The Turquoise Story Book: Stories and Legends of Summer and Nature

by Unknown

A RETORT FROM THE CATBIRD

I heard the Catbird in the bush

With breathless ecstasy;

No bobolink or fluttering thrush

Made carol sweet as he.

It bubbled like a mountain rill

Drenching the weary day,

With eddying turn and rippling trill,

A magic roundelay.

I heard the Catbird once again.

A harsh, discordant note,

Which pierced the shuddering ear with pain,

Came from the selfsame throat.

O bird perverse! That heavenly voice

Tuned to so sharp a key!

Why cease to make the air rejoice

Debasing minstrelsy?

Why not be ever at your best?

Again the peevish mew

Answering, accusing me with zest:

"Are you?" he cried, "are y-o-u?"

Abbie Farwell Brown.

WOODPECKER LIFE
Margaret Coulson Walker

On the thirteenth of July a red-mutched woodpecker knocked on the stricken bough of a lofty elm to crave of the Dryad within hospitality for a season. Yes, her wish would be granted, but only on condition that she would dig out a shelter for herself there in the hard, dry wood.

What had gone wrong in the woodpecker family that she was in need of shelter this late in the year? Earlier in the summer she and her mate had burrowed out a comfortable home in a great oak tree not two hundred yards away. Then they were on the best of terms and had relieved each other at the task of digging out their dwelling place. Twenty or twenty-five minutes at a time was thought long enough for either of them to devote to so labourious a task in the springtime; then the other spent an equal time at the work, while the one off duty hurried away to partake of refreshments or to seek rest in change of occupation.

Then there seemed to be some joy in their lives, for when they had occasionally found time for recreation, they had chased each other around the tree trunks and given utterance to their enjoyment of the game in many a peal of cackling laughter. Near the base of a tree the game began, and, spirally round and round its trunk, they pursued each other, the one in the lead every now and then casting a challenging look behind, then hurrying upward faster than before. Their playtimes were brief, however, for the unfinished burrow was calling.

When this was completed and later a half dozen or more eggs were laid, though madam spent most of her time in dispensing warmth to them, her mate also did his share. Together they had devoted their energies to providing for the little ones that pecked their way out of the round, white eggs. Many long journeys were they compelled to take, and many were the hours spent in search of suitable food for their hungry offspring; but on their return their throats were always full to the brim with the nourishment which they pumped into infant throats as, hanging head downward over them, they clung with their claws to the entrance of their home. And when, after a time, the chicks were old enough to scramble about on the trunk of the tree outside their home, a wheezy call from one of them was enough to bring one or both of the parents, with throat distended with the best the wood afforded, to minister to their wants. Together they had driven away the over-solicitous squirrels and meddlesome sparrows who came to visit them. Together they had guided their asthmatic young family about the wood, teaching them by example, if not by precept, where food was to be found, and how to meet the dangers they were likely to encounter at any moment.

The accidents of nature had depleted the brood, till now but two of them were left. A ball of baby feathers in the home of an owl living in the wood told the story of the passing of one of them; the gladness which attended the home-coming of a foraging mother squirrel marked the taking off of another; so they had gone, till only these two remained, wheezy and exacting.

Of late the care of them had fallen mainly on the father, who picked up a living for them as best he could. At times he seemed to try to get away from them—a futile effort, for when they did not follow his undulating flight in their awkward up-and-down fashion, they went in search of him if he was gone a few minutes overtime.

Here on the thirteenth of July was the mother seeking shelter away from her former home. Had there been a family disagreement? Was the home-nest no longer large enough for the parent birds and their now almost grown-up family? Was she planning for a new brood? Surely not! It would be impossible to rear in a single season two broods requiring so much care.

Whatever her purpose, here she was, drawing her plans on the under side of the dry old bough. Soon she began to peck out an entrance, and it was not long before the chips were flying in every direction. More than an hour she worked, then flew to the dead top of a tree across the way, where she sat for a brief time resting and sunning herself. Twice she left her perch to dart out after passing insects, then returned to her labour. Occasionally she swung around to the top side of the dead branch, and tore off bits of bark either for the purpose of seeing if the hole was going clear through or for securing the insect fare lurking under it. This part of the work continued at intervals, till the bark was removed from all the excavated portion of the bough. All day, until about five o'clock, she spent at her task with but little rest, then there was a long visit to the rest perch in the neighbouring treetop.

The early morning hours were probably devoted to commissary tours; for it was almost eight o'clock when she appeared on the scene of her labours and again began to wield the pick. About ten o'clock her spouse appeared and arranged himself comfortably on the same limb about a foot away from the hole she was digging, but not by so much as a single stroke did he assist her. Soon a wheezy, whistling cry called him to duties as insistent as home building, and he departed.

After watching the progress of woodpecker affairs for some time, a dweller in the house under the tree decided to lend a hand. A worm-eaten hitching-post stood near, on which was placed pieces of bread for the hungry little wielder of the pick. This not only satisfied her wants, but served also to bring her mate and offspring near occasionally. At first the young members of the family refused to pick up this food set before them, but, instead, clung to a neighbouring tree and called vociferously for help. Then the father took the bits of bread and pushed them far down into the screaming throats. The young Romulus must have possessed wonderful powers of endurance if the woodpeckers of old ministered to him as vigorously in response to his infantile wails as the woodpeckers of to-day respond to the screaming demands of their own offspring. How gentle the wolf must have seemed in comparison!

Several times the young woodpeckers followed the father to the limb in which the mother was chiseling a home. Together they watched her work, but during the first three days seemed to take no interest whatever in the hole she was making. Then the father went in and examined the opening, but flew away without giving any real aid. And all through the work his assistance seemed to be limited to inspection.

In her digging, the mother woodpecker clung with her claws to the opening of the burrow, and, head downward, pecked rapidly. Sometimes she would throw out chips—which were little more than coarse sawdust—after three or four blows; again, she worked for a minute or two, then threw out several billfuls at a time. In throwing out these chips she slipped backward and forward over the lower edge of the opening, after the manner of that old-fashioned toy called a "supple jack." First she threw her chips to one side, then to the other, till the ground beneath the burrow, for a space thirty feet in circumference, was generously sprinkled with them.

Though several persons were watching her, and though squirrels were springing about among the branches, she was not disturbed, but went steadily on with her task. While she was away on short vacations, the wren, dwelling in the porch roof beneath, frequently investigated the hole she was digging—sparrows examined it, and squirrels looked into it, but it was very noticeable that they all had an eye on her return. Once, in her absence, one of her own young woodpeckers scrambled to the edge of the hole, and peeped in for a moment, then scuttled back again to the place where the dead branch joined the trunk of the tree, and, in his usual noisy manner, demanded food.

It was near the end of the third day's labour that the woodpecker was first seen "trying on" her new home. Then she went into it, and, nestling there, with head up for the first time, looked out of the window. Evidently, the pocket was neither deep enough nor wide enough, for after this she worked on both bottom and sides of it, scattering chips as before. The work periods were shorter now and the rests more frequent, showing that her strength was failing. On the afternoon of the fifth day, when the burrow was finished, completely exhausted, she made her way to the roof of the house, where, with wings spread, she lay for more than an hour. Seemingly too tired to reach her usual resting place in the treetop across the way, she lay there gathering strength for the longer flight.

Though the sexes are alike in the redhead family, it was not difficult to distinguish them in this case, for the feathers about the head and neck of the mother were much more worn than those of her less industrious mate. Yet it may be an injustice to him to accuse him of indolence, for was he not purveying to their younglings?—a task which may have taxed his energies to the limit. Perhaps, after all, it was only a case of division of labour.

After the completion of the burrow, though the woodpecker was anxiously watched for, for several days, she was not seen near it again, though the usual bits of bread placed on the hitching-post brought her to its neighbourhood.

The experiment was tried of putting some of the crusts on the top of the post and stuffing others tightly into the large worm-holes. The latter were invariably taken first. Though the young birds came there regularly to be fed, more than a week passed before they made the slightest effort to help themselves. They would cling to the sides of the post, and, with upward-pointing, open bills, whistle asthmatically for the food, which the parents were compelled to place in their throats. Whether it was wilfulness or inability that caused them to act as they did, it was impossible to determine.

The whistling of the young birds, which was once believed to predict rain, or to be a demand for it from a thirsty throat, always precedes or accompanies the taking of food. It is, doubtless, a little more frequent before showers, for at such times the older birds are able to collect more beetles and other insects that come out then from their shelters into the open.

The old belief that woodpeckers are ever athirst because of their inability to drink any save the rain that falls into their open throats or the drops that fall from the leaves, may have some foundation. In the case of this family, though a basin of water was always conveniently near, and though sparrows, robins, bluejays, and wrens constantly patronized it, no woodpecker was ever seen to refresh himself from it—many as there were of them in the vicinity.

When more bread than the four birds could consume was placed in the post, the older ones carried a part of it away—usually the larger pieces on top—for future use, or pounded it tightly into worm-holes in the same post, but never into the ones in which they found it.

Several weeks after the burrow was finished, one evening just about sunset, a redhead was seen peeping from the window in the treetop; then it was drawn back, and again it appeared and was withdrawn to be seen no more during the evening. It was a dormitory, then, that you hollowed out for yourself, was it, my lady?

One morning, near the close of August, it was noticed that the entrance to the lodging was distinctly larger, and that a patch of daylight showed through from the other side. Whether, for some reason, the bird herself had enlarged the opening before departing for the South, or whether this had been done by mischievous squirrels on murder bent, is not known; but certain it is that the red-mutched labourer was gone. Others of her kind lingered in the grove for a week or more, and though food was placed on the accustomed post, neither she nor any of her immediate family appeared to claim it.

When he is gone, the most accomplished songsters are not missed more than the red-headed woodpecker, whose broad patches of clear colour enliven the wood. Though he may no longer assist in the growth of the forests by bringing refreshing showers, as he is said to have done in the long time ago, he certainly is doing much in his own way to preserve them. Well might the ancients have made a god of him. He still possesses one of the gifts which won that honour for him—the power of producing thunder—and in a way that mortals can understand. Hear it rumbling among the dead treetops, as the bird drums rapidly on the dry wood and sets it to vibrating, then quickly lays his hollow bill against it to add resonance to the peal. Vulcan himself could not have felt greater satisfaction than he, as he stops to listen, in conscious pride over his accomplishment.

Whether he is a god made manifest in feathers, or merely an old woman under a curse, expiating the crime of selfishness in picking up a living where there seems to be no life, and in sharing this scant fare with the hungry, as we see this bird with breast flattened and shoulders bent by hard work, while our sympathies are awakened, we bless the day that gave to the world this tireless little labourer of the woods.

KINGFISHER'S NECKLACE AND
RUFFLE

Kingfisher is very proud, indeed, of his white collar and ruffled head-dress, but there was a time in the long, long ago when he had neither of these ornaments. He wore a plain suit of gray-blue feathers and his head was as smooth as a robin's.

In that far-off time Kingfisher lived near a large lake, which was bordered by long stretches of pine trees. He chose this place for a home because he could catch plenty of fish in the clear waters of the lake. Also, he had made a friend of Wolf, who lived with the great spirit, Manabozho, in a bear-skin wigwam, which stood on the shore.

Wolf was a mighty hunter and provided Manabozho with plenty of food. It happened one season that game was scarce in the forest near the wigwam, and Wolf decided to hunt in the woods on the opposite side of the lake.

"Brother Wolf," said Manabozho, "see how dense the pine woods over there are. No hunter has ever ventured into that tangled forest."

"That is why I shall surely find plenty of game there," answered Wolf.

Accordingly, early next morning Wolf ran around the long margin of the lake until he came to the thick forest. He soon caught all the game he could carry, but instead of returning with it to the lodge, he stopped to fish on Big Rock, which jutted out into the lake.

Kingfisher, perched on one of the tall pine trees, called out: "Wolf, do not fish from Big Rock. The sea-serpents are lurking near, and they will catch you."

"I want some fine fish to take to Manabozho," answered Wolf. "I'm not afraid of the sea-ser——!"

He had not finished speaking when, in a very mysterious way, something gave his fishing-line a mighty jerk, and Wolf was pulled headlong into the water.

Manabozho had no game for supper. All night he listened for the footsteps of his faithful hunter, but Wolf did not return to the lodge. In the morning the great spirit began to search for his companion. He traveled all around the long margin of the lake, but not a single trace of Wolf could he find. Near Big Rock, on a tall pine tree, sat Kingfisher. Manabozho had never before spoken to the plain little bird, who was very much surprised when the great spirit said, "Kingfisher, can you tell me what has happened to Manabozho's brother Wolf? I'll give you a beautiful necklace of wampum if you can help me find him."

Kingfisher flew down from the pine tree to a branch near the great spirit and said, "Yesterday I saw your brother Wolf fishing from Big Rock. A sea-serpent pulled him under the water. If you would rescue him you must watch on this side of the lake. When the sun is highest the sea-serpents come to the rocks to sun themselves."

Manabozho was so pleased with the information that he put a necklace of beautiful white wampum around Kingfisher's neck.

"You must not tell the serpents that I am watching for Wolf," said Manabozho.

But Kingfisher was looking in the mirror of the lake, admiring his new necklace, so he did not hear the great spirit's words. Manabozho became suspicious and seized the little bird by the head. Kingfisher wriggled and twisted, and finally freed himself from the hand of the angry Manabozho and flew away. But the feathers on Kingfisher's head were very much ruffled in the struggle, and he has worn them so ever since; also, to this day, he wears Manabozho's gift of the beautiful white necklace.

OWL WISDOM
Frances Wright

Once upon a time the owls were the largest and the most dull and stupid of all the birds of the air. While the eagle soared above the mountain's crest to hail the sun before his rising, and the lark carolled his matin in the blue fields of ether, the owls were snoring; when the thrush and the blackbird, retreating from the heat of noon, filled the deep groves with their melody, the owls snored out the sylvan concert; and when the soft cushat poured his evening tale of love into the ear of his listening mate, the owls were still snoring in their unbroken and dreamless sleep.

It chanced, most naturally, that when towards midnight, the heavy, big-headed creatures half-opened their stupid eyes, and half-stretched first one drowsy pinion and then the other, that their stomachs craved for food; whereupon, after much yawning and stretching, they dragged themselves from their holes and went prowling after bats and mice in the dark. Tired with their hunt, and not over content with their supper, which was both coarse and scanty, they thus laid their heads together, and, however dull by nature, and doubly dulled by sleep, they were for once stimulated by hunger and disappointment to something like ingenuity.

Said an old gray-headed owl: "This barbarous exercise ill suits with my years and my gravity."

"And this barbarous fare," said a pert, idle youngster, "ill suits with the youthful activity of my stomach."

"I'll stake my reputation upon it," said a third, shaking his dull head, "but that proud, self-sufficient gormandizing eagle has eaten a whole sheep for his supper."

"And I'll stake mine," yawned a fourth, "that his first cousin, the vulture, and his second cousin, the hawk, have feasted; the one on a fat lamb, and the other on a hen and chickens."

"Chut," said the first old grey-beard, "we'll feast ere long on sheep, lamb, hen, chickens, and all; ay! mayhap on the eagle's own little ones, to say nothing of his cousins."

"How so," hooted out the whole junto—"you would not fight the king of birds?"

"Let me alone for that; there are better weapons than beak or talons; and so he and his subjects shall find. But you must all aid in the enterprise."

"If there be no fighting, and not too much labour, and not too much——"

"Peace! there shall be nothing but sleeping!"

"Sleeping?"

"Ay! and some talking. But leave that to me."

Here all the heavy heads poked forward, closing in a circle round their Nestor; while all their great round eyes opened in full stare upon his.

"To-morrow you must all sleep as usual, until I give a long hoot; then you must all open your eyes and observe what shall chance."

Tired with so unusual a debate, all went to sleep accordingly, and snored louder than usual; until, just as the sun had awakened to full life and stir all the feathered tribe, the old owl hooted and screeched forth such a yell, as first terrified and then attracted on wings, spurred by curiosity, though still trembling with fear, every bird of the air from the giant eagle to the diminutive wren.

"A vision! a vision!" cried the owl; and again he screeched and again he hooted, rustling up all his feathers, flapping his wings, blinking his eyes, and tumbling head over tail like a bird distracted.

Every creature present stared and wondered.

"A vision, a vision! A miracle, a miracle!" again shouted the owl.

"I have seen a bird larger than the ostrich and stronger than the eagle. Lightnings flame from his eyes, and thunder roars from his beak. He has spoken; and lo! his command was: The owls are my servants and to them I make known my will. Let all the birds of the air hearken to their voice. Let them do their bidding, respect their repose, and feed them with the fat of the land; or, behold, I will feed upon them."

Thereupon, the owls set up a hoot in chorus, and all the birds scattered to the four winds to collect food for the servants to eat, lest the unseen master should eat them.

From this time forth these stupid owls were deemed the wisest of the birds of the air; they supped every night upon fat yearlings; and when they hooted all the feathered tribe clapped their wings and sang a song of praise.

BIRDS' NESTS
Ernest Ingersoll

A bird's nest is a bird's house. Sometimes it is strong, well made and tightly roofed, and sometimes it is not, just as with men's houses. The principal difference between the bird's house and ours is that we build ours to be used all the year round, while the bird prefers to make a new one each summer. There are some birds, such as the fish-hawk, however, that keep the same nest many years in succession, repairing it each spring; and I think more birds would do so were it not that their houses are usually made so slightly that the winter's gales knock them to pieces when the owners are absent at some Southern health resort. This is a pity, too, for many of our commonest nests are exceedingly pretty and call for a great deal of work and care on the part of the builders, whose only tools are their feet and beaks.

Take, for instance, the lovely hammock-like basket, hung by its rim beneath the fork of some low branch, which is made by the little grey, red-eyed vireo, which carols to us all the early summer days from every garden and orchard. Such a nest was hung in a maple close to my porch. The bird had built it within arm's length of where we were constantly passing, yet we never saw it until it was quite finished; and the only way we could get a look at it then was by pulling aside a branch. This care was not taken from fear of us, but in the hope that the cradle would escape the sharp eyes of red squirrels, weasels, bluejays, and other creatures who hunt for and rob birds' nests of eggs and young to get food for themselves. I am happy to say, however, that the vireo's nest was not disturbed.

How to hide their nests safely is the great question in the minds of all the little birds. The big, strong ones do not need to worry about that so much, because they can drive away most robbers; therefore, we find that the hawks and crows, jays, kingbirds, and others able to take care of themselves, usually set their baskets in the crotch of some tree, where they can be seen easily enough, but all nests of this kind are strongly made, and fastened so that the winds shall not rock them out of their places or spill the contents.

But the little birds try to hide their homes in various clever ways. A good many seek holes and crannies. The woodpeckers are able to dig these for themselves, for their beaks are like chisels. Others, like the wrens, bluebirds, nuthatches, chicadees, and so forth, find knot-holes, places where a branch has broken off, and various small hollows, in which to make their beds, where the young will be snug in bad weather, and pretty safe from all enemies except snakes.

Others, like the kingfisher, the sand-swallow, and certain sea-birds, make or find holes in earth-banks and rocky cliffs, so that their babies are born in a tiny cave. All of our swallows, before the country was settled by white people, lived in this manner or in hollow trees; but as soon as civilization came those we soon named barn-swallows left the wilds and put their nests under the roofs of barns and other outbuildings. Then some one, remembering the ways of old England, began to put bird-houses in the gardens; and now, in all parts of the United States, you may find those cousins of the swallows, the purple martins, living by the dozen in these lofty little hotels on the top of a pole.

The nests of the cliff-swallows are little jugs of mud, plastered by their bases to the face of the rock. The birds make them by bringing pellets of mud in their bills from some stream-side, and putting them one upon another, until each pair has formed a windowless, bottle-like house, with a front door like the neck of the jug, so small that no big bird can enter it. These are very safe and snug nests, and the birds can sit in their doorways and gossip with each other very sociably, for the nests are crowded together like the houses in a city block. This is the same kind of swallow that now puts its nest in rows along the outside of our barns under the eaves; but often they are mere cups instead of jugs, because the barn roof sheds the rain, and a clay roof is no longer necessary to protect the feather bed inside.

Another one of the small birds that is more and more coming to seek our protection and sympathy is the greenish-brown flycatcher that (as some folks think) calls out her own name every few minutes, Phoebe, Phoebe. She makes her home very solidly of mud and moss, lined with horse-hair, and in the old days always rested it on a ledge of rock, as many still do. Most of the phoebes, however, now think it easier and safer to get under a roof, and so they put their mossy cups on the stone piers or supporting timbers of bridges, among the rafters of sheds and porches, and in similar places.

A great number and wide variety of birds make their houses upon the ground. Most of the sea-birds do so—along the ledges of the sea-cliff. Nearly all the water fowl and game birds (except herons) also do so; and most of the ducks and similar birds nestle among the wet reeds of marshes, where their rude bedding is damp all the time and sometimes soaking wet. To keep their eggs warm when they have to leave them for a time, many of the ducks pluck a large quantity of downy feathers from their breasts with which to cover the eggs. The eider of the arctic regions is the foremost in this practice, and the eider-down sold in shops is gathered from their nests; but it is a habit of many other ducks. One of the most interesting of these ground-nest birds is the least bittern, a solitary bird frequenting swamps and marshy places.

Not only the water-birds, however, but some of the smallest and prettiest of our songsters choose to dwell and lay their eggs close to the ground, although they seem to be exposed there to many more dangers than are those in the treetops or elsewhere. None try more anxiously to hide their homes than do these ground-nesters, arching the grasses above them, or building little sheds of leaves to protect and hide the shining eggs. (Adapted.)

HATTO THE HERMIT: THE
LEGEND OF A BIRD'S NEST
Selma Lagerlöf

Hatto, the hermit, stood in the desert and prayed to God. The storm was on, and his long hair and beard blew about him as wind-whipped grass blows about an old ruin. But he did not brush back the hair from his eyes, nor did he fasten his long beard to his girdle, for his arms were raised in prayer. Since sunrise he had held his gaunt, hairy arms out-stretched toward heaven, as untiring as a tree stretching out its boughs, and thus he would remain until evening. It was a great thing for which he was praying.

He was a man who had suffered much from the wickedness and dishonesty of the world. He himself had persecuted and tortured others, and persecution and torture had been his portion, more than he could endure. Therefore, he had gone forth into the wilderness, had dug himself a cave on the river bank, and had become a holy man whose prayers found hearing at the throne of God.

Hatto, the hermit, stood on the river bank before his cave and prayed the great prayer of his life. He prayed God to send down the Day of Judgment upon this wicked world. He cried to the angels of the trumpets, who are to herald the end of the reign of sin.

Round about him was the wilderness, barren and desolate. But a little up the bank stood an old willow with shortened trunk, which swelled out at the top of a round hump like a queer head, and from it new, freshly green twigs were sprouting. Every autumn the peasants from the unwooded flatlands robbed the willow of her fresh new shoots. But every year the tree put forth new ones, and on stormy days the slender, flexible twigs whipped about the old willow, as hair and beard whipped about Hatto, the hermit.

It was just on this day that a pair of water thrushes, who usually built their nest on the trunk of the old willow between the new twigs, had decided to begin their work. But the wild whipping of the twigs disturbed the birds. They flew up with their bits of dry grass with nothing accomplished. Then it was that they caught sight of old Hatto.

No one now living can picture to himself how moss-grown and dried-up, how gnarled and black and generally unlike a human being, such an old desert hermit can become. His skin clung so close to forehead and cheekbones that his head looked like a skull, and only a tiny gleam down in the depth of his eyeballs showed that there was still life in him. The dried-up muscles gave no curve to the body; the outstretched naked arms were merely a couple of narrow bones, covered with hard, wrinkled, bark-like skin. He wore an old black cloak, clinging close to his body. He was tanned brown by the sun and black with dirt. His hair and beard alone were of a lighter shade, for rain and sunshine had faded them to the grey-green hue of the under side of willow leaves.

The birds, flying about uneasily and seeking a place for their nest, took Hatto the hermit to be another old willow cut off by axe and saw in its heavenward striving. They flew about him many times, flew away and returned again, took note of the guide posts on the way to him, calculated his position in regard to protection from storm and birds of prey, found it rather unfavourable, but decided to locate there on account of the close vicinity of the stream and the reeds, their chief source of supply. One of the birds shot down suddenly and laid a bit of grass in the hermit's outstretched hand.

The storm had abated a little, so that the straw was not blown from his hand at once, but the hermit did not pause in his prayer, "Come soon, O Lord, come to destroy this world of sin, that mankind may not more increase its load of guilt."

The storm roared out again, and the bit of grass fluttered out of the hermit's great bony hand. But the birds came again and endeavoured to erect the cornerstone of their new home between his fingers. Suddenly a dirty, clumsy thumb laid itself over the grass spears and held them in firm position, while four fingers reached over the palm, making a peaceful niche where a nest would be safe. The hermit continued his untiring supplications, and before his eyes danced fever visions of the day of judgment. The earth trembled, the skies shot fire. He saw the black clouds of hurrying birds beneath the glowing firmament; herds of fleeing animals spread over the earth. But while his soul was filled with these visions of fever, his eyes began to watch the flight of the tiny birds that came and went with lightning dashes, laying new straws in the nest with little chirps of pleasure.

The old man did not move. He had made a vow to stand the entire day with outstretched arms, in order to force God to hear him.

The little thrushes built and built busily all the day, and their work progressed finely. There was no lack of material in this wilderness of rolling ground with stiff grass and brush, and on the river bank, with its reeds and rushes. They could not take time for dinner or supper. They flew back and forth, glowing with interest and pleasure, and when dusk came they had reached the peak of their roof.

But before evening fell the hermit's eyes had come to rest on their labour more and more. He watched them in their flight; he scolded them when they were clumsy; he grieved when the wind spoiled their efforts, and he became almost angry when they stopped a moment to rest.

Then the sun sank and the birds sought their accustomed resting place among the reeds, safe from all harm, for no enemy could approach without a warning splash of the water or a quivering of the reeds.

When the morning broke, the thrushes thought at first that the events of the preceding day had been but a beautiful dream.

They found their guideposts and flew straight to their nest, but the nest had disappeared. They peered out over the moors and flew high up to gain a wider view. But there was no sign of nest or tree. Finally they sat down on a stone by the water and thought the matter over. They wagged their tails and turned their heads to right and left. Where were nest and tree?

But scarcely had the sun raised itself a hand's breadth over the belt of woods beyond the stream, when their tree suddenly came wandering up and stood itself upon the selfsame place it had occupied the day before. It was as black and as gnarled as before, and it carried their nest on the tip of something that was probably a thin, upright bough.

The birds began to build again without attempting to ponder further over the many miracles of nature.

Hatto, the hermit, who chased the little children from his cave and told them it were better for them if they had never seen the light of day; he who waded out deep into the mud of the river to hurl curses after the flagged boats filled with gay young people rowing past; he from whose evil glance the shepherds carefully guarded their flocks, he did not return to his place on the river bank because of thought for the little birds. But he knew that not only every letter in the Holy Book has its own mystical meaning, but that everything that God allows to happen in the natural world has its significance also. And he had discovered what it might mean, this sign of the birds building in his hand: God had willed that he should stand with outstretched arm until the birds had raised their young—could he do this, then would his prayer be heard.

But on this day his glance followed the motions of the birds with greater attention. He saw the rapid completion of the nest. The tiny builders flew around it and examined it carefully. They brought a few rags of moss from the real willow and plastered them on the outside as a finishing decoration. They brought the softest young grass, and the female bird pulled the down from her breast to furnish the inside.

The peasants of the neighbourhood, who feared the evil power which the prayers of the hermit might have with God, were used to bring him bread and milk to soften his anger. They came now, and found him standing motionless, the bird's nest in his hand.

"See how the holy man loves the little creatures," they said, and feared him no longer. They raised the milk can to his lips and fed him with the bread. When he had eaten and drunk he drove them away with curses, but they smiled at his anger.

His body had long since become the servant of his will. He had taught it obedience by hunger and scourge, by days of kneeling and sleepless nights. Now his muscles of steel held his arm outstretched days and weeks, and while the mother bird sat on her eggs and did not leave the nest, he would not go to his cave even to sleep at night. He learned how to sleep standing with outstretched arm.

He grew accustomed to the two uneasy little eyes that peered down at him over the edge of the nest. He watched for rain and hail, and protected the nest as well as he could.

One day the little mother left her place. Both thrushes sat on the edge of the nest, their tails moving rapidly, holding great consultation and looking very happy, although the whole nest seemed filled with a frightened squeaking. After a little they set out upon an energetic gnat hunt.

One gnat after another fell before them, and was brought home to that which squeaked and peeped up there in his hand. And the peeping grew more intense whenever the food was brought in. It disturbed the holy man at his prayers. Gently, very gently, his arm sank down on the joints that had almost lost the power of motion, until his deep-set, glowing eyes peered into the nest.

Never had he seen anything so ugly and so miserable—naked little bodies, with a few scattered down tufts, no eyes, no strength to fly, nothing but six great open beaks.

He could not understand it himself, but he liked them just as they were. He had not thought to make an exception of the old birds in his prayers for the great Doom, but when he now implored God to release the world through utter destruction, he made a silent exception in favour of these six little helpless creatures.

When the peasant women brought him food he no longer rewarded them with curses. As he was necessary for the little ones up there in his hand, he was glad that the people did not let him starve.

Soon six little round heads peered all day over the edge of the nest. Old Hatto's arm sank to the level of his eyes more and more frequently. He saw the feathers grow out of the red skin; he saw the eyes open and the little bodies round out. The fortunate inheritance of all the beauty with which nature endows the feathered denizens of the air came early into their heritage.

---

And, meanwhile, the prayers for the great destruction came more and more slowly from Hatto's lips.

He believed he had God's promise that it should come as soon as the little birds were able to fly. And now he stood there seeking an escape from God. For he could not sacrifice these six little ones, whom he had watched and cared for.

It had been different before, when he had had nothing of his own to care for. Love of the small and the helpless—that love which every little child must teach to the dangerous grown man—this love came over him and made him hesitate.

Sometimes he wished that he could throw the entire nest into the stream, for he still believed that those alone are to be envied who die without having known care or sin. Was it not his duty to save these little ones from beasts of prey, from cold and hunger and all of the many ills of life? But just as he was pondering on this, a hawk swooped down on the nest to kill the little ones. Hatto caught the robber in his left hand, whirled him around his head, and threw him far out into the stream.

Then came the day when the little ones were ready to fly. One of the old birds sat inside the nest, trying to push the young ones out on the edge, while the other flew about and showed them how easy it was if they would only try. But as the young ones would not overcome their fear, both old birds flew out before them, showing off all their prettiest arts and tricks. They turned and twisted in the air, they shot up straight as does the lark, or they hung motionless on rapidly fluttering wings.

But the little ones would not move, and then Hatto decided to interfere in the matter himself. He gave them a careful push with one finger, and thus ended the dispute. They tumble out, trembling and uncertain, hitting at the air as bats do; they sink down, but rise up again; they find the proper motion and use it at once to regain the nest. The old birds come back to them in happy pride, and Hatto chuckles.

It was he who had brought the matter to such a happy conclusion. And now he pondered most seriously the question as to whether a loophole of escape could be found for God.

Perhaps, when one comes to think of it, God holds this earth like a bird's nest in His right hand and perhaps He loves those within it—all the helpless children of earth. Perhaps He is merciful to them whom He had vowed to destroy, just as the hermit was merciful to the little birds. Of course the hermit's birds were much better than God's human beings, but he could still understand that God might have pity for them in His heart.

Next day the nest was empty, and the bitterness of loneliness came over the hermit. His arm sank slowly down at his side, and it seemed to him that all nature held its breath to hear the roar of the trumpets announcing the Last Judgment. But in the same moment all the birds returned and settled down on his head and shoulders, for they had no fear of him. And a light shot through the tortured brain of the old hermit. He had lowered his arm every day to look at the birds.

And then, as he stood there, the six young birds flying about him, he nodded, smiling, to some one whom he could not see.

"Thou art free," he said. "Thou art free. I did not keep my vow, therefore Thou needst not keep Thine."

And it seemed to him that the hills ceased from trembling and that the river sank quietly into its bed to rest.