How
friendly the tall trees looked! They seemed to promise safety. It was
hard to believe that Bobby Coon was right and that they did not. He
kept on, nor stopped until he was in his own hollow tree. The voice
of the dog came to him, growing fainter and fainter in the direction
of the mountain, and finally ceased altogether. He wondered if Bobby
reached his den and was safe.

Of one thing Tommy was certain: that corn-field was no place for him.
So he kept away from it and tried not to think of how good that milky
corn had tasted. So the summer passed and the fall came with falling
leaves and sharp frosty nights. They gave Tommy even more of an
appetite, though there had been nothing the matter with that before. He
grew fatter and fatter so that it made him puff to run. Unknown to him,
Old Mother Nature was preparing him for the long winter sleep.

By this time the memory of the dog and of what Bobby Coon had said
about hollow trees had almost dropped from his mind. He was concerned
over nothing but filling his stomach and enjoying those frosty
moonlight nights. He interfered with no one and no one interfered with
him.

One night he had gone down to the Laughing Brook, fishing. Without
warning, there broke out on the still air the horrid sound of that
yelping dog. Tommy listened for just a minute. This time it was _his_
trail that dog was following. There could be no doubt about it. Tommy
turned and ran swiftly. But he was fat and heavy, and he could hear the
dog gaining rapidly. Straight for his hollow tree fled Tommy, and even
as he reached it the dog was almost at his heels. Up the tree scrambled
Tommy and, from the safe vantage of a big limb which was the threshold
of his home, he looked down. The dog was leaping up against the base
of the tree excitedly and his voice had changed. He was barking. A
feeling of relief swept over Tommy. The dog could not climb; he was
safe.

But presently there were new sounds in the Green Forest, the shouting
of men. Lights twinkled and drew nearer. Staring down from the edge of
his hole, Tommy saw eager, cruel faces looking up. With a terrible fear
gripping his heart he crept down into his bed. Presently the tree shook
with the jar of an ax. Blow followed blow. The tree vibrated to each
blow and the vibrations passed through Tommy’s body so that it shook,
but it shook still more with a nameless and terrible fear.

At last there was a sharp cracking sound. Tommy felt himself falling
through space. He remembered what Bobby Coon had told him, and he
wondered if he would be lucky enough to escape as Bobby did. Then he
shut his eyes tight, waiting for the crash when the tree should strike
the ground.

When he opened his eyes, he was--just Tommy sitting on the
wishing-stone overlooking the Green Meadows. His face was wet with
perspiration. Was it from the sun beating down upon him, or was it from
the fear that had gripped him when that tree began to fall? A shudder
ran over him at the memory. He looked over to the corn-field where he
had found the tracks of Bobby Coon and the mischief he had wrought.
What was he to do about it? Somehow strangely his sympathy was with
Bobby.

“He doesn’t know any better,” muttered Tommy. “He thinks that corn
belongs to him as much as to anybody else, and there isn’t any reason
why he shouldn’t think so. It isn’t fair to trap him or kill him for
something he doesn’t know he shouldn’t do. If he just knew enough to
eat what he wants and not waste so much, I guess there wouldn’t be any
trouble. He’s just like a lot of folks who have so much they don’t know
what to do with it, only they know better than to waste it, and he
doesn’t. I know what I’ll do. I’ll take Bowser down there to-night and
give him a scare. I’ll give him such a scare that he won’t dare come
back until the corn is so hard he won’t want it. That’s what I’ll do!

“My, it must be awful to think you’re safe and then find you’re
trapped! I guess I won’t ever hunt coons any more. I used to think
it was fun, but I never thought how the coon must feel. Now I know
and--and--well, a live coon is a lot more interesting than a dead one,
anyway. Funny what I find out on this old wishing-stone. If I keep on,
I won’t want to hunt anything any more.”

Tommy got up, stretched, began to whistle as if there was a load off
his mind, and started for home, still whistling.

And his whistle was good to hear.

CHAPTER FOUR HOW TOMMY ENVIED HONKER THE GOOSE

The feel of spring was in the air. The sound of it filled Tommy’s ears.
The smell of it filled his nostrils and caused him to take long, deep
breaths. The sight of it gladdened his eyes, and the joy of it thrilled
his heart. For the spring, you know, has really arrived only when it
can be felt, heard, smelled, and seen, and has the power to fill all
living things with abounding joy and happiness.

Winter had been long in going. It seemed to Tommy that it never would
go. He liked winter. Oh, yes, Tommy liked winter! He liked to skate
and slide, to build snow forts and houses, and make snow men. He liked
to put on his snow-shoes and tramp through the Green Forest, for many
are the secrets of the summer which the winter reveals to those with
eyes to see, and Tommy was trying to train his eyes to be of that kind.
But when it was time for winter to go, he wanted it to go quickly, and
it hadn’t. It had dragged on and dragged on. To be sure, there had been
a few springlike days, but they had been only an aggravation.

But this day was different, and Tommy knew that at last spring had
arrived. It was not that it was long past time, for it was now almost
April. It was something more. It was just a something that, throbbing
all through him, told him that this time there was no mistake--spring
was really here. There was a softness in the touch of gentle Sister
Southwind which was like a caress. From over in the Green Forest came
the gurgle of the Laughing Brook, and mingling with it was the soft
whistle of Winsome Bluebird, the cheery song of Welcome Robin, the
joyous greeting of Little Friend the Song-sparrow, the clear lilt of
Carol the Meadow-lark, the sweet love call of Tommy Tit, the Chickadee,
and under all a subdued murmur, sensed rather than really heard, as of
a gentle stirring of reawakened life. So Tommy _heard_ the spring.

And in each long breath he drew there was the odor of damp, warm soil
such as the earth gives up only at this season. And so Tommy _smelled_
the spring.

And looking from the top of the hill above the wishing-stone down
across the Green Meadows to the Old Pasture and beyond to the Purple
Hills, he saw all as through a soft and beautiful haze, which was
neither fog nor smoke, but as if old Mother Nature had drawn an
exquisite veil over the face of the earth until it should be made
beautiful. And so Tommy _saw_ the spring.

He whistled joyously as he tramped down to the dear old wishing-stone
and sat down on it, his hands clasped about his crossed knees. Seasons
came and went, but the wishing-stone, the great, gray stone which
overlooked the Green Meadows, remained always the same. How many, many
winters it must have seen go, and how many, many springs it must have
seen come, some early and some, like this one, late, but all beautiful!

In all the years it had been there how many of old Mother Nature’s
children, little people in fur, little people in feathers, little
people in scaly suits, and little people with neither fur nor feathers
nor scales, but with gauzy or beautifully colored wings, or crawling
with many feet, must have rested there just as he was doing now!

Somehow Tommy always got to thinking of these little people whenever
he sat on the wishing-stone. From it he had watched many of them
and learned much of their ways. But he had learned still more by
wishing. That seems queer, but it was so. He had wished that he was a
meadow-mouse, and no sooner had he wished it than he had been one. In
turn he had wished himself into a red squirrel, a rabbit, and a mink,
and he had lived their lives; had learned how they work and play; how
sometimes they have plenty, but quite as often go hungry, sometimes
very hungry, and how always they are under the shadow of fear, and the
price of life is eternal watchfulness.

“I suppose some people would say that I fell asleep and dreamed it all,
but I know better,” said Tommy. “If they were dreams, why don’t I have
the same kind at home in bed? But it’s only out here on this old stone
when I wish I were something that I become it. So of course it isn’t a
dream! Now I think of it, every single time I’ve wished myself one of
these little animals, it has been because I thought they had a better
and an easier time than I do, and every time I’ve been mighty glad that
I’m just what I am. I wonder----” He paused a minute, for a sudden
thought had popped into his head. “I wonder,” he finished, “if those
wishes came true just to teach me not to be discontented. I wonder if a
wish would come true if I weren’t discontented!”

He was still wondering when, floating down out of the sky, came a clear
“_Honk, honk, honk, k’honk, honk, honk, k’honk._” Instantly Tommy
turned his freckled face and eager eyes skyward.

“Wild geese!” he exclaimed.

“_Honk, honk, k’honk, honk!_” The sound was loud and clear, but it
seemed to come from nowhere in particular and everywhere in general. Of
course it came from somewhere up in the sky, but it was very hard to
place it as from any particular part. It was a good two minutes before
Tommy’s eyes, sharp as they were, found what he was looking for--a
black wedge moving across the sky, a wedge made up of little, black
living spots. At least they looked little. That was because they were
so high, so very high in the sky.

He knew that each of those black spots was a great, broad-winged
bird--a Canada goose. He could see the long outstretched necks as tiny
black lines. One behind another in two long lines which met in a letter
V, like well-drilled soldiers maintaining perfect formation, the leader
at the apex of the V, and behind him each bird a given distance from
the one in front, they moved steadily across the sky, straight into the
north.

“_Honk, honk, k’honk, honk, k’honk, k’honk, honk!_” There was something
indescribably thrilling in the sound. It made the blood leap and race
through Tommy’s veins. Long after the living wedge had passed beyond
his vision those clarion notes rang in his ears--“_honk, honk, k’honk,
honk, k’honk, k’honk, honk!_” They were at once a challenge and a call
to the wild freedom of the great wilderness. They filled his heart with
a great longing. It swelled and pulsed with a vast desire.

“Oh,” he sighed, “it must be great to be able to fly like that. I would
rather fly than do anything I know of. I envy old Honker in the lead
there, I do. I wish I could join him this very minute!”

Of course that wish had slipped out unthinkingly. But that made no
difference. Tommy had wished, and now here he was high in the air, no
longer a boy, but a great bird, the last one in a long line of great
birds beating the thin air with stout, tireless wings as they followed
Honker, the leader, straight into the North. Far, far below lay the
Great World. It seemed to Tommy that he had no part in it now. A fierce
tumultuous joy surged through him and demanded expression. Spring had
come, and he must tell those plodding creatures, mere specks, crawling
on the distant earth. _Honk, honk, k’honk, honk, k’honk!_

Never in all his life had Tommy felt such a thrill as possessed him
now. Looking down, he saw brown meadows and pastures showing just a
hint of green here and there, green forests and bare woodlands, silver
threads, which he knew to be rivers, shining spots which were lakes and
ponds, and villages which looked like toys.

Once they passed over a great city, but it did not look great at all.
Seen through the murk of the smoke from many factory chimneys, it was
not unlike an ant-hill which had been opened,--tiny black objects,
which were really men, women, children, horses, and motor-cars, seeming
to hurry aimlessly in all directions, for all the world like ants.

So all day they flew, crying the glad message of the spring to the
crawling things below. Just a little while before the setting of the
sun, Honker, the leader, slanted down toward a shining spot in the
heart of a great forest, and the others followed. Rapidly the shining
spot grew in size until below them lay a pond far from the homes of
men, and to the very middle of this Honker led the way, while the whole
flock broke into excited gabbling, for they had flown far and were
tired. With a splash Honker struck the water, and with splash after
splash the others followed, Tommy the last, because, you know, he was
at the end of one of those long lines.

Then for a while they rested, the wise old leader scanning the shores
with keen eyes for possible danger. Satisfied that all was well, he
gave a signal and led the way to a secluded cove where the water was
shallow and the shore marshy. It was clear that he had been there
before, and had come with a purpose. Slowly they swam, Honker well in
the lead, necks held high, the eyes of all alert and studying the
nearing shore. There was no honking now, not a sound. To Tommy, in his
inexperience, such watchfulness seemed needless. What possible danger
could there be in such a lonely place? But he wisely kept his place and
did as the others did.

At length they were close to shore, and Honker gave a low signal which
meant that all was well. Instantly the formation was broken, and with
a low, contented gabbling the flock began feeding on eel-grass, roots,
and sedges from the mud at the bottom. For an hour they fed, then they
swam about, or sat on the shore preening their feathers while the
shadows deepened. But all the time Honker and some of the older ganders
with eyes and ears alert were on guard. And when at last Tommy put his
head under his wing to sleep, a great content filled his heart.

[Illustration: HONKER ON THE WATCH]

The next day was much like the first. With break of day they had
breakfasted, and then, at a signal from Honker, they had mounted up,
up into the blue vault, and all day they had heralded the spring to
the earth below as they flew into the north. So it was the next day
and the next, wise old Honker leading them to some chosen secluded
resting-place each night.

Gradually the face of the earth below changed. There were no more
cities. The villages became smaller and farther between, and at last
they saw no more, only here and there a lonely farm. Great forests and
lakes succeeded each other, the air grew colder, but with his thick
coat of feathers Tommy minded it not at all.

Then, one day, they found they had outflown the spring. Below them the
earth was still frozen and snow-covered. The ponds and lakes were still
ice-bound. Reluctantly Honker turned back to their last stopping-place
and there for a week they rested in peace and security, though not
in contentment, for the call of the North, the Far North, with its
nesting-grounds, was ever with them, and made them impatient and eager
to be on their way. The daily flights were shorter now, and there were
frequent rests of days at a time, for spring advanced slowly, and
they must wait for the unlocking of the lakes and rivers. The forests
changed; the trees became low and stunted. At last they came to a vast
region of bogs and swamps and marshes around shallow lakes and ponds, a
great lonely wilderness, a mighty solitude. At least that is what Tommy
would have thought it had he been a boy or a man instead of a smart
young gander.

It was neither lonely nor a solitude to him now, but the haven which
had been the object of those hundreds of miles of strong-winged flight.
It was the nesting-ground. It was home! And how could it be lonely
with flock after flock of his own kind coming in every hour of every
day; with thousands of ducks pouring in in swift winged flight, and
countless smaller birds, all intent on home-building?

The flock broke up into pairs, each intent on speedily securing a home
of their own. On the ground they made great nests of small sticks and
dead grass with a soft lining of down. In each presently were four or
five big eggs. And soon there were downy goslings--scores and scores of
them--in the water with their mothers for the first swimming lesson.

Then the old birds had to be more vigilant than before, for there were
dangers, many of them, even in that far wilderness: prowling foxes,
hungry lynxes, crafty mink, hawks, fierce owls, each watching for the
chance to dine on tender young goose. So the summer, short in that far
northern region, passed, and the young birds grew until they were as
large as their parents, and able to care for themselves.

Cold winds swept down out of the frozen Arctic Ocean with warning
that already winter had begun the southward march. Then began a great
gathering of the geese, and a dividing into flocks, each with a chosen
leader, chosen for his strength, his wisdom, and his ability to hold
his leadership against all comers. Many a battle between ambitious
young ganders and old leaders did Tommy see, but he wisely forbore to
challenge old Honker, the leader who had led the way north, and when
the latter gathered the flock for the journey he was one of the first
to fall in line.

A thousand plus a thousand miles and more stretched before them as
they turned to the south, but to the strength of their broad wings the
distance was as nothing. But this was to be a very different journey
from their trip north, as Tommy soon found out. Then they had been
urged on day by day by a great longing to reach their destination. Now
in place of longing was regret. There was no joy in the going. They
were going because they must. They had no choice. Winter had begun its
southward march.

The flights were comparatively short, for where food was good they
stayed until some subtle sense warned old Honker that it was time to be
moving. It was when they had left the wilderness and reached the great
farm-lands that they lingered longest. There in the stubble of the
grain fields was feed a-plenty, and every morning at dawn, and again
every afternoon, an hour or so before sundown, Honker led the way to
the fields. During the great part of the day and all night they rested
and slept on the bar of a river, or well out on the bosom of a lake.

It was now that Tommy learned a new respect for the cunning of the wise
old leader, and also that terrible fear which comes sooner or later to
all wild creatures--the fear of man. Time and again, as they approached
their chosen feeding-ground, there would come a sharp signal from
Honker, and he would abruptly turn the direction of the flight and lead
them to another and much poorer feeding-ground. Yet, look as he would,
Tommy could see no cause, no danger.

At first Tommy thought it was because other geese seemed to have
reached the feeding-ground first. He could see them standing stiffly as
if watching the newcomers, near them a harmless little heap of straw.
He knew that the feeding was better there, and he wanted to go, but the
spirit of obedience was strong within him, and he followed with the
rest. Once he voiced his disapproval to another bird as they settled
some distance away where it was more work to find the scattered grain.

“Watch!” he replied in a low tone. “There comes a flock led by that
young upstart who fought and defeated his old leader the day before we
left home. He is leading them straight over there.”

Tommy watched. Suddenly from that harmless-looking little heap of straw
there sprang two spurts of flame, followed by two sharp reports that
struck terror to his heart. Even as he beat his way into the air, he
looked and saw that foolish young leader and two of his flock falling,
stricken and helpless, to the earth, and a man leap from under the
straw to pick them up. Then he understood, and a new loyalty to old
Honker grew in his heart.

But in spite of the ever-present danger Honker kept his flock there,
for food was good and plentiful, and he had faith in himself, and
his flock had faith in him. So they lingered, until a driving snow
squall warned them that they must be moving. Keeping just ahead of the
on-coming winter, they journeyed south, and at every stopping-place
they found men and guns waiting. There was no little pond so lonely but
that death might be lurking there.

Sometimes the call of their own kind would come up to them. Looking
down, they would see geese swimming in seeming security and calling to
them to come down and join them. More than once Honker set his wings
to accept the invitation, only to once more beat his way upward as his
keen eyes detected something amiss on the shore. And so Tommy learned
the baseness of man who would use their own kind to decoy them to death.

Came at last a sudden swift advance of cold weather which forced them
to fly all night. When day broke, they were weary of wing, and, worse,
the air was thick with driving snow. For the first time, Tommy beheld
Honker uncertain. He still led the flock, but he led he knew not where,
for in the driving snow none could see.

Low they flew now, but a little way above the earth, making little
progress against the driving storm, and so weary of wing that it was
all they could do to keep their heavy bodies up. It was then that
the welcome honk of other geese came up to them, and, heading in the
direction of the calling voices and honking back their distress, they
discovered water below, and gladly, oh, so gladly, set their wings and
dropped down into this haven of refuge.

Hardly had the first ones hit the water when, bang! bang! bang! bang!
the fateful guns roared, and when, out of the confusion into which they
were thrown, they once more gathered behind their old leader far out in
the middle of the pond, some of the flock were missing.

In clear weather they flew high, and it happened on such a day that,
as Tommy looked down, there stirred within him a strange feeling.
Below stretched a green forest with broad meadows beyond, and farther
still an old brush-grown pasture. Somehow it was wonderfully familiar.
Eagerly he looked. There should be something more. Ah, there it was--an
old gray boulder overlooking the meadows! Like a magnet, it seemed to
draw Tommy down to itself. “_Honk, honk, honk, k’honk!_” Tommy heard
the call of his old leader faintly, as if from a distance.

“_Honk, honk, honk, k’honk, honk, k’honk, honk!_” Tommy opened his eyes
and rubbed them confusedly. Where was he? “_Honk, honk, honk, k’honk,
honk, k’honk!_” He looked up. There, high in the blue sky, was a living
wedge pointing straight into the North, and the joy of the spring was
in the wild clamor that came down to him.

Slowly he rose from the old wishing-stone, and, with his hands thrust
in his pockets, watched the flock until it was swallowed up in the
distant haze. Long he stood gazing through unseeing eyes while the wild
notes still came to him faintly, and the joy of them rang in his heart.
But there was no longing there now, only a vast content.

“It must be great to fly like that!” he murmured. “It must be great,
but----” He drew a long breath as he looked over the meadows to the Old
Pasture and heard and saw and felt the joy of the spring--“this is good
enough for me!” he finished. “I don’t envy that old leader a bit. It
may be glorious to be wild and free, to look down and see the Great
World, and all that, but it’s more glorious to be safe and carefree,
and--and just a boy. No, I don’t envy old Honker a little bit. But
isn’t he wonderful! I--I don’t see what men want to hunt him for and
try to kill him. They wouldn’t if they knew how wonderful he is. I
never will. No, sir. I never will! I know how it feels to be hunted,
and--and it’s dreadful. That’s what it is--dreadful! I know! And it’s
all because of the old wishing-stone. I’m glad I know, and--and--gee,
I’m glad it’s spring!”

“_Honk, honk, honk, k’honk, honk, k’honk._” Another flock of geese were
passing over, and Tommy knew that they, too, were glad, oh, so glad,
that it was spring!

Two of Tommy’s acquaintances, Reddy Fox and Jerry Muskrat, he thought
he knew all about, but he found that there was much he didn’t know. And
there were two who live deep in the Great Woods whom he had never seen,
Paddy the Beaver and Buster Bear. So to the friendly old wishing-stone
Tommy went and what he learned there you may learn from the next
volume, Tommy’s Change of Heart.

TOMMY’S CHANGE OF HEART

TOMMY’S CHANGE OF HEART

CHAPTER ONE HOW IT HAPPENED THAT REDDY FOX GAINED A FRIEND

It was funny that Tommy never could pass that gray stone without
sitting down on it for a few minutes. It seemed as if he just couldn’t,
that was all. It had been a favorite seat ever since he was big enough
to drive the cows to pasture and go after them at night. It was just
far enough from home for him to think that he needed a rest when he
reached it. You know a growing boy needs to rest often, except when he
is playing. He used to take all his troubles there to think them over.
The queer part of it is he left a great many of them there, though he
didn’t seem to know it. If Tommy ever could have seen in one pile all
the troubles he had left at that old gray stone, I am afraid that he
would have called it the trouble-stone instead of the wishing-stone.

It was only lately that he had begun to call it the wishing-stone.
Several times when he had been sitting on it, he had wished foolish
wishes and they had come true. At least, it seemed as if they had come
true. They had come as true as he ever wanted them to. He was thinking
something of this kind now as he stood idly kicking at the old stone.

Presently he stopped kicking at it, and, from force of habit, sat down
on it. It was a bright, sunshiny day, one of those warm days that
sometimes happen right in the middle of winter, as if the weather-man
had somehow got mixed and slipped a spring day into the wrong place in
the calendar.

From where he sat, Tommy could look over to the Green Forest, which
was green now only where the pine-trees and the hemlock-trees and the
spruce-trees grew. All the rest was bare and brown, save that the
ground was white with snow. He could look across the white meadow-land
to the Old Pasture, where in places the brush was so thick that, in
summer, he sometimes had to hunt to find the cows. Now, even from this
distance, he could trace the windings of the cow-paths, each a ribbon
of spotless white. It puzzled him at first. He scowled at them.

“When the whole thing is covered with snow, it ought to be harder to
see those paths, but instead of that it is easier,” he muttered. “It
isn’t reasonable!” He scowled harder than ever, but the scowl wasn’t
an unpleasant one. You know there is a difference in scowls. Some are
black and heavy, like ugly thunder-heads, and from them flashes of
anger are likely to dart any minute, just as the lightning darts out
from the thunder-heads. Others are like the big fleecy clouds that hide
the sun for a minute or two, and make it seem all the brighter by their
passing.

There are scowls of anger and scowls of perplexity. It was a scowl of
the latter kind that wrinkled Tommy’s forehead now. He was trying to
understand something that seemed to him quite beyond common sense.

“It isn’t reasonable!” he repeated. “I ought not to be able to see ’em
at all. But I do. They stick out like----”

No one will ever know just what they stuck out like, for Tommy never
finished that sentence. The scowl cleared and his freckled face fairly
beamed. He had made a discovery all by himself, and he felt all the
joy of a discoverer. Perhaps you will think it wasn’t much, but it was
really important, so far as it concerned Tommy, because it proved that
Tommy was learning to use his eyes and to understand what he saw. He
had reasoned the thing out, and when anybody does that, it is always
important.

“Why, how simple!” exclaimed Tommy. “Of course I can see those old
paths! It would be funny if I couldn’t. The bushes break through the
snow on all sides, but where the paths are, there is nothing to break
through, and so they are perfectly smooth and stand right out. Queer I
never noticed that before. Hello! what’s that?”

His sharp eyes had caught sight of a little spot of red up in the Old
Pasture. It was moving, and, as he watched it, it gradually took shape.
It was Reddy Fox, trotting along one of those little white paths.
Apparently, Reddy was going to keep an engagement somewhere, for he
trotted along quite as if he were bound for some particular place and
had no time to waste.

“He’s headed this way, and, if I keep still, perhaps he’ll come
close,” thought Tommy.

So he sat as still as if he were part of the old wishing-stone itself.
Reddy Fox came straight on. At the edge of the Old Pasture he stopped
for a minute and looked across to the Green Forest, as if to make sure
that it was perfectly safe to cross the Green Meadows. Evidently he
thought it was, for he resumed his steady trot. If he kept on the way
he was headed he would pass very near to the wishing-stone and to Tommy.

Just as he was half-way across the meadows, Chanticleer, Tommy’s
prize Plymouth Rock rooster, crowed over in the farmyard. Instantly
Reddy stopped with one black paw uplifted and turned his head in the
direction of the sound. Tommy could imagine the hungry look in that
sharp, crafty face. But Reddy was far too wise to think of going up to
the farmyard in broad daylight, and in a moment resumed his journey.

Nearer and nearer he came, until he was passing not thirty feet away.
How handsome he was! His beautiful red coat looked as if the coldest
wind never could get through it. His great plume of a tail, black
toward the end and just tipped with white, was held high to keep it out
of the snow. His black stockings, white vest, and black-tipped ears
gave him a wonderfully fine appearance. Quite a dandy is Reddy Fox, and
he looked it.

He was almost past when Tommy squeaked like a mouse. Like a flash
Reddy turned, his sharp ears cocked forward, his yellow eyes agleam
with hunger. There he stood, as motionless as Tommy himself, eagerness
written in every line of his face. It was very clear that, no matter
how important his business in the Green Forest was, he didn’t intend
knowingly to pass anything so delicious as a meadow-mouse. Again Tommy
squeaked. Instantly Reddy took several steps toward him, looking and
listening intently. A look of doubt crept into his eager face. That
old gray stone didn’t look just as he remembered it. For a long minute
he stared straight at Tommy. Then a puff of wind fluttered the bottom
of Tommy’s coat, and perhaps at the same time it carried to Reddy that
dreaded man smell.

Reddy almost turned a back-somersault in his hurry to get away. Then
he ran. How he did run! In almost no time at all he had reached the
Green Forest and vanished from Tommy’s sight. Quite without knowing it
Tommy sighed. “My, how handsome he is!” You know Tommy is freckle-faced
and rather homely. “And gee, how he can run!” he added admiringly. “It
must be fun to be able to run like that. It might be fun to be a fox
anyhow. I wonder what it feels like. I wish I were a fox.”

[Illustration: THEN HE RAN. HOW HE DID RUN!]

If he had remembered where he was, perhaps Tommy would have thought
twice before wishing. But he had forgotten. Forgetting was one of
Tommy’s besetting sins. Hardly had the words left his mouth when Tommy
found that he _was_ a fox, red-coated, black-stockinged--the very
image of Reddy himself.

And with that change in himself everything else had changed. It was
summer. The Green Meadows and the Green Forest were very beautiful.
Even the Old Pasture was beautiful. But Tommy had no eyes for beauty.
All that beauty meant nothing to him save that now there was plenty to
eat and no great trouble to get it. Everywhere the birds were singing,
but if Tommy heeded at all, it was only to wish that some of the sweet
songsters would come down on the ground where he could catch them.

Those songs made him hungry. He knew of nothing he liked better, next
to fat meadow-mice, than birds. That reminded him that some of them
nest on the ground, Mrs. Grouse for instance. He had little hope that
he could catch her, for it seemed as if she had eyes in the back of her
head; but she should have a family by this time, and if he could find
those youngsters--the very thought made his mouth water, and he started
for the Green Forest.

Once there, he visited one place after another where he thought he
might find Mrs. Grouse. He was almost ready to give up and go back to
the Green Meadows to hunt for meadow-mice when a sudden rustling in the
dead leaves made him stop short and strain his ears. There was a faint
“_kwitt_,” and then all was still. Tommy took three or four steps and
then--could he believe his eyes?--there was Mrs. Grouse fluttering on
the ground just in front of him! One wing dragged as if broken.

Tommy made a quick spring and then another. Somehow Mrs. Grouse just
managed to get out of his way. But she couldn’t fly. She couldn’t run
as she usually did. It was only luck that she had managed to evade
him. Very stealthily he approached her as she lay fluttering among the
leaves. Then, gathering himself for a long jump, he sprang.

Once more he missed her, by a mere matter of inches it seemed. The same
thing happened again and still again. It was maddening to have such
a good dinner so near and yet not be able to get it. Then something
happened that made Tommy feel so foolish that he wanted to sneak away.
With a roar of wings Mrs. Grouse sailed up over the tree-tops and out
of sight!

“Huh! Haven’t you learned that trick yet?” said a voice.

Tommy turned. There was Reddy Fox grinning at him. “What trick?” he
demanded.

“Why, that old Grouse was just fooling you!” replied Reddy. “There was
nothing the matter with her. She was just pretending. She had a whole
family of young ones hidden close by the place where you first saw her.
My, but you are easy!”

“Let’s go right back there!” cried Tommy.

“No use. Not the least bit,” declared Reddy. “It’s too late. Let’s go
over on the meadows and hunt for mice.”

Together they trotted over to the Green Meadows. All through the grass
were private little paths made by the mice. The grass hung over them so
that they were more like tunnels than paths. Reddy crouched down by one
which smelled very strong of mouse. Tommy crouched down by another.

Presently there was the faint sound of tiny feet running. The grass
moved ever so little over the small path Reddy was watching. Suddenly
he sprang, and his two black paws came down together on something that
gave a pitiful squeak. Reddy had caught a mouse without even seeing it.
He had known just where to jump by the movement of the grass. Presently
Tommy caught one the same way. Then, because they knew that the mice
right around there were frightened, they moved on to another part of
the meadows.

“I know where there are some young woodchucks,” said Tommy, who had
unsuccessfully tried for one of them that very morning.

“Where?” demanded Reddy.

“Over by that old tree on the edge of the meadow,” replied Tommy. “It
isn’t the least bit of use to try for them. They don’t go far enough
away from their hole, and their mother keeps watch all the time. There
she is now.”

Sure enough, there sat old Mrs. Chuck, looking, at that distance, for
all the world like a stake driven in the ground.

“Come on,” said Reddy. “We’ll have one of those chucks.”

But instead of going toward the woodchuck home, Reddy turned in quite
the opposite direction. Tommy didn’t know what to make of it, but he
said nothing, and trotted along behind. When they were where Reddy knew
that Mrs. Chuck could no longer see them, he stopped.

“There’s no hurry,” said he. “There seems to be plenty of grasshoppers
here, and we may as well catch a few. When Mrs. Chuck has forgotten all
about us, we’ll go over there.”

Tommy grinned to himself. “If he thinks we are going to get over there
without being seen, he’s got something to learn,” thought Tommy. But
he said nothing, and, for lack of anything better to do, he caught
grasshoppers. After a while, Reddy said he guessed it was about time to
go chuck-hunting.

“You go straight over there,” said he. “When you get near, Mrs. Chuck
will send all the youngsters down into their hole and then she will
follow, only she’ll stay where she can peep out and watch you. Go
right up to the hole so that she will go down out of sight, and then
wait there until I come. I’ll hide right back of that tree, and then
you go off as if you had given up trying to catch any of them. Go hunt
meadow-mice far enough away so that she won’t be afraid. I’ll do the
rest.”

Tommy didn’t quite see through the plan, but he did as he was told. As
he drew near Mrs. Chuck, she did just as Reddy said she would--sent her
youngsters down underground. Then, as he drew nearer, she followed them.

Tommy kept on right up to her doorstep. The smell of those chucks
was maddening. He was tempted to try to dig them out, only somehow he
just felt that it would be of no use. He was still half minded to try,
however, when Reddy came trotting up and flattened himself in the long
grass behind the trunk of the tree.

Tommy knew then that it was time for him to do the rest of his part.
He turned his back on the woodchuck home, and trotted off across the
meadow. He hadn’t gone far when, looking back, he saw Mrs. Chuck
sitting up very straight and still on her doorstep, watching him. Not
once did she take her eyes from him. Tommy kept on, and presently
began to hunt for meadow-mice. But he kept one eye on Mrs. Chuck, and
presently he saw her look this way and that, as if to make sure that
all was well. Then she must have told her children that they could come
out to play once more, for out they came. By this time Tommy was so
excited that he almost forgot that he was supposed to be hunting mice.

Presently he saw a red flash from behind the old tree. There was a
frightened scurry of little chucks and old Mrs. Chuck dove into her
hole. Reddy barked joyfully. Tommy hurried to join him. Reddy had been
quite as successful as he had boasted he would be, and was grinning.

“Didn’t I tell you we’d have chuck for dinner?” said Reddy. “What one
can’t do, two can.”

After that, Tommy and Reddy often hunted together, and Reddy taught
Tommy many things. So the summer passed with plenty to eat and nothing
to worry about. Not once had he known that terrible fear--the fear of
being hunted--which is so large a part of the lives of Danny Meadow
Mouse and Peter Rabbit, and even Chatterer the Red Squirrel.

Instead of being afraid, he was feared. He was the hunter instead of
the hunted. Day and night, for he was abroad at night quite as much as
by day, he went where he pleased and did as he pleased, and was happy,
for there was nothing to worry him. Having plenty to eat, he kept away
from the homes of men. He had been warned that there was danger there.

At last the weather grew cold. There were no more grasshoppers. There
were no more foolish young rabbits or woodchucks or grouse, for those
who had escaped had grown up and were wise and smart. Every day it grew
harder to get enough to eat. The cold weather made him hungrier than
ever, and now he had little time for sun-naps or idle play. He had to
spend most of the time that he was awake hunting. He never knew where
the next meal was coming from, as did thrifty Striped Chipmunk, and
Happy Jack Squirrel, and Danny Meadow Mouse.

It was hunt, hunt, hunt, and a meal only when his wits were sharper
than the wits of those he hunted. He knew now what real hunger was.
He knew what it was most of the time. So when, late one afternoon, he
surprised a fat hen who had strayed away from the flock behind the barn
of a lonely farm, he thought that never had he tasted anything more
delicious. Thereafter he visited chicken-houses and stole many fat
pullets. To him they were no more than the wild birds he hunted, only
more foolish and so easily caught.

And then one morning after a successful raid on a poultry-house, he
heard for the first time the voices of dogs on his trail. He, the
hunter, was being hunted. At first it didn’t bother him at all. He
would run away and leave them far behind. So he ran, and when their
voices were faint and far away, he lay down to rest.

But presently he grew uneasy. Those voices were drawing nearer. Those
dogs were following his every twist and turn with their noses in his
tracks, just as he had so often followed a rabbit. For hours he ran,
and still those dogs followed. He was almost ready to drop when he
chanced to run along in a tiny brook, and, after he left that, he heard
no more of the dogs that day. So he learned that running water broke
his trail.

The next day the dogs found his trail again, and, as he ran from
them through a swamp, there was a sudden flash and a dreadful noise.
Something stung him sharply on the shoulder. As he looked back, he
caught a glimpse of a man with something in his hands that looked like
a stick with smoke coming from the end of it. That night, as he lay
licking his wounds, he knew that now he, who had known no fear, would
never again be free from it--the fear of man.

Little by little he learned how to fool and outwit the dogs. He learned
that water destroyed his scent. He learned that dry sand did not hold
it. He learned to run along stone walls and then jump far out into the
field and so break his trail. He learned that, if he dashed through
a flock of sheep, the foolish animals would rush around in aimless
fright, and their feet would stamp out his trail. These and many other
sharp tricks he learned, so that after a while he had no fear of the
dogs. But his fear of man grew greater rather than less, and was with
him at all times.

So all through the fall he hunted and was hunted. Then came the snow,
the beautiful white snow. All day it fell, and when at night the moon
came out, the earth was covered with a wonderful white carpet. Through
the Green Forest and over the meadows Tommy hunted. One lone shivering
little wood-mouse he dug out of a moldering old stump, but this was
only a bite. He visited one hen-house after another, only to find each
without so much as a loose board by means of which he might get in. It
was dreadful to be so hungry.

As if this were not enough, the breaking of the day brought the sound
of dogs on his trail. “I’ll fool them in short order,” thought he.

Alas! Running in the snow was a very different matter from running on
the bare ground. One trick after another he tried, the very best he
knew, the ones which never had failed before; but all in vain. Wherever
he stepped he left a footprint plain to see. Though he might fool the
noses of the dogs, he could not fool the eyes of their masters.

Now one thing he had long ago learned, and this was never to seek his
underground den unless he must, for then the dogs and the hunters would
know where he lived. So now Tommy ran and ran, hoping to fool the dogs,
but not able to. At last he realized this, and started for his den. He
felt that he had to. Running in the snow was hard work. His legs ached
with weariness. His great plume of a tail, of which he was so proud,
was a burden now. It had become wet with the snow and so heavy that it
hampered and tired him.

A great fear, a terrible fear, filled Tommy’s heart. Would he be able
to reach that snug den in time? He was panting hard for breath, and
his legs moved slower and slower. The voices of the dogs seemed to be
in his very ears. Glancing back over his shoulder, he could see them
gaining with every jump, the fierce joy of the hunt and the lust of
killing in their eyes. He knew now the feeling, the terror and dreadful
hopelessness of the meadow-mice and rabbits he had so often run down.
Just ahead was a great gray rock. From it he would make one last long
jump in an effort to break the trail. In his fear he quite forgot that
he was in plain sight now, and that his effort would be useless.

Up on the rock he leaped wearily, and--Tommy rubbed his eyes. Then
he pinched himself to make quite sure that he was really himself. He
shivered, for he was in a cold sweat--the sweat of fear. Before him
stretched the snow-covered meadows, and away over beyond was the Old
Pasture with the cow-paths showing like white ribbons. Half-way across
the meadows, running toward him with their noses to the ground and
making the echoes ring with the joy of the hunt, were two hounds. A
dark figure moving on the edge of the Old Pasture caught his eyes and
held them. It was a hunter. Reddy Fox, handsome, crafty Reddy, into
whose hungry yellow eyes he had looked so short a time before, would
soon be running for his life.

Hastily Tommy jumped to his feet and hurried over to the trail Reddy
had made as he ran for the Green Forest. With eager feet he kicked the
snow over those telltale tracks for a little way. He waited for those
eager hounds, and when they reached the place where he had broken the
trail, he drove them away. They and the hunter might pick up the trail
again in the Green Forest, but at least Reddy would have time to get a
long start of them and a good chance of getting away altogether.

Then he went back to the wishing-stone and looked down at it
thoughtfully. “And I actually wished I could be a fox!” he exclaimed.
“My, but I’m glad I’m not! I guess Reddy has trouble enough without me
making him any more. He may kill a lot of innocent little creatures,
but he has to live, and it’s no more than men do.” (He was thinking of
the chicken dinner he would have that day.) “I’m going straight over
to the Old Pasture and take up that trap I set yesterday. I guess a
boy’s troubles don’t amount to much after all. I’m more glad than ever
that I’m a boy, and--and--well, if Reddy Fox is smart enough to get
one of my chickens now and then, he’s welcome. It must be awful to be
hungry all the time.”

CHAPTER TWO TOMMY BECOMES A FURRY ENGINEER

Paddy the Beaver lives in the Great Woods far from the dwelling-place
of man. Often and often had Tommy wished that Paddy lived in the Green
Forest near his home that he might make his acquaintance; for he had
read many wonderful things about Paddy, and they were hard to believe.

“If I could see ’em for myself, just _see_ ’em with my own eyes I could
believe; but so many things are written that are not true that a feller
doesn’t know what to believe and what not to. A feller ought to _see_
things to _know_ that they are so,” said Tommy, as he strolled down
towards the big gray stone that overlooked the Green Meadows.

“’Course it’s easy enough to believe that beavers build houses.
Muskrats do that. I know all about muskrats, and I s’pose a beaver’s
house is about the same thing as a muskrat’s, only bigger and better;
but how any animal can cut down a big tree, or build a dam, or dig a
regular canal is more than I can understand without seeing for myself.
I wish----”

Tommy didn’t finish his wish. I suspect he was going to wish that he
could go into the Great Woods and hunt for Paddy the Beaver. But he
didn’t finish his wish, because just then a new thought popped into his
head. You know how it is with thoughts. They just pop out from nowhere
in the queerest way. It was so now with Tommy. He suddenly thought
of the wishing-stone, the great gray stone just ahead of him, and he
wondered, if he should sit down on it, if he could wish himself into
a beaver. Always before, when he had wished himself into an animal or
a bird, it was one of those with which he was familiar and had seen.
This case was different. There were no beavers anywhere near where
Tommy lived, and so he was a little doubtful. If he could wish himself
into a beaver, why, he could wish himself into anything--a lion, or
an elephant, or anything else--and learn about _all_ the animals, no
matter where they lived!

“Gee!” exclaimed Tommy, and there was a queer little catch in his
breath, because, you know, it was such a big idea. He stood still and
slowly rubbed the bare toes of one foot up and down the other bare
brown leg. “Gee!” he exclaimed again, and stared very hard at the
wishing-stone. “’Twon’t do any harm to try it, anyway,” he added.

So he walked over to the wishing-stone and sat down. With his chin
in his hands and his elbows on his knees he stared over at the Green
Forest and tried to imagine that it was the Great Woods, where the only
human beings ever seen were hunters, or trappers, or lumbermen, and
where bears, and deer, and moose, and wolves lived, and where beavers
built their homes, and made their ponds, and lived their lives far from
the homes of men. As he stared, the Green Forest seemed to change to
the Great Woods. “I wish,” said he, slowly and dreamily, “I wish that I
were a beaver.”

He was no longer sitting on the wishing-stone. He was a young beaver
with a waterproof fur coat, a broad flat tail and great chisel-like
teeth in the front of his jaws, his tools. His home was in the heart of
the Great Woods, where a broad, shallow brook sparkled and dimpled, and
the sun, breaking through the tree-tops, kissed its ripples. In places
it flowed swiftly, dancing and singing over stones and pebbles. Again
it lingered in deep dark cool holes where the trout lay. Farther on, it
loafed lazily through wild meadows where the deer delighted to come.
But where Tommy was, it rested in little ponds, quiet, peaceful, in a
dreamy stillness, where the very spirit of peace and happiness and
contentment seemed to brood.

On one side of one of these little ponds was the house, a great house
of sticks bound together with mud and turf, the house in which Tommy
lived with others of his family. It was quite the finest beaver-house
in all that region. But Tommy didn’t think anything about that. It was
summer now, the season of play, of having a good time without thought
of work. It was the season of visiting and of exploration. In company
with some of his relatives he made long journeys up and down the brook,
and even across to other brooks on some of which were other beaver
colonies and on some of which were no signs that beavers ever had
worked there.

But when summer began to wane, Tommy found that life was not all a
lazy holiday and that he was expected to work. The home settlement was
rather crowded. There was danger that the food supply would not be
sufficient for so many hungry beavers.

So it was decided to establish a new settlement on one of the brooks
which they had visited in their summer journey, and Tommy was one of
a little company which, under the leadership of a wise old beaver,
started forth on a still night to found the new colony. He led the way
straight to one of the brooks on the banks of which grew many aspen
trees, for you must know that the favorite food of beavers is the
bark of aspens and poplars. It was very clear that this wise old
leader had taken note during the summer of those trees and of the brook
itself, for the very night of their arrival he chose a certain place in
the brook and announced that there they would build their dam.

“Isn’t it a great deal of work to build a dam?” asked Tommy, who knew
nothing about dam-building, the dam at his old home having been built
long before his time.

[Illustration: “ISN’T IT A GREAT DEAL OF WORK TO BUILD A DAM?”]

“It is. Yes, indeed, it certainly is,” replied an old beaver. “You’ll
find it so before we get this dam built.”

“Then what’s the use of building it?” asked Tommy. “I don’t see the use
of a dam here anyway. There are places where the banks are steep enough
and the water deep enough for splendid holes in which to live. Then
all we’ve got to do is to go cut a tree when we are hungry. I’m sure I,
for one, would much rather swim around and have a good time.”

The other looked at him out of eyes that twinkled, and yet in a way
to make Tommy feel uncomfortable. “You are young,” said he, “and the
prattle of young tongues is heedless. What would you do for food in
winter when the brook is frozen? The young think only of to-day and the
good times of to-day, and forget to prepare for the future. When you
have learned to work, you will find that there is in life no pleasure
so great as the pleasure of work well done. Now suppose you let us see
what those teeth of yours are good for, and help cut these alders and
haul them over to the place where the dam is to be.”

Tommy had no reply ready, and so he set to work cutting young alders
and willows as the rest were doing. These were floated or dragged down
to the place chosen for the dam, where the water was very shallow, and
were laid side by side with the big ends pointing up stream. Turf, and
stones, and mud were piled on the brushy ends to keep them in place. So
the foundations of the dam were laid from bank to bank. Then more poles
were laid on top and more turf and mud. Short sticks were wedged in
between and helped to hold the long sticks in place. Tommy grew tired
of working, but no one else stopped and he was ashamed to.

One of his companions cut a big poplar and others helped him trim
off the branches. This was for food; and when the branches and trunk
had been stripped of bark, they were floated down to the new dam and
worked into it, the trunk being cut into lengths which could be managed
easily. Thus nothing went to waste.

So all through the stilly night they worked, and, when the day broke,
they sought the deep water and certain holes under the banks wherein to
rest. But before he left the dam, the wise old leader examined the work
all over to make sure that it was right.

When the first shadows crept forth late the next afternoon, the old
leader was the first back on the work. One by one the others joined
him, and another night of labor had begun. Some cut trees and
saplings, some hauled them to the dam, and some dug up turf and mud and
piled it on the dam. There was no talking. Everybody was too busy to
talk.

[Illustration: SOME CUT TREES AND SAPLINGS, SOME HAULED THEM TO THE DAM]

Most of Tommy’s companions had helped build dams before and knew just
what to do. Tommy asked no questions, but did as the others did. Slowly
the dam grew higher, and Tommy noticed that the brook was spreading
out into a pool; for the water came down faster than it could work
its way through that pile of poles and brush. Twigs, and leaves, and
grass floated down from the places higher up where the beavers were at
work, and, when these reached the dam, they were carried in amongst the
sticks by the water and lodged there, helping to fill up the holes and
hold the water back.

As night after night the dam grew higher and the pool behind it grew
broader and deeper, Tommy began to take pride in his work. He no longer
thought of play but was as eager as the others to complete the dam. The
stars looked down from the soft sky and twinkled as they saw the busy
workers.

At last the dam was completed, for the time being at least. Very
thoroughly the wise old leader went all over it, inspecting it from end
to end; and when he was satisfied, he led his band to one side of the
little pond formed by the dam, and there he chose a site for the house
wherein they would spend the winter.

First a platform of sticks, and mud, and turf was built until it was
a few inches above the water. Then began the raising of the walls,
a mass of brush and turf until the walls were three feet thick and
so solid that Jack Frost would find it quite useless to try to get
inside. The roof was in the shape of a rough dome and at the top was
comparatively thin; here little or no mud was used, so that there were
tiny air-holes, for, like all other warm-blooded animals, a beaver must
breathe.

Within, was a comfortable room of which the platform was the floor.
From this, two burrows, or tunnels, led down on the deep-water side,
one of these being on a gradual incline, that food sticks might the
easier be dragged in. The entrances to both were at the very bottom of
the pond, where there would be no danger of them being closed by ice
when the pond should freeze in winter. These were the only entrances,
so that no foe could reach them unless he were able to swim under
water, and there were no such swimmers whom they had cause to fear.

When the house was finished, Tommy thought that their labors would
be at an end; and he was almost sorry, for he had learned to love
work. But no sooner was the house completed than all the beavers went
lumbering. Yes, sir, that is just what they did. They went lumbering
just as men do, only they cut the trees for food instead of for boards.

They began at the edge of a little grove of aspens to which the pond
now nearly extended. Sitting on his haunches with his broad tail for
a seat or a prop, as his fancy pleased, each little woodsman grasped
the tree with his hands and bit into the trunk, a bite above and a
bite below, and then with his teeth pried out the chip between the two
bites, exactly as a man with an ax would cut. It was slow hard work
cutting out a chip at a time in this way, but sooner or later the tree
would begin to sway. A bite or two more, and it would begin to topple
over.

Then the little workman would thud the ground sharply with his tail to
warn his neighbors to get out of the way, and he himself would scamper
to a place of safety while the tree came crashing down. Tommy dearly
loved to see and hear those trees come crashing to the ground.

No sooner was a tree down than they trimmed off the branches and cut
the trunk into short lengths. These logs they rolled into the water,
where, with the larger branches, they were floated out to deep water
close by the house and there sunk to the bottom. What for? Tommy didn’t
have to be told. This was the beginning of their food-pile for the
winter.

So the days slipped away and the great food-pile grew in the pond. With
such busy workers it did not take long to cut all the trees close by
the pond. The farther away from the water they got, the greater the
labor of dragging and rolling the logs, and also the greater danger
from lurking enemies. In the water they felt wholly safe, but on land
they had to be always on the watch for wolves, and bears, and lynxes.

When they had reached the limit of safety, the wise old leader called a
halt to tree cutting and set them all to digging. And what do you think
it was they were digging? Why, a canal! It was easier and safer to lead
the water from the pond to the place where the trees grew than to get
the logs over land to the pond. So they dug a ditch, or canal, about
two and a half feet wide and a foot and a half deep, piling the mud up
on the banks, until at last it reached the place where they could cut
the trees, and roll the logs into the canal, and so float them out to
the pond. Then the cutting began again.

Tommy was happy. Never had he been more happy. There was something
wonderfully satisfying in just looking at the results of their labor
and in feeling that he had had a part in it all. Yet his life was not
all labor without excitement. Indeed, it was far from it. Had Tommy
the Beaver been able to remember what as Tommy the Boy he had read, he
would have felt that he was just like those hardy pioneers who built
their homes in the wilderness.

Always, in that great still wilderness, death with padded feet and
cruel teeth and hungry eyes sought to steal upon the beavers. So always
as they worked, especially when on the land, they were prepared to rush
for safety at the first warning. Never for a minute did they cease to
keep guard, testing every breath of air with wonderfully sensitive
noses, and listening with hardly less wonderful ears. On nose and ears
the safety of a beaver almost wholly depends, his eyes being rather
weak.

Once Tommy stopped in his labor of cutting a big tree so that he might
rest for a minute or two. On the very edge of the little clearing they
had made, the moonlight fell on an old weather-gray log. Tommy stared
at it a moment, then resumed his work. A few minutes later he chanced
to look at it again. Somehow it seemed nearer than before. He stared
long and hard, but it lay as motionless as a log should. Once more he
resumed his work, but hardly had he done so when there was the warning
thud of a neighbor’s tail. Instantly Tommy scrambled for the water;
and even as he did so, he caught a glimpse of that gray old log coming
to life and leaping toward him. The instant he reached the water, he
dived.

“What was it?” he whispered tremulously when, in the safety of the
house, he touched noses with one of his neighbors.

“Tufty the Lynx,” was the reply. “I smelled him and gave the warning. I
guess it was lucky for you that I did.”

“I guess it was,” returned Tommy, with a shiver.

Another time, a huge black form sprang from the blacker shadows and
caught one of the workers. It was a bear. Sometimes there would be
three or four alarms in a night. So Tommy learned that the harvesting
of the food supply was the most dangerous labor of all, for it took him
farthest from the safety of the water.

At last this work was completed, and Tommy wondered if now they were
to rest and idle away their time. But he did not have to wonder long.
The old leader was not yet content, but must have the pond deepened all
along the foot of the dam and around the entrances to the house. So now
they once more turned to digging, this time under water, bringing the
mud up to put on the dam or the house, some working on one and some on
the other.

The nights grew crisp and there was a hint of frost. It was then that
they turned all their attention to the house, plastering it all over
with mud save at the very top, where the air-holes were. So thick did
they lay it on that only here and there did the end of a stick project.
Then came a night which made a thin sheet of ice over the pond and
froze the mud-plaster of the house. The cold increased. The ice grew
thicker and the walls of the house so hard that not even the powerful
claws of a bear could tear them open. It was for this that that last
coating of mud had been put on.

The nights of labor were over at last. There was nothing to do now but
sleep on the soft beds of grass or of thin splinters of wood, for some
had preferred to make beds of this latter material. For exercise they
swam in the quiet waters under the ice. When they were hungry, they
slipped down through the water tunnel and out into the pond, swam to
the food-pile, got a stick, and took it back to the house, where they
gnawed the bark off in comfort and at their ease, afterward carrying
the bare stick down to the dam for use in making repairs.

Once they discovered that the water was rapidly lowering. This meant a
break in the dam. A trapper had cut a hole in it and cunningly placed
a trap there. But the wise old leader knew all about traps, and the
breach was repaired without harm to any one. Sometimes a lynx or a wolf
would come across the ice and prowl around the house, sniffing hungrily
as the smell of beaver came out through the tiny air-holes in the roof.
But the thick walls were like rock, and Tommy and his companions never
even knew of these hungry prowlers. Peace, safety, and contentment
reigned under the ice of the beaver-pond.

But at last there came a day when a great noise reverberated under
the ice. They knew not what it meant and lay shivering with fear. A
long time they lay even after it had ceased. Then one of the boldest
went for a stick from the food-pile. He did not return. Another went
and he did not return. Finally Tommy went, for he was hungry. When he
reached the food-pile, he found that it had been fenced in with stout
poles driven down into the mud through holes cut in the ice. It was the
cutting of these holes that had made the dreadful noise, though Tommy
didn’t know it.

Around the food-pile he swam until at last he found an opening between
the poles of the fence. He hesitated. Then because he was very hungry,
he entered. Hardly was he inside when another pole was thrust down
through a hole behind him, and he was a prisoner under the ice inside
that hateful fence.

Now a beaver must have air, and there was no air there and no way of
getting any. Up above on the ice an Indian squatted. He knew just what
was happening down below and he grinned. Beside him lay the two beavers
who had preceded Tommy, drowned. Now Tommy was drowning. His lungs felt
as if they would burst. Dully he realized that this was the end. As
long as he could, he held his breath and then--Tommy came to himself
with a frightened jump.

He was sitting on the old wishing-stone, and before him stretched the
Green Meadows, joyous with happy life. He wasn’t a beaver at all, but
he knew that he had been a beaver, that he had lived the life of Paddy
the Beaver. He could remember every detail of it, and he shuddered as
he thought of those last dreadful minutes at the food-pile when he
had felt himself drowning helplessly. Then the wonder of what he had
learned grew upon him.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “a beaver is an engineer, a lumberman, a dredger,
a builder, and a mason! He’s wonderful. He’s the most wonderful animal
in all the world!” His face clouded. “Why can’t people leave him
alone?” he exploded. “A man that will trap and kill one of those little
chaps is worse than a lynx or a wolf. Yes, sir, that’s what he is!
Those creatures kill to eat, but man kills just for the few dollars
Paddy’s fur coat will bring. When I grow up, I’m going to do something
to stop trapping and killing. Yes, sir, that’s what I’m going to do!”

Tommy got up and stretched. Then he started for home, and there was
a thoughtful look on his freckled face. “Gee!” he exclaimed, “I’ve
learned a pile this time. I didn’t know there was so much pleasure in
just work before. I guess I won’t complain any more over what I have
to do. I--I’m mighty glad I was a beaver for a little while, just for
that.”

And then, whistling, Tommy headed straight for the wood-pile and his
ax. He had work to do, and he was glad of it.

CHAPTER THREE WHY TOMMY TOOK UP ALL HIS TRAPS

If there was one thing that Tommy enjoyed above another, it was
trapping. There were several reasons why he enjoyed it. In the first
place, it took him out of doors with something definite to do. He loved
the meadows and the woods and the pastures, and all the beauties of
them with which Old Mother Nature is so lavish.

He loved to tramp along the Laughing Brook and around the Smiling
Pool. Always, no matter what the time of the year, there was something
interesting to see. Now it was a flower new to him, or a bird that he
had not seen before. Again it was a fleeting glimpse of one of the
shy, fleet-footed little people who wear coats of fur. He liked these
best of all because they were the hardest to surprise and study in
their home life. And that was one reason why he enjoyed trapping so
much. It was matching his wits against their wits. And one other reason
was the money which he got for the pelts.

So Tommy was glad when the late fall came and it was time to set traps
and every morning make his rounds to see what he had caught. In the
coldest part of the winter, when the snow was deep and the ice was
thick, he stopped trapping, but he began again with the beginning of
spring when the Laughing Brook was once more set free and the Smiling
Pool no longer locked in icy fetters. It was then that the muskrats
and the minks became most active, and their fur coats were still at
their best. You see the more active they were, the more likely they
were to step into one of his traps.

On this particular afternoon, after school, Tommy had come down to
the Smiling Pool to set a few extra traps for muskrats. The trapping
season, that is the season when the fur was still at its best, or
“prime,” as the fur dealers call it, would soon be at an end. He had
set a trap on an old log which lay partly in and partly out of the
water. He knew that the muskrats used this old log to sun themselves
because one had plunged off it as he came up. So he set a trap just
under water on the end of the old log where the first muskrat who
tried to climb out there would step in it.

“I’ll get one here, as sure as shooting,” said Tommy.

Then he found a little grassy tussock, and he knew by the matted-down
grass that it was a favorite resting place for muskrats. Here he set
another trap and left some slices of carrot as bait.

By the merest accident, he found a hole in the bank and, from the look
of it, he felt sure that it had been made by one of the furry little
animals he wanted to catch. Right at the very entrance he set another
trap, and artfully covered it with water-soaked leaves from the bottom
of the Smiling Pool so that it could not be seen.

“I’d like to see anything go in or out of that hole without getting
caught,” said he, with an air of being mightily tickled with himself
and his own smartness.

So he went on until he had set all his traps, and all the time he was
very happy. Spring had come, and it is everybody’s right to be happy in
the spring. He heard the joyous notes of the first birds who had come
on the lagging heels of winter from the warm southland, and they made
him want to sing, himself. Everything about him proclaimed new life and
the joy of living. He could feel it in the very air. It was good to be
alive.

After the last trap had been put in place, he sat down on an old log
to rest for a few minutes and enjoy the scene. The Smiling Pool was
as smooth as polished glass. Presently, as Tommy sat there without
moving, two little silver lines, which met and formed a V, started
on the farther side of the Smiling Pool and came straight toward him.
Tommy knew what those silver lines were. They were the wake made by a
swimming muskrat.

“My! I wish I’d brought my gun!” thought Tommy. “It’s queer how a
fellow always sees things when he hasn’t a gun, and never sees them
when he has.”

He could perceive the little brown head very plainly now, and, as it
drew nearer, he could distinguish the outline of the body just under
the surface, and back of that the queer, rubbery, flattened tail set
edge-wise in the water and moving rapidly from side to side.

“It’s a regular propeller,” thought Tommy, “and he certainly knows how
to use it. It sculls him right along. If he should lose that, he sure
would be up against it!”

Tommy moved ever so little, so as to get a better view. Instantly
there was a sharp slap of the tail on the water, a plunge, and only a
ripple to show that a second before there had been a swimmer there. Two
other slaps and plunges sounded from distant parts of the Smiling Pool
and Tommy knew that he would see no more muskrats unless he sat very
still for a long time. Slowly he got to his feet, stretched, and then
started for home. All the way across the Green Meadows he kept thinking
of that little glimpse of muskrat life he had had, and for the first
time in his life he began to think that there might be something more
interesting about a muskrat than his fur coat. Always before, he had
thought of a muskrat as simply a rat, a big, overgrown cousin of the
pests that stole the grain in the hen-house, and against whom every
man’s hand is turned, as it should be.

But somehow that little glimpse of Jerry Muskrat at home had awakened a
new interest. It struck him quite suddenly that it was a very wonderful
thing that an animal breathing air, just as he did himself, could be so
at home in the water and disappear so suddenly and completely.

“It must be fine to be able to swim like that!” thought Tommy as he sat
down on the wishing-stone, and looked back across the Green Meadows
to the Smiling Pool. “I wonder what he does down there under water.
Now I think of it, I don’t know much about him except that he is the
only rat with a fur that is good for anything. If it wasn’t for that
fur coat of his, I don’t suppose anybody would bother him. What a
snap he would have then! I guess he has no end of fun in the summer,
with nothing to worry about and plenty to eat, and always cool and
comfortable no matter what the weather!

“What gets me is how he spends the winter when everything is frozen.
He must be under the ice for weeks. I wonder if he sleeps the way the
woodchuck does. I suppose I can find out just by wishing, seeing that
I’m sitting right here on the old wishing-stone. It would be a funny
thing to do to wish myself into a rat. It doesn’t seem as if there
could be anything very interesting about the life of anything so
stupid-looking as a muskrat, and yet I’ve thought the same thing about
some other creatures and found I was wrong.”

He gazed dreamily down toward the Smiling Pool, and, the longer he
looked, the more he wondered what it would be like to live there. At
last, almost without knowing it, he said the magic words.

“I--I wish I were a muskrat!” he murmured.

Tommy was in the Smiling Pool. He was little and fur-coated, with a
funny little flattened tail. And he really had two coats, the outer of
long hairs, a sort of water-proof, while the under coat was soft and
fine and meant to keep him warm. And, though he was swimming with only
his head out of water, he wasn’t wet at all.

It was a beautiful summer evening, just at the hour of twilight, and
the Smiling Pool was very beautiful, the most beautiful place that
ever was. At least it seemed so to Tommy. In the bulrushes a few
little feathered folks were still twittering sleepily. Over on his big
green lily-pad Grandfather Frog was leading the frog chorus in a great
deep voice. From various places in the Smiling Pool came sharp little
squeaks and faint splashes. It was playtime for little muskrats and
visiting time for big muskrats.

[Illustration: IT WAS PLAYTIME FOR THE LITTLE MUSKRATS]

An odor of musk filled the air and was very pleasant to Tommy as he
sniffed and sniffed. He was playing hide-and-seek and tag with other
little muskrats of his own age, and not one of them had a care in all
the world. Far away, Hooty the Owl was sending forth his fierce
hunting call, but no one in the Smiling Pool took the least notice of
it. By and by it ceased.

Tommy was chasing one of his playmates in and out among the bulrushes.
Twice they had been warned by a wise old muskrat not to go beyond the
line of bulrushes into the open water. But little folks are forgetful,
especially when playing. Tommy’s little playmate forgot. In the
excitement of getting away from Tommy he swam out where the first
little star was reflected in the Smiling Pool. A shadow passed over
Tommy and hardly had it passed when there was a sharp slap of something
striking the water.

Tommy knew what it was. He knew that it was the tail of some watchful
old muskrat who had discovered danger, and that it meant “dive at
once.” Tommy dived. He didn’t wait to learn what the danger was, but
promptly filled his little lungs with air, plunged under water and swam
as far as he could. When he just had to come up for more air, he put
only his nose out and this in the darkest place he knew of among the
rushes.

There he remained perfectly still. Down inside, his heart was thumping
with fear of he knew not what. There wasn’t a sound to be heard around
the Smiling Pool. It was as still as if there was no living thing
there. After what seemed like a long, long time, the deep voice of
Grandfather Frog boomed out, and then the squeak of the old muskrat who
had given the alarm told all within hearing that all was safe again.
At once, all fear left Tommy and he swam to find his playmates.

“What was it?” he asked one of them.

“Hooty, the Owl,” was the reply. “Didn’t you see him?”

“I saw a shadow,” replied Tommy.

“That was Hooty. I wonder if he caught anybody,” returned the other.

Tommy didn’t say anything, but he thought of the playmate who forgot
and swam out beyond the bulrushes, and, when he had hunted and hunted
and couldn’t find him, he knew that Hooty had not visited the Smiling
Pool for nothing.

So Tommy learned the great lesson of never being careless and
forgetting. Later that same night, as he sat on a little muddy platform
on the edge of the water eating a delicious tender young lily-root,
there came that same warning slap of a tail on the water. Tommy didn’t
wait for even one more nibble, but plunged into the deepest water and
hid as before. This time when the signal that all was well was given
he learned that some one with sharper ears than his had heard the
footsteps of a fox on the shore and had given the warning just in the
nick of time.

Four things Tommy learned that night. First, that, safe and beautiful
as it seems, the Smiling Pool is not free from dangers for little
muskrats; second, that forgetfulness means a short life; third, that to
dive at the instant a danger-signal is sounded and inquire later what
the danger was is the only sure way of being safe; and fourth, that it
is the duty of every muskrat who detects danger to warn every other
muskrat.

Though he didn’t realize it then, this last was the most important
lesson of all. It was the great lesson that human beings have been
so long learning, and which many have not learned yet, that, just in
proportion as each one looks out for the welfare of his neighbors, he
is himself better off. Instead of having just one pair of little eyes
and one pair of keen little ears to guard him against danger Tommy had
many pairs of little eyes and little ears keeping guard all the time,
some of them better than his own.

Eating, sleeping, and playing, and of course watching out for danger,
were all that Tommy had to think about through the long lazy summer,
and he grew and grew and grew until he was as big as the biggest
muskrats in the Smiling Pool, and could come and go as he pleased.

There was less to fear now from Hooty the Owl, for Hooty prefers
tender young muskrats. He had learned all about the ways of Reddy Fox,
and feared him not at all. He had learned where the best lily-roots
grow, and how to find and open mussels, those clams which live in
fresh water. He had a favorite old log, half in the water, to which he
brought these to open them and eat them, and more than one fight did
he have before his neighbors learned to respect this as his. He had
explored all the shore of the Smiling Pool and knew every hole in the
banks. He had even been some distance up the Laughing Brook. Life was
very joyous.

But, as summer began to wane, the days to grow shorter and the nights
longer, he discovered that playtime was over. At least, all his friends
and neighbors seemed to think so, for they were very, very busy.
Something inside told him that it was time, high time, that he also
went to work. Cold weather was coming and he must be prepared. For one
thing he must have a comfortable home, and the only way to get one was
to make one for himself.

Of course this meant work, but somehow Tommy felt that he would feel
happier if he did work. He was tired of doing nothing in particular. In
his roamings about, he had seen many muskrat homes, some of them old
and deserted, and some of them visited while the owners were away. He
knew just what a first-class house should be like. It should be high
enough in the bank to be above water at all times, even during the
spring floods, and it should be reached by a passage the entrance to
which should at all times be under water, even in the driest season.

On the bank of the Smiling Pool grew a tree, and the spreading roots
came down so that some of them were in the Smiling Pool itself. Under
them, Tommy made the entrance to his burrow. The roots hid it. At first
the digging was easy, for the earth was little more than mud; but, as
the passage slanted up, the digging became harder. Still he kept at
it. Two or three times he stopped and decided that he had gone far
enough, then changed his mind and kept on. At last he found a place
to suit him, and there he made a snug chamber not very far under the
grass-roots.

When he had finished it, he was very proud of it. He told Jerry Muskrat
about it. “Have you more than one entrance to it?” asked Jerry.

“No,” replied Tommy, “it was hard enough work to make that one.”

Jerry turned up his nose. “That wouldn’t do for me,” he declared. “A
house with only one entrance is nothing but a trap. Supposing a fierce
old mink should find that doorway while you were inside; what would you
do then?”

Tommy hadn’t thought of that. Once more he went to work, and made
another long tunnel leading up to that snug chamber; and then, perhaps
because he had got the habit, he made a third. From one of these
tunnels he even made a short branch with a carefully hidden opening
right out on the meadow, for Tommy liked to prowl around on land once
in a while. The chamber he lined with grass and old rushes until he had
a very comfortable bed.

With all this hard work completed, you would have supposed that Tommy
would have been satisfied, wouldn’t you? But he wasn’t. He found that
some of his neighbors were building houses of a wholly different kind,
and right away he decided that he must have one too. So he chose a
place where the water was shallow, and not too far from the place where
the water-lilies grew; and there among the bulrushes he once more set
to work.

This time he dug out the mud and the roots of the rushes, piling them
around him until he was in a sort of little well. From this he dug
several tunnels leading to the deep water where he could be sure that
the entrance never would be frozen over. The mud and sods he piled up
until they came above the water, and then he made a platform of rushes
and mud with an opening in the middle down into that well from which
his tunnels led. On this platform he built a great mound of rushes, and
grass, and even twigs, all wattled together. Some of them he had to
bring clear from the other side of the Smiling Pool.

And, as he built that mound, he made a nice large room in the middle,
biting off all the ends of sticks and rushes which happened to be in
the way. When he had made that room to suit him, he made a comfortable
bed there, just as he had in the house in the bank. Then he built the
walls very thick, adding rushes and mud and sods all around except on
the very top. There he left the roof thinner, with little spaces for
the air to get in, for of course he must have fresh air to breathe.

When at last the new house was finished, he was very proud of it. There
were two rooms, the upper one with its comfortable bed quite above the
water, and the lower one wholly under water, connected with the former
by a little doorway. The only way of getting into the house was by one
of his tunnels to the lower room. When all was done, an old muskrat
looked it over and told him that he had done very well for a young
fellow, which made Tommy feel very important.

The weather was growing cool now, so Tommy laid up some supplies in
both houses and then spent his spare time calling on his neighbors. By
this time he had grown a fine thick coat and didn’t mind at all how
cold it grew. In fact he liked the cold weather.

It was about this time that he had a dreadful experience. He climbed
out one evening on his favorite log to open and eat a mussel he had
found. There was a snap, and something caught him by the tail and
pinched dreadfully. He pulled with all his might, but the dreadful
thing wouldn’t let go. He turned and bit at it, but it was harder than
his teeth and gnaw as he would he could make no impression on it.

A great terror filled his heart and he struggled and pulled, heedless
of the pain, until he was too tired to struggle longer. He just had
to lie still. After a while, when he had regained his strength, he
struggled again. This time he felt his tail give a little. A neighbor
swam over to see what all the fuss was about.

“It’s a trap,” said he. “It’s lucky you are not caught by a foot
instead of by the tail. If you keep on pulling you may get free. I did
once.”

This gave Tommy new hope and he struggled harder than ever. At last he
fell headlong into the water. The cruel steel jaws had not been able to
keep his tapered tail from slipping between them. He was free, but oh,
so frightened!

After that Tommy grew wise. He never went ashore without first
examining the place for one of those dreadful traps, and he found
more than one. It got so that he gave up all his favorite places and
made new ones. Once he found one of his friends caught by a forefoot
and he was actually cutting his foot off with his sharp teeth. It was
dreadful, but it was the only way of saving his life.

Those were sad and terrible times around the Smiling Pool and along
the Laughing Brook for the people in fur, but there didn’t seem to be
anything they could do about it except to everlastingly watch out.

One morning Tommy awoke to find the Smiling Pool covered with ice.
He liked it. A sense of great peace fell on the Smiling Pool. There
was no more danger from traps except around certain spring holes, and
there was no need of going there. Much of the time Tommy slept in that
fine house of rushes and mud. Its walls had frozen solid and it was as
comfortable as could be imagined. A couple of friends who had no house
stayed with him.

When they were hungry all they had to do was to drop down into the
tunnel leading to deep water and so out into the Smiling Pool under the
ice, dig up a lily-root and swim back and eat it in comfort inside the
house. If they got short of air while swimming under the ice they were
almost sure to find little air spaces under the edge of the banks. No
matter how bitter the cold or how wild the storm above the ice,--below
it was always calm and the temperature never changed.

Sometimes Tommy went over to his house in the bank. Once, while he was
there, a bloodthirsty mink followed him. Tommy heard him coming and
escaped down one of the other passages. Then he was thankful indeed
that he had made more than one. But this was his only adventure all the
long winter. At last spring came, the ice disappeared and the water
rose in the Laughing Brook until it was above the banks, and in the
Smiling Pool until Tommy’s house was nearly under water. Then he moved
over to his house in the bank and was comfortable again.

One day he swam over to his house of rushes and climbed up on the top.
He had no thought of danger there and he was heedless. Snap! A trap set
right on top of the house held him fast by one leg. A mist swam before
his eyes as he looked across the Green Meadows and heard the joyous
carol of Welcome Robin. Why, oh why, should there be such misery in the
midst of so much joy? He was trying to make up his mind to lose his
foot when, far up on the edge of the meadows, he saw an old gray rock.
Somehow the sight of it brought a vague sense of comfort to him. He
strained his eyes to see it better and--Tommy was just himself, rubbing
his eyes as he sat on the old wishing-stone.

“--I was just going to cut my foot off. Ugh!” he shuddered. “Two or
three times I’ve found a foot in my traps, but I never realized before
what it really meant. Why, those little chaps had more nerve than I’ll
ever have!”

He gazed thoughtfully down toward the Smiling Pool. Then suddenly he
sprang to his feet and began to run toward it. “It’s too late to take
all of ’em up to-night,” he muttered, “but I’ll take what I can, and
to-morrow morning I’ll take up the rest. I hope nothing will get caught
in ’em. I never knew before how dreadful it must be to be caught in a
trap. I’ll never set another trap as long as I live, so there!

“Why, Jerry Muskrat is almost as wonderful as Paddy the Beaver, and he
doesn’t do anything a bit of harm. I didn’t know he was so interesting.
He hasn’t as many troubles as some, but he has enough, I guess,
without me adding to them. Say, that’s a great life he leads! If it
wasn’t for traps, it wouldn’t be half bad to be a muskrat. Of course
it’s better to be a boy, but I can tell you right now I’m going to be
a better boy--less thoughtless and cruel. Jerry Muskrat, you haven’t
anything more to fear from me, not a thing! I take off my hat to you
for a busy little worker, and for having more nerve than any _boy_ I
know.”

And never again did Tommy set a trap for little wild folk.

CHAPTER FOUR TOMMY LEARNS WHAT IT IS LIKE TO BE A BEAR

Tommy’s thoughts were straying. Somehow they were straying most of the
time these days. They had been, ever since that day when he had wished
himself into a beaver. He dreamed of the Great Woods where rivers have
their beginnings in gurgling brooks, and great lakes reflect moss-gray
giants of the forest; where the beavers still ply their many trades
unharmed by man, the deer follow paths of their own making, the otters
make merry on their slippery-slides, the lynx pass through the dark
shadows, themselves but grayer shadows, and bears go fishing, gather
berries, and hunt the stored sweets of the bees. In short, the spell of
the Great Woods, the wilderness unmarred by the hand of man, was upon
Tommy.

Eagerly he read all that he could find about the feathered and furred
folk who dwell there, and the longing to know more about them and their
ways, to learn these things for himself, grew and grew. He wanted to
hear things with his own ears and see things with his own eyes.

Sometimes he went over to the Green Forest near his home and played
that it was the Great Woods and that he was a mighty hunter. Then Happy
Jack the Gray Squirrel became a fierce-eyed, tufted-eared, bob-tailed
lynx, saucy Chatterer the Red Squirrel became a crafty fisher, the
footprints of Reddy Fox grew in size to those of a wolf, Peter Rabbit
was transformed into his cousin of the north, Jumper the Hare, and a
certain old black stump was Buster Bear.

But it was only once in a while that Tommy played the hunter. Somehow,
since he had learned so many things about the lives of the little
feathered and furred people about him, he cared less and less about
hunting them. So most often, when the Green Forest became the Great
Woods, he was Buster Bear. That was more fun than being a hunter, much
more fun. There was only one drawback--he didn’t know as much about
Buster Bear and his ways as he wished he did.

So now, as he trudged along towards the pasture to drive home the cows
for the evening milking, his thoughts were straying to the Great Woods
and Buster Bear. As he came to the old wishing-stone he glanced up at
the sun. There was no need to hurry. He would have plenty of time to
sit down there a while. So down he sat on the big gray rock and his
thoughts went straying, straying deep into the Great Woods far from
cows and milking and the woodpile just beyond the kitchen door. Bears
never had to chop wood.

“I wish,” said Tommy dreamily, “that I were a bear.”

That was all, just a little spoken wish, but Tommy was no longer a
dreamy boy with evening chores yet to be done. He was a little black
furry animal, not unlike an overgrown puppy, following at the heels of
a great gaunt black bear. In short, Tommy was a bear himself. All about
him was the beautiful wilderness, the Great Woods of his boyish dreams.
Just behind him was another little bear, his twin sister, and the big
bear was their mother.

Presently they came to an opening where there were no trees, but a
tangle of brush. Years before, fire had swept through there, though
Tommy knew nothing about that. In fact, Tommy knew little about
anything as yet save that it was good, oh, so good, to be alive. On
the edge of this opening Mother Bear paused and sat up on her haunches
while she sniffed the air. The two little bears did the same thing.
They didn’t know why, but they did it because Mother Bear did. Then
she dropped to all fours and told them to remain right where they were
until she called them. They watched her disappear in the brush and
waited impatiently. It seemed to them a very long time before they
heard her call and saw her head above the bushes as she sat up, but
really it was only a few minutes. Then they scampered to join her, each
trying to be first.

When they reached her, such a glad sight as greeted them! All about
were little bushes loaded with berries that seemed to have stolen their
color from the sky. They were blueberries. With funny little squeals
and grunts they stripped the berries from the bushes and ate and ate
until they could eat no more. Then they wrestled with each other, and
stood up on their hind legs and boxed until they were out of breath
and glad to lie down for a rest while Mother Bear continued to stuff
herself with berries.

It was very beautiful there in the Great Woods, and the two little
bears just bubbled over with high spirits. They played hide-and-seek
behind stumps and trees. They played tag. They chased each other up
tall trees. One would climb to the top of a tall stump, and the other
would follow and try to knock the first one off.

Sometimes both would tumble down and land with a thump that would knock
the breath from their little bodies. The bumps would hurt sometimes and
make them squeal. This would bring Mother Bear in a hurry to see what
had happened; and when she would find that no harm had come to them,
she would growl a warning and sometimes spank them for giving her a
fright.

But best of all they loved to wrestle and box, and, though they didn’t
know it, they were learning something. They were learning to be quick
in their movements. They were learning how to strike swiftly and how to
dodge quite as swiftly. Once in a while they would stand and not try to
dodge, but see who could stand the hardest blow. And once in a while, I
am sorry to say, they quarreled and fought. Then Mother Bear would take
a hand and cuff and spank them until they squalled.

Very early they learned that Mother Bear was to be minded. Once she
sent them up a tree and told them to stay there until she returned.
Then she went off to investigate something which interested her.
When she returned, the two little cubs were nowhere to be seen. They
had grown tired of waiting for her to return and had come down to do
a little investigating of their own. It didn’t take her long to find
them. Oh, my, no! And when she did--well, all the neighbors knew that
two little cubs had disobeyed, and two little cubs were sure, very
sure, that they never would do so again. Tommy was one.

At first, during those lovely summer days, Mother Bear never went far
from them. You see, when they were very small, there were dangers. Oh,
yes, there are dangers even for little bears. Tufty the Lynx would
have liked nothing better than a meal of tender young bear, and Howler
the Wolf would have rejoiced in an opportunity to snatch one of them
without the risk of an encounter with Mother Bear.

But Tommy and his sister grew fast, very fast. You see, there were so
many good things to eat. Their mother dug for them the most delicious
roots, tearing them from the ground with her great claws. It wasn’t
long before they had learned to find them for themselves and to
dig them where the earth was soft enough. Then there were berries,
raspberries and blackberries and blueberries, all they wanted, to be
had for the gathering. And by way of variety there were occasional fish.

Tommy as a boy was very fond of fishing. As a bear he was quite as fond
of it. On his first fishing-trip he got a wetting, a spanking, and no
fish. It happened this way: Mother Bear had led them one moonlight
night to a brook they never had visited before. Up the brook she led
them until they reached a place where it was broad and shallow, the
water gurgling and rippling over the stones and singing merrily. They
were left in the brush on the edge of the brook where they could see
and were warned to keep still and watch. Then Mother Bear stationed
herself at a point where the water was just a wee bit deeper than
elsewhere and ran a wee bit faster, for it had cut a little channel
there. For a long time she sat motionless, a big black spot in the
moonlight, which might have been a stump to eyes which had not seen her
go there.

Tommy wondered what it all meant. For a long time, at least it was
a long time to Tommy, nothing happened. The brook gurgled and sang
and Mother Bear sat as still as the very rocks. Tommy began to get
impatient. He was bubbling over with high spirits and sitting still was
hard, very hard.

Little by little he stole nearer to the water until he was on very edge
right behind Mother Bear. Then he caught a splash down the brook. He
looked in that direction but could see nothing. Then there was another
splash. He saw a silvery line and then made out a moving form. There
was something alive coming up the brook. He edged over a little farther
to see better. There it was, coming nearer and nearer. Though he didn’t
know it then, it was a big trout working its way up the brook to the
spring-holes higher up where the water was deep and cold.

In the shallowest places the fish was sometimes half out of water.
It was making straight for the little channel where Mother Bear sat.
Nearer it came. Suddenly Mother Bear moved. Like lightning one of her
big paws struck down and under, scooping the trout out and sending it
flying towards the shore.

Alas for Tommy! He was directly in the way. The fish hit him full in
the face, fell back in the water, wriggled and jumped frantically--and
was gone. Tommy was so startled that he gave a frightened little
whimper. And then a big black paw descended and sent him rolling
over and over in the water. Squalling lustily, wet, frightened and
miserable, Tommy scrambled to his feet and bolted for the shore where
he hid in the brush.

“I didn’t mean to!” he kept whimpering as he watched Mother Bear return
to her fishing. Presently another trout came along and was sent flying
up on the shore. Then Tommy watched his obedient sister enjoy a feast
while he got not so much as a taste.

After that they often went fishing on moonlight nights. Tommy had
learned his lesson and knew that fish were the reward of patience, and
it was not long before he was permitted to fish for himself.

Sometimes they went frogging along the marshy shores of a little pond.
This was even more fun than fishing. It was great sport to locate a big
frog by the sound of his deep bass voice and then softly steal up
and cut a “chugarum” short, right in the middle. Then when he had eaten
his fill, it was just as much fun to keep on hunting them just to see
them plunge with long frightened leaps into the water. It tickled Tommy
immensely, and he would hunt them by the hour just for this.

One day Mother Bear led them to an old dead tree half rotted away at
the bottom. While they sat and looked on in round-eyed wonder, she tore
at the rotten wood with her great claws. Almost at once the air about
her was full of insects humming angrily. Tommy drew nearer. A sharp
pain on the end of his nose made him jump and squeal. Another shooting
pain in one ear brought another squeal and he slapped at the side of
his head. One of those humming insects dropped at his feet. It must be
that it had had something to do with that pain.

[Illustration: ANOTHER SHOOTING PAIN IN ONE EAR BROUGHT ANOTHER SQUEAL]

Tommy beat a retreat into the brush. But Mother Bear kept on clawing
at the tree, growling and whining and stopping now and then to slap
at the insects about her. By and by the tree fell with a crash. It
partly split when it struck the ground. Then Mother Bear put her great
claws into the crack and tore the tree open, for you know she was very
strong. Tommy caught a whiff of something that made his mouth water.
Never in all his short life had he smelled anything so delicious. He
forgot all about the pain in his nose and his ear and came out of his
hiding-place. Mother Bear thrust a great paw into the tree and tore
out a piece of something yellow and dripping and tossed it in Tommy’s
direction.

There were a lot of those insects crawling over it, but Tommy didn’t
mind. The smell of it told him that it must be the best thing that ever
was, better than berries, or fish, or frogs, or roots. And with the
first taste he knew that his nose had told the truth. It was honey!
It didn’t take Tommy a minute to gobble up honey, comb, bees and all.
Then, heedless of stings, he joined Mother Bear. What were a few stings
compared to such delicious sweets? So he learned that hollow trees are
sometimes of interest to bears. They ate and ate until Tommy’s little
stomach was swelled out like a little balloon. Then they rolled on the
ground to crush the bees clinging to their fur, after which Mother
Bear led them to a muddy place on the shore of a little pond, and the
cool mud took out the fire of the stings. Later, Tommy learned that not
all bee-trees could be pulled down in this way, but that sometimes they
must be climbed and ripped open with the claws of one paw while he held
on with the other and endured the stings of the bees as best he could.
But the honey was always worth all it cost to get.

Next to feasting on honey Tommy enjoyed most a meal of ants,
particularly red ants; and this seems queer, because red ants are as
sour as honey is sweet. But it was so. Any kind of ants were easier to
find and to get than honey. The latter he had only once in a while, but
ants he had every day. He found them, thousands of them, under and in
rotting old logs and in decayed old stumps. He seldom passed an old log
without trying to roll it over. If he succeeded, he was almost sure
to find a frightened colony of ants rushing about frantically. A few
sweeps of his long tongue, a smacking of his lips and he moved on.

Sometimes he found grubs of fat beetles, and these, though not so
good as the ants, were always acceptable on his bill of fare. And he
dearly loved to hunt wood-mice. It was almost as much fun as fishing or
frogging.

So the long summer passed happily, and Tommy grew so fast that
presently he became aware that not even Tufty the Lynx willingly
crossed his path. He could go and come unafraid of any of the
wilderness dwellers and forgot what fear was until a never-forgotten
day in the early fall.

He had followed Mother Bear to a certain place where late blueberries
still clung to the bushes. As she reached the edge of the opening, she
stopped short and lifted her nose, wrinkling the skin of it as she
tested the air. Tommy did the same. He had great faith in what his nose
could tell him. The wind brought to him now a strange smell unlike any
he had known, an unpleasant smell. Somehow, he didn’t know why, it gave
him a queer prickly feeling all over.

He looked at Mother Bear. She was staring out into the blueberry patch,
and her lips were drawn back in an ugly way, showing her great teeth.
Tommy looked out in the berry-patch. There were two strange two-legged
creatures, gathering berries. They were not nearly as big as Mother
Bear and they didn’t look dangerous. He stared at them curiously. Then
he turned to look at Mother Bear. She was stealing away so silently
that not even a leaf rustled. She was afraid!

Tommy followed her, taking care not to make the least sound. When
they were at a safe distance, he asked what it meant. “Those were
men,” growled Mother Bear deep down in her throat, “and that was the
man-smell. Whenever you smell that, steal away. Men are the only
creatures you have to fear; but whatever you do, keep away from them.
They are dangerous.”

After that, Tommy continually tested the air for the dreaded man-smell.
Several times he caught it. Once from a safe hiding-place he watched
a fisherman and another time a party of campers, but he took care that
they should not suspect that he was near. By late fall he was so big
that he began to feel independent and to wander off by himself. Almost
every day he would stand up to a tree, reach as far up as he could, and
dig his claws into the bark to see how tall he was.

With the falling of the beechnuts Tommy found a new and delicious food
and stuffed himself. These days he roamed far and wide and explored
all the country for miles around. He grew fat and, as the weather grew
colder, his coat grew thicker. He learned much about his neighbors and
their ways, and his sense of humor led him often to give them scares
just for the fun of seeing them jump and run.

With the coming of the first snow a strange desire to sleep stole
over him. He found a great tree which had been torn up by the roots
in some wind storm and about which smaller trees had fallen, making a
great tangle. Under the upturned roots of the great tree was a hollow,
and into this he scraped leaves and the branches of young balsams
which he broke off. Thus he made a comfortable bed and with a sigh of
contentment lay down to sleep.

The snow fell and drifted over his bedroom, but he knew nothing of
that. The cold winds, the bitter winds, swept through the wilderness,
and the trees cracked with the cold, but Tommy slept on. Days slipped
into weeks and weeks into months and still he slept. He would not
waken until gentle spring melted the snow unless--

“Moo-oo!”

Tommy’s eyes flew wide open. For a full minute he stared blinkeringly
out over the Green Meadows. Then with a jump he came to his feet. “My
gracious, it’s getting late, and those cows are wondering what has
become of me!” he exclaimed. He hurried toward the pasture, breaking
into a run, for it was milking-time. But his thoughts were far away.
They were in the Great Woods. “I’ve been a bear!” he exclaimed
triumphantly, “and I know just how he lives and feels, and why he loves
the Great Woods so. Of all the creatures I’ve been since I found out
about the old wishing-stone, I’d rather be Buster Bear than any one,
next to being just what I am. He has more fun than any one I know of
and nothing and nobody to fear but man.”

Tommy’s brow clouded for an instant. “It’s a shame,” he blurted out,
“that every living thing is afraid of man! And--and I guess it’s his
own fault. They needn’t ever be afraid of me. I can tell them that!
That old wishing-stone has taught me a lot, and I am never going to
forget how it feels to be hunted and afraid all the time.”

And Tommy never has.

Transcriber’s note:

Illustrations have been moved to paragraph breaks near where they are
mentioned.

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.