How Sammy Went to Coral-Land.

by Emily Paret At.w.a.ter.

"Well, children," said grandma, "which shall it be, fairy stories, stories about giants, or 'really truly,' stories?"

They had been spending a month at the seash.o.r.e, grandma, Bob and Eleanor. Little Bob had been very ill in the spring, and when hot weather came the doctor ordered sea air and sea bathing to bring back color to the pale cheeks, and strength to the thin little body.

But Bob's father was a poor country parson and there seemed no way to fill the doctor's prescription. At this juncture grandma, like the charming fairy G.o.dmother that she was, appeared on the scene. She knew a quiet spot (one of the few still in existence), where there were no big hotels, no board-walks, and no merry-go-rounds. It was the very place where she wanted to go to get rid of her rheumatism; Bob and Eleanor should go with her, and their father and mother could follow later when the parson's vacation came.

It took but a short time to carry out this delightful plan, and at the opening of my story the children had already been a week at the seash.o.r.e. Such fun as they had been having bathing, digging in the sand, gathering sh.e.l.ls and seaweed, or sitting quietly with grandma under the big umbrella, watching the waves break and roll up on the sh.o.r.e! And after supper there was always that pleasant half hour, on the little balcony overlooking the ocean, when grandma told her bedtime stories.

They were all sitting there on this particular evening, grandma in her big rocking-chair, and Bob and Eleanor on their favorite cushions at her feet. The little folks had been begging for their usual treat, for grandma's stories were delightful, and her fund of knowledge (to the children), quite limitless.

"I'm getting too old for fairy stories," said Eleanor, who was eleven and had advanced ideas. "Only real _little_ children believe in goblins and giants, and I'm in the third reader now."

"I like 'em," said dreamy, nine-year old Bob, "fairies and giants can always do things that just ordinary people can't. Please do tell us some fairy stories, grandma."

"No, true stories," insisted Eleanor.

"How would it do to make a compromise?" suggested grandma. "You were asking me some questions yesterday about the sh.e.l.ls, seaweed and all the fascinating things found on the sh.o.r.e. Suppose I tell you a story about all the wonderful creatures that live in the ocean? The part of it that tells how they live and grow, and get their food will be all true, and I think Eleanor will find it more marvelous than the make-believe part, which will tell about the adventures, and the conversations that our hero had with the strange creatures that he met with in his wanderings."

This proposition was agreeable; the children settled themselves comfortably to listen, and grandma, with her eyes on a pa.s.sing sail, began--

CHAPTER I

HOW SAMMY WENT OUT TO SEE THE WORLD

Once upon a time there lived in the depths of a deep, tranquil pool a young salmon, whom we will call "Sammy," for short. He was a very handsome fish, and decidedly vain of his good looks. His flesh was a beautiful pink, and the scales that form the armor, or coat-of-mail of most fishes, were particularly handsome on Sammy, and glittered with many colors in the sunlight. He had a very graceful shape besides, and his fins were the envy of all the young fish of his acquaintance.

Almost all fishes have a great many fins, and although they differ sometimes in position and number according to the fish, the most important ones are the Dorsal fin, which stands straight up from the back, the Caudal fin, which is in the end of the tail, and the Pectoral fins, which are at the sides and take the place of feet in animals.

These fins all help to make the fish the splendid swimmers that they are, and are large and strong, or small and weak, according to which part of the water the fish inhabits. If he prefers the surface of the ocean, or a large body of water, his fins must be large enough, and strong enough to battle against fierce waves, and strong tides, while the fish who lives far below where the water is more calm finds his weaker fins ample for his needs. The long, oval body which most fishes possess is another great help in gliding rapidly through the water.

Like others of his kind Sammy had a very strong spine in which was an air-bladder. By pressing the air out of this he could swim easily at a great depth, and by inflating it to let the air in, like a balloon, he could rise and swim along the surface.

Sammy's eyes were large and round, and he could see splendidly, especially when the water was clear. His hearing, as well as his sense of smell was also good, and he breathed through the gills on each side of his throat. When taken out of the water the fish really dies of suffocation, for the water that enters its throat and flows out through the gills is the air that keeps it alive.

Sammy's maiden aunt, an old fish who lived in the same stream with him, used to tell strange tales of fish that can live several days out of water by reason of the different formation of their gills.

One of these is a tropical fish called the Anabas. It has very strong Pectoral fins which it uses like feet when on land, and it will even climb trees to catch the insects which it eats.

Another fish of this sort is the Frog-Fish, a hideous creature which is caught near Asia. It can crawl about a room, if shut up in one, and looks exactly like an ugly frog.

But the most wonderful of all is a South American fish called the Ha.s.sar. It usually lives in pools of water inland, and if the pool where it is happens to dry up, it will travel a whole night over land in search of a new home. It is an experienced traveler, and is said to supply itself with water for its journey. If the Ha.s.sar finds all the pools and streams dried up, it will bury itself in the sand, and fall into a kind of stupor until the rainy season comes around and brings it back to life.

"Aunt Sheen," so called from the beauty of her skin, used to tell Sammy another story about this famous fish. It seems that the Ha.s.sar builds a nest just like a bird, only hers is under water along the reeds and rushes of some sh.o.r.e. The nest is made of vegetable fibres, and is shaped like a hollow ball, flat at the top. From a hole in this ball the mother can pa.s.s in and out, and she watches over her nest with the most tender care, until the young ones leave it.

Fishermen catch the Ha.s.sar by holding a basket in front of the nest and beating it with sticks. When the poor mother comes out to defend her family, she falls into the basket and is captured.

"And serves her right, too," Aunt Sheen always concluded. "Building a nest and watching over it is a silly thing for a sensible fish to do.

No one ever thinks of such behavior except some miserable little fish called Sticklebacks, and a few other inferior kinds. Why couldn't she leave her sp.a.w.n in a quiet place somewhere near the sh.o.r.e, and then let them hatch out and look after themselves? That's the way I was brought up."

Now, this speech may sound very unkind and even heartless, but leaving the young to look after themselves is the customary thing among fishes. And when you consider that one mother fish often has many hundreds of children, it is not to be wondered at that she finds it impossible to take care of such a very large family.

The deep sea fishes come to the sh.o.r.e in the breeding season, deposit their eggs, or sp.a.w.n, in some convenient spot, sometimes in the seaweed, or in vegetable matter, sometimes in the sand, on rocks, or in little, secluded pools, and then they bother themselves no more about their offspring.

The salmon, and some other kinds of sea fish go up the rivers and streams inland to deposit their young. Salmon are very strong, and they can make tremendous leaps and shoot up rapids with great swiftness. Indeed, the salmon is one of the most rapid swimmers in the fish family, and it is said that one salmon could make a tour of the world in a few weeks.

Sammy was very proud of his family, as well he might be, for his maiden aunt was always telling stories of their relations and connections.

Aunt Sheen was a big fish, the oldest and largest, not only in her own pool, but in all the salmon stream. In her youth she had been a great traveler and seen many wonderful sights, and was regarded with awe and admiration by the younger fish. But she had grown fat and lazy with age, and was now content to spend the remainder of her days in this quiet stream which hid itself among the northern pines a good many miles from the sea.

It was a pleasant place, with deep, still pools here and there in the shade, nice, slippery mossy rocks to hide under, and sunlit shallows where the water rippled over the white pebbles, or leaped musically down a tiny waterfall.

Such merry times as Sammy and his companions had chasing each other up and down the stream, leaping the waterfall, jumping over the rocks, and playing hide-and-seek in the shallows. Then there was always the excitement of watching for the flies and different insects that hovered near, and which made delicious meals when caught. The young salmon used to boast of the flies they had captured, just as boys and men do of their luck in fishing.

But our hero soon grew tired of this quiet life. It seemed very stupid and humdrum when compared with Aunt Sheen's marvelous tales of the great ocean, and the strange sights and thrilling adventures that there awaited the voyager. He was larger than his brothers and sisters, his sea-going instinct was strong within him, he longed for the wonders of the great, unknown world, and grew tired of Aunt Sheen's repeated warnings.

This old fish always professed to be entirely uninterested in the doings of her youthful relatives. It was a matter of creed with her.

But in spite of this fact she was very fussy over the young fish, and gave them a great deal of what Sammy considered tiresome advice.

"There is safety in numbers," was her favorite saying. "When you want to go on a journey wait until your companions are ready, and go in a school. Dreadful things always happen to young fish if they start out by themselves, they get eaten by sharks, or caught by those awful two-legged monsters on land, and the devil-fish is always on the lookout for them."

"But," Sammy would protest, "you have always said that some of the most terrible experiences you ever had came when you were with a lot of others. That time you were nearly speared going up the rapids you were in a school, and when you were caught in the net and it broke--"

"It wouldn't have broken if there hadn't been a school of fish in it,"

interrupted his aunt, tartly. "That just proves what I say; the weight of so many made the hole, and so I escaped.

"The only time when I came near getting caught was once when I was alone and got a hook in my gills. My! it was terrible! I ought to have known better, but I was very hungry that morning, and when I saw that beautiful fly hanging over the water--"

But Sammy had heard this story many times before, and was tired of the conversation.

"I don't want to wait any longer for these lazy brothers and sisters of mine to get ready," he said crossly. "Besides, if I did go in a school, _I_ might get speared, or caught so that the rest could get away, and that would not suit me a bit. I'd rather risk the flies."

"You are an impertinent young fish," said Aunt Sheen, and she retired under her favorite rock in a rage.

That night when everything was very still, and all the world seemed asleep, alone and un.o.bserved Sammy swam quietly down stream and started alone on his wanderings.

It was a lovely moonlight night, and only the faint sighing of the wind in the pine-trees broke the silence.

On and on swam Sammy following the stream as it twisted and turned now in the shadow, now in the moonlight. Now it flowed along straight and smooth with scarcely a ripple, its banks sweet with dew-soaked wild flowers, and now it dashed against a huge rock which partly blocked its path, or glided swiftly over shallow rapids.

All night long Sammy kept on his way, and all the time he felt that he was gradually going down, down, down, as the stream crept towards the sea.