The Arrival of the Mallards
THE morning was chilly, with Gray Cloud Ships blanketing the sky. By noon
a heavy mist was falling, which soon turned into Wet Little Raindrops, and
as it grew colder Merry Little Snowflakes began to fall.
All day Mr. and Mrs. Mallard and their friends had been flying northward
against the storm. They had spent the winter in the warm swamps of
Louisiana, and were returning to their summer home in the Land of Cool
Breezes. Ordinarily they would have rested during the storm, but they were
anxious to reach a pond which was one of their favorite stopping places on
their journeys north and south each spring and fall.
There was a Sheltered Little Cove along one side of it where Tumbled
Bulrushes and Waving Wild Rice grew, and not far away there were many
grainfields, which always contained enough scattered heads of wheat and ears
of corn to furnish food in case there was not enough Waving Wild Rice.
Toward evening the wind grew stronger and the falling snow was blinding.
Mr. and Mrs. Mallard and their companions were flying low to avoid the wind
as much as possible, and were hoping that they might see a sheltered place
where they could spend the night.
Not once during the journey had they encountered Terror the Hunter, with
his deadly gun that roared and spat shot at them. They were not much afraid
now. You see, Friendly Folk had made laws to stop Terror the Hunter from
shooting ducks in the spring; but of course the Mallards did not know that.
Suddenly there was a boom beneath them, and Mr. Mallard felt a stinging
pain in one of his wings. He reeled downward for an instant, but caught
himself and went on as fast as he could. Mrs. Mallard and their companions
had scattered and were soon out of sight in the falling snow. He wondered if
any of them had fallen.
Mr. Mallard quacked a signal to Mrs. Mallard as loud as he could. His
voice was soft and husky, and he was afraid she would not hear him in the
storm. He quacked again, and soon he heard Mrs. Mallard's loud answer.
"Qua-ack quack-quack-quack," she said, and as quickly as
possible she flew to his side. "Are you hurt, dear?" she asked.
Mr. Mallard did not want to alarm her, so he pretended that he did not
hear. He called reassuringly in his softest tone of voice, and tried bravely
to fly ahead of Mrs. Mallard to break the wind for her. Soon he felt himself
growing weaker, and his wounded wing hurt very much.
"I wish we could find a place to stop for the night," he said,
still trying not to alarm Mrs. Mallard; "the storm seems to be getting
worse."
"If we could reach the Duck Pond on the Old Homestead, how nice it
would be " said Mrs. Mallard. "It can't be far away."
They coasted downward to be nearer the ground again, hoping that they
could see water on which to alight. Sure enough, right ahead of them, and
not more than a block away, was a pond.
"It's the Duck Pond; it is, it is ! " quacked Mrs. Mallard
excitedly. "How glad I am to see it!"
In a moment they were resting on the surface of the water in the shelter
of the Fuzzy Cat-tails; and, what is more, they were in the midst of their
companions. It was the Favorite Pond toward which they had been flying all
day.
By the following morning the sky had cleared, and Mr. Mallard's
companions were ready to resume their northward journey, which would carry
them perhaps to Canada. Mr. Mallard's wing felt sore and stiff; when he
tried to fly, he found that he had not enough strength to leave the water.
"You must go on with the others," he told Mrs. Mallard;
"and when I am strong enough, I will follow."
His green head glistened in the morning sunlight, and his colorful wings
shone like half rainbows. It was because of his beauty that Terror the
Hunter had directed his aim at Mr. Mallard. Always, it seems, Fearful the
Man wants the best there is. Mrs. Mallard was as good as Mr. Mallard, but
her dress was not quite so pretty. She lacked the green on her head,
although it was as trim and smart-looking as Mr. Mallard's. Also, she lacked
the bronze on her neck, and she was not quite so colorful in other ways as
he.
Mrs. Mallard loved her mate dearly, and she would not agree to any such
thing as leaving him behind. No, sir! She felt that her place was right by
his side, and she told Mr. Mallard plainly that she expected to stay until
he was well enough to leave with her. Of course he was glad to hear her say
that, and he did not mind so much when he saw his companions fly away to the
northward.
He purred a low farewell to them as they arose from the water, and Mrs.
Mallard went a short way with them, quacking loudly that she and Mr. Mallard
would soon follow. It happened, however, that by the time Mr. Mallard felt
strong enough to fly, they had grown to like the Duck Pond on the Old
Homestead so well that they decided to stay for the summer.
That is how Mr. and Mrs. Mallard came to be neighbors of Bud and Mary
Smith, when ordinarily they would have been flying far to the northward with
many other Mallards, with Honker the Goose, Whitey the Brant, and a host of
other Feathered Friends.
The Duck Pond
I BELIEVE I'll swim around the Duck Pond and see what I can find,"
said Mrs. Mallard, after their companions had left.
"And I shall go along," said Mr. Mallard.
"Yes, we'll go together," agreed Mrs. Mallard.
You see, although Mr. Mallard's wing was very stiff and sore if he tried
to fly, yet he could swim without any trouble. And so the Mallards set out
from among the Fuzzy Cat-tails and Waving Wild Rice to explore the Duck
Pond. Although they had stopped there several times on their journeys, they
had never really seen much of the Duck Pond, and they did not know much
about the Old Homestead. Usually they stopped in the evening, and by the
time the Laughing Yellow Sun was up the next morning, and they had had a
good feed of rice, they were ready to leave. Sometimes they flew mostly at
night, and rested and ate during the day.
Twice each year the Mallards stopped for a feed at the Duck Pond on the
Old Homestead. Once was in the fall, when Old Man Winter was coming down
from the Land of Ice, and, of course, the Mallards were then usually in a
hurry to reach the Sunny Southland, where they stayed in the swamps and on
the rivers. But when Jolly Spring began to melt the ice on the lakes and
streams, and to chase Old Man Winter back to his home in the Land of Ice,
the Mallards were ready to leave the Sunny Southland and return to the Land
of Cool Breezes. Then they stopped at the Duck Pond again.
When Mr. and Mrs. Mallard fly from their northern home to the Sunny
Southland and then back again in the spring, we say they are migrating. And
that was what they were doing when Mr. Mallard was shot.
Mrs. Mallard swam to the edge of the Fuzzy Cat-tails and peeped out.
There was still some ice on the Duck Pond in places. It was more than a
block wide, and on the distant bank there were many Drooping Willows and
other trees. Beyond this fringe of trees and Jungle Thickets was the Green
Meadow, and if Mrs. Mallard had been where she could look across it, she
would have seen the Grand Old House and the Rambling Old Barn and the Apple
Orchard and the rest of the interesting things on the Old Homestead. As it
was, all she could see in the distance was High Cliff, which ran along one
side of the Old Homestead. You see, Mrs. Mallard was not high enough to look
around while she was sitting on the water, for the banks of the Duck Pond
and the trees and the Jungle Thickets hid everything from sight. And Mrs.
Mallard's neck was not very long.
Mr. Mallard swam to her side and peeped out also. Everything seemed quiet
and safe. And so the Mallards swam a little farther. Of course, they did not
swim far from shore. Oh no. They stayed close to the Fuzzy Cat-tails along
the bank so they could dive into them and hide if danger came near. They
were not well acquainted around the Old Homestead, and did not know that
Farmer Smith would not allow Terror the Hunter there with his gun if he knew
it. They did not know that every little way around the Duck Pond Farmer
Smith had nailed a sign to a tree, which said in big black letters: "No
HUNTING ALLOWED." And so they were watchful.
But Terror the Hunter was not the only one that the Mallards were
watching out for. There was Sharptoes the Duck Hawk, who might dart down
upon them any time. And even Aquila the Golden Eagle, whose nest was on a
Rocky Pinnacle on the top of High Cliff, might swoop through the air on
silent wings if they were not watching.
Suddenly a shadow flashed across the water in front of Mrs. Mallard. For
a moment it frightened her; then she heard the friendly greeting of Mr.
Bluebird.
"Good morning," he sang. "Tru-ally, tru-ally, this is a
fine morning."
"Qua-ack quack-quack-quack," said Mrs. Mallard, which was her
way of saying how glad she was to see Mr. Bluebird. "I suppose you are
on your way northward."
"Oh no," replied Mr. Bluebird; "I am as far north as I am
going. You see, Mrs. Bluebird and I live with many Feathered Friends on the
Old Homestead during the summer. We had a Hollow Nesting Post by the Apple
Orchard and we lived in it three summers. But this spring Bud Smith built a
new Nesting Box for us. He put it on an iron pipe in the yard by the Grand
Old House. We like it very much, because Hunting Cat cannot climb up to rob
our nest."
"Perhaps you can tell us more about the Old Homestead," said
Mr. Mallard. "Terror the Hunter shot my wing, and if it doesn't get
better soon, we shall have to stay here."
"Sure-ly, sure-ly I can tell you more," said Mr. Bluebird, and
he flew to the top of a Fuzzy Cat-tail nearer the Mallards. "My nearest
neighbor is Robin Red, who lives in the Red Cedar in the yard near us. Then
there is Jenny Wren, who expects to build a nest in the eaves of the Grand
Old House. She tried to take our Nesting Box, but Judge Flicker picked out a
knot, which made a nice doorway for her in the eaves, and she liked it
better than the Nesting Box. Of course Noisy the English Sparrow tried to
steal our Nesting Box, but Mrs. Noisy decided she did not like a home
without a porch. Bobby White and Woodsy Thrush live in the Hedgerow that
runs along the Apple Orchard. Molly Cottontail and Peter live in a Friendly
Burrow in the Little Jungle Thicket at the foot of High Cliff, and Johnny
Chuck has a Hidden Den under a rock not far from Molly and Peter on the side
of High Cliff. I am sure you will like the Old Homestead if you stay. You
can go cruising in Little River sometimes, and Bobby White says that Farmer
Smith never permits any shooting there."
"And where is Little River?" asked Mrs. Mallard.
"It winds through the Green Meadow and the Wide-Wide Pasture where
Old Bent Horn lives," replied Mr. Bluebird. "But I must be going
now to see that no one takes the Nesting Box from us."
And with that, Mr. Bluebird flew away toward the Grand Old House.
Mrs. Mallard Makes a Discovery
" I'M GLAD to hear that there is no hunting on the Old
Homestead," said Mrs. Mallard, after Mr. Bluebird had left. She felt
quite relieved, and quacked loudly as she started again to explore the Duck
Pond.
"Qua-ack quack-quack-quack," she said, and flapped her wings
against the water. She really made quite a noise, for Bud and Mary Smith
heard it away up at the Grand Old House as they were leaving for school.
"I hear some wild ducks on the Duck Pond," exclaimed Bud;
"let's go past there and count them."
In a short time they were sneaking through the Jungle Thicket that grew
along one side of the pond. At last Bud parted the bushes and looked out.
"There are only two," he whispered as he held up two fingers;
"a pair of Mallards."
"I wonder what they are doing here," said Mary. "They must
be lost."
"Perhaps one of them is wounded," said Bud.
"Oh, I do wish they would stay," said Mary, as they hurried on
to school.
Of course Mr. and Mrs. Mallard did not know that they had been seen. Mrs.
Mallard stood on her head in the water, with her tail pointing straight up,
while she reached for a mouthful of Oozy Mud in which she hoped to find some
grains of wild rice or a Wiggly Water Worm. Mr. Mallard swam around in wide
circles, looking for choice morsels to eat, and with one eye watching for
Sharptoes.
At last Mr. Mallard became tired. His wing was very sore, and he decided
to rest awhile. So he swam to a bunch of Waving Wild Rice and Tumbled
Bulrushes and crawled beneath them. He was entirely out of sight and felt
quite safe unless Trailer the Mink came along. Mr. Mallard knew that Trailer
the Mink seldom came out of his Hidden Den during the day, and so he tucked
his bill under his strong wing and went to sleep.
Mrs. Mallard was having too good a time to think about sleeping. She swam
here and there, while she explored the Sheltered Water Lanes that wound in
and out among the clumps of Swamp Grass and Fuzzy Cat-tails. Every place she
went there was plenty to eat. The more she saw of the Duck Pond, the better
she liked it.
Only once did Mrs. Mallard think about going farther northward. That was
when a flock of ducks flew over. It was Sawbill the Merganser and some of
his friends. Mrs. Mallard quacked loudly to attract his attention. She
thought perhaps he might like to stop and rest. But Sawbill the Merganser
was not quite ready to stop for that day. You see, he was not much
interested in such things as Waving Wild Rice to eat. Sawbill was very fond
of fish. His bill had sharp points on each side like the teeth of a saw,
with which he caught fish, and he ate so many that his flesh was fairly
flavored with them. He was like the person who smokes so much that he smells
like tobacco smoke. Sawbill the Merganser knew where there was a lake that
held many fish, and so he hurried on as if he had not heard Mrs. Mallard's
invitation to stop.
A little later two more ducks flew over quite low. They were Mr. and Mrs.
Spoonbill. Again Mrs. Mallard quacked an invitation to stop. When Shoveler
the Spoonbill heard it, he called to Mrs. Spoonbill. Then they turned and
circled back to the Duck Pond.
"Qua-ack quack-quack-quack," said Mrs. Mallard; "this is a
nice place to stop."
Soon Mr. and Mrs. Spoonbill were floating lightly on the water near Mrs.
Mallard, and squirting soft mud through the comblike strainers on the sides
of their broad bills. Shoveler the Spoonbill had a funny way of eating.
First he filled his large, spoonlike bill with Oozy Mud or floating things.
Then he strained this mouthful by working water through it. If the strainers
held anything in his mouth that he liked after the water had washed away the
mud, he swallowed it. Perhaps that was his way of washing his food before he
ate it.
It was not long until Mrs. Mallard and the Spoonbills were good friends,
and they swam along together exploring the Duck Pond. Halfway around the
Duck Pond they saw a Sheltered Water Lane that seemed to lead into a
Sheltered Little Cove. Mrs. Mallard swam into it and looked around. It did
not take her long to see that it suited her exactly. On all sides were Fuzzy
Cat-tails, Waving Wild Rice, and Swamp Grass. There was an open space in the
center just large enough for Fluffy Ducklets to play in, and back from the
water was a grassy bank with brush where Mrs. Mallard could build a nest.
Yes, the place suited Mrs. Mallard exactly, and she started back to tell
Mr. Mallard about it. She did not wait to swim back, but arose in the air,
and in a few moments her strong wings had carried her to the place where she
had left Mr. Mallard asleep.
"Qua-ack quack-quack-quack," she called in a loud voice, and
soon she heard Mr. Mallard's low voice coming from among the Fuzzy
Cat-tails.
You may be sure it did not take long for her to tell Mr. Mallard about
the Sheltered Little Cove. Soon they were swimming back to it, with Mrs.
Mallard ahead quacking excitedly.
"I know you will like it; I just know you will," she said.
Mrs. Mallard reached the Sheltered Water Lane and turned in, followed
closely by Mr. Mallard. They found the Spoonbills still enjoying a feast of
the things that grew in the Sheltered Little Cove, and soon Mr. Mallard was
acquainted with them also.
"I believe we'll stay right here this summer," said Mrs.
Mallard.
"I think we shall too," said Mrs. Spoonbill.
And that is how the Mallards and the Spoonbills happened to be neighbors
at the Duck Pond on the Old Homestead.
Redwing the Blackbird Moves In
REDWING the Blackbird was a jolly fellow. In the fall he had joined a
large flock of his gentlemen friends, and they had played and had sung
together all winter. They had flown from place to place, sometimes here and
sometimes there, as if they had not a care in the world and nothing to do
but to travel and enjoy new sights. Usually they selected a swamp for their
stopping place, where there were plenty of Fuzzy Cat-tails and Tumbled
Bulrushes for them to perch on while they rested.
Mrs. Blackbird and the other lady Blackbirds had gone south, but Redwing
and his friends were never in a hurry to leave in the fall. They were never
in a hurry to go any place, for that matter. If the weather was not too
severe, they sometimes stayed in the Chilly Northland until Merry Little
Snowflakes lay so deep upon the weeds that Redwing could find little to eat.
Then he and his friends would fly away toward the Sunny Southland for a
while, but were very likely to return to the Chilly Northland with the first
hint of fair weather.
Redwing and his friends had been playing together for months, flying from
place to place. One day after Mrs. Blackbird arrived they spied a Sheltered
Little Cove on the edge of a small lake, where Fuzzy Cat-tails and Swamp
Grasses were plentiful. Of course they stopped to investigate, and the place
suited Redwing and a few of his friends so well they decided to stay.
Not that Redwing and Mrs. Blackbird were ready to start nest building
just then. Oh no. Redwing was never in a hurry to build a nest any more than
he was in a hurry to do anything else. Some times it was June before Mrs.
Blackbird built her nest, and even then Redwing was not much help with the
family work. Perhaps the reason that Mrs. Blackbird did not build a nest
sooner was that she was waiting for the new Fuzzy Cat-tails to grow.
You see, Mrs. Blackbird liked to build her nest over the water, and
usually she used the Fuzzy Cat-tails in which to build it. And so perhaps
she waited until the new ones were high enough for shelter. It would be hard
to say just why Mrs. Blackbird chose to build her nest over water, for it
certainly seemed as if that was a dangerous place for Wee Blackbirds to
live. What if one of them should have fallen out of the nest?
It may have been that Mrs. Blackbird was vain, and liked to build her
nest where she could see her reflection in the water. More than likely she
built it there so Hunting Cat and other prowlers could not get to it, for
Mrs. Blackbird really had little to be vain about as far as looks were
concerned. Her streaked brown coat was very common-looking indeed, and she
could not sing. She did not have the shiny black coat and flashy red wing
patches that Redwing had. It is no wonder he liked to spread his wings when
he sang and to display the scarlet marks that looked very much like the
stripes on a soldier's coat sleeve.
No, it was not yet time for the Blackbirds to start housekeeping, and so
they flitted from one Fuzzy Cat-tail to another and explored their new home.
That is what they were doing when they met the Mallards, for of course
the Sheltered Little Cove that Redwing had found was the same one where the
Mallards were living at the Duck Pond on the Old Homestead.
"Oak-a-lee," sang Redwing the Blackbird, when he first met the
Mallards. That was his way of saying, "Hello there, neighbors."
"Qua-ack quack-quack-quack," said Mrs. Mallard, and right away
they both knew they would be good friends.
"How long do you plan to stay here?" asked Redwing, for he was
not expecting that the Mallards would stay all summer.
"Oh, we are living here now," replied Mrs. Mallard. "You
see, Greenhead was shot through the wing and could go no farther."
"Greenhead" was Mrs. Mallard's favorite name for Mr. Mallard.
"Then we shall be neighbors all summer," said Redwing,
"for I expect to live in the Sheltered Little Cove."
"Yes, and have you met Shoveler and Mrs. Spoonbill?" asked Mrs.
Mallard. "They will be our neighbors also. I guess they have gone over
to explore Little River to-day."
"I have not seen them," said Redwing, "but I shall be glad
to meet them."
"Perhaps you would find them if you flew over to Little River,"
said Mrs. Mallard.
"I believe I will," replied Redwing, and away he and Mrs.
Blackbird flew.
Redwing liked Little River almost as well as he liked the Sheltered
Little Cove. He found jungle Thickets and tall grass and rushes in places
growing along its banks. There were Quiet Pools where the water flowed
slowly past Broad Bends, and it was in one of these that Redwing found the
Spoonbills. They were enjoying a feast of good things that they found along
the bank.
"Oak-a-lee," sang Redwing the Blackbird.
"Chack-chack," said Mrs. Blackbird.
Of course the Spoonbills were glad to see them and to hear that they were
to be neighbors during the summer.
"I am sure that we shall get along nicely," said Shoveler.
"Mrs. Mallard said that Mr. Bluebird told her that Bobby White told him
that Farmer Smith did not permit hunting on the Old Homestead. And so we
should not be disturbed."
Just as Shoveler said that, there was a terrific noise over at the Duck
Pond. There could be no mistake about it; it was the sound of a gun. It
roared across the little valley, and its echo came back from the side of
High Cliff.
"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Spoonbill, "I do hope that the
Mallards were not killed. I wish we could go to see if they are safe."
"I see some one running across the Green Meadow from the Grand Old
House," said Redwing, from his High Perch on a Drooping Willow Tree.
"It must be Farmer Smith."
"I hope he catches Terror the Hunter," said Shoveler.
It was a long time before the Spoonbills and the Blackbirds ventured back
to the Duck Pond.
Terror the Hunter Makes a Mistake
PERHAPS you would like to know more about Terror the Hunter. He lived in
a Low Yellow House by the railroad tracks, and worked for the railroad. He
was called a "section hand." He was not a citizen of our country,
and could not read our language. And so he knew nothing about the game laws,
or if he did, he did not care.
Terror the Hunter owned a gun. It was against the law for a foreigner to
own a gun, but he did not care about that, either. When he went hunting, he
killed any of the Little Wild Creatures that he could find. He would as soon
shoot Burlingame the Meadow Lark and other song birds as anything. He was
the greatest enemy that the Feathered Friends and Furry Friends knew.
Whenever word went out among the Little Wild Creatures that Terror the
Hunter was afield, all of them tried to hide because of fear.
One day when Terror the Hunter was not working he took down his gun and
started out with a pocket full of ammunition. He was not quite sure where to
go, but he thought he might find something to shoot. He was not at all
particular about what he killed or ate.
After a while he saw a pond. He thought there might be Ducks on it, or
Blackbirds in the rushes along its edge. It was the Duck Pond on the Old
Homestead; but Terror the Hunter did not know that. He crept across a field
until he came to the Drooping Willow Trees and Jungle Thickets near the Duck
Pond. He saw a board with some letters on it, that was nailed to a tree, but
he could not read it. If he could have, it would have warned him not to hunt
there.
Terror the Hunter crawled under the fence and into the Jungle Thicket.
Very carefully he sneaked through the brush, for he did not wish to make a
noise by breaking any of the Dry Sticks. That would have told the Little
Wild Creatures that danger was near; and that was the last thing Terror the
Hunter wanted them to know.
At last Terror the Hunter reached the edge of the Duck Pond. He parted
the Tumbled Bulrushes and looked out. There on the water near the center of
the Duck Pond was a gray duck that looked like Mrs. Mallard from a distance.
It was just a little too far away to shoot, and so Terror settled down in
his Hiding Place and waited. He thought that the duck would swim nearer to
him if he stayed out of sight and waited.
The gray duck was having a fine time. It swam here and there in search of
good things to eat, and really did not seem as if it were paying much
attention to anything around it.
At last the gray duck began to swim toward Terror the Hunter. Of course
Terror was glad. He thought he would have a fine fat duck to eat. He
expected to shoot the duck and wait for the Playful Air Whiffs to blow it to
shore so he could get it.
When the duck was near enough, Terror the Hunter raised his gun and
fired. He was sure he would see a dead duck lying on the water. But that was
one time Terror was mistaken. Instead of seeing a dead duck, he did not see
any duck at all. You see, the gray duck was not Mrs. Mallard. It was Diver
the Grebe.
Diver the Grebe was a very active duck. He could dive faster than you
could wink your eye. He did not like to fly, and so whenever danger came
near, he would dive out of sight. Then he would swim under water and come up
a long way from the place where he went under. Diver the Grebe could dive so
swiftly that he was under the water before Terror the Hunter's shot got to
him.
A little later he came up away out in the middle of the Duck Pond. That
was too far for Terror the Hunter to shoot, and Diver the Grebe knew it. He
knew he was safe, and he went ahead with his feeding as if nothing had
happened.
Of course Terror the Hunter was disappointed. He did not know that Mr.
and Mrs. Mallard were hiding on the other side of the Duck Pond. They swam
into some Tumbled Bulrushes out of sight. They could not quite understand
why it was that Terror the Hunter was shooting on the Duck Pond when Mr.
Bluebird had said that Bobby White had told him that Farmer Smith did not
allow hunting.
They were not quite sure that they liked the Duck Pond as well as they
had. They hid in the Tumbled Bulrushes to talk it over. They did not know
that right then Farmer Smith was hurrying across the Green Meadow to catch
Terror the Hunter.
Farmer Smith was a deputy game warden. That is, he was asked by the state
to protect the Little Wild Creatures from Terror the Hunter. Farmer Smith
was glad to do this because he knew the Little Wild Creatures were his
friends, and he liked them. Sometimes the state brought Feathered Friends
like Hungarian the Partridge from distant countries and turned them loose on
the Old Homestead. Then Farmer Smith protected them from Terror the Hunter
so they would like their new home.
You may be sure that Terror the Hunter was surprised when Farmer Smith
stepped out of the brush and grabbed him. That was the last time Terror came
to the Old Homestead to hunt. He had to give up his gun and pay a fine for
hunting on posted land out of season without a license. That taught Terror a
lesson he never forgot.
The Mallards did not know all this, but they did know that Farmer Smith
had taken Terror away, because Redwing the Blackbird told them so. He had
seen the whole thing from his High Perch on a Drooping Willow Tree. Of
course when the Mallards and the Spoonbills and the other Little Wild
Creatures heard that Farmer Smith had taken Terror away, they were all glad.
"Oak-a-lee," sang Redwing the Blackbird.
Longlegs the Heron Goes Wading
CROAKER the Frog sat on a pile of dead Swamp Grass at the edge of the
Duck Pond singing. At least he probably called it singing. But it was a very
different song from the one that Redwing the Blackbird was singing not far
away. Croaker's voice was very coarse and harsh. It sounded about like
rolling a stone around in an empty tin can.
But Croaker the Frog was happy, and even though he could not sing so
sweetly as Redwing and some of the Feathered Friends, still he was doing the
best he could. No doubt it sounded beautiful to him, and Croaker should not
be blamed for doing his best any more than we would want to be if we were
working or singing or doing something else as well as we could.
Croaker had hatched from an egg the summer before. At first he was a
Wiggly Tadpole that looked like a big head with a tail fastened to it.
Croaker could swim quite well with his tail, but it was not long until he
started to grow legs. His hind legs started to grow first, and then his
front ones came into sight. Of course, his hind legs were much the larger
because he needed them with which to hop and swim. As his legs grew larger,
his tail grew smaller, until it disappeared entirely. He did not need it
when he had legs. It would have been in his way when he hopped. The Creator
knew this when He made Croaker, and we can frequently see God's wisdom shown
in other ways in nature if we will but look for it.
Croaker the Frog had been asleep all winter. When the ice began to freeze
on the Duck Pond the fall before and Croaker could no longer swim about from
place to place, he burrowed down into the Oozy Mud, and there he stayed
until Jolly Spring came and melted the ice. Then he crawled out from his
muddy bed, kicked his legs a few times to limber them up, and climbed out
into the Bright Little Sunbeams.
The Laughing Yellow Sun warmed Croaker's back and made him happy. Now and
then an early fly or other insect came close enough for him to catch.
Sometimes he found insects floating on the water. It all made Croaker very
happy, and so he tried his best to tell others about it. He croaked as loud
as he could, and each time he croaked he puffed out a large sack under his
chin.
When listening to Croaker the Frog, one might have thought that he did
not have any worries at all. But Croaker did have troubles the same as every
one. One of the things that bothered him was Longlegs the Heron. Right then
when Croaker was singing his solo, Longlegs the Heron was out looking for
him.
Longlegs had been wading along Little River. He liked very much to wade
along its banks in search of minnows and frogs. Longlegs had not been very
successful that day. It was a little too early for frogs in Little River.
Then, just when he was getting ready to fly back to his perch in a Giant
Cottonwood, he heard a croak. It came from the Duck Pond.
"Aha," thought Longlegs, "Croaker the Frog is out at last.
I believe I'll just fly over to the Duck Pond and go wading there for a
while. I surely would like a frog for supper."
Longlegs had eaten many minnows that day. They were plentiful in Little
River. But he could not seem to find any frogs. Longlegs was very fond of
frogs. He would stalk along the bank of the Duck Pond among the rushes and
water lilies for hours looking for frogs. Croaker the Frog and his friends
were not so easy to catch. Their backs were just the color of the green
things on which they sat, and it took sharp eyes to see them.
Did you ever notice that a frog's eyes are set right on top of its head?
That is another wise provision that the Creator made for Croaker and his
friends. You see, when Croaker's eyes were on top like that, he could sit
with all of his body under water. Only his eyes and nose stuck out. In that
way he could find a Hiding Place in the water under a large leaf or bunch of
water grass. Sometimes he would sit quietly and wait until a fly or mosquito
almost lit on his very nose. That would be the end of Mr. Mosquito.
With his eyes sticking out on top of his head, Croaker could watch in
every direction for danger. If Longlegs the Heron came near, Croaker would
take a full breath of air and settle quietly to the bottom of the Duck Pond
among the grass roots.
But Longlegs was a skillful hunter. He was very quiet, and he had sharp
eyes. Sometimes Croaker's friends were so interested with their singing that
they forgot to watch for Longlegs. Before they knew it, Longlegs would
straighten the bends in his long neck with one swift thrust, and down the
red lane they would go.
Longlegs lit in the water near the bank of the Duck Pond and started
wading. First he raised one foot very carefully, and then with his toes
still held together so they would not make a noise, he stepped ahead. Then
he drew up the other foot and held it a moment before stepping ahead. He
could stand on one foot for a long time.
It is impossible to say whether or not Longlegs would have caught Croaker
if nothing had interfered. But just as Longlegs was nearing the place where
Croaker was sitting on his bunch of Swamp Grass singing, along came Lutra
the Otter, who went kerplunk into the water.
That spoiled everything for Longlegs the Heron. Croaker did not know who
had made such a splash, but he knew it was time to dive out of sight. And so
Croaker dove into the water so quickly he hardly had time to take a full
breath of air first. And Longlegs the Heron decided he would have to wait
until another day to catch Croaker.
WHAT'S
NEW? 
