The little water-folks; stories of lake and river

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

My Little Water-Folks— Introductory.. 1

I. A Twenty-Dollar Coat 9

Chapter I

When I was a barelegged, freckled-faced boy, going to school at the little brick schoolhouse down in the Hollow (pronounced Holler, by the country people), there were many things in earth and air that interested me. Many a hard nut, aside from those that rattled down from walnut or butternut trees, nature gave me to crack. Some of them came open after I had pounded my fingers many times, but others are mysteries to this day ; secrets that the human mind cannot see into or understand.

The mere walking to and from school at

morning and evening was like a pleasant

book, whose pages I never tired of turning,

for there was alwavs some new story told by the changing seasons ; or, it was an old story that I had heard before, but in such a gay new dress that I did not recognize it.

Close by the schoolhouse ran a little brook. It was so near that one could almost have thrown a hook into the water from one of the back windows. This stream was the daily companion of the boys and girls, and was really an essential part of the school life. I can hear it now as I write, gurgling and laughing, inviting one to forget Colburn's arithmetic, or how many bones there are in the human body, and just dream of fernfringed, moss-covered banks, and deep pools where the trout loves to lie.

A few rods above the schoolhouse was the old mill, now fallen into disuse, and covered with clematis and festooned with cobwebs and dust.

But the quaint log dam, built like a child's cob house, still held water enough to make a very respectable pond, large enough for skating and boating. The pond nestled just under a pine woods, and above the dark plumes

A TWENTY-DOLLAR COAT H

of the firs was the ragged blue sky line. It was a restful, dreamy spot, where one could build air-castles and plan what to do when a man. The water was clear and the ice usually transparent, so that I have frequently seen two pine forests and two sky lines, one above, and the other under the ice in the clear water.

There were other creatures, aside from the occupants of the brick schoolhouse, who were interested in the pond. This was made evident by many small tracks in the mud along the bank, and by two large muskrat houses at the upper end. But the pond was chiefly celebrated for a pair of otters that had made it their home for several seasons.

The old mill greatly aided us boys in watching them, as we could enter on the opposite side from the pond, and observe these wary animals through the windows that overlooked the water*

The otters' favorite shore was next to the pine woods, where we afterward discovered that they had a burrow under the roots of an old tree. They were long, sleek animals, very graceful in the water, but more awkward on land. They were as playful and frolicsome as kittens, and had many romps upon the slippery, sloping banks. Their principal amusement was coasting or sliding, and they seemed to have as much fun in it as any boy possessing the best of sleds. In the summer they slid down the slippery bank into the water. This coast was rather short, but in the winter, they would run down the bank and slide on the ice nearly across the pond. They slid upon their breasts with the fore legs doubled up under them at either side, and the hind legs trailing. As the legs of the otter are set well up on his sides, they are not in the way when he is sliding.

One winter afternoon when we boys were skating on the pond, we discovered a large trout a foot or two below the ice, and all gathered round to admire it ; for what boy will not leave any kind of sport to feast his eyes on a trout. We were standing about, discussing whether trout slept in the winter or not, and how they sustained life, when a black streak shot under us. Where it came from or where it went we never knew. It moved so quickly that we could not tell what it was, but the great trout was gone.

One June morning Billy Bowlegs, a simple farm boy in the neighborhood, shouldered an old shotgun, loaded with large shot, and started after crows which were making sad work in his father's corn.

This was perfectly right and proper, but as ill fortune would have it, Billy blundered upon the otters at play on the bank of the pond, and without a serious thought of what he was doing, raised the gun and fired. He probably would not have gone out of his way to have shot at the otters, for he knew their fur was not good at this time of the year, but there they were, and he had the gun in his hand, and before he realized it the mischief was done. It was nevertheless a wicked act, and one that should always be punished.

When the smoke from the old shotgun cleared away, both otters were seen to be hit.

One was kicking in his last agony, and the other was quite dead. They had been in line and only a few rods away, and the large shot had done the rest.

Rather shamefacedly Billy carried home the dead otters. At first he thought he would be a hero, but instead, every one called him a fool, and the sheriff threatened him with arrest.

A day or two later it occurred to some one that there might be a litter of young otters somewhere in the bank, and half a dozen boys and men went to look for the burrow. At last they found it under the roots of an old pine, but it was necessary to dig it open from the top to see what it contained. Two little winking, blinking, otter pups were! found, one of them too weak to do more than gasp, but the other had strength enough left to whine feebly.

Ned Hawley claimed them, as he had first thought of looking for them, so he put them in his coat pockets and made all haste home.

Milk, fed from a spoon, soon revived the small otter who had cried, but the other one was too far gone, and the next morning was dead. But the remaining otter pup thrived upon clear milk, and later on bread and milk, and took to his new home and friends almost as though he had been a dog. His sturdiness and self-reliance, and the way that he had of getting out of all difficulties, with his fur whole, soon gained him the name of Trojan, and it is with Trojan that this story has to do.

By midsummer Trojan was as large as a small cat, and as frolicsome as a kitten. His first aversion was for dogs, and when he was but four or five months old, he drove a puppy, twice his size, from the back room where he lived.

His first love was fish, and he would even go to the cat's dish for that dainty, although he well knew the uncertainty of pussy's temper, and the very sharp arguments for her own rights, that she concealed in her velvet paws. Trojan knew all these things ; he had learned them by hard bites and scratches, but the smell of that fish was too much for him. Besides, why did they always give the fish heads to the cat, when he was so fond of them?

It was most interesting to watch Trojan's growth and his development of likes and dislikes.

The old cat, whose milk dish he coveted, was tolerated, but dogs he abhorred from his puppyhood. If they were too large for him to attack, he would slink under some bench or friendly shelter, and stand there eying the intruder with beady eyes, not forgetting to show his teeth and growl. His own characteristics were more those of the canine family whom he so hated, than those of the cat whom he rather liked. If, on the other hand, the dog was somewhere near his size, he at once gave battle, and he was so much more agile than his enemy, that he usually got the better of his canine foe and drove him away discomfited.

He early learned that water was his natural element, and always when too hard pressed would take refuge in a ditch in the meadows at the back of the house. The water was never very deep in the ditch, but it was overgrown with lush grass, and made splendid cover.

By the first autumn Trojan had attained about one third his full growth, and his coat was sleek and glossy.

The first winter he accidentally learned the art of sliding, and after that he would play at it for an hour at a time with as much zest as a child. He was lying upon the banking at the back of the house. There was a glare crust and he slipped from his place, and went sliding, tail first, down into the meadow. This so pleased him that he tried it again. He soon discovered that it was pleasanter to go head first, then he could see where he was going. After he had taken the slide he was all eagerness to return to the starting place, and would scramble back at his greatest speed.

He also learned to give himself a good strong shove with his hind legs when he started. This made the slide longer and swifter. He held his forelegs doubled back up under him, and his head just high enough to clear the glare crust. This was a sport he never tired of, even when he was five or six years old.

No one ever knew just how he learned to fish. But the instinct was so strong within him, that he took to it, as a duck does to water.

Sometimes the boys would come across him on the banks of a stream, when they would throw to him all the dace and red fins upon their stringers. Perhaps he was given the first brook fish, and saw that it was good, or maybe he went into the water and made the discovery all by himself. But this is certain, Trojan was a great fisherman.

He never splashed or floundered about in the water like a dog, but his every movement was as silent and gliding as though the water had been air. He slipped into the stream smoothly and silently, and when he appeared on shore, there was very little ripple or splash.

He would pick up a sucker in a straightaway swim as easily as he would a stick. Kiver dace and perch were also easy for him to take. Quite frequently too, he surprised a large trout, that would be sunning standing with his head up stream gently fanning the water with his fins.

I do not know how he managed it, for the trout can move through the water so fast that the eye can scarcely follow him, but it was probably by stealth. Maybe he was lying in the shallow water with his nose just showing above the surface, looking for all the world like an old log, when the trick was done.

He always brought his catch on shore and held it between his paws, as a dog would a bone, while he ate it.

The second autumn, the long hairs that sprinkle the pelt of the otter, giving it a ragged appearance before it is plucked, appeared. But the fur was wonderfully soft and luxuriant. A coat that any four-footed creature might well be proud of.

But Trojan was probably all unconscious of how his warm coat was coveted by man. All he knew was that it fitted him well, and was warm and altogether suited to his needs.

When he was fully grown he was a beautiful specimen of our most valuable, furbearing animal, measuring nearly four feet from tip to tip. Of this two and a half feet was head and body, and sixteen inches tail.

The tail was not so bushy as that of a fox, yet it was well furred, and quite ornamental. His body was round and lithe. His head was rather small and a little flattened. His ears were small and nestled so closely in his fur, that you had to look twice to see them. The entrance was guarded by a fur-covered water pad, with which he could close his ear at will, and keep it entirely dry inside. His visage was quite whiskery, especially when he was angry.

Trojan's most memorable battle with dogs was that in which he stood off two, each larger than himself, with scarcely a scratch upon his sleek coat, while both dogs were badly chewed.

The otter's cage or den stood in a corner between the main house and the ell. It was a cute little house, three or four feet high with iron bars, and a swing door at the front. At first Trojan had been confined in this house, but finally he was left to go and come as he pleased.

Once dogs came upon him when he was eating a fish head, and though he was not prepared for them, he backed up into a corner near his house, and did battle like his name-

At first he merely contented himself with keeping them at bay, but by degrees his love of battle got the better of him and he went in for blood.

His snake-like head and long neck shot out like a flash, and he nipped a piece out of one of his assailant's ears. Finally they closed upon him, thinking to take his citadel by storm, but he bounded lightly over their backs, leaving his mark as he went, and took refuge in another corner. Then he caught one of his antagonists by the gristle of the nose, and the poor canine's yelps of pain soon brought men to the scene, and the battle was stopped. After this the dogs gave the otter a wide berth.

The fourth year of his domesticated life, Trojan made himself a burrow on the bank of a famous trout stream that ran through the meadow, a quarter of a mile from the house. This burrow was located under the roots of a water elm, and had two entrances, one above the water and one beneath.

This was a safeguard against having his retreat cut off. If an enemy appeared above the ground he could disappear beneath the water. If the enemy came from the water door, he would flee through the other. But there was no quadruped that swam in New England waters that Trojan feared.

As he grew older the tendency to return to his wild haunts grew upon him, and he made frequent long trips along the water courses in the neighborhood. We boys would occasionally come across him two or three miles from home. He was not companionable at such times, but always slunk away as though he did not want us to see him. But he never quite forgot his little house with the swing door, and the fish head that was usually awaiting him at the hand of his good friends.

There are many stories still told at the brick house of this strangely domesticated wild creature, who in his tamed state is so nearly like a dog. But the most celebrated of all his capers cost me a split bamboo trout rod, and my reputation as the crack boy fisherman of the neighborhood.

An argument arose one day as to which of us boys was the better angler, and it was finally decided to test it by a day's fishing. Each boy was to go when and where he pleased on a certain day, and we would meet at night and compare our catches.

The morning of our fishing contest, I was astir bright and early, and by half -past five was hurrying through the meadows, dragging a home-made hickory fish-pole after me in the grass. It was an ideal day for trout, just a little overcast, and not too warm.

The speckled beauties bit that morning as though I had been the only eager fisherman in the world, and that the only day in which they could bite. By noon I had about forty as pretty trout as ever made a boy's eyes dance.

The stringer upon which I was carrying my fish was rather large, and occasionally a fish tore out at the gills and fell off. To remedy this difficulty I concluded to leave this string in some place, and get it on my return down stream. It was a careless thing to do, but I was at the careless age, so I pulled a handful of brakes and wrapped the trout in them, and thrust them in a hollow log, marking the spot carefully by a little waterfall. There would be no mistaking it when I returned.

I was gone about three hours, stopping for lunch, and took ten or fifteen more trout, and felt sure that the split bamboo was mine, for my catch now numbered over fifty fish.

When I returned to the old log for the first string, my suspicion was at once aroused, for the brakes in which I had wrapped the trout were scattered about, and there was a fish head on the ground near by. I thrust my arm further and further into the cavity, but could find no fish.

Then I began examining the dirt about the log, and made out the clean-cut footprints of an otter. Trojan, was the word that came instinctively to my lips. Trojan, Trojan, how could you have done such a thing ? And as I looked at my remaining string visions of the new rod that had been so bright a few moments before, grew dim.

I found the willow switch on which the fish had been strung, a few rods further down the stream, and there were several fish heads scattered about. Half a mile further down I came upon the otter lying on a rock in the middle of the stream.

When he saw me he slipped into the water, and went swiftly away. When I returned home, he was lying in the further end of his cage, saying plainly by his actions, "I did not steal your fish."

My last meeting with Trojan was so pathetic, that I forgave him the theft of my trout and remembered him only as one of the most engaging domesticated wild animals that I ever knew.

I was hunting woodcock with a boy friend. The birds had come in the night before, and were very plenty. Our old liver-colored pointer Dan was doing good service, and we were having quite a day of it.

We were going through some heavy cover near a brook, when I noticed a queer movement in a clump of willows, and went nearer to investigate.

I could hardly believe my eyes when I beheld Trojan, the pet of the neighborhood, tugging and straining in a trap. This in itself would not have been so bad, but he was in a sorry plight.

He had torn out several of his front teeth on the trap, and had broken his leg so badly that the jagged end of the bone showed through the ragged and torn flesh. His eyes were large with pain, and his whole aspect was most pitiful. He had seen me and had made frantic efforts to attract my attention, probably thinking that I could at once put him right.

But no human skill could have mended that jagged paw, and I knew that Trojan's case was hopeless.

I was just considering what was the best way of putting him out of his misery and wishing there was some one else to do it, when the alder bushes parted, and old Tom Knowland looked in upon me. Tom was a famous trapper, and the trap on Trojan's fore paw was his.

" Hello," he said, not seeing the otter. " Seen anything of one of my traps walking off with a good heavy clog. Must be something big in it."

"You old fool," I replied, forgetting my manners in my sorrow. " You have caught Trojan."

" Trojan, Trojan," repeated Tom, in astonishment. " By Ginger, that's too bad. Too durn bad. I'll let him go."

"It won't do any good," I replied, "he's too done up, you'd better kill him."

Then I hurried away, not wishing to look behind. Through milkweed and brambles I pushed, with a reckless ferocity. The sun still shone brightly, but somehow it looked dim and sorrowful. I did not care if there were more woodcock in the cover, for something had already happened in the alderbushes yonder, that had put the day out of joint for me.

Chapter II

There is one event in the calendar of oncoming spring that the country people always heed ; and that is the first peeping of the hyla, the smallest and bravest of all the frogs, who pipes in the shrillest of voices, " Spring, Spring, Spring."

When the farm boy hears that first shrill peeping from the meadow land, or the swale, it is a signal to him that one portion of the winter's labor is over, and that is the sugar season. All good sugar makers know that after this faithful sign from the little green folks down in the meadows, that it will be useless to keep out the sap pails any longer. So the woodshod sled goes its rounds through the sugar-bush for the last time, and pails are gathered, washed and put away in readiness for next year, and all because the little green 29 prophets down in the meadow have given the signal.

Frog-Hollow, where these little frog folks lived, was a strip of lowland bordering a lonely country road, that my bare feet traveled daily during the school terms, and less frequently in summer time.

To my childish fancy Frog-Hollow was peopled with hobgoblins and phantoms, as well as frogs. I had never seen any of these apparitions, but I had seen strange will-o'- the-wisps, and that was almost as bad. When a pillar of fire, like that which guided the Israelites, traveled about the meadows, unaided, such soil was no place for a small boy after dark.

In addition to all this, I was not quite sure but that our own Frog-Hollow and the " Sleepyhollow " in Irving's Sketch Book were not one and the same place. It certainly answered the description nicely. So I might meet the headless Andre, almost any night, riding upon his black charger, in search of his head.

THE PEOPLE OF FROG-HOLLOW SI

From all these childish imaginings, you will see that Frog-Hollow was a strange and awesome place and a region to be shunned after dark.

Many a night I have stood upon the little bridge just where the bog was deepest, listening to the old familiar frog song from which the place was named.

This was in the gloaming, while the afterglow still lighted the western sky, but when the first bright star pricked through the dusky sky near the horizon, I fled from the awful mysteries that hung over the swamp.

Down in the swamp by the edge of the road,

When the lamps of night appear, When the water is high and the meadows are flowed,

A wonderful chorus I hear.

O the hylas cry Peep, but the bullfrogs down deep, Shout, Holler, Frog-Holler, Frog-Holier.

O all through the night, of the early Spring, When the buds are beginning to swell,

You may hear the frogs and the hylas sing, And a wonderful legend they tell,

For the hylas cry Peep, but the bullfrogs down deep,

Shout, Holler, Frog-Holler, Frog-Holler.

When the whip-poor-will sings, and the night-hawk on wings,

As silent as footsteps of night, Is scouring the skies for small flying things,

And the firefly is showing his light, Then the hylas cry Peep, but the bullfrogs down deep, Shout, Holler, Frog-Holler, Frog-Holler.

When the small boy was sent for cowslips he always swung a willow basket across his arm and started for Frog-Hollow.

The sluggish little stream winding in and out among the cat-tails and water grasses, fringed with cranberry vines and mosses and choked with rushes and frog spittle was a famous place for cowslips.

The monotony of picking cowslips was varied by many a pleasant surprise. Sometimes it was an old green bullfrog, sitting beneath a lily pad, still as a statue, contemplating the brook, with his grave frog interest.

At other times he would be sitting on a stone, catching flies, or perhaps he was taking a sun-bath.

He was a dignified, proud old fellow, al-

HE WAS A DIGNIFIED PROUD OLD FELLOW.

ways dressed in the tastiest manner. Howwell his green coat matches the green of the bank, and its reflection in the water and his yellow vest also was not easily seen.

He never seemed to be much afraid of the boy, but any sudden motion on his part would send Mr. Frog to the bottom of the pool with a loud splash. You could always follow his course by a long muddy streak that he made in the water, and if you followed this to its end, you would see what looked at first like a small moss-covered stone, or the end of a stick, but if you looked more carefully you would make out Mr. Frog, lying on the muddy bottom of the stream in snug hiding.

There was also the grass frog who lived in the grass along the shore, and the beautiful spotted wood frog, who never went to the brook at all, except to spawn.

Both of these were interesting, but the old green bullfrog was the boy's favorite. One summer afternoon the boy was sitting under an old water-elm, down in the pasture by the side of a deep pool. The pasture land was 3 below Frog-Hollow, and here the stream was larger and clearer, and just by the elm the boy had dammed the stream, and he could occasionally catch bullheads here, if the day was not too clear, although they bit much better at night.

But the bullheads had all gone to sleep to-day, and the boy leaned back against the trunk of the tree and dreamed a pleasant day-dream, while the waters flowed musically over the stones at his feet, and the silver-footed moments of the summer afternoon slipped silently by.

What a fine thing it is to be a boy, the youngster thought, as he leaned comfortably against the tree, and looked across the pasture land to a distant herd of feeding cows. He could just hear the tinkle of old Speckle's bell, and it chimed in so nicely with the gurgle of the stream. A frog was croaking softly to himself in a distant pool, and his voice was sleepy and contented. How easy it was to dream, when all the world was dreaming too !

" Hello, what's up ? " called a frog almost at the boy's feet. These words had been spoken so plainly, although there was still the husky frog tone, that the boy started.

When he at last made out his questioner in the pads so near that he could have poked him with his foot, the boy saw that the frog was smiling, and chuckling down in his yellow throat.

" What's up ? " repeated the old frog in his deep mellow voice. " I thought you did not look quite natural."

" There isn't anything up that I know of," replied the boy sharply, for he thought the frog was making fun of him, and he did not like to be made fun of.

He was reaching for a stick with which to poke this audacious fellow, when he chanced to look at his foot. His toes had suddenly become long and fibrous. In fact they were webbed, which gave them a queer feeling, as though they had all been tied together with a string. And the sole of his foot was shrunken.

Then he glanced down at his leg. It, too, had shrunk, and instead of being covered with his brown overhauls, was dressed in a tight-fitting pair of green pants. If the boy had been astonished on seeing his green pants, he was amazed at his yellow vest, which he discovered a moment later.

His astonishment was so great that he barely saved himself from pitching into the pool. But the second that he leaned over the bank showed him a strange face in the water. He looked again to make sure.

But there was no mistaking the reflection. It was that of a great green bullfrog, fat and complacent, and well suited with his dress and deportment.

" Come down," said the frog, whom the boy had first noticed.

"Get wet," croaked the boy, and to his amazement his voice had a frog-like sound. " Get wet, get wet, what fun ! get wet, what sport ! " The old frog was making fun of him again, so the boy jumped, cleaving the water with the familiar chug.

He went down to the bottom of the pool as he had so often seen frogs do, and buried himself in the mud, just letting his head stick out, where he was presently joined by the old frog who had made fun of him.