



Produced by David Newman, Chuck Greif, Janet Blenkinship
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  Among the Farmyard People

  BY

  Clara Dillingham Pierson

  Author of "Among the Meadow People," and "Forest People".


  Illustrated by F. C. GORDON


  [Illustration]


  NEW YORK
  Copyright by
  E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY
  31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET
  1899




TO THE CHILDREN

_Dear Little Friends:_

I want to introduce the farmyard people to you, and to have you call
upon them and become better acquainted as soon as you can. Some of them
are working for us, and we surely should know them. Perhaps, too, some
of us are working for them, since that is the way in this delightful
world of ours, and one of the happiest parts of life is helping and
being helped.

It is so in the farmyard, and although there is not much work that the
people there can do for each other, there are many kind things to be
said, and even the Lame Duckling found that he could make the Blind
Horse happy when he tried. It is there as it is everywhere else, and I
sometimes think that although the farmyard people do not look like us or
talk like us, they are not so very different after all. If you had seen
the little Chicken who wouldn't eat gravel when his mother was reproving
him, you could not have helped knowing his thoughts even if you did not
understand a word of the Chicken language. He was thinking, "I don't
care! I don't care a bit! So now!" That was long since, for he was a
Chicken when I was a little girl, and both of us grew up some time ago.
I think I have always been more sorry for him because when he was
learning to eat gravel I was learning to eat some things which I did not
like; and so, you see, I knew exactly how he felt. But it was not until
afterwards that I found out how his mother felt.

That is one of the stories which I have been keeping a long time for
you, and the Chicken was a particular friend of mine. I knew him better
than I did some of his neighbors; yet they were all pleasant
acquaintances, and if I did not see some of these things happen with my
own eyes, it is just because I was not in the farmyard at the right
time. There are many other tales I should like to tell you about them,
but one mustn't make the book too fat and heavy for your hands to hold,
so I will send you these and keep the rest.

Many stories might be told about our neighbors who live out-of-doors,
and they are stories that ought to be told, too, for there are still
boys and girls who do not know that animals think and talk and work, and
love their babies, and help each other when in trouble. I knew one boy
who really thought it was not wrong to steal newly built birds'-nests,
and I have seen girls--quite large ones, too--who were afraid of Mice!
It was only last winter that a Quail came to my front door, during the
very cold weather, and snuggled down into the warmest corner he could
find. I fed him, and he stayed there for several days, and I know, and
you know, perfectly well that although he did not say it in so many
words, he came to remind me that I had not yet told you a Quail story.
And two of my little neighbors brought ten Polliwogs to spend the day
with me, so I promised then and there that the next book should be about
pond people and have a Polliwog story in it.

And now, good-bye! Perhaps some of you will write me about your visits
to the farmyard. I hope you will enjoy them very much, but be sure you
don't wear red dresses or caps when you call on the Turkey Gobbler.

      Your friend,
  CLARA DILLINGHAM PIERSON.

     Stanton, Michigan,
        March 28, 1899.




  CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE
  THE STORY THAT THE SWALLOW DIDN'T TELL                               1

  THE LAMB WITH THE LONGEST TAIL                                      12

  THE WONDERFUL SHINY EGG                                             20

  THE DUCKLING WHO DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO                             33

  THE FUSSY QUEEN BEE                                                 47

  THE BAY COLT LEARNS TO MIND                                         64

  THE TWIN LAMBS                                                      82

  THE VERY SHORT STORY OF THE FOOLISH LITTLE MOUSE                    96

  THE LONELY LITTLE PIG                                              106

  THE KITTEN WHO LOST HERSELF                                        116

  THE CHICKEN WHO WOULDN'T EAT GRAVEL                                136

  THE GOOSE WHO WANTED HER OWN WAY                                   149

  WHY THE SHEEP RAN AWAY                                             160

  THE FINE YOUNG RAT AND THE TRAP                                    172

  THE QUICK-TEMPERED TURKEY GOBBLER                                  186

  THE BRAGGING PEACOCK                                               199

  THE DISCONTENTED GUINEA HEN                                        213

  THE OXEN TALK WITH THE CALVES                                      232




  ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                    PAGE
  THE SWALLOWS ARE COMING                                              2

  THE LAMB WITH THE LONGEST TAIL                                      16

  THEY HAD A GOOD SWIM                                                40

  HAD A SORE MOUTH FROM JERKING ON THE LINES                          77

  FEEDING THE LAMBS                                                   84

  EVERY BROWN PIG RAN OFF                                            110

  "I AM THE WHITE KITTEN"                                            130

  THE GRAY GOOSE TRIED TO GO THROUGH                                 156

  COLLIE AND THE BELL-WETHER                                         170

  THE BIG GOBBLER CAME PUFFING TOWARD
    HER. _Frontispiece_                                              194

  THE PEACOCK WAS STANDING ON THE FENCE,                             208

  THE RED CALF AND THE WHITE CALF                                    243




THE STORY THAT THE SWALLOW DIDN'T TELL


"Listen!" said the Nigh Ox, "don't you hear some friends coming?"

The Off Ox raised his head from the grass and stopped to brush away a
Fly, for you never could hurry either of the brothers. "I don't hear any
footfalls," said he.

"You should listen for wings, not feet," said the Nigh Ox, "and for
voices, too."

Even as he spoke there floated down from the clear air overhead a soft
"tittle-ittle-ittle-ee," as though some bird were laughing for
happiness. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the meadow was covered
with thousands and thousands of green grass blades, each so small and
tender, and yet together making a most beautiful carpet for the feet of
the farmyard people, and offering them sweet and juicy food after their
winter fare of hay and grain. Truly it was a day to make one laugh aloud
for joy. The alder tassels fluttered and danced in the spring breeze,
while the smallest and shyest of the willow pussies crept from their
little brown houses on the branches to grow in the sunshine.

[Illustration: THE SWALLOWS ARE COMING.]

"Tittle-ittle-ittle-ee! Tittle-ittle-ittle-ee!" And this time it was
louder and clearer than before.

"The Swallows!" cried the Oxen to each other. Then they straightened
their strong necks and bellowed to the Horses, who were drawing the plow
in the field beyond, "The Swallows are coming!"

As soon as the Horses reached the end of the furrow and could rest a
minute, they tossed their heads and whinnied with delight. Then they
looked around at the farmer, and wished that he knew enough of the
farmyard language to understand what they wanted to tell him. They knew
he would be glad to hear of their friends' return, for had they not seen
him pick up a young Swallow one day and put him in a safer place?

"Tittle-ittle-ittle-ee!" and there was a sudden darkening of the sky
above their heads, a whirr of many wings, a chattering and laughing of
soft voices, and the Swallows had come. Perched on the ridge-pole of the
big barn, they rested and visited and heard all the news.

The Doves were there, walking up and down the sloping sides of the roof
and cooing to each other about the simple things of every-day life. You
know the Doves stay at home all winter, and so it makes a great change
when their neighbors, the Swallows, return. They are firm friends in
spite of their very different ways of living. There was never a Dove
who would be a Swallow if he could, yet the plump, quiet, gray and white
Doves dearly love the dashing Swallows, and happy is the Squab who can
get a Swallow to tell him stories of the great world.

"Isn't it good to be home, home, home!" sang one Swallow. "I never set
my claws on another ridge-pole as comfortable as this."

"I'm going to look at my old nest," said a young Swallow, as she
suddenly flew down to the eaves.

"I think I'll go, too," said another young Swallow, springing away from
his perch. He was a handsome fellow, with a glistening dark blue head
and back, a long forked tail which showed a white stripe on the under
side, a rich buff vest, and a deep blue collar, all of the finest
feathers. He loved the young Swallow whom he was following, and he
wanted to tell her so.

"There is the nest where I was hatched," she said. "Would you think I
was ever crowded in there with five brothers and sisters? It was a
comfortable nest, too, before the winter winds and snow wore it away. I
wonder how it would seem to be a fledgling again?" She snuggled down in
the old nest until he could see only her forked tail and her dainty head
over the edge. Her vest was quite hidden, and the only light feathers
that showed were the reddish-buff ones on throat and face; these were
not so bright as his, but still she was beautiful to him. He loved every
feather on her body.

"I don't want you to be a fledgling again," he cried. "I want you to
help me make a home under the eaves, a lovely little nest of mud and
straw, where you can rest as you are now doing, while I bring food to
you. Will you?"

"Yes," she cried. "Tittle-ittle-ittle-ee! Oh, tittle-ittle-ittle-ee!"
And she flew far up into the blue sky, while he followed her,
twittering and singing.

"Where are those young people going?" said an older Swallow. "I should
think they had flown far enough for to-day without circling around for
the fun of it."

"Don't you remember the days when you were young?" said the Swallow next
to him.

"When I was young?" he answered. "My dear, I am young now. I shall
always be young in the springtime. I shall never be old except when I am
moulting."

Just then a family of Doves came pattering over the roof, swaying their
heads at every step. "We are so glad to see you back," said the father.
"We had a long, cold winter, and we thought often of you."

"A very cold winter," cooed his plump little wife.

"Tell me a story," said a young Dove, their son.

"Hush, hush," said the Father Dove. "This is our son," he added, "and
this is his sister. We think them quite a pair. Our last brood, you
know."

"Tell us a story," said the young Dove again.

"Hush, dear. You mustn't tease the Swallow," said his mother. "They are
so fond of stories," she cooed, "and they have heard that your family
are great travellers."

"But I want him to tell us a story," said the young Dove. "I think he
might."

This made the Swallow feel very uncomfortable, for he could see that the
children had been badly brought up, and he did not want to tell a story
just then.

"Perhaps you would like to hear about our journey south," said he. "Last
fall, when the maples began to show red and yellow leaves among the
green, we felt like flying away. It was quite warm weather, and the
forest birds were still here, but when we feel like flying south we
always begin to get ready."

"I never feel like flying south," said the young Dove. "I don't see why
you should."

"That is because I am a Swallow and you are a farmyard Dove. We talked
about it to each other, and one day we were ready to start. We all had
on our new feathers and felt strong and well. We started out together,
but the young birds and their mothers could not keep up with the rest,
so we went on ahead."

"Ahead of whom?" said the young Dove, who had been preening his feathers
when he should have been listening.

"Ahead of the mothers and their fledglings. We flew over farms where
there were Doves like you; over rivers where the Wild Ducks were feeding
by the shore; and over towns where crowds of boys and girls were going
into large buildings, while on top of these buildings were large bells
singing, 'Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.'"

"I don't think that was a very pretty song," said the young Dove.

"Hush," said his mother, "you mustn't interrupt the Swallow."

"And at last we came to a great lake," said the Swallow. "It was so
great that when we had flown over it for a little while we could not see
land at all, and our eyes would not tell us which way to go. We just
went on as birds must in such places, flying as we felt we ought, and
not stopping to ask why or to wonder if we were right. Of course we
Swallows never stop to eat, for we catch our food as we fly, but we did
sometimes stop to rest. Just after we had crossed this great lake we
alighted. It was then that a very queer thing happened, and this is
really the story that I started to tell."

"Oh!" said the young Dove and his sister. "How very exciting. But wait
just a minute while we peep over the edge of the roof and see what the
farmer is doing." And before anybody could say a word they had pattered
away to look.

The birds who were there say that the Swallow seemed quite disgusted,
and surely nobody could blame him if he did.

"You must excuse them," cooed their mother. "They are really hardly more
than Squabs yet, and I can't bear to speak severely to them. I'm sure
they didn't mean to be rude."

"Certainly, certainly," said the Swallow. "I will excuse them and you
must excuse me. I wish to see a few of my old friends before the sun
goes down. Good afternoon!" And he darted away.

The young Doves came pattering back, swaying their heads as they walked.
"Why, where is the Swallow?" they cried. "What made him go away? Right
at the best part of the story, too