Nature's Serial Story Part 17

Indeed, from the look of this fellow's eye, it was evident that he would be dangerous to any one. "I will follow you home, and after you have exhibited him we will kill him scientifically. He is a splendid specimen, and not a feather need be ruffled."

Burt drove around to the Rev. Mr. Barkdale's and some others of his nearest neighbors and friends in a sort of triumphal progress; but Amy grew uneasy at her close proximity to so formidable a companion, fearing that he would thaw out. Many were the exclamations of wonder and curiosity when they reached home. Alf went nearly wild, and little Johnnie's eyes overflowed with tears when she learned that the regal bird must die. As for Ned, had he not been restrained he would have given the eagle a chance to devour him.

"So, Burt, you have your eagle after all," said his mother, looking with more pleasure and interest on the flushed, eager face of her handsome boy than upon his captive. "Well, you and Amy have had an adventure."

"I always have good fortune and good times when you are with me," Burt whispered in an aside to Amy.

"Always is a long time," she replied, turning away; but he was too excited to note that she did not reciprocate his manner, and he was speedily engaged in a discussion as to the best method of preserving the eagle in the most life-like att.i.tude. After a general family council it was decided that his future perch should be in a corner of the parlor, and within a few days he occupied it, looking so natural that callers were often startled by his lifelike appearance.

"Think how his mate must miss him!" Maggie would often say, remorsefully.

As the day grew old the ice on the trees melted and fell away in myriads of gemlike drops. Although the sun shone brightly, there was a sound without as of rain. By four in the afternoon the pageant was over, the sky clouded again, and the typical March outlook was re-established.

CHAPTER XXI

SPRING'S HARBINGERS

Amy was awakened on the following morning by innumerable bird-notes, not songs, but loud calls. Hastening to the window, she witnessed a scene very strange to her eyes. All over the gra.s.s of the lawn and on the ground of the orchard beyond was a countless flock of what seemed to her quarter-grown chickens. A moment later the voice of Alf resounded through the house, crying, "The robins have come!" Very soon nearly all the household were on the piazza to greet these latest arrivals from the South; and a pretty scene of life and animation they made, with their yellow bills, jaunty black heads, and brownish red b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"_t.u.r.dus migratorius_, as the doctor would say," remarked Burt; "and migrants they are with a vengeance. Last night there was not one to be seen, and now here are thousands. They are on their way north, and have merely alighted to feed."

"Isn't it odd how they keep their distance from each other?" said Webb.

"You can scarcely see two near together, but every few feet there is a robin, as far as the eye can reach. Yes, and there are some high-holders in the orchard also. They are shyer than the robins, and don't come so near the house. You can tell them, Amy, by their yellow bodies and brown wings. I have read that they usually migrate with the robins. I wonder how far this flock flew last--ah, listen!"

Clear and sweet came an exquisite bird-song from an adjacent maple. Webb took off his hat in respectful greeting to the minstrel.

"Why," cried Amy, "that little brown bird cannot be a robin."

"No," he answered, "that is my favorite of all the earliest birds--the song-sparrow. You remember what Dr. Marvin said about him the other evening? I have been looking for my little friend for a week past, and here he is. The great tide of migration has turned northward."

"He is my favorite too," said his father. "Every spring for over seventy years I remember hearing his song, and it is just as sweet and fresh to me as ever. Indeed, it is enriched by a thousand memories."

For two or three days the robins continued plentiful around the house, and their loud "military calls," as Burroughs describes them, were heard at all hours from before the dawn into the dusk of night, but they seemed to be too excited over their northward journey or their arrival at their old haunts to indulge in the leisure of song. They reminded one of the advent of an opera company. There was incessant chattering, a flitting to and fro, bustle and excitement, each one having much to say, and no one apparently stopping to listen. The majority undoubtedly continued their migration, for the great flocks disappeared. It is said that the birds that survive the vicissitudes of the year return to their former haunts, and it would seem that they drop out of the general advance as they reach the locality of the previous summer's nest, to which they are guided by an unerring instinct.

The evening of the third day after their arrival was comparatively mild, and the early twilight serene and quiet. The family were just sitting down to supper when they heard a clear, mellow whistle, so resonant and penetrating as to arrest their attention, although doors and windows were closed. Hastening to the door they saw on the top of one of the tallest elms a robin, with his crimson breast lighted up by the setting sun, and his little head lifted heavenward in the utterance of what seemed the perfection of an evening hymn. Indeed, in that bleak, dim March evening, with the long, chill night fast falling and the stormy weeks yet to come, it would be hard to find a finer expression of hope and faith.

The robin is a bird of contrasts. Peculiarly domestic in his haunts and habits, he resembles his human neighbors in more respects than one. He is much taken up with his material life, and is very fond of indulging his large appet.i.te. He is far from being aesthetic in his house or housekeeping, and builds a strong, coa.r.s.e nest of the handiest materials and in the handiest place, selecting the latter with a confidence in boy-nature and cat-nature that is often misplaced. He is noisy, bustling, and important, and as ready to make a raid on a cherry-tree or a strawberry-bed as is the average youth to visit a melon-patch by moonlight. He has a careless, happy-go-lucky air, unless irritated, and then is as eager for a "square set-to" in robin fas.h.i.+on as the most approved scion of chivalry. Like man, he also seems to have a spiritual element in his nature; and, as if inspired and lifted out of his grosser self by the dewy freshness of the morning and the shadowy beauty of the evening, he sings like a saint, and his pure, sweet notes would never lead one to suspect that he was guilty of habitual gormandizing. He settles down into a good husband and father, and, in brief, reminds one of the st.u.r.dy English squire who is sincerely devout over his prayer-book on proper occasions, and between times takes all the goods the G.o.ds send.

In the morning little Johnnie came to the breakfast-table in a state of great excitement. It soon appeared that she had a secret that she would tell no one but Amy--indeed, she would not tell it, but show it; and after breakfast she told Amy to put on her rubber boots and come with her, warning curious Alf meanwhile to keep his distance. Leading the way to a sunny angle in the garden fence, she showed Amy the first flower of the year. Although it was a warm, sunny spot, the snow had drifted there to such an extent that the icy base of the drift still partially covered the ground, and through a weak place in the melting ice a snow-drop had pushed its green, succulent leaves and hung out its modest little blossom. The child, brought up from infancy to feel the closest sympathy with nature, fairly trembled with delight over this _avant-coureur_ of the innumerable flowers which it was her chief happiness to gather. As if in sympathy with the exultation of the child, and in appreciation of all that the pale little blossom foreshadowed, a song-sparrow near trilled out its sweetest lay, a robin took up the song, and a pair of bluebirds pa.s.sed overhead with their undulating flight and soft warble. Truly spring had come in that nook of the old garden, even though the mountains were still covered with snow, the river was full of floating ice, and the wind chill with the breath of winter. Could there have been a fairer or more fitting committee of reception than little Johnnie, believing in all things, hoping all things, and brown-haired, hazel-eyed Amy, with the first awakenings of womanhood in her heart?

CHAPTER XXII

"FIRST TIMES"

At last Nature was truly awakening, and color was coming into her pallid face. On every side were increasing movement and evidences of life. Sunny hillsides were free from snow, and the oozing frost loosed the hold of stones upon the soil or the clay of precipitous banks, leaving them to the play of gravitation. Will the world become level if there are no more upheavals? The ice of the upper Hudson was journeying toward the sea that it would never reach. The sun smote it, the high winds ground the honey-combed cakes together, and the ebb and flow of the tide permitted no pause in the work of disintegration. By the middle of March the blue water predominated, and adventurous steamers had already picked and pounded their way to and from the city.

Only those deeply enamored of Nature feel much enthusiasm for the first month of spring; but for them this season possesses a peculiar fascination.

The beauty that has been so cold and repellent in relenting--yielding, seemingly against her will, to a wooing that cannot be repulsed by even her harshest moods. To the vigilance of love, sudden, unexpected smiles are granted; and though, as if these were regretted, the frown quickly returns, it is often less forbidding. It is a period full of delicious, soul-thrilling "first times," the coy, exquisite beginnings of that final abandonment to her suitor in the sky. Although she veils her face for days with clouds, and again and again greets him in the dawn, wrapped in her old icy reserve, he smiles back his answer, and she cannot resist. Indeed, there soon come warm, still, bright days whereon she feels herself going, but does not even protest. Then, as if suddenly conscious of lost ground, she makes a pa.s.sionate effort to regain her wintry aspect. It is so pa.s.sionate as to betray her, so stormy as to insure a profounder relenting, a warmer, more tearful, and penitent smile after her wild mood is over. She finds that she cannot return to her former sustained coldness, and so at last surrenders, and the frost pa.s.ses wholly from her heart.

To Alf's and Johnnie's delight it so happened that one of these gentlest moods of early spring occurred on Sat.u.r.day--that weekly millennium of school-children. With plans and preparations matured, they had risen with the sun, and, scampering back and forth over the frozen ground and the remaining patches of ice and snow, had carried every pail and pan that they could coax from their mother to a rocky hillside whereon cl.u.s.tered a few sugar-maples. Webb, the evening before, had inserted into the sunny sides of the trees little wooden troughs, and from these the tinkling drip of the sap made a music sweeter than that of the robins to the eager boy and girl.

At the breakfast-table each one was expatiating on the rare promise of the day. Even Mrs. Clifford, awakened by the half subdued clatter of the children, had seen the brilliant, rose tinted dawn.

"The day cannot be more beautiful than was the night," Webb remarked. "A little after midnight I was awakened by a clamor from the poultry, and suspecting either two or four footed thieves, I was soon covering the hennery with my gun. As a result, Sir Mephitis, as Burroughs calls him, lies stark and stiff near the door. After watching awhile, and finding no other marauders abroad, I became aware that it was one of the most perfect nights I had ever seen. It was hard to imagine that, a few hours before, a gale had been blowing under a cloudy sky. The moonlight was so clear that I could see to read distinctly. So attractive and still was the night that I started for an hour's walk up the boulevard, and when near Idlewild brook had the fortune to empty the other barrel of my gun into a great horned owl. How the echoes resounded in the quiet night! The changes in April are more rapid, but they are on a grander scale this month."

"It seems to me," laughed Burt, "that your range of topics is even more sublime. From Sir Mephitis to romantic moonlight and lofty musings, no doubt, which ended with a screech-owl."

"The great horned is not a screech-owl, as you ought to know. Well, Nature is to blame for my alternations. I only took the goods the G.o.ds sent."

"I hope you did not take cold," said Maggie. "The idea of prowling around at that time of night!"

"Webb was in hopes that Nature might bestow upon him some confidences by moonlight that he could not coax from her in broad day. I shall seek better game than you found. Ducks are becoming plenty in the river, and all the conditions are favorable for a crack at them this morning. So I shall paddle out with a white coat over my clothes, and pretend to be a cake of ice. If I bring you a canvas-back, Amy, will you put the wishbone over the door?"

"Not till I have locked it and hidden the key."

Without any pre-arranged purpose the day promised to be given up largely to country sport. Burt had taken a lunch, and would not return until night, while the increasing warmth and brilliancy of the suns.h.i.+ne, and the children's voices from the maple grove, soon lured Amy to the piazza.

"Come," cried Webb, who emerged from the wood-house with an axe on his shoulder, "don rubber boots and wraps, and we'll improvise a male-sugar camp of the New England style a hundred years ago. We should make the most of a day like this."

They soon joined the children on the hillside, whither Abram had already carried a capacious iron pot as black as himself. On a little terrace that was warm and bare of snow, Webb set up cross-sticks in gypsy fas.h.i.+on, and then with a chain supended the pot, the children dancing like witches around it. Mr. Clifford and little Ned now appeared, the latter joining in the eager quest for dry sticks. Not far away was a large tree that for several years had been slowly dying, its few living branches having flushed early in September, in their last glow, which had been premature and hectic. Dry sticks would make little impression on the sap that now in the warmer light dropped faster from the wounded maples, and therefore to supply the intense heat that should give them at least a rich syrup before night, Webb threw off his coat and attacked the defunct veteran of the grove. Amy watched his vigorous strokes with growing zest; and he, conscious of her eyes, struck strong and true. Leonard, not far away, was removing impediments from the courses, thus securing a more rapid flow of the water and promoting the drainage of the land. He had sent up his cheery voice from time to time, but now joined the group, to witness the fall of a tree that had been old when he had played near it like his own children to-day. The echoes of the ringing axe came back to them from an adjacent hillside; a squirrel barked and "snickered," as if he too were a party to the fun; crows overhead cawed a protest at the destruction of their ancient perch; but with steady and remorseless stroke the axe was driven through the concentric rings on either side into the tree's dead heart. At last, as fibre after fibre was cut away, it began to tremble. The children stood breathless and almost pitying as they saw the s.h.i.+ver, apparently conscious, which followed each blow.

Something of the same callousness of custom with which the fall of a man is witnessed must blunt one's nature before he can look unmoved upon the destruction of a familiar tree.

As the dead maple trembled more and more violently, and at last swayed to and fro in the breathless air, Amy cried, "Webb! Webb! come away!"

She had hardly spoken when, with a slow and stately motion, the lofty head bowed; there was a rush through the air, an echoing crash upon the rocks. She sprang forward with a slight cry, but Webb, leaning his axe on the prostrate bole, looked smilingly at her, and said, "Why, Amy, there is no more danger in this work than in cutting a stalk of corn, if one knows how."

"There appears to be more," she replied. "I never saw a large tree cut down before, but have certainly read of people being crushed. Does it often happen?"

"No, indeed."

"By the way, Amy," said Leonard, "the wood-chopper that you visited with me is doing so well that we shall give him work on the farm this summer.

There was a little wheat in all that chaff of a man, and it's beginning to grow. But the wife is a case. He says he would like to work where he can see you occasionally."

"I have been there twice with Webb since, and shall go oftener when the roads are better," she replied, simply.

"That's right, Amy; follow up a thing," said Mr. Clifford. "It's better to _help_ one family than to try to help a dozen. That was a good clean cut, Webb," he added, examining the stump. "I dislike to see a tree haggled down."

"How strong you are, Webb!" said Amy. "I suppose that if you had lived a few hundred years ago you would have been hacking at people in the same way."

"And so might have been a hero, and won your admiration if you had lived then in some gray castle, with the floor of your bower strewn with rushes. Now there is no career for me but that of a plain farmer."