But to his surprise and disappointment neither Pete nor Kate showed any desire to go into the cave. He had hoped that they would, and then he could run away and rejoin his friends. There was a queer smell about the cave, too, now that he was close to it—a strong smell that he had never smelt before. He went a little nearer to investigate, and then gave a sharp yelp of surprise, for out of the hole came lumbering a huge black shape with long white teeth in a snarling mouth and eyes that glowed red in the lantern-light.
Right there Jack decided that he had done enough for one evening, and he turned round and started home. His first jump took him three yards past his companions, who were both trying to climb the same tree, and his second jump took him over the branches of a fallen hemlock, and his third jump scared into fits an old grandfather rabbit who had come out to forage for a late supper, and who reached home trembling and shaking an hour later and took to his bed for three weeks. By his fourth jump Jack had got into his stride, and he raced on over fallen trees and through bushes and briers and along deer paths, as fast as he could go, for by the thumping and swishing and crackling behind him he knew that that terrible animal was close on his heels.
Pretty soon he heard a hoarse voice behind him: “Hey, wait a minute.”
Pretty soon he heard a hoarse voice behind him, “Hey, wait a minute”
“Yes, I will!” the dog jeered over his shoulder, without slackening his pace.
“Wait a minute,” repeated the other animal. “I want to talk to you.”
“Well, go on,” barked Jack. “I’m listening.”
“Don’t be funny,” replied the other crossly. “How can I talk this way?”
“You seem to be doing pretty well,” said Jack.
“Oh, you make me tired!” returned the pursuer.
“Just what I’m trying to do,” snapped Jack. Then he laughed. “That was a pretty good one, eh what?” he inquired.
“Oh, you’re a wit all right,” grunted the other. “But what’s the sense of all this running? I’m not chasing you. I’m running away too.”
“Running away from an empty cupboard,” said Jack. “I know. You aren’t chasing me. You’re taking your supper out for a little exercise.”
“Nonsense,” grumbled the pursuer.” Bears don’t eat dogs.”
“Hey!” barked Jack in surprise. “Are you a bear?” But still he didn’t slow up.
“Sure I am,” came the reply. “But I can’t talk like this. Stop and sit down a minute.”
“You stop first,” said Jack, leaping over a little stream.
“Yes, and you’ll go on running,” objected the bear as he splashed through the shallow water.
“No, I won’t. I’ll take two more jumps after you stop, and then I’ll stop. And then we can talk if you want to so bad.”
So they worked it that way.
“Now,” said the bear, when they had got their breath back and were sitting facing each other some distance apart in the dark woods, “what I wanted to say to you was this: I don’t suppose you’re any friend to that man and woman you came to my cave with or you’d have stayed with them when I came out. Is that so?”
“They’re no friends of mine,” said Jack.
“Good. They’re no friends of mine either. They’ve been hunting me with a gun ever since I came into these parts, three years ago. It’s got so I can hardly stick my nose outside my cave nowadays without hearing that gun go bang and feeling a bullet whiz through my fur. Up to now I’ve been safe in the cave, but now they know where it is, I shan’t be able to live there any longer. And being as you’re the one that brought ’em there—”
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” said Jack. “I didn’t know—”
“I know you didn’t,” said the bear. “But you brought ’em, anyway. I don’t bear any grudge, but it seems to me you have a certain responsibility, and for that reason maybe you’d be willing to help me.”
“Sure,” said Jack heartily, “anything I can do.”
“Well, then,” said the bear, “I’m a peaceable animal. What I want is a nice quiet home and three square meals a day—nothing fancy, you understand, just a comfortable den and good plain food. But the woods are no place for bears nowadays—haven’t been since my grandfather was a cub. There’s too much talk in the cities nowadays about back to nature. I don’t object to men going back to nature, but I don’t see why they have to take a gun with them. This time of year there are more hunters in the woods than there are animals. What I want is peace and quiet. And I thought maybe you could help me find it.”
“Why, so I can,” said Jack—“or could if I weren’t going in the opposite direction. There’s just the place on the farm where I live—a big wood lot that nobody ever goes into, and I’m sure Mr. Bean would let you live there. Only you see …” And he explained about the rescue party.
The bear was greatly interested. “I’d like to meet your friends,” he said. “They sound like a fine lot of animals.”
“Oh, they’re all right,” said Jack. “They’re a good lot of fellows. I’d like to have you meet them if you want to come along with me.”
“Sure,” said the bear. “Sure, I’d like to. And maybe—well, I’ve been thinking that maybe I could go along with you on this trip. I’m strong, and I don’t mind the cold, and my knowledge of the woods might be of use to you. At least I’d be more of a help than a hindrance. What do you think?”
“Why, it’s all right with me,” said Jack. “Of course Ferdinand’s the leader; he’d have to decide. If you went, you could come back home with us, too.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” said the bear. “And, to tell you the truth, if I don’t go with you, I don’t know what I will do.”
“Well, come along then,” said the dog. “We’ve got some distance to go. Ha ha!” He laughed in two or three short little barks. “To think I thought you were chasing me, and all the time you were just running away too! But you certainly gave me a scare.”
“I’m sorry for that,” said the bear. “But I’ll try to make it up to you some time.”
CHAPTER VII
A LECTURE TOUR IN THE NORTH WOODS
Even Ferdinand was pleased at the addition of the bear to their party, and indeed he was very useful, for he knew all the edible berries and roots that the woods animals live on, and that they, as farm-bred animals, had never learned anything about. He was very nervous for a day or two, until he was sure that Kate and Pete were not pursuing them, but then he brightened up and made himself quite agreeable.
Ella and Everett were very happy. They had got so accustomed to being spanked at least three times a day that they thought it was a regular part of living, like getting up and going to bed, and at first they missed it. So for the first few days they spanked each other every morning before breakfast. But there were so many other things to do and to see that pretty soon they forgot all about it. They rode on Mrs. Wiggins’s back and on Uncle William’s back and on the bear’s back, and they raced through the woods with Jack after imaginary rabbits and tigers and played tag with Charles and Henrietta. All the animals grew very fond of them; even Ferdinand, who liked himself so well that he couldn’t like anybody else very much, occasionally flew down and perched on their shoulders, although he said he only did it to get his feet warm.
Poor Cecil was the only one who couldn’t play with them. He wanted to awfully, but he was too prickly. It made him very sad, and he used to cry sometimes at night thinking about it. But he was a sensible porcupine and very soon decided that it was silly to cry about something he couldn’t help; and then, as usually happens, he found that he could have a perfectly good time with them even though he did have to be careful not to let them touch him.
As they went on north, the winter came down to meet them. It grew colder and colder. Finally one morning Charles stuck his head out from under the feather bed where he had been sleeping all snug and warm, in order to crow and wake the others up. He kept his eyes shut, for he was very sleepy, but wh
en he opened his beak to crow, no sound came out and his mouth was full of something soft and cold. That woke him wide awake at once, and his eyes flew open. And then he really was scared for a minute, for there was only a greyish whiteness everywhere; he could see nothing, not even the feather bed.
With a muffled squawk he wriggled out and jumped and flapped his wings agitatedly, and the whiteness broke up into flakes and dust and whirled about his head, and when it at last settled, he saw what had really happened: he had been sleeping under a blanket of snow, six inches thick, that had fallen during the night.
Charles grinned sheepishly and shivered and hopped up on to a low branch. Of course! They had been snowed under. Those two big white mounds with smaller mounds between them were Uncle William and the bear, who slept one on each side of the children to keep them warm. That other big mound was Mrs. Wiggins; he could hear her snoring gently and see a little whirl of snow fly up with every breath from where her nose was; and one horn was sticking out. And beyond were lower mounds where the other animals were snoozing away in their feather beds. Yes, and up on that spruce limb was Ferdinand, his head under his wing, and a little heap of snow piled up between his shoulders. Charles threw back his head and flapped his wings and gave a loud, shrill crow.
At once the snow blanket began to heave and bulge and heads and legs and horns stuck out through it, and presently all the animals were on their feet, shaking snow out of their fur, their noses steaming like so many teakettles in the cold morning air.
“My gracious!” said Mrs. Wiggins. “This is winter with a vengeance!”
Ferdinand cawed derisively. “Winter!” he exclaimed. “Why this is nothing—nothing to what’s coming. Maybe you animals’ll wake up to the fact some time that this isn’t any picnic we’re going on.”
“Oh my goodness!” said the cow. “Who said it was? Can’t I make a single remark about the weather without your jumping all over me?”
“Oh, who’s jumping all over you?” snapped the crow. “I just get sick of hearing you complain when there isn’t anything to complain about.”
“I’m complaining about you,” retorted Mrs. Wiggins, “and I guess anyone here will bear me out that there’s something to complain about.”
“He, he!” snickered the goat.” Laugh that one off, Ferd. That’s a hot one, that is.”
Bill’s laughter made the crow mad. He hopped down to the ground. “Look here,” he said, “if there’s any dissatisfaction with me as leader of this expedition, I want to know about it now.”
“No, no!” said all the animals. “We’re perfectly satisfied. You’re a fine leader. Mrs. Wiggins didn’t mean anything.” But Ferdinand walked straight up to the cow. “And how about you?” he asked, looking her straight in the eye.
“My goodness!” she said again. “This has all come up very suddenly. I didn’t really mean anything against you, Ferdinand.”
“Then you’ve no complaint to make?” he demanded.
Now, Mrs. Wiggins was very good-natured, and she didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings, but she didn’t see why she should have to back down when she hadn’t really done anything. So she said boldly: “Yes, I have.”
“All right,” said Ferdinand grimly. “Out with it.”
The cow hesitated. She couldn’t really think of anything she had against the crow, except that he was bad-tempered and bossy and disagreeable, and she didn’t want to use any of those words because she was afraid they might make him feel bad. If she could only think of one that didn’t mean quite so much; even one that didn’t mean anything at all would be better.… And then she suddenly remembered a word that she had heard in a story that Freddy had been reading out loud one night in the cow-barn. She didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded like the right kind of word. So she said: “Well, if you want to know, I think you’re too sophisticated.”
At this unexpected word Ferdinand gave a little jump. Then he opened his beak to say something, but as he didn’t know what the word meant, he couldn’t think of any way to argue against it, and he just stood there with his beak open, looking very foolish.
Mrs. Wiggins turned to the other animals. “Isn’t he too sophisticated?” she asked, and as none of them wanted to admit that he didn’t know what the word meant, they all nodded and said yes.
Poor Ferdinand managed to pull his wits together somewhat. “I am not sophisticated!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been perfectly open and above-board about everything, and—”
“Oh, that isn’t what I mean at all,” said the cow; and as she didn’t know what she did mean, it was perfectly true.
“Well, what do you mean, then?” asked the harassed crow.
“Just what I say,” returned Mrs. Wiggins. She appealed to the others. “Isn’t it perfectly plain?” And they all nodded emphatically and said: “Yes, yes. Perfectly.”
“Well, it isn’t what I mean by sophisticated,” said Ferdinand, now thoroughly mixed up.
“Just what do you mean by it?” asked the cow coldly.
And at that the crow just turned round and walked off with his shoulders hunched up and didn’t come near the others for the rest of the day. But it had done him some good, as Mrs. Wiggins observed with satisfaction, for from that time on he treated her with marked respect.
They went on through the snowy woods for several days, and the snow came down in thick flakes and got deeper and deeper and harder and harder to walk through. The big animals didn’t mind it much, but the smaller animals and Charles and Henrietta and the children had to ride most of the time; and the children in particular were cold because they didn’t have warm enough clothing. They were only warm at night when they snuggled down under a feather bed between Uncle William and the bear. Moreover, it was a good deal harder to find enough food, now that the country was all covered with snow.
So pretty soon the animals began to grumble. If Ferdinand was such a good leader, they said, he ought to be able to keep them from starving or freezing. They wouldn’t be much good to the animals they had come to rescue if they starved or froze stiff. And if the snow got much deeper, how were they going to travel at all? They asked Ferdinand these questions. “You’ve been here before,” they said. “How did you get food?”
“We took it with us in the old phaeton,” said the crow.
“How did you keep warm?”
“We took blankets with us and wrapped them around us.”
“And how did you walk over the deep snow?”
“We made snowshoes,” said the crow. “I can show you how to do that.”
“H’m,” said Jack thoughtfully. “That takes care of one thing. But what are we going to do for food and clothing?”
“Yes,” said Henrietta. “Why didn’t you tell us all this in the first place, when we started out? You didn’t think about anybody but yourself. You don’t mind the cold the way we do, and you can fly through the air and live on nuts and things that you steal from squirrels and chipmunks. It’s very easy for you. But why didn’t you think about us? A fine leader you are!”
Ferdinand looked round out of the corners of his eyes at his comrades. It was perfectly true. When he had come back to organize the rescue party, he had been so full of his own importance that he had forgotten all about such little matters as proper food and clothing. He’d have to think of something pretty quickly, or they’d reduce him to the ranks and elect a new leader. He could see them looking meaningly at one another—even his bosom friend, Bill, was shaking his head very seriously and avoided his eye—and he could hear a buzz-buzz as they whispered to each other: “Too sophisticated. Yes, yes; too sophisticated.” Then suddenly an idea came to him. He ruffled out his feathers.
“My friends,” he said importantly, “on the face of it, what you allege against me seems to be true. I did not see fit to burden us with large stores of food and clothing, which would seriously have hampered us. There is a better way to get what we need. There are reasons why I did not tell you about it before—”
Bill giggled audibly. “I’ll say there were!” he muttered coarsely; but Ferdinand gave him a hard look and he subsided, though his beard continued to tremble with subdued laughter.
“The time, however,” continued the crow, “has now come. As you have seen, these woods are full of birds and animals—creatures of little experience, who have never known much about anything but their small woodland affairs and are intensely curious about the outside world. What’s the one thing we can give them that they haven’t got? Why, our experience of the outside world, of course. We’ve travelled; we’ve been everywhere and done everything; we know life. We can sell that knowledge for the things we need.”
At this point Bill snickered again. “You mean you’re going to trade your good advice for food?” he asked. “Well, if these animals are anything like me, you won’t get many customers. My experience is that you can get all the good advice you want from your relatives. You don’t have to go outside the family. And you don’t have to pay for it, either. Sell advice indeed! Huh! Might as well try to sell Cecil here a quill toothpick!”
“That was not what I meant,” said Ferdinand coldly, “and now that this unseemly interruption is over, I will tell you that my idea was simply this: to give a series of lectures of various kinds, admission to which will be paid in articles of food or clothing.”
“That’s a good idea all right,” said Uncle William, “as far as food goes. But how do you expect to get blankets and clothing for the children? These woods animals haven’t got such things.”
“They’ll find them,” said the crow confidently. “Why, suppose you wanted to find an old coat for this boy to wear. I mean if you were at home, in your own stable. Couldn’t you do it?”
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I could,” replied the horse. “There’s a couple of old overcoats down in the tool-shed. But that’s different. Up here in the woods—”
Freddy Goes to the North Pole Page 6