The Hollow Tree Snowed-in Book

THE "SNOWED-IN" LITERARY CLUB

"DID the Hollow Tree People and their company sleep in their chairs all night?" asks the Little Lady, as soon as she has finished her supper. "And were they snowed in when they woke up next morning?"

The Story Teller is not quite ready to answer. He has to fill his pipe first, and puff a little and look into the fire before he sits down, and the Little Lady climbs into her place. The Little Lady knows the Story Teller, and waits. When he begins to rock a little she knows he has remembered, and then pretty soon he tells her about the "Snowed-In" Literary Club.

Well, the Hollow Tree People went to sleep there by the fire and they stayed asleep a long while, for they were tired with all the good times and all the good things to eat they had been having. And when they woke up once, they thought it was still night, for it was dark, though they thought it must be about morning, because the fire was nearly out, and Mr. 'Possum said if there was anybody who wasn't too stiff he wished they'd put on a stick of wood, as he was frozen so hard that he knew if he tried to move he'd break.

So Mr. Turtle, who had been drawn up mostly into his shell, and Mr. Dog, who was used to getting up at all hours of the night, stretched and yawned and crept down after some sticks and dry pieces and built up a good fire, and pretty soon they were all asleep again, as sound as ever.

And when they woke up next time it was still just as dark, and the fire had gone almost out again, and Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow, too, said they didn't understand it, at all, for a fire like that would generally keep all night and all day too, and here two fires had burned out and it was still as dark as ever. Then Mr. Crow lit a splinter and looked at the clock, and said he must have forgotten to wind it, or maybe it was because it was so cold, as it had stopped a little after twelve, and Mr. 'Possum said that from the way he felt it was no wonder the clock had stopped, for if he could tell anything by his feelings it must be at least day after to-morrow. He said he felt so empty that every time he breathed he could hear the wind whistle through his ribs.

That made Mr. Rabbit think of something, and he stepped over to the window. Then he pushed it up a little, and put out his hand. But he didn't put it out far, for it went right into something soft and cold. Mr. Rabbit came over to where Mr. Crow was poking up the fire, bringing some of the stuff with him.

"Now," he said, "you can all see what's the matter. We're snowed in. The snow is up over the window, and that's why it's so dark. It may be up over the top of the tree, and we may have been asleep here for a week, for all we know."

Then they all gathered around to look at the snow, and went to the window and got some more, and tried to tell whether it was day or night, and Mr. Crow and Mr. 'Coon and Mr. 'Possum ran up-stairs to their rooms, and called back that it was day, for the snow hadn't come quite up to the tops of their windows.

And it was day, sure enough, and quite late in the afternoon at that, but they couldn't tell just what day it was, or whether they had slept one night, or two nights, or even longer.

Well, of course the first thing was to get something to eat and a big fire going, and even Mr. 'Possum scrambled around and helped carry wood, so he could get warm quicker. They still had a good deal to eat in the Hollow Tree, and they were not much worried. Mr. 'Possum and Mr. 'Coon remembered another time they were snowed in, when Mr. Crow had fed them on Johnnie cake and gravy, and they thought that if everything else gave out it would be great fun to live like that again.

When they had finished eating breakfast, or dinner, or whatever it was, for it was nearer supper-time than anything else, they began to think of things to do to amuse themselves, and they first thought they'd have some more stories, like Mr. Rabbit's.

But Mr. Rabbit, who is quite literary, and a good poet, said it would be better to make it a kind of a club, and each have a poem, or a story, or a song; or if anybody couldn't do any of those he must dance a jig.

Then they all remembered a poetry club that Mr. Rabbit had got up once and how nice it was, and they all said that was just the thing, and they got around the table and began to work away at whatever they were going to do for the "Snowed-In" Literary Club.

Mr. Rabbit wasn't very long at his piece, and pretty soon he jumped up and said he was through, and Mr. 'Possum said that if that was so, he might go down and bring up some wood and warm up the brains of the rest of them. So Mr. Rabbit stirred up the fire, and sat down and looked into it, and read over his poem to himself and changed a word here and there, and thought how nice it was; and by-and-by Mr. Dog said he was through, and Mr. Robin said he was through, too.

Then Mr. Rabbit said he thought that would be more than enough for one evening anyway, and that the others might finish their pieces to-morrow and have them ready for the next evening.

So then they all gathered around the fire again, and everybody said that as Mr. Rabbit had thought of the club first, he must be the first to read his piece.

Mr. Rabbit said he was sure it would be more modest for some one else to read first, but that he was willing to start things going if they wanted him to. Then he stood up, and turned a little to the light, and took a nice position, and read his poem, which was called

Mr. Rabbit sat down then, and of course everybody spoke up as soon as they could get their breath and said how nice it was, and how Mr. Rabbit always expressed himself better in poetry than anybody else could in prose, and how the words and rhymes just seemed to flow along as if he were reeling it off of a spinning-wheel and could keep it up all day.

And Mr. Rabbit smiled and said he supposed it came natural, and that sometimes it was harder to stop than it was to start, and that he could keep it up all day as easy as not.

Then Mr. 'Possum said he'd been afraid that was what would happen, and that if Mr. Rabbit hadn't stopped pretty soon that he – Mr. 'Possum, of course – would have been so tangled up in his mind that somebody would have had to come and undo the knot.

Then he said he wanted to ask some questions. He said he wanted to know what "wold" meant, and also what Mr. Rabbit meant by spinning their tails. He said he hadn't noticed that any of them were spinning their tails, and that he couldn't do it if he tried. He said that he could curl his tail and hang from a limb or a peg by it, and he had found it a good way to go to sleep when things were on his mind, and that he generally had better dreams when he slept that way.

He said that of course Mr. Rabbit's poem had been about tails of the long ago, and he supposed that he meant the ones which his family had lost about three hundred years ago, according to Mr. Turtle, but that he didn't believe they ever could spin them much, or that Mr. Rabbit could spin what he had left.

Mr. 'Possum was going on to say a good deal more on the subject, but Mr. Rabbit interrupted him.

He said he didn't suppose there was anybody else in the world whose food seemed to do him so little good as Mr. 'Possum's, and that very likely it was owing to the habit he had of sleeping with his head hanging down in that foolish way. He said he had never heard of anybody who ate so much and knew so little.

Of course, he said, everybody might not know what "wold" meant, as it wasn't used much except by poets who used the best words, but that it meant some kind of a field, and it was better for winter use, as it rhymed with "cold" and was nearly always used that way. As for Mr. 'Possum's other remark, he said he couldn't imagine how anybody would suppose that the tales he meant were those other tails which were made to wave or wag or flirt or hang from limbs by, instead of being stories to be told or written, just as the Deep Woods People were telling and writing them now. He said there was an old expression about having a peg to hang a tale on, and that it was most likely gotten up by one of Mr. 'Possum's ancestors or somebody who knew as little about such things as Mr. 'Possum, and that another old expression which said "Thereby hangs a tale" was just like it, because the kind of tales he meant didn't hang, but were always told or written, while the other kind always did hang, and were never told or written, but were only sometimes told or written about, and it made him feel sad, he said, to have to explain his poem in that simple way.

Then Mr. 'Possum said that he was sorry Mr. Rabbit felt that way, because he didn't feel at all that way himself, and had only been trying to discuss Mr. Rabbit's nice poem. He said that of course Mr. Rabbit couldn't be expected to know much about tails, never having had a real one himself, and would be likely to get mixed up when he tried to write on the subject. He said he wouldn't mention such things again, and that he was sorry and hoped that Mr. Rabbit would forgive him.

And Mr. Rabbit said that he was sorry, too – sorry for Mr. 'Possum – and that he thought whoever was ready had better read the next piece.

Then Mr. Dog said that he supposed that he was as ready as he'd ever be, and that he'd like to read his and get it off his mind, so he wouldn't be so nervous and could enjoy listening to the others. He wasn't used to such things, he said, and couldn't be original like Mr. Rabbit, but he knew a story that was told among the fowls in Mr. Man's barn-yard, and that he had tried to write it in a simple way that even Mr. 'Possum would understand. His story was about a duck – a young and foolish duck – who got into trouble, and Mr. Dog said he had made a few sketches to go with it, and that they could be handed around while he was reading. Now he would begin, he said, and the name of his story was

Once upon a time there was a foolish young duck named Erastus (called 'Rastus, for short). He was an only child, and lived with his mother in a small house on the bank of a pond at the foot of the farm-yard.

Erastus thought himself a brave duck; he would chase his shadow, and was not afraid of quite a large worm.

As he grew older he did not tell his mother everything. Once he slipped away, and went swimming alone. Then a worm larger than any he had ever seen came up out of the water, and would have swallowed Erastus if he had not reached the shore just in time, and gone screaming to his mother.

His mother said the great worm was a water-snake, and she told Erastus snake-stories which gave him bad dreams.

Erastus grew quite fast, and soon thought he was nearly grown up. Once he tried to smoke with some other young ducks behind the barn. It made Erastus sick, and his mother found it out. She gave Erastus some unpleasant medicine, and made him stay in bed a week.

Erastus decided that he would run away. While his mother was taking her morning bath he packed his things in a little valise she had given him for Christmas. Then he slipped out the back door and made for the woods as fast as he could go. He had made up his mind to be a robber, and make a great deal of money by taking it away from other people.

He had begun by taking a small toy pistol which belonged to Mr. Man's little boy. He wore it at his side. His mother had read to him about robbers. Erastus also had on his nice new coat and pretty vest.

He did not rob anybody that day. There was nothing in the woods but trees and vines. Erastus tripped over the vines and hurt himself, and lost the toy pistol.

Then it came night, and he was very lonesome. For the first time in his life Erastus missed his mother. There was a nice full moon, but Erastus did not care for it. Some of the black shadows about him looked as if they might be live things. By-and-by he heard a noise near him.

Erastus the Robber Duck started to run; but he was lost, and did not know which way to go. All at once he was face to face with some large animal. It wore a long cape and a mask. It also carried a real pistol which it pointed at Erastus and told him to hold up his wings. Erastus the Robber Duck held up his wings as high as possible, and tried to get them higher. It did not seem to Erastus that he could hold them up high enough. His mother had read to him about robbers.

Then the robber took all the things that Erastus had in his pockets. He took his new knife and his little watch; also the nice bag which his mother had given him for Christmas.

Erastus kept his wings up a good while after the robber had gone. He was afraid the robber had not gone far enough. When he put them down they were cramped and sore. Then he heard something again, and thought it was the robber coming back after his clothes.

Erastus fled with great speed, taking off his garments as he ran. At last he reached the edge of the wood, not far from where he lived. It was just morning, and his mother saw him coming. She looked sad, and embraced him.

It was the first time Erastus had been out all night.

Erastus was not allowed to go swimming or even to leave the yard for a long time. Whenever he remembered that night in the woods he shivered, and his mother thought he had a chill. Then she would put him to bed and give him some of the unpleasant medicine.

Erastus did not tell his mother all that had happened that night for a good while. He was ashamed to do so. But one day when he seemed quite sick and his mother was frightened, he broke down and told her all about it. Then his mother forgave him, and he got well right away.

After that Erastus behaved, and grew to be the best and largest duck in Mr. Man's farm-yard.

While Mr. Dog had been reading his story the Hollow Tree People – the 'Coon and the 'Possum and the Old Black Crow – had been leaning forward and almost holding their breath, and Mr. Dog felt a good deal flattered when he noticed how interested they were. When he sat down he saw that Mr. 'Possum's mouth was open and his tongue fairly hanging out with being so excited.

Then before any of the others could say a word, Mr. 'Possum said that it might be a good enough story, but that it couldn't be true. He said that he wasn't a judge of stories, but that he was a judge of ducks – young ducks, or old either – and that no young duck could pass the night in the Big Deep Woods and get home at sunrise or any other time, unless all the other animals were snowed in or locked up in a menagerie, and that the animal that had met Erastus might have robbed him, of course, but he would have eaten him first, and then carried off what was left, unless, of course, that robber was a rabbit, and he said that he didn't believe any rabbit would have spunk enough to be in that business.

Mr. Rabbit was about to say something just then, but Mr. Crow and Mr. 'Coon both interrupted and said they thought Mr. 'Possum was right for once, except about Mr. Rabbit, who was plenty brave enough, but too much of a gentleman to be out robbing people at night when he could be at home in bed asleep. Then Mr. Dog said:

"I don't know whether the story is true or not. I wrote it down as I heard it among Mr. Man's fowls, and I know the duck that they still call Erastus, and he's the finest, fattest – "

But Mr. Dog didn't get any further. For the Hollow Tree People broke in and said, all together:

"Oh, take us to see him, Mr. Dog! Or perhaps you could bring him to see us. Invite him to spend an evening with us in the Hollow Tree. Tell him we will have him for dinner and invite our friends. Oh, do, Mr. Dog!"

But Mr. Dog knew what they meant by having him for dinner, and he said he guessed Mr. Man would not be willing to have Erastus go out on an invitation like that, and that if Erastus came, Mr. Man might take a notion to visit the Hollow Tree himself. Then the Hollow Tree People all said, "Oh, never mind about Erastus! He's probably old and disagreeable anyway. We don't think we would care for him. But it was a nice story – very nice, indeed."

And pretty soon Mr. Dog said he'd been thinking about the robber animal, too, and had made up his mind that it might have been one of Mr. Cat's family – for Mr. Man's little boy and girl had a book with a nice poem in it about a robber cat, and a robber dog, too, though he didn't think that the dog could have been any of his family. Mr. Cat, he said, would not be likely to care for Erastus, feathers and all, that way, and no doubt it really was Mr. Cat who robbed him. Mr. Dog said that he had once heard of a Mr. Cat who wanted to be king – perhaps after Mr. Lion had gone out of the king business, and that there was an old poem about it that Mr. Dog's mother used to sing to him, but he didn't think it had ever been put into a book. He said there were a good many things in it he didn't suppose the Hollow Tree People would understand because it was about a different kind of a country – where his mother had been born – but that if they really would like to hear it he would try to remember it for them, as it would be something different from anything they had been used to. Then the Hollow Tree People and their friends all said how glad they would be to hear it, for they always liked to hear about new things and new parts of the country; so Mr. Dog said that if some of the others would read or sing or dance their jigs first, perhaps it would come to him and he would sing it for them by and by.

Then Mr. Robin spoke up and said that he thought Mr. Dog's story had a good moral in it, and he said that his story (Mr. Robin's, of course) was that kind of a story, too. Perhaps he'd better tell it now, he said, while their minds were running that way, though as for Mr. 'Possum's mind it seemed to be more on how good Erastus might be cooked than how good he had become in his behavior. He was sorry, he said, that his story didn't have any ducks in it, young or old, but that perhaps Mr. 'Possum and the others would be willing to wait for the nice pair of cooked ones now hanging in Mr. Crow's pantry, to be served at the end of the literary exercises.

But Mr. 'Possum said "No," he wasn't willing to wait any longer – that Mr. Dog's story and the mention of those nice cooked fowls was more than he could bear, and that if it was all the same to Mr. Robin and the others he voted to have supper first, and then he'd be better able to stand a strictly moral story on a full stomach.

Mr. Crow and Mr. 'Coon said that was a good idea, and Mr. Rabbit said he thought they'd better postpone Mr. Robin's story until the next evening, as Mr. 'Possum had taken up so much time with his arguments that he must be hungrier than usual, and if he put in as much more time eating, it would be morning before they were ready to go on with the literary programme.