The Hollow Tree and Deep Woods Book.
by Albert Bigelow Paine.
TO FRIENDS, OLD AND NEW
I suppose the very best pay that ever comes to anyone who writes a book is to know that the ones he wrote it for really like it. When they like it well enough to write and tell him so, though they have never seen him, and perhaps never will, then he feels very proud indeed, and happy.
Perhaps he even looks at himself in the looking-gla.s.s to make sure he is really the one who did it, though of course he wouldn"t have anyone see him doing it, or think him vain, for anything.
The publisher is only going to let me print one of the ever-so-many nice letters that have come for the man who wrote the Hollow Tree stories and the other man who drew the pictures for them. So I"ve picked out one that is for both of us, and that is signed by three, which makes it equal to six letters, three for each of us, and as nice letters as anyone who writes books for other folks to read could ever wish to have.
NEW YORK CITY, 107 SIXTY-NINTH STREET, EAST, _Oct. 18th, 1900_.
DEAR MR. PAINE:
Won"t you please write another book about the "c.o.o.n and the "Possum and the old black Crow? We know these two by heart, now. We like that story about the "Rain In The Night"
because that is the way we do when there is a thunderstorm.
_Please_ write some more and make them friends with poor Mr.
Dog, and we want Mr. Conde to draw the pictures, too.
Your sincere friends, AMY C. HUTTON, JACK HUTTON, JR., M. KATHERINE HUTTON.
Don"t you think that is a very nice letter to get? I am sure no one could be blamed for taking just one little look in the gla.s.s after that, or for trying to "write another book" to please readers who have learned the others "by heart."
But, dear me, it couldn"t be done, because you see there were only just so many of the Hollow Tree stories that ever happened, and when they were all written there weren"t enough to make another book. So we have taken what were in the first two books, "The Hollow Tree" and "In the Deep Woods," and we have put them together in one big book, and added the three new ones, which were every one to be had, and now here they are with a nice new cloth cover and very cheap when you consider how many there are of them, and that there are no more to be had anywhere, and that there never will be any more, as the Little Lady has said, "even in a thousand days." You will know why, too, when you get to the very last story in the book, and until then, and for a long time after, I wish you, and Mr. Conde wishes you the happy quiet of the Deep Woods, and the pleasant peace of the Hollow Tree.
THE AUTHOR.
THE LITTLE LADY AND THE STORY TELLER
THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO THEM
In the House of Many Windows which stands in a large city and is sometimes called a "flat" by people who, because they are grown up, do not know any better, live the Little Lady and the Story Teller.
The Little Lady is four years old, going on five, and is fond of stories. This makes her and the Story Teller good friends. They mostly sit in the firelight after supper, and while the Little Lady is being undressed they tell each other all that has happened since morning. Then the Little Lady looks into the fire and says:--
"Now, tell me a story."
Sometimes she wants a new story. Sometimes one of the old ones, which must be told always the same, because the Little Lady, like a good many grown up people, does not care for new and revised editions, but wants the old stories in the old words, that sound real and true. Sometimes the Story Teller forgets or improves on his plots, but the Little Lady never forgets and never fails to set the Story Teller right.
THE HOLLOW TREE PEOPLE
THE LITTLE LADY IS INTRODUCED TO THE "c.o.o.n, THE "POSSUM AND THE OLD BLACK CROW
When the Story Teller came home last night the Little Lady had a great deal to tell him. During the afternoon she had built in one corner of the sitting room a house for her three dolls, with a separate room for each. Of course, the house was not a house at all, but only a plan on the floor made with blocks and books. At one side she had laid out a large parlor room, where her family of three--Hettie, Annabelle and the Rubber Boy--could meet together and talk.
"Why," said the Story Teller, "that reminds me of the Crow, the "c.o.o.n and the "Possum."
"What did they do? Tell me that story," commanded the Little Lady, promptly forgetting her day"s work and pulling the Story Teller toward his chair.
The Story Teller stirred the fire and looked into the blaze a moment, thinking. The Little Lady climbed up into his lap and waited. She was used to the Story Teller.
"Tell it," she said, presently.
So then he told her the story of the three friends.
Once upon a time in the far depths of the Big Deep Woods there was a big hollow tree, with three big hollow branches. In one of these there lived a "c.o.o.n, in another a "Possum and in the third a Big Black Crow.
"But crows don"t live in hollow trees," said the Little Woman, who happened to be pa.s.sing.
"This one did," replied the Story Teller. "I suppose styles have changed some since then."
The hollow tree below was rather dark, so they all used it for a parlor, and only met in there now and then, to dust off their things, or when company came.
Now, the Crow and the "c.o.o.n and the "Possum were all very fond of good living and mostly of the same things. They were good friends, too, and they often made plans to catch young chickens and other game and carried them out together. Between trips they would sit in their doors and pa.s.s the time of day across to each other, just like folks.
Well, one winter, about two weeks after New Year"s, it came on to snow in the woods where the hollow tree was, and it snowed, and it snowed, and it snowed.
This was long before sleds or skates, and when big snows always came up over people"s windows and snowed them in. And this is what happened to the Crow and the "c.o.o.n and the "Possum. They were snowed in!
Well, they rather liked it at first, for they had a good deal left over from New Year"s dinner, and they used to get together down stairs in the parlor and spread lunch and pitch the bones under the table and talk and tell stories and wonder how long the snow would last.
But they never counted on its lasting half so long as it did. Every day they would look out of an upstairs window that they had, to see if the storm wasn"t over. And every day it was just the same, and there was no sign of clearing up. Then they began to get scared, for their cupboards were nearly empty, and there was no chance to catch any more game. At last every sc.r.a.p was gone, and there wasn"t a thing to eat in the house.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ROCKED ON PURPOSE TO THINK ABOUT IT.]
[Ill.u.s.tration: LOOKED IN QUITE A WHILE, THINKING.]
The "Possum went to bed and pulled up the covers and tried to sleep so he would forget it. The "c.o.o.n sat up in a rocking chair and rocked on purpose to think about it, for he was a great hand to plan, and he thought mebbe he could work it out some way. The Crow didn"t do either, but walked about his house, picking up first one thing and then another, as people do sometimes when they don"t do anything else. But the Crow was luckier than most people who do that, for by and by he picked up quite a big paper sack with something in it. Then he untied it and looked into it quite a while, thinking. It was more than half full of corn meal, and pretty soon he remembered that he had carried it off once when he was pa.s.sing Mr. Man"s pantry window, not because he wanted it, but because he was a crow, and crows carry off anything that isn"t too big, whether they want it or not. Then he hunted around some more and found another sack with some flour in it that he had picked up once in the same way. Then he found some little bags of pepper and salt and a lump of b.u.t.ter.
"My!" said the Little Lady, "but he"d carried off a lot of things!"
Yes, crows always do, and hide them that way. Well, he didn"t say anything, but he slipped down stairs and gathered up some of the chicken bones under the table and some pieces of bark and sticks, and brought them up to his own part of the house and shut the door. Then he kindled a little fire in the stove with the sticks and opened his outside door a crack and got a skillet full of snow and put it on, and when the snow melted he dropped in the chicken bones and let them stew, and then a little of the flour and some pepper and salt and stirred it, and he had some nice gravy.
By and by the "Possum and "c.o.o.n smelt it cooking and thought it came from a farm house, and the "Possum turned over twice and thought of everything he had ever heard of to make people go to sleep, and the "c.o.o.n rocked harder and harder.
Then Mr. Crow poured the gravy into a bowl and set it back on the stove to keep warm while he stirred up some of the cornmeal in some more melted snow, with a little pinch of salt and a little piece of the b.u.t.ter. When it was all stirred good he put it into the skillet and patted it down, and when it was baked nice and brown on both sides it was as good a Johnnie cake as you ever tasted.
He laughed to himself a minute and then he slipped down stairs again and set the table. He put on the bowl of gravy in the centre and cut the Johnnie cake in three pieces. Then he called out as loud as he could:--