Chapter III: Part 3

The name of Robin makes us think at once of the jolliest and most sociable of all our little brother birds. In every land the name is a favorite, and wherever he goes he brings happiness and kind feeling.

The American Robin is not the same bird as his English cousin, though both have red breasts.

It was in a different manner that our little American friend came to have the ruddy waistcoat which we know so well.

There was a time, so the Indians say, a very early time, long, long before Columbus discovered America,--even before histories began to be written,--when there were no Robins.

In those days in the land of the Ojibways, which is far in the north of the cold country, there lived an old Indian chief who had one son, named Iadilla. Now among the Ojibways, when a boy was almost big enough to become a warrior, before he could go out with the other braves to the hunt or to war, there was a great trial which he must undergo. Other lands and peoples have known similar customs. You remember how, in early Christian times, long, long ago, Galahad and other boys had to fast and watch by their armor during the long night hours before they could become knights, to wear spurs and shield and sword? In just the same way a brown Ojibway lad had to make a long fast in order to win the love of his Guardian Spirit, who would after that watch over him to make him brave and strong. It was a very important event in a boy's life, like graduation from school or college nowadays. For this meant the graduation from boyhood into manhood, the winning of a warrior's diploma.

The father of Iadilla was a brave warrior, a famous chief. But he wished his son to become even better, wiser, greater than he had been. He resolved that the boy should fast longer and harder than ever a lad had fasted before. For he believed that this was the way to make him the noblest of his race. Iadilla was a fine handsome lad, but he was the youngest one who had ever made the trial, and there were many bigger boys than he who were not yet warriors. The other chiefs said that he was not yet old and strong enough.

But Iadilla's father declared that it was time, and bade his son gather courage and pride for the ordeal. "For," he said, "it will be no easy matter, my son, to become the greatest chief of the Ojibways."

"My father," replied Iadilla, humbly, "I will do as you wish. I will do what I can. But my strength is not the strength of the bigger boys; and I think it is yet early to talk of my becoming greatest of the Ojibways. Yet make trial of me, if you wish."

The father of Iadilla had made a little tent of skins where the boy was to live during his fasting time; where he was to lie without food or drink for twelve long days, waiting for a message from the Guardian Spirit whose love was to be the reward of such a trial.

When the time came, the old man led Iadilla to the lodge and bade him lie down on the bed of skins which had been prepared for him. And Iadilla did as he was bid, for he was a brave and obedient lad.

The days crept by, the long, long days of waiting, while Iadilla lay in the lodge bearing hunger and thirst such as no Ojibway lad had ever before known. All day and all night he lay still and spoke never a word. But a dreadful fear was in his heart lest he should not be able to endure the fast for the twelve days which his father had set.

Every morning his father came to the lodge to praise and to encourage him, and to rejoice in one more day checked from the long time of fasting. So eight days passed, and the old man was proud and happy. Already his dear son had done more than any Ojibway lad, and the whole tribe was praising Iadilla, saying what a great chief he would be in the days to come.

But on the ninth morning, when the father peeped into the lodge to see how bravely his son was faring, the boy turned his head toward the door and spoke for the first time in all those long days. He was very thin and pale, and his voice sounded weak.

"My father," he said, "I have slept, and my dreams were sad. I have slept, and my dreams were of failure and weakness. The time does not please my Guardian Spirit. It is not now that I can become a warrior. I am not yet strong and old enough. O my father, I cannot bear the fast longer! I am so hungry, so thirsty, so faint! Let me break my fast, and try again in another year."

But the father sternly refused, for he was ambitious. "Nay, lad," he cried, frowningly. "Would you fail me now? Think of the glory, think of being the greatest of Ojibways. It is but a few short days now. Courage, Iadilla, be a man in strength and patience."

Iadilla said no more. He wrapped himself closer in his blanket and drew his belt tighter about his slender waist, trying to stifle the hunger gnawing there. So he lay silently until the eleventh day. That morning his father came to the lodge, beaming proudly.

"Bravo, my Iadilla!" he cried. "Only one day more, and you will be released from your fast." But Iadilla clasped his hands beseechingly.

"My father," gasped the poor boy. "I cannot bear it another day. I am not fit to be a great chief. I have failed. Give me food, or I die!"

But again the father refused. "It is but a day now," he said, "but a few short hours. Bear a little longer, Iadilla. To-morrow I myself will bring you the finest breakfast that ever a lad ate. Courage, boy, for the few hours that remain."

Iadilla was too weak to answer. He lay motionless, with only a gentle heaving of his breast to show that he still lived. His father left him for the last time, and went to prepare the morrow's goodly breakfast, while the tribe planned a fine festival in honor of the young hero.

Early on the morrow came Iadilla's father to the tent, proudly bearing the breakfast for his brave boy, and smiling to think how gladly he would be received. But he stopped outside the tent door surprised to hear some one talking within. Stooping to a little hole in the skin of the tent he peeped in to find who the speaker might be. Imagine his surprise to find Iadilla standing upright in the middle of the tent painting his breast a brilliant red, as Indians do in war time. And as he daubed on the colors he talked to himself. He spoke softly, yet not with the weak voice of a starving lad; and his face was very beautiful to see, despite its pale thinness.

"My father has ended my Indian life," he said. "My father, too ambitious, has put upon me more than my strength could bear. He would not listen to my prayer of weakness. But I knew, I knew! And my kind Guardian Spirit knew also that it was more than I could bear. He has shown pity, seeing that I was obedient to my father and did my best to please him. Now I am to be no longer an Indian boy. I must take the shape which the Spirit has given me, and go away."

At these strange words the father broke into the tent, exclaiming in terror,--

"My son, my dear son! Do not leave me!"

But, even as he spoke, Iadilla changed into a beautiful Robin Redbreast with soft feathers and strong, firm wings. And, fluttering up to the ridgepole of the tent, he looked down with pity and tenderness upon the heart-broken chief.

"Do not grieve, father," he sang. "I shall be so much happier as a bird, free from human pain and sorrow. I will cheer you with my merry songs. Oh, I have been hungry; but now I shall get my food so easily, so pleasantly on mountains and in the fields. Oh, once I was thirsty; but now the dew is mine and the little springs. Once I traced my way painfully by forest paths through bog and brake and tangled brier. But now my pathways are in the bright, clear air, where never thorn can tear nor beast can follow. Farewell, dear father! I am so happy!"

He stretched his brown wings as easily as if he had worn them all his life, and, singing a sweet song, fluttered away to the neighboring woods, where he built his nest, and lived happily ever after.

And since that day the glad little Robins have lived as that first one promised, close by the homes of men, and have done all they could to cheer us and make us happy. For they remember how, once upon a time, their ancestor was a human boy.

THE INQUISITIVE WOMAN

There was once a woman who was so very inquisitive that she wished to know everything. She was never happy unless she was poking her nose into some mystery, and the less a matter concerned her the more curious she was about it.

One day the Lord gathered together all the insects in the world, all the beetles, bugs, bees, mosquitoes, ants, locusts, grasshoppers, and other creatures who fly or hop or crawl, and shut them up in a huge sack well tied at the end. What a queer, squirming, muffled-buzzing bundle it made, to be sure!

Then the Lord called the woman to him and said, "Woman, I would have you take this sack and throw it into the sea. But be sure and do not untie the end of it to look inside; for the sack must on no account be opened, even for a single minute."

The woman took the sack, wondering very much at the queer size and shape and feeling of it, and especially at the strange noises which came from the inside.

"What can be in the sack?" she said to herself. "Oh, I wish I knew! Oh, _how_ I wish I knew! Oh, how very, _very_ much I wish I knew!" Her curiosity increased every minute as she went step by step towards the sea, until when she had gone scarcely a hundred paces she stopped short and said, "I must know what is inside this sack before I go any farther. I will take just one tiny little peep, and He will never know it."

Very carefully she untied the neck of the sack. Buzz! Whirr! Hum! Zim! She had opened it but a tiny little crack when out crawled and hopped and flew the millions and swarms and colonies of all kinds of insects, and away they scattered in every direction. Such a noise as filled the air about the astonished woman's head! Such a wriggling and squirming and hopping in the grass about her feet!

"Oh, now I know what was in the sack!" she cried. "But I wish I had not looked. Oh, whatever shall I do? He told me to throw the bag into the ocean without looking in. But now the horrid creatures have escaped everywhere and He will know what I have done. Oh, what will He do to punish me?"

She began to run hither and yon like a crazy woman, picking up the bugs and jumping for the fluttering insects, trying to put them back into the bag. They stung her and bit her and got into her eyes until she screamed with pain. As fast as she caught one another escaped, and she soon saw that it was a hopeless task. She could never catch the millions of creatures who had scattered away to their homes in every corner of the world.

Then the Lord came to her and said very sternly, "O Woman, you have disobeyed me, just as did the very first woman of all. And you must be punished both for your disobedience and for your inquisitiveness which has led you into the worse sin. Not until you have gathered up every one of these insects which you have permitted to escape back into the world shall you be happy. But I will give you wings to help you in the task. You shall become a Woodpecker, and it shall be your task to hunt, hunt for the insects which hide away so slyly at your approach. Not till the last one of these is gobbled up from the earth shall you return to your own shape and be a woman once more."

Then the Lord changed the inquisitive woman into a restless Woodpecker, and with a "tut-tut!" she darted away in pursuit of the insects which had brought her into such trouble.

And that is why to this day one sees the Woodpecker pecking so frantically on the tree trunks, anxious lest a single insect should escape. For she is very tired of being a bird, and is longing to become a woman once more. But it will be a very long time, I fear, before she gathers up all the wriggling, squirming, hopping, buzzing, stinging, biting things that make life in the country so varied, exciting, and musical.

WHY THE NIGHTINGALE WAKES

When the other birds are sound asleep in their nests, with their little heads tucked comfortably under their feathers, Sister Nightingale, they say, may not rest, but still sounds the notes of her beautiful song in grove and thicket.

Why does she sing thus, all night long as well as through the day? It is because she dares not go to sleep on account of the Blindworm, who is waiting to catch her with her eyes closed.

Once upon a time, when the world was very new, the Blindworm was not quite blind, but had one good eye. Moreover, in those days the Nightingale also had but one eye. As for the Blindworm, it mattered very little; for he was a homely creature, content to crawl about in the dark underground, or under wood and leaves, where nobody saw him and nobody cared. But the Nightingale's case was really quite too pitiful! Fancy the sweetest singer among all the birds, the favorite chorister, going about with but one eye, while every one else, even the tiniest little Humming Bird of all, had two.

The Nightingale felt very sore about this matter, and tried to conceal her misfortune from the other birds. She managed to cock her head the other way whenever she met a friend, and she always flew past any stranger so fast that he never saw the empty socket where her other pretty eye should be.

But one day there was great excitement among the birds. Miss Jenny Wren was going to be married to young Cock Robin. There was to be a grand wedding; every one was invited, and of course the Nightingale was needed to lead the bridal chorus of feathered songsters. But the poor Nightingale was set in a flutter of anxiety by the news.

"Oh, dear me!" she said, "I do want to go to Jenny's wedding, oh, of course I do! But how can I go? If I do, the other birds will discover that I have but one eye, and then how the disagreeable creatures will laugh at me. Oh dear, oh dear! What shall I do? I cannot go, no, I really cannot. But what excuse can I give? Oh, it is not right that the sweetest singer in all Birdland should be laughed at, merely because she has the misfortune to lack one poor little eye!"

The Nightingale sat on the branch, singing so mournfully that all the creatures on the ground below went sorrowfully about their daily business. Just then the Nightingale spied a silvery gleam among the dead leaves. It was the Blindworm, a spotted gray streak, writhing noiselessly along towards the decayed wood of a fallen tree, in which he loved to burrow. And the Blindworm was not sad like the others, neither seemed he to care in the least about the Nightingale's music. Worms think little of sweet sounds. He cocked his one eye up towards the Nightingale and winked maliciously. He alone of all creatures knew the Nightingale's secret.

"Good-day, Sister Nightingale," he said. "How is your eye this morning? We have a goodly pair between us; though I think that mine is rather the better of the two."

Then he disappeared into a tiny opening. For though the Blindworm is nearly a foot long he is so smooth and slippery that he can enter a hole which is almost smaller than himself.

The Nightingale was very indignant at being addressed in this familiar way by a miserable, crawling creature who not only could not fly, but who could not sing a note, and did not know _do_ from _fa_. Besides, it made her angry to think that he knew her secret and talked aloud about it so that any one might hear.

"The idea!" she cried. "It is bad enough that I cannot go to the wedding of my dear friend Jenny. But to be jeered at by this creature, it is more than I can bear. Ha! I have an idea. I will punish him and help myself at the same time. I will steal his one eye and wear it to Jenny Wren's wedding; then no one will ever discover my misfortune."

Now this was an excellent scheme, but it was not so easy to carry it out as the Nightingale had thought. For the Blindworm was very timid and kept himself carefully hidden in his burrow of soft soil, as if he half suspected the Nightingale's plans. Day after day the Nightingale kept eager watch upon his movements, and at last, on the very eve of the wedding, when she had almost given up hope, she spied the Blindworm sound asleep on the moss under a tall tree.

"Ha!" said the Nightingale to herself very softly. "Now is my chance!" She fluttered into the top of the oak tree, and from there hopped down from branch to branch, from twig to twig, until she was directly over the sleeper's ugly head, over the one closed eye. Then _whirr_! Down she pounced upon the Blindworm. And before the creature had a chance to know what was happening, the Nightingale had stolen his eye, and had popped it into place in the empty socket on the other side of her beak.

"Ha, ha!" she sang merrily. "Now I have two bright eyes, as good as any one's. Now I can go to Jenny Wren's wedding as gayly as I please, and no one shall see more of the ceremony than I. I shall be able to tell just exactly how the bride is dressed, how every little feather is arranged, and how she looks after Parson Crow has pronounced the blessing. Oh, how happy I am!"

But the poor Blindworm, blind indeed from that day forth, began to cry and lament, begging the Nightingale to give him back his eye.

"Nay," said the Nightingale, "did you not laugh at me when you saw me sadly sitting on the tree, mourning because I could not go to the wedding? Now I have stolen your eye, and I can see famously. But you will never again see me sitting sadly on the tree."

Then the Blindworm grew very angry. "I will get the eye back!" he cried. "I will steal it from you, as you stole it from me, some time when you are asleep. I will climb up into your nest some night, and I will take both your eyes of which you are so proud. Then you will be blind, wholly blind as I am now."

At these threatening words the Nightingale ceased to sing and became silent with fear. For she knew that the Blindworm would do as he said. But again a brilliant thought came to her.

"Nay!" she trilled gladly. "That you shall never do. I will never sleep again. I will keep awake always, night and day, with my two bright eyes ever looking out for danger. Yes, yes, yes! No one shall ever catch me napping."

"You cannot help yourself," said the Blindworm. "You cannot keep awake. You will drowse in spite of everything. I shall yet find you asleep some night, and then beware!"

"Nay, nay!" warbled the Nightingale, as she flew away to make herself fine for the wedding. "I shall sing, sing, sing night and day henceforth to keep myself awake. And thus I need not fear. Farewell-well-well!"

And so the Nightingale went to the wedding and sang more sweetly in the bridal chorus than she had ever sung before. And after that, although she was weary, oh, so weary! she sang all night long, and all the next night and the next. And so she has continued to sing ever since in the lands which are blessed by her presence. For she dares not go to sleep even for a single moment, knowing that the Blindworm is ever ready to pounce upon her and take away the eyes which she is now enjoying.

MRS. PARTRIDGE'S BABIES

Long, long ago, when the world was very young indeed, the Birds and Animals used to send their children to school, to Mother Magpie's kindergarten. All the morning long the babies learned their lessons which it was needful for them to know. And when the noon hour came their various mammas came to the school bringing lunches for the children. You can imagine how gladly they were received by the hungry little scholars.

One day Mrs. Partridge was very busy with her house-cleaning, and when the noontime came she could not leave her work to go to the school with her babies' lunch.

"Dear me," she said, looking out of the nest, "here it is noon and the little Partridges will be so very hungry. But I really cannot leave home now. What shall I do? If only some other mamma were going that way."

She craned her neck and looked eagerly in every direction. And finally she spied Madame Tortoise plodding along towards the school, with the lunch for her little Turtlets.

"Oho, neighbor, oho! Stop a minute!" cried Mrs. Partridge, waving a wing at Tortoise. "Are you going schoolward, as I think? Oh, dear Madame Tortoise, if you knew how busy I am to-day. I don't think any one was ever so busy as I am with my house-cleaning. Will you do me a favor, please?"

The Tortoise sniffed. "Well, I am a busy woman myself," she said, "but I am willing to oblige a neighbor. What is it you wish, ma'am?"

"Oh, thank you so much!" cried the Partridge. "Dear Madame Tortoise, I shall never forget your kindness. Now, will you take this bunch of nice wiggly worms to my little ones for their lunch? I shall be so very grateful."

"Don't mention it," snapped the Tortoise, who was rather tired of hearing Mrs. Partridge's shrill thanks. "I'm perfectly willing to take the lunch, since I am going to the same place. But I don't know your babies. What do they look like, ma'am?"

"Oh, that is easily told," cried Mrs. Partridge. "They are the most beautiful little creatures in the school. They are said greatly to resemble me. You will have no trouble in recognizing them. When you come to the school just look around at all the children, and pick out the three most beautiful of all. Those are certain to be mine. Give them the wiggly worms, please, with my love. And oh, _thank_ you, Madame Tortoise, so very much! Some time I will do as much for you. So neighborly! Thank you!"

"Don't mention it!" snapped the Tortoise again, very much bored by all this chatter. She sniffed as she moved slowly along towards the school, with the second lunch carried carefully on her broad shell-back. "They are nice fat worms," she said.

Now when the Tortoise came to the school it was high noon, and all the children were waiting open-mouthed for their mammas and the lunches which they expected. Such rows and rows of wide hungry mouths! Madame Tortoise moved slowly up and down and round and round, eyeing the various children who begged for the nice wiggly worms. "H'm!" she said to herself, "hungry children seem to look considerably alike, and none of them are so wondrously beautiful when their mouths are wide open greedily. I wonder which are Mrs. Partridge's children. She told me to give this lunch to the handsomest babies here. Well, I will, and if I make a mistake it will not be my fault. Hello! Here are my dear little Turtlets! Bless the babies, how pretty they are! Why, I declare, I never realized that they were so handsome. Certainly, they are the best-looking children in the school. Then I must give them Mrs. Partridge's luncheon, for so I promised. Yes, my little ones, here is your lunch which I brought for you. And when you have finished that, here is another, some nice, fat, wiggly worms which mother collected on the way,--a prize for the handsomest children in the school."

So the little Turtlets fared wonderfully well that day; but the poor little Partridges went hungry, and had dreadful headaches, and went home peeping sadly to their silly mother. And Mrs. Partridge had no more sense than to be angry with Madame Tortoise, which I think was very unfair, don't you? For the latter had only done as she was bidden by her silly and conceited neighbor.

But after that the Tortoise and the Partridge never spoke to each other, and their children would not play together at school.

THE EARLY GIRL

There were once two girls who were very dear friends, Zaïca and Tourtourelle. One morning Zaïca woke up and said, "O Tourtourelle! Last night I had such a strange dream!"

"And so did I!" cried Tourtourelle. "Let us tell each other the dreams. But you first, Zaïca."

Zaïca began to laugh. "I dreamed I was a pretty bird with a tuft of feathers on my head. I could fly, and, O Tourtourelle! it was great fun! But the most amusing thing of all was that I could sing so finely, and mock all the birds of the forest. Nay, I could even imitate the sounds of animals. I cannot help laughing when I think what a jolly time I had."

"Why, Zaïca!" cried Tourtourelle, wondering, "I dreamed the very same thing. I too was a pretty little bird, and I too could imitate all kinds of sounds as I fluttered in the tree-tops. Surely, the dream will come true for one of us. How fine that would be!"

"Yes, let it be for the one of us who first rises to-morrow morning," said Zaïca. And so the two friends agreed.

Now when it came night-time Zaïca went to bed very early, like a wise little girl who wants to rise with the sun. But Tourtourelle said to herself, "I know what I will do, I will not go to sleep. I will sit up all night, and then I am sure to be the first to rise."

So Tourtourelle perched herself on a high-backed chair and stretched her eyes wide open. For hours and hours she sat there, growing more sleepy every minute. Towards morning she began to nod; she could hardly keep her eyes open, though she tried to prop the lids with her finger tips. Finally, whether she would or no, she fell fast asleep, poor little Tourtourelle, worn out with her long vigil.

When the first morning sunbeam peeped into the chamber Zaïca opened her eyes, refreshed and smiling. She sat up in bed remembering the dream, and then jumped lightly to the floor. As she did so she glanced at her feet, which felt queer. Wonderful! They were little bird claws! She looked down at herself. She was covered with soft feathers. She tried to move her arms, and when she did so she rose lightly from the floor and skimmed out of the window into the garden. Zaïca had become a pretty little bird, just as she had dreamed. Oh, how happy she was! She heard a Lark singing far up in the sky. Opening her mouth, she warbled and trilled as well as he, until he dropped down quickly to the earth, thinking it must be his mate who sang so sweetly. She spied a Chicken strayed too far from the mother Hen; and chuckling to herself mischievously she imitated the warning cry of a Hawk, till the Chick ran squawking back to the shelter of his mother's wing. She heard a hound baying afar off, and with little trouble echoed the sound so perfectly that a groom came running out of the stable, whistling for the dog which he feared was straying from the kennel. Zaïca found that as in her dream she could imitate all the sounds which she heard; and she was so pleased that she sang and sang and sang, hopping from tree to tree, teasing the other birds with her mockery, and puzzling them, too.

As for poor Tourtourelle, when she waked it was very late. She yawned and rubbed her eyes languidly, for she was still sleepy. Then looking across to Zaïca's bed she saw that it was empty. Her heart gave a great thump, for she longed and longed to be a bird, but now she feared that she was too late. In her white gown she ran out into the garden looking for Zaïca. But first she saw an old man leading his cow to the pasture. And to the cow he said, "Coo-roo, coo-roo!" coaxing her to hasten.

"Coo-roo, coo-roo!" cried Tourtourelle, imitating him, she knew not why. And as she said it she wondered at the strange feeling which came over her. For her body felt very light and it seemed as if she could fly. She looked down and saw that she was no longer covered with a little white gown but with soft feathers of ashy gray, while wings sprouted from her shoulders.

"Oh, I have become a bird!" she tried to say, but all she uttered was--"Coo-roo, coo-roo!" For Tourtourelle was become a beautiful Turtle-Dove, and that is all a Turtle-Dove can say.

"Coo-roo, coo-roo!" mocked a voice from the tree. And cocking her little reddish eye Tourtourelle saw a brilliant Jay hopping in the branches, imitating a Dove. Then it was the song of a Wren that she heard, then a Lark, then a Thrush, then a Sparrow-Hawk,--all these sounds coming from the one little throat of the happy bird on that bough. Tourtourelle tried to do likewise, but all she could sing was "Coo-roo! coo-roo!" And she said mournfully to herself:--

"It is Zaïca. She was wiser than I, and earlier, and the dream came true for her. Oh dear! Oh dear!" And to this day Turtle-Dove flies about sadly uttering her monotonous cry, and listening with a longing that would be envy, were she not so good a little bird, to the chatter of her friend the Jay.

For Zaïca the Jay is always merry, hopping from tree to tree, playing her jokes upon the other birds whom she deceives with her wonderful voice. And she leads a life so gay and exciting that she never finds time to be sad, even over the disappointment of her dear friend, poor little Tourtourelle.

HOW THE BLACKBIRD SPOILED HIS COAT

Once upon a time, our friend Blackbird, who comes first of the feathered brothers in the spring, was not black at all. No, indeed; he was white--white as feather-snow new fallen in the meadow. There are very few birds who have been thought worthy to dress all in beautiful white, for that is the greatest honor which a bird can have. So, like the Swan and the Dove, Master Whitebird--for that is what they called him then--was very proud of his spotless coat.

He was very proud and happy, and he sang all day long, the jolliest songs. But you see he did not really deserve this honor, because he was at heart a greedy bird; and therefore a great shame came upon him, and after that he was never proud nor happy any more. I shall tell you the story of how the Whitebird grew grimy and gloomy as we know him, almost as black and solemn as old Daddy Crow.

Once upon a time, then, Master Whitebird was teetering on a rose-bush, ruffling his beautiful white feathers and singing little bits of poetry about himself to any one who would listen.

"Ho-ho, ho-hee,
Just look at me!"

he piped, and cocked his little eyes about in every direction, to see who might be admiring his wondrous whiteness.

But all on a sudden his song gurgled down into his throat and choked itself still, and his eyes fixed themselves upon a tree close by. It was a dead old tree, and there was a hole in the trunk halfway up to the lowest limb, a round little hole about as big as your two fists.

Whitebird had seen something black pop into that hole in a sly and secret way, and he began to wonder; for he was inquisitive, as most birds are. He sat quite still on his rose-bush and watched and watched. Presently out of the hole popped a black head, bigger than Whitebird's, with two wise little twinkling eyes.

"Oho!" said Whitebird to himself, "it is Mother Magpie up to her old tricks, hiding, hiding. Maybe she has a treasure hidden there. I will watch, and perhaps I shall find out something worth knowing."

Mother Magpie was the wisest and the slyest of all the birds, and it was always worth while, as Whitebird knew, to take lessons of her. So he sat perfectly still until she came cautiously back carrying something in her beak. It was round and white and glinted like moonlight. Whitebird's eyes stuck out greedily.

"It is a piece of silver!" he thought, but he sat perfectly still until the Magpie had stowed the coin safely in the hollow tree and had hopped away as if upon an unfinished errand. "Aha! there is more then. I will watch to see what comes next," said Whitebird. And he waited.

Sure enough. In a little while the Magpie returned, this time bringing something which glowed yellow like sunlight.

"It is a piece of gold!" gasped Whitebird, and his eyes bulged out like those of lobsters, he was so jealous of her luck. But he silently watched her disappear into her tree-cupboard and then hastily depart as before toward the mountain. "What comes next?" muttered Whitebird to himself. "I am dying to peep into that hole. I cannot wait much longer."

Then, after a while, a third time came back the Magpie to the dead tree. And lo, what she carried in her beak twinkled and trembled and shone in many colors, like a drop of dew on a velvet flower-cheek. When Whitebird saw this sight, he nearly tumbled off his perch with excitement.

"It is a diamond!" he cried aloud; "oh, it is a real diamond!"

At this sudden noise from the rose-bush Mother Magpie's nerves were so shocked that she dropped the diamond helter-skelter into the hole. And in a moment she fell in after it, out of sight. She hoped that no one had seen her, but little Whitebird knew the place. He hopped after her and, perching on the edge of the hole, peered down into the hollow tree. And there he saw a great heap of silver and gold and precious stones, which Mother Magpie was trying to cover with her wings.

"Oh, what a treasure! What a treasure!" he piped greedily. "Mother Magpie, you must tell me where you found it, that I may go and get some for myself."

But Mother Magpie refused to tell.

"Oho!" chirped Whitebird, angrily; "we shall see about that! Then I will call in the fierce birds, Robber Hawk and Fighting Falcon and the bloody Butcher Bird, and they will take your treasure from you, and kill you, too, into the bargain. What do you think of that, Mother Magpie?"

Then she was afraid, for she knew those bad birds; and she saw that she must trust her secret with Whitebird, since he had already discovered half the truth.

"Well, if you will promise me not to let any one else know, not even King Eagle, I will tell you," she said. So Whitebird promised.

"Listen," said the Magpie. "You must find the cave which is near the tallest oak on the mountain, under the flat stone. In a corner there is a tiny hole, just big enough for you or me to pass. And this is the entrance to a passage which leads down into the cellars of the earth. And when you have gone down and down, farther than any one except myself ever went before, you will come to the palace of the King of Riches. It is full of gold and silver and precious stones like these you see here. Each chamber is more beautiful and more tempting than the last. But you must not touch a stone or a single coin, or even a little bit of gold-dust, until you have seen the King. For first you must offer yourself to be his servant, and then he will be generous; then he will let you carry away as much treasure as your beak will hold. That is all there is to it. But beware, greedy Whitebird! Take my advice, and do not touch a grain of treasure before you see the King, or great evil will befall you."

Whitebird promised to do as she said. And then away he flew to the blue mountain and its tallest oak. Close by the great oak, in a lonely spot, he found the flat rock, and under it was the cave where once a bear had lived. Whitebird hopped in eagerly, and away back in one corner of the cave he found a little round hole, as the Magpie had said; a hole not much bigger than an apple. It must have been a tight squeeze for fat Mother Magpie!

Whitebird hopped through the hole and found himself in a long, narrow passage which led down, down, down into places where his eyes were of no use at all. For he was not like Master Owl, who can see better in the dark than anywhere else. Blindly he hopped on and on, till he came into a great cavern, bright with a white radiance, as if the moonlight filtered in from somewhere. It was the first room of the King's palace of treasure; and it was all of silver, paved with silver, heaped with silver, shining with silver. Whitebird's eyes glittered and he wanted to stop and take some for himself. But just in time he remembered the wise warning of Mother Magpie; and so he hopped on over the silver pebbles through a silver door into a second room. And this was flooded with yellow light as of sunshine, so dazzling that for a moment Whitebird's yellow eyes could see nothing at all. When he could see, the place seemed full of yellow eyes like his own, great yellow eyes heaped up from floor to ceiling. And when he became used to this he looked again and saw that these were golden coins, and that this was a cavern all of gold.

Oh, such a wonderful sight! Oh, such a golden dream! The floor on which he stood was deep with gold dust, which squished between his toes like yellow sand on a sea beach. And then Whitebird lost his head and went quite mad, forgetting the words of wise Mother Magpie.

"Gold dust, gold dust, a treasure for me!" he sang, hopping up and down on one leg. "I can carry away a great beakful of the yellow seeds, and each one will blossom into a golden flower for me--for me--for me!" He was wholly crazy, as you see.

He thrust his bill deep into the gold dust of the floor, and greedily filled it more than full, till it dropped over his white, white feathers and splashed his coat so that he was no longer a white bird but a yellow bird. Oh, the silly, greedy thing! But there are worse fates than being a yellow bird.

Just at this moment a dreadful roar echoed through the caverns till they rumbled like an earthquake, and into the golden chamber crashed a horrible dragon-creature, the guardian of the King's treasure. His eyes blazed red like coals, and from his mouth came smoke and flame so that the gold melted before his breath. He rushed straight upon poor little Whitebird to gobble him up, and as he came he roared: "Thief, thief! who steals my master's treasure? I scorch you with my eye! I burn you with my breath! I swallow you into the furnace of my throat. Gr-r-r-r!"

There seemed no chance for Whitebird to escape, the creature was so near. But with a cry of terror he fluttered and hopped away as fast as he could toward the narrow passage, through the gold chamber and the silver chamber, leaving all the treasure behind. (Oh, don't you wish we could have known how the diamond chamber looked, with its rainbow light?)

Whitebird hopped and fluttered, fluttered and hopped, feeling the dragon's hot breath close behind frizzling his feathers and blinding his eyes with smoke. He seemed like to be roasted alive in this horrible underground oven. But oh, there was the hole close before him! Pouf! With a terrible roar the dragon snapped at him as Whitebird popped through the hole; but he got only a mouthful of burnt tail-feathers. Whitebird was safe, safe in the narrow passage where the dragon could not follow. Up and up and up and up he feebly fluttered into the light of the dear outside world, and then he gave a chirp of joy to find that he really had escaped. But oh, how tired and frightened he was!

Mother Magpie was sitting on a bush waiting for him, for she had guessed what would happen to the greedy bird. And when she saw him she gave a squawk of laughter.

"O Whitebird," she chuckled, "what a sight! what a sight! Your lovely coat, your spotless feathers! Oh, you greedy, greedy _Blackbird_!"

Then he who had been Whitebird looked down at himself and saw what a dreadful thing had happened. And he closed his eyes and gave a hoarse, sad croak. For the smoke and flame of the dragon's breath had smirched and scorched him from top to toe, so that he was no longer white, but thenceforth and forever Blackbird.

I think Mother Magpie must have told the story to her children, chuckling over the greedy fellow's failure. And they told it to the children of sunny France, from whom I got the tale for you. So now you know why the Blackbird looks so solemn and so sulky in his suit of rusty black; and why his nerves are so weak that if one suddenly surprises him, picking up seeds in the field, he gives a terrible scream of fright. For he thinks one is that dreadful dragon-creature who chased him and so nearly gobbled him on that unlucky day, long ago.

Poor Brother Blackbird! Don't let him know I told you all this; it would make him so very much ashamed.

THE BLACKBIRD AND THE FOX

One day Madame Fox, who was strolling along under the hedge, heard a Blackbird trilling on a branch. Quick as thought she jumped and seized the little fellow, and was about to gobble him down then and there. But the Blackbird began to chirp piteously:--

"Oh, oh, Madame Fox! What are you thinking of? Just see, I am such a tiny mouthful! And when I am gone--I am gone. Only let me free and I will tell you something. Look! Here come some peasant women with eggs and cheese which they are carrying to the market at Verrières. That would be a meal worth having! Only let me go, and I will help you, Master Fox."

The Fox saw that this might be a good plan which the bird proposed, so she let him go.

And what do you think the Blackbird did? He began to hop, hop, hop toward the women, dragging his wing behind him as if it were broken, which is a trick some birds know very well.

"Look!" cried one of the women, when she caught sight of him. "Oh, look at the little Blackbird there! His wing is broken and he cannot fly. I shall try to catch him." And she ran as fast as she could, making her hands into a little cage to put over him. The other women, too, set down their baskets, for convenience--set them down right in the middle of the road--and joined the chase after the poor little Blackbird, so lame, so lame! But always, as they came close to him, he managed to flutter out of reach.

Meanwhile, Madame Fox went round about by the hedge and came all quietly and unseen to the place where the baskets waited in the road. And oh! what a good dinner she found there; chickens and eggs and fresh cheese nicely done up for the market. And the greedy old lady ate them all--all the chickens and the eggs and the cheeses. My! How fat she was when all was done.

Now the Blackbird hopped on and on for a long, long way, until, by cocking his eye, he saw that Madame Fox had finished her dinner. And then, houff! Up he flew, with a jolly chirp of laughter, right over the heads of the astonished women. What of his broken wing now? He began to whistle, to sing, to chirrup like a crazy bird up there in the air. The women looked at one another sheepishly.

"Ah, the wicked Blackbird!" they said. "One would have thought that he could not fly at all. But look at him, the sly creature! Oho, it is a pretty trick he has played us!"

They turned back to where they had left their baskets, intending to start on for the market. But when they came there--well, well! What a shame!--they found the eggs, the chickens, the cheeses all gone--eaten up by the greedy Fox. And then they began to scold and cry.

"Oh, what misfortune!" they wailed. "We have lost our eggs, our chickens, and our cheeses, and there is nothing left to carry to market. We have not even a Blackbird to show for our morning's work. Oh dear! oh dear! It is all the fault of that wicked, deceitful little bird."

And, instead of going on to Verrières, they turned about with their empty baskets and went back home, a sorry party, scolding and crying all the way. But long before they reached their homes and their angry husbands Madame Fox was comfortably snoozing her after-dinner nap under the hedge; while the happy Blackbird picked up juicy bugs in the neighboring meadow, with one eye cocked to guard against being surprised a second time by any bushy-tailed rogue.

THE DOVE WHO SPOKE TRUTH

The Dove and the wrinkled little Bat once went on a journey together. When it came towards night a storm arose, and the two companions sought everywhere for a shelter. But all the birds were sound asleep in their nests and the animals in their holes and dens. They could find no welcome anywhere until they came to the hollow tree where old Master Owl lived, wide awake in the dark.

"Let us knock here," said the shrewd Bat, "I know the old fellow is not asleep. This is his prowling hour, and but that it is a stormy night he would be abroad hunting.--What ho, Master Owl!" he squeaked, "will you let in two storm-tossed travelers for a night's lodging?"

Gruffly the selfish old Owl bade them enter, and grudgingly invited them to share his supper. The poor Dove was so tired that she could scarcely eat, but the greedy Bat's spirits rose as soon as he saw the viands spread before him. He was a sly fellow, and immediately began to flatter his host into good humor. He praised the Owl's wisdom and his courage, his gallantry and his generosity; though every one knew that however wise old Master Owl might be, he was neither brave nor gallant. As for his generosity,--both the Dove and the Bat well remembered his selfishness towards the poor Wren, when the Owl alone of all the birds refused to give the little fire-bringer a feather to help cover his scorched and shivering body.

All this flattery pleased the Owl. He puffed and ruffled himself, trying to look as wise, gallant, and brave as possible. He pressed the Bat to help himself more generously to the viands, which invitation the sly fellow was not slow to accept.

During this time the Dove had not uttered a word. She sat quite still staring at the Bat and wondering to hear such insincere speeches of flattery. Suddenly the Owl turned to her.

"As for you, Miss Pink-eyes," he said gruffly, "you keep careful silence. You are a dull table-companion. Pray, have you nothing to say for yourself?"

"Yes," exclaimed the mischievous Bat, "have you no words of praise for our kind host? Methinks he deserves some return for this wonderfully generous, agreeable, tasteful, well-appointed, luxurious, elegant, and altogether acceptable banquet. What have you to say, O little Dove?"

But the Dove hung her head, ashamed of her companion, and said very simply:--

"O Master Owl, I can only thank you with all my heart for the hospitality and shelter which you have given me this night. I was beaten by the storm, and you took me in. I was hungry, and you gave me your best to eat. I cannot flatter nor make pretty speeches like the Bat. I never learned such manners. But I thank you."

"What!" cried the Bat, pretending to be shocked. "Is that all you have to say to our obliging host? Is he not the wisest, bravest, most gallant and generous of gentlemen? Have you no praise for his noble character as well as for his goodness to us? I am ashamed of you! You do not deserve such hospitality. You do not deserve this shelter."

The Dove remained silent. Like Cordelia in the play, she could not speak untruths even for her own happiness.

"Truly, you are an unamiable guest," snarled the Owl, his yellow eyes growing keen and fierce with anger and mortified pride. "You are an ungrateful bird, Miss, and the Bat is right. You do not deserve this generous hospitality which I have offered, this goodly shelter which you asked. Away with you! Leave my dwelling! Pack off into the storm and see whether or not your silence will soothe the rain and the wind. Be off, I say!"

"Yes, away with her!" echoed the Bat, flapping his leathery wings. And the two heartless creatures fell upon the poor little Dove and drove her out into the dark and stormy night.

Poor little Dove! All night she was tossed and beaten about shelterless in the storm, because she had been too truthful to flatter the vain old Owl. But when the bright morning dawned, draggled and weary as she was, she flew to the court of King Eagle and told him all her trouble. Great was the indignation of that noble bird.

"For his flattery and his cruelty let the Bat never presume to fly abroad until the sun goes down," he cried. "As for the Owl, I have already doomed him to this punishment for his treatment of the Wren. But henceforth let no bird have anything to do with either of them, the Bat or the Owl. Let them be outcasts and night-prowlers, enemies to be attacked and punished if they appear among us, to be avoided by all in their loneliness. Flattery and inhospitality, deceit and cruelty,--what are more hideous than these? Let them cover themselves in darkness and shun the happy light of day. As for you, little Dove, let this be a lesson to you to shun the company of flatterers, who are sure to get you into trouble. But you shall always be loved for your simplicity and truth. And as a token of our affection your name shall be used by poets as long as the world shall last to rhyme with _love_."

The words of the wise King Eagle are true to this day. So now you know why a great many poems came to be written in which the rhymes _dove_ and _love_ have not seemed to make any particular sense.

THE FOWLS ON PILGRIMAGE

Once upon a time old Lady Fox was very hungry, but she had nothing to eat, and there was no sign of a dinner to be had anywhere.