a very little squirrel, who was but a month old, was looking out across an orchard from the top of a high tree. it was early morning and the sun had just risen, so that everything was sparkling with dew, and the air was cool and sweet to breathe.
he rubbed his fat cheeks with his paws and sat very straight on his haunches, looking his best and trying to sing, for he wanted very much to say something by way of letting the world know what he thought of it. feeling as he did, so exceedingly happy, he wished to join the lovely sounds around him, for birds were singing everywhere, and even the river at the foot of the orchard had a song.
so the little squirrel made all the noise he could, which is just what the children do when they have all day to play and the sky is blue and clear above the fields.
but just as he paused for breath he heard his words repeated from another tree. somebody was mocking him, word for word, and making a very ridiculous thing of his happy little song. his tail bristled with anger, and he ran higher in the tree to get a better view of his neighbor. he would teach another squirrel to mock him! no living creature could he see, but he heard a bluebird call, and then, as if to insult him, came again his own exultant chirp, chirp-chee, chee, chee, chee, and after it a perfect flood of laughter, just like the silly notes of the little owl who sits up all night to laugh at the moon.
indeed, the squirrel was more puzzled than angry now, and he rushed home to his mother in the highest branches of the walnut-tree, and as fast as he could chatter he told her all about it. she was a very busy woman, mrs. squirrel, and she was too much engaged in her sweeping and making of beds to stop and talk with her little son. moreover, she did not know exactly what to say; so she told him to find the wise old woodchuck under the hill, who was lazy and good-natured and fond of company, and to inquire of him just why the mocking-bird should repeat everything that was said or sung.
so off to the foot of the orchard and the old rail-fence the little squirrel scampered, and, as he expected, the good old woodchuck was lounging by his door-step, blinking at the sunlight and munching clover.
"there's nothing here for you," the woodchuck muttered with his mouth full. "you've come to the wrong house for breakfast."
"no, no," the squirrel hastened to say. "you do not know my errand. i've come to ask you why the mocking-bird is so fond of mocking. has he no song of his own? and why should he laugh at me?"
poor little squirrel was so full of anger, as he spoke his mind, that he puffed and bristled mightily, and the fat woodchuck burst out laughing.
"so he jeered at you, did he? why, that's his business; but you mustn't mind the things he says. he's really a very fine fellow, mr. mocking-bird, and everybody loves him."
then the woodchuck brushed the clover aside and came out a little farther into the sun to warm his back, for he was very wise, and he knew that the sun on the back was good for the shoulder-blades.
"mr. mocking-bird," he began, "is a great artist. that's why he can say what he thinks and do what he wants to do. and once, in the long ago, he taught all the songs in the world to the birds. you see it was this way:
"the thrush and the robin and the catbird fell to disputing about their songs. and all the noisy blackbirds and the little wrens, even the crows with their ugly notes, entered the discussion, with results which i can't describe. oh, it lasted years and years, and every bird thought he was the best singer in the world and tried to sing everything he ever heard, whether it was his own song or not; and at last the confusion was so terrible that if the robin flew north, everybody thought he was a finch, and when he came back, he made a noise like a wild goose."
"impossible!" exclaimed the squirrel.
"not at all. that's the way with singers the world over, until they are sharply taught where they belong. few people are content with their own talents. my own family is the only modest and unassuming one that i know of. we are content to dig and eat and sit in the sun. we have never trained our voices or gone in for dancing. very different from your family, young mr. squirrel, which is frivolous and noisy. but you must pardon that—it was a mere observation. as i was saying, the only way to decide the business and restore order was to hold a meeting of all the birds, with a few good judges of music on hand to decide the question once for all.
"the adder, being deaf, was the chairman. deafness, they say, is the prime requirement in a critic, for it allows him time to think. and the buzzard, also, was there to award the prizes. a peculiar choice, you might say, but he has a horrid way of putting things and he wears a cut-away coat.
"so the day came. the woods and the orchards were full of birds, singing and calling and screaming and whistling. everybody was too much excited to think of eating, and every bush held a crowd of contestants. it was orderly enough, however, when the contest began.
"the wood dove began the concert. very soft and sweet. it always makes me think of my giddy youth and my first wife to hear the wood dove. she's really a little bit too sad.
"then they came on, each one in turn. it was a fine cherry-tree where they sang, and it was so full of blossoms that you could hardly see the performers. poor little miss wren was scared to death. she tried to sing, but all she could say was, tie me up, tie me up, and she fell off the branch with fright. one redbird, and the tanager, and that whole gay family of buntings—what a brilliant, showy lot! but they were very clear and high and full of little scraps of tune in their singing. more suited to the hedgerow, however, than the concert room.
"the best, to my thinking, was the thrush. you can hear him any evening down there in the alder bushes. he's very retiring and elegant. they say he sings of india and the lotus flowers. it's something sad and far away that he just remembers. i'm not much of a hand at poetry myself, and i personally have a great fondness for the crows. good, sharp, business men, the crows, and although they are not strictly musical, they appeal to me. you see, we have a great deal in common, the crows and myself, by way of looking after the young corn. we meet, as you might say, in a business way.
"well, the contest was long and lively. the bluebird and rice-birds, and even the orioles performed in wonderful fashion; and at last, when it was all over, the prize was never given at all. for right out of the clear sky came the mocking-bird, who had kept himself out of the contest until the end, and after he lighted on a branch of that cherry-tree and began his song, there was simply nothing to be said. it dawned on the whole lot of them that they had sung their notes wrong! yes, young mr. squirrel, fine and noisy as it all had been, not one of these birds had sung the tune his father had taught him! just by trying to outsing each other all those years, their own sweet notes were injured. and only the mocking-bird could remember every lovely song as it should be done. even the thrush had to admit as much. the adder crawled off in disgust, and the buzzard grew positively insulting in his remarks. he said he had been detained for nothing.
"'listen, listen, listen,' said the mocking-bird, and straightway he sang like the nonpareil, and then you would have thought him the oriole. it was enough to break your heart, for it was just the lovely old songs that the birds used to sing.
"and what do you suppose came of it all?" added the worthy woodchuck after he had wiped a tear from his eyes, for thoughts of the old days made him sad.
"what do you suppose the other birds agreed upon? they decided never to raise the burning question again, and they begged the mocking-bird to teach them their songs once more. that's why the robins fly south in the fall of the year, along with the other songsters. they want their children to hear the mocking-bird. yes, mr. squirrel, i have that on authority. there's nothing so fine for the singer as a good start and a good teacher. and even the robin, who is full of conceit, has admitted to me that he feels at times the need of a little correction. he hates to go north without a few lessons from that wonderful teacher, the mocking-bird."
with all this, little mr. squirrel was greatly entertained and was at a loss how to thank mr. woodchuck; but he was spared the necessity of it, for the good warm sun and the sound of his own voice had induced mr. woodchuck into a pleasant sleep, and he was already snoring on his door-step. little squirrel tiptoed away and ran home in glee. he felt that he had learned all that there was to learn in the wide world.
anyway, he had learned what he wanted to know, and that is the best of learning.
