The sweet clean smells of the night called to Grimalkin to come. He

did not know what this impelling force might mean. He could not know

that for centuries this had been the hour for his ancestors to rise

and go forth to the night's hunting. He only knew that, come what

might, he must leap out into the darkness, over the garden wall and

into the woods beyond. They filled the night with that vast silence

which is full of movement. They were his inheritance. He came from the

hedgerows and thickets, and thither he would return. Behind him lay

the dark kitchen where the embers threw a glow over the dead

mouse--the spoils of his first hunting; and in front of him were the

woods and the night. Grimalkin poised himself upon the window-sill for

a moment, then the Night Longing called again, and he leaped.

CHAPTER II

THE STEALTHY DEATH

In September daylight and darkness are equally divided. The days are

still and mellow, with a blue haze which clings to the shadows of the

woods; and at night the big moon rolls over the eastern mountains, and

turns the fog in the valleys into a silver sheet.

All through the warm nights the Fur Folk come and go through Knockdane

Woods, for the men sleep in the Great White House and no one disturbs

them. Strange things happen at night under the trees of which humans

have no idea; and one of the strangest of all in Knockdane is the tale

of how Grimalkin the cat tried a fall with the Stealthy Death and

escaped alive.

For many months Grimalkin had lived a dual life, spending part of the

day at the Great White House, but wandering back to the woods at

night. But as time went on, and his strength and cunning increased,

his visits to men became fewer and shorter, and his absences stretched

into days and weeks. No cat will stay by the hearth in early summer

when the young rabbits are out, especially when the blood of semi-wild

ancestors runs in his veins. The keepers grew to recognise Grimalkin

and to hate him; and, indeed, he was recognisable enough--a huge grey

tabby, strong enough to pull down a grown rabbit, and cunning enough

to know a keeper with a gun from a prowling poacher like himself.

There are some nights on which, although they may seem eminently

favourable to a mere human hunter, the Fur Folk do not stir abroad. On

the other hand, there are others on which they come forth in their

scores--the hunters and the hunted--and such nights are known in the

woods as hunters' nights. It was such a night in Knockdane. The air

was warm, but a little breeze was stirring, and one by one the leaves

floated down on their fallen fellows with a rustle like a faint

footstep. Big white moths whirred round the ivy blossoms and bats

wheeled through the clearings. The moon rose early, and by the time

the afterglow had faded she was high in the sky, casting long shadows

across the Hollow Field.

Grimalkin trotted quickly through the wood with the easy swing and

depressed tail of a cat who knows where he is going. Every now and

then he paused with uplifted paw as some twig fell with a crackle to

the ground, or a patter of leaves told of game afoot, and the green

light flickered in his eyes. The fence which separates the Hollow

Field from the wood had run to waste for many years, before the

blackthorns, each as thick as a man's arm, had been trimmed; and their

roots had been undermined in every direction by rabbits. Inside the

field the fence's foot was overgrown with tussocks of long grass,

honeycombed by runways. It was easy to crouch in one of these until a

young rabbit hopped within distance, and then a few soft steps--a

pounce--and the kill. Grimalkin slid into the grass, which closed over

his striped back and hid him.

The moon was bright as day. Further down the fence half a dozen

rabbits were feeding; but the other side of the field, beyond which

lay a beech wood, was deep in shadow. Shrill threads of sound from a

neighbouring grass tuft meant that the field mice were squabbling

among the fallen beech nuts; but Grimalkin only cocked one ear and

tucked his paws away neatly against his chest. It was a hunter's night

and he awaited nobler quarry.

A long hour passed. Then one of the rabbits sat up and kicked the

ground uneasily, while the rest listened. A rabbit was cantering

across the field towards them. She picked her way among the thistles,

and stopped every now and then quivering. She did not seem in a hurry,

and yet was apparently quite unaware of their presence. The other

rabbits thumped suspiciously and scattered--there was something

uncanny about the way this rabbit ran. She came straight towards

Grimalkin; her eyes were wide and staring as she glanced behind her,

and her limbs moved stiffly. Grimalkin drew himself together. As she

lilted within a yard of him, he sprang and struck. The rabbit sobbed,

and rolled over panting. Beautiful, lithe, cruel, Grimalkin leaped

upon her and dealt the death blow, ere commencing the death-game which

the cat kind always play over the stricken quarry. He stood listening

for a moment, and a rustle in the grass made him pause. His ear caught

the faint unmistakable sound of a hunter who hunts his quarry by

scent, and who smells fresh blood near at hand. Down towards the

rabbit stole a stealthy dark shape, sniffing as it came upon the line.

Keen, the stoat, seldom misses his kill, and woe betide the beast who

crosses his trail; he hunts for the joy of killing, and in the woods

they call him in whispers, 'the Stealthy Death.' The stoat paused and

saw the dead rabbit, and the cat standing over it with a wicked gleam

in his small eyes. He squeaked once, and then--like a bent

watch-spring loosed--flung himself upon his enemy. Had his fangs sunk

where he intended--into the great arteries of the neck--Grimalkin

would speedily have lain beside the rabbit; but he partially missed

his hold, and fastening into the shoulder instead, clung there like a

leech. Grimalkin felt the hot blood trickle down, and, wild with fear

and wrath, he smote and bit desperately at the clinging death which

hung upon his neck. He had never encountered an enemy who fought after

this fashion. His claws ripped the stoat's flank. With a squeak, Keen

shifted his hold from the shoulder to the throat, half throttling

Grimalkin. The combat raged to and fro, the cat striking, spitting,

writhing, and the stoat battered, torn, flung this way and that, but

all the while burying his fangs deeper in his victim's flesh. The

death which Keen deals is slow but very sure. The dog worries, and the

cat tears his prey, but the stoat silently sucks the life-blood, until

the quarry, struggle as he may, succumbs at last, with only four tiny

wounds in the throat to show how his strength was drained away.

A battle on these terms could not last. Already the great cat was

tiring--weakened by loss of blood and the weight on his neck. He

rolled over exhausted, and although his claws tore feebly at his

enemy, his eyes were half closed and his tongue lolled out. Keen knew

that his time had come. He loosened his hold for an instant,

instinctively seeking a fresh grip upon the great blood-vessels

behind the ear. But that instant proved his undoing. Grimalkin, roused

from his stupor by the prick of a new wound, rose with a sudden

convulsive effort. His enemy was off his guard, and left his side

exposed. Instantly Grimalkin buried his teeth in it. He held on

grimly, crushing the life out of the slender writhing form until it

ceased to quiver and throb, and hung limp. Then he flung it aside, and

Keen, his white chest stained scarlet, lay stretched on the grass

beside the dead rabbit.

Grimalkin did not stay to look at this, his record kill. It was no

time to triumph. His life-blood had been drained freely, he felt weary

and strangely weak. He crawled to the hedgerow, and sought an old lair

of his, a deserted rabbit burrow. Dead leaves had drifted in, and it

was dry and safe. Here Grimalkin lay and nursed his wounds, until the

sunshine striking on the hedge side, and the singing of the flies over

the grey and brown spots in the grass, brought home to him the fact

that he was hungry, and must go out and hunt in the woods again.

CHAPTER III

'THE COLLARED BUCK'

On the northern slope of Knockdane there is a little glen whose sides

are hung with ivy and aromatic ale-hoof, and which is so deep that

even on the longest day of the year the sun can never climb high

enough to shine upon its southern wall. The glen is strewn with

limestone rocks, and at its head stands a twisted crab-apple tree.

Beneath the roots of the latter there is a dry roomy chamber into

which dead leaves have either drifted or been carried; for the Crab

Tree burrow has been beloved of the Fur Folk ever since the tree

itself began to bear a yearly load of wizened fruit. Some have used it

as a den, some as a nursery, and many more as a sanctuary. Grimalkin

adapted it to the first of these uses, and took up his abode there at

the end of November.

Frost and snow seldom come to Knockdane before January. During the

close of the year the weather is damp and mild; rain drips

relentlessly upon the sodden ground; and the scarlet and orange

agarics in the moss are the only things which flourish. One morning in

mid-December Grimalkin went hunting among the bramble thickets of

upper Knockdane. The whole place was traversed by an elaborate system

of runways, the geography of which was accurately known to the rabbit

people alone. A warm mist lay over the woods, distilling into

great drops on every grass blade and twig ere dripping to the

saturated ground. Indeed, it was hard to tell which was the most

water-logged--the earth or the air. Like all his race, Grimalkin hated

the wet, and he shook his head impatiently as the water trickled

inside his ears. The air was so damp and heavy among the briars that

there was little or no scent, so that when a rabbity waft came to his

nostrils he knew that the trail must be fresh. He turned down a side

alley, and suddenly came face to face with the most amazing rabbit

which he had ever beheld. It was large and grey, but the strangest

thing about it was a broad white stripe which passed completely round

its neck and ended in a pointed gorget. The rabbit was squatting with

its ears flattened and its eyes half closed, and in this attitude the

strange collar stood out round its neck in so uncanny a fashion that

Grimalkin paused doubtfully. Suddenly fear leaped into its eyes--its

ears sprang up vertically, and just as Grimalkin cramped himself

together for a rush, the strange rabbit wheeled round and burst out of

the 'form.' Grimalkin pulled himself up abruptly, for he was too

experienced a hunter to give chase; but even in that brief space he

had time to remark that its tail was not carried in the usual jaunty

rabbit manner, but was depressed like that of a hare.

That was the first time that Grimalkin met the Collared Buck rabbit of

upper Knockdane. The Collared Buck, like the lost Incas, was the last

of his race. Years before, a whole colony of white-necked rabbits had

lived in the hedgerows outside the wood, but their ornament had proved

a fatal guide to foxes and stoats, and this winter the sole survivor

lived in Knockdane, a hermit and a solitary. He had his headquarters

in a burrow in the elder thicket above Grimalkin's glen; but as in

that wet season, like many other of the holes in Knockdane, it was

often full of water, he was obliged to 'lie up' in the woods, whether

he liked or not. Very early in the morning, after moonset, he went out

to feed in the sheep field by a well-worn track; but, as soon as the

'false dawn' appeared, he returned to the wood, and made a 'form' in

some patch of fern or bramble, where he passed the day. Grimalkin the

cat never wasted his time over rabbits unless there was reasonable

chance of success, and although he often crossed the Collared Buck's

hot trail he never turned aside to follow it. Sometimes indeed he

caught a glimpse of the Buck himself lilting across a clearing in the

starlight, or feeding with a wary eye fixed on covert; but this

rabbit's remarkable appearance was only equalled by his cunning, as

indeed Grimalkin soon saw for himself.

One crisp January day Grimalkin was taking a sun-bath in the fork of a

large beech tree, when a sudden 'bang-bang' apprised him that men were

in the wood, and that they were there with intent to slay. Grimalkin

regarded men with more hatred and less fear than did the Fur Folk

themselves, for his early days by the fireside had made an indelible

impression upon him; but he was aware of the limitations of human

discernment, and knew that if he remained where he was he would be

reasonably safe. The reports of the guns came nearer, and presently a

pair of jays flew overhead, squawking to all the birds within earshot

that it was time to move on. In front of the beech tree the trees grew

more sparsely, and the ground was encumbered with a low growth of fern

and bramble. By and by the shooting party came out of the covert and

advanced slowly up the glade. Grimalkin, blinking down from his coign

of vantage, saw rabbit after rabbit bolt from its 'form' only to turn

a somersault and collapse into a palpitating heap. Just below the

beech tree there was a thick patch of briars, broken up by numerous

passages and clearings. Grimalkin, unlike the men below, had a

bird's-eye view of the place, and just before the line of beaters came

abreast of it a rabbit hopped out of a runway. His white necklet

proclaimed that he was the Collared Buck. He sat up upon his curious

hare-like tail, and peered through the bushes. Just then another shot

was fired, and a luckless rabbit close by crawled screaming through

the fern. The Collared Buck made up his mind--he rolled over limply

upon his back and lay still. The beaters came up and began to whack

the bushes, but he never twitched a whisker, and he might have escaped

notice altogether had not one man caught sight of his white gorget

gleaming in the grass, and walked over to pick up, as he considered,

the dead rabbit. The Collared one lay like a stone until a hand was

put out to seize him, then he suddenly leaped sideways and ran for his

life. Bang! bang! bang! he bolted down the whole line of guns, and

each fired as he passed; but although the shot clipped twigs from the

bushes all round him, he ran on unscathed. Just out of shot he paused,

and then quietly and deliberately crept down an adjacent burrow,

leaving the sportsmen the poorer of self-respect and cartridges.

After this the weather became fine and warm, and the rabbits used to

come out of their burrows to take sun-baths. Three times Grimalkin saw

the Collared Buck basking outside his hole above the glen, with his

legs sprawled on the dry leaves, and his eyes blinking blissfully in

the heat. Three times did Grimalkin then attempt to stalk his prey,

and three times did the Buck take alarm, and hop underground with

insulting leisure. The desire to circumvent the Collared Buck became

an obsession with Grimalkin. He spent hours at a stretch watching the

burrow mouth; all in vain. He often caught a glimpse of the white

collar, or saw the drooping scut flit into the bushes, but he never

gave chase on these occasions, for he knew well that in a race he was

no match for a rabbit, and that his skill in hunting depended less

upon his legs than upon his patience. So the Collared Buck fed nightly

in the fields, and arrogantly chiselled his mark upon the old willow

tree which is the trysting place of the buck rabbits in spring, and

upon which each sets the imprint of his teeth.

Earlier in the autumn Grimalkin had lived principally upon the

squirrels who squabbled among the beech-mast, but as the season

advanced, Koutchee, who, though a noisy meddlesome fellow, is no fool,

grew wary, and the suspicion of a barred tabby tail twitching in

covert was sufficient to send him scuttling up a tree. Henceforth

Grimalkin lived chiefly upon thrushes. The ripening of the haws

brought in hordes of missel-thrushes, redwings, and blackbirds, who

tore at the crimson berries and littered them over the countryside

with the wasteful profusion of the Feather Folk who take no thought

for the morrow, and then came, full cropped and drowsy, to roost in

Knockdane. At dark Grimalkin used to creep beneath the bushes which

were weighted down with the sleepy birds, and took his toll. The

redwings were his favourite game, for it was possible to strike one

down silently; whereas no sooner did he miss a spring at throstle or

blackbird than the whole wood knew of the occurrence. Creeping in the

darkness among the locked laurel stems, Grimalkin often knew that he

was not the only hunter abroad. Sometimes as a cloud came over the

moon, a blackbird 'spinked' agonizedly, and then all at once the whole

hillside seemed to spring into rushing whirring life as every bird

within earshot dashed out. There would be dire confusion for a few

minutes until the flock settled in another thicket, and then the

patter of pads tiptoeing away told that the fox was also hunting that

way that night.

One evening Grimalkin was prowling on such an excursion along the

edge of the wood. Just in front of him a deep drain, cut straight

through the hedgebank, opened into the field. This cutting was a

favourite path of all the Fur Folk, and its muddy bottom was trampled

by many feet, from the splay pugs of the badger to the fairy spoors of

the rats. It was for the latter that Grimalkin waited, under a fern

stub. Famine had gripped the rats with the rest of the Wood People,

and drove them out to feed on the rotting beech-mast far from their

holes. The blackbirds were arguing together loudly as they settled

down in the laurels for the night; nevertheless through all the din

Grimalkin detected a distant scurry and patter of feet. His practised

ear soon recognised that the oncoming steps belonged to a running

rabbit, and just behind he caught the galloping rustle of some

pursuer. Grimalkin the cat feared neither fox nor dog, and he knew

that the smaller folk all feared him and turned aside from his path;

so that, with a glance to locate a convenient tree in case of

emergency, he remained where he was. The bushes suddenly parted and

out sprang the Collared Buck. His ears were laid down and his eyes

showed the whites as he glanced behind him. He came straight as an

arrow for the drain; not until he was almost upon it did he catch

sight of Grimalkin, and at that moment Redpad the fox came leaping

upon his trail. The Collared Buck saw that he was in a trap. He was

yet three yards from the bank when he jumped, but the force of his

rush was with him and carried him into the drain. At the same instant

the cat's claws tore his flank, but the smart merely spurred him to

further efforts. He changed feet nimbly, and shot through the hedge

far out into the field beyond. Grimalkin alighted on the ditch bottom

in a smother of dead leaves, not three feet from the fox's nose. He

put his back against the bank, and his eyes looked ugly as he breathed

a menace. The fox stopped dead, and they glared eye to eye while one

might pant a score of times. Then the fox dropped his eyes uneasily.

He dared not face the great cat's scimitar claws in the narrow path,

and he slid cautiously back in his tracks out of striking distance

before leaping into the bushes.

Grimalkin caught a rat and a bird that night, and at dawn went back to

his lair. He licked his muddy coat dry, and being full fed and

comfortable for the first time for many days, he sang a low song to

himself, which made the little mice, among the ivy at the cave's

mouth, cower and hide. But by and by the purring ceased, and

Grimalkin, thoughtfully watching the dim light on the floor, growled

softly at the recollection of the baulked spring in the hedge bottom;

and in his dreams that night--for the Fur Folk often dream--his claws

worked softly as though he had struck them into the kill.

* * * * *

After that Grimalkin watched the hedge bottom for two nights, but the

Collared Buck was wary, and went out to feed by another way. On the

third evening he came again, but a breath of wind warned him in time

of his enemy's presence. This happened once or twice, and then

Grimalkin grew tired of a fruitless vigil in the damp ditch and laid

other plans.

One January night Grimalkin came out of his cave, and stealing across

the glen, climbed the opposite wall. It was dark under the trees, but

a white blur in the shadows guided him to the mouth of the burrow in

the elders. Very very cautiously he sniffed at the place. All was

well. The Buck had not yet gone out. Grimalkin squatted down within

striking distance, tucked his paws away cosily in front of him, and

waited.

An hour passed--there was a stir in the burrow, and the Collared Buck

crept out, his white throat a beacon in the starlight. So swiftly that

it seemed as but one movement, Grimalkin took half a dozen quick

steps and leaped, but even as he did so the big rabbit stamped a

sudden alarm. They rolled over together, Grimalkin bearing down his

prey as a tiger will a deer, but the latter was frenzied with fear,

and in his agony launched a desperate kick which caught Grimalkin upon

the point of the nose. As he staggered back he felt the rabbit slip

from between his claws. The Collared Buck bounded away among the

elders, stamping an alarm at every stride, until his dancing white

collar disappeared among the bushes. Grimalkin sat up and wiped the

blood from his face. He realised that another point had been scored

against him.

* * * * *

An hour later as Grimalkin was passing the well-worn track to the

Sheep Field, dawn was breaking, and a fine rain began to fall. He

followed a path among the furze bushes, and on turning a corner caught

sight of a rabbit in the grass. He stalked it scientifically, and from

nearer covert looked at it again. There was no doubt but that it was

the Collared Buck. He was lying prone upon his chest as though for a

sun-bath, and apparently had noticed nothing amiss. But why should he

bask when rain was falling? Grimalkin was uneasy. The Fur Folk fear

what is unusual; nevertheless because he was hungry, and his enemy so

close, he sprang. His claws sank deep into the white collar, but the

Collared Buck neither moved nor gasped. His body was warm and limp,

and round his neck, although Grimalkin never noticed it, was twisted a

wicked strand of brass wire. It never occurred to Grimalkin to

question how his long-sought quarry had died. He drew himself up and

his tail swayed with triumph. The Collared Buck lay beneath his claws

and old scores were repaid. He began to play the death-game which the

cat kind always play over the kill. First of all he touched the rabbit

with his paw, daring it to rise up and run from him; then, as though

to make surety doubly sure, he leaped upon it and struck again. While

there is life in bird or beast they will struggle from the death-play

blindly, but the Collared Buck lay placidly still with the rain

draggling his fur and his eyes staring. Even his sensitive nose never

quivered; for, although Grimalkin did not know it, the wire round his

neck had long ago choked the breath in his throat. Next Grimalkin

rolled upon the ground, and drawing the limp form towards him, licked

its fur and caressed it, while he sang a song praising its strength

and cunning, and vaunting his own superior skill as a hunter. The

wrens in the furze scolded and flew away, for few of the lesser folk

are bold enough to stand by while Grimalkin plays after the kill. He

gambolled to and fro like a kitten for the joy of feeling the strong

muscles swell in his limbs; and growling, he dared any of the Wood

People to snatch his prey from him. So absorbed was he in his game

that he never heard a step on the close turf, and only when a

blackbird chuckled an alarm did he look up to see Paddy Magragh

standing watching him, with a bundle of rabbit snares in his hand.

Then all make-believe was at an end. Should he, Grimalkin, Cat-King of

Knockdane, give up his kill? He growled menacingly, and dragged at the

body, until the peg round which the wire was twisted, already loosened

by the rabbit's death-struggles, was pulled out of the ground.

'Drop it, ye thafe,' shouted Paddy Magragh, flinging his stick at the

cat. It missed its mark, and Grimalkin merely glared as he dragged his

kill towards the bushes a few yards away. Magragh had lost his cudgel,

but he strode up to kick his antagonist aside with his heavy boots.

However, Grimalkin turned upon him with such a ferocious snarl that he

drew back, for no leather would have been proof against those teeth.

By the time he had fetched his stick, Grimalkin, tripping over his

burden, had almost gained the bushes. He gave chase instantly, but

Grimalkin had never yet abandoned his prey, and only trotted the

faster. They reached the bushes simultaneously. The earthstopper

struck out brutally with his stick and knocked aside Grimalkin, who

rolled over and over half stunned; but then Magragh lost his

advantage, for he rashly stooped and laid hold of the rabbit. In an

instant, with a strangled yell, Grimalkin's teeth met in his wrist. He

sprang back with an oath as the blood trickled down.

'Begob! there's something not right wid that cat,' he muttered

fearfully, stepping aside. 'And the rabbit is a quare one. 'Tis a drop

o' holy wather, not a stick, ye'd want for the likes o' him, I'm

thinking.'

So without further interference Grimalkin returned to the limp body of

the Collared Buck and dragged it laboriously into the bushes. Once

protected by the kindly furze thorns he crouched down panting, lest

another attack should be meditated, but it did not come; and presently

he heard the earthstopper's heavy tread on the turf as he walked away.

Then indeed Grimalkin's triumph was complete. He had even outwitted

man himself, and robbed him of his kill. He turned to the rabbit once

more, and played out the death-game to an end before returning to his

lair.

[Illustration: GRIMALKIN]

CHAPTER IV

ZOE

The day on which the first swallow came was marked with white in

Grimalkin's calendar. He was looking for chaffinches' nests in the big

whitethorn hedge at the back of Ballymore Rectory, when he suddenly

spied a rat. The rat was sitting up eating a snail, and every now and

then it cast a beady glance around; but Grimalkin slid through the

grass like a snake, and it did not see him. He had cramped his limbs

together for a spring when all at once something fell like a miniature

thunderbolt from a neighbouring crab-tree, and alighted just six

inches behind the rat, who dropped his supper and vanished in a

twinkling.

Grimalkin was astonished. It was a cat--but what a cat! She was small,

but such was the length of her fur that she appeared much larger than

she really was. She had a foam-white vest and socks, but the rest of

her coat was deep mouse colour, and a wide ruffle stood out on either

side of her face. Had it been a tom-cat who had leaped at his game,

Grimalkin's paw would speedily have buffeted his ears. As it was, he

crept forward humbly and tried to attract her attention. Zoe's back

gradually rose to a semicircle, and when he touched her she struck

him smartly across the face. Certainly love can work miracles, or else

Grimalkin, King-Cat of Knockdane, would never have suffered such a

blow quietly; but as it was he only passed his tongue deprecatingly

over his whiskers. Zoe eyed him to see whether he took his punishment

with due humility, and then sat down to wipe her ears with her fluffy

white paw. Presently Grimalkin rolled over on to his back, rubbing his

tabby ears. A deep rumbling purr vibrated his throat: 'Prr-r-eaow!'

cried Grimalkin, with that subtle inflection which cats understand to

mean: 'You are altogether desirable.' Zoe crept forward, and

Grimalkin, rearing up his tabby length, rubbed his whiskers vigorously

against her cheek. She too began to purr, but very softly and evenly;

and by and by when she trotted away, she glanced back to intimate to

him that he might follow if he wished.

After that they often met. Zoe was the cherished pet of the Rectory,

and was consequently shut up every night; nevertheless she often

eluded her mistress and stole down the whitethorn hedge where

Grimalkin caught cockchafers--a trick learned from the blackbeetles of

his kitchen days. At first she was reluctant to remain out for long

together. After a little excursion she would pause and turn back.

Instantly Grimalkin would be at her side imploring her with all

feline caresses to accompany him. He could not understand the ties of

custom which bound her to her human friends. He had broken them long

ago when a kitten, and was now as truly wild as any of the Fur Folk in

Knockdane. But Zoe and her parents before her had lived by the

fireside and eaten men's food, and it was more difficult for them to

hear the call of the woods.

Once for three days she stayed at home; but on the third evening she

looked down the field, and saw Grimalkin waiting. A little cry rose in

her throat; she dropped out of the window and ran to him.

They hunted together until the long sunbeams were cut off by the hill,

and the dew began to fall. A score of blackbirds piped in Knockdane,

and a corncrake rasped in the meadow. The darkness fell, and the night

peoples--the badgers, bats, and owls--came out. When the night was

half gone, Zoe's instinct to return to her human friends awoke, but

she was tired, and Grimalkin's presence was very dear to her. She felt

drawn two ways. Instinct bade her remain in the woods; custom, parent

of instinct, commanded her to return home. The shadows under the oak

trees were full of the mysterious sights and sounds of the night. A

skylark on the hill believed that he saw the false dawn, and rose

singing to meet it; and a cuckoo in the valley awoke and fluted

drowsily. Out in the woods the ways of men seem very small and far

away. Grimalkin looked round. 'Prr-r-eaow!' he cried, which being

interpreted is: 'O my love, the desirable one'; and the cuckoo's voice

mingled with the murmur of the river. Zoe's doubts fled. She forgot

her former life, and all the kindness which she had always received

from man. Grimalkin was calling and her heart went out to

him--Knockdane was calling and she obeyed it. She followed her mate to

his lair.

* * * * *

At the beginning of July Zoe left Grimalkin altogether. Now and then

he caught a glimpse of her, but she always fled from him as though he

had been some dangerous thing, and for many nights he hunted alone.

Years before, a south-westerly gale had driven in from the Atlantic,

and ploughed a deep furrow through the fir grove at the top of

Knockdane, piling the snapped trunks on one another. Nobody moved

them, and they lay there in rotting heaps; but their fall let in the

sunshine and rain to the earth, and the next summer a multitude of

plants grew up where previously had been nothing but gloomy firs.

Briars ran riot over the decaying branches, grass grew rank and long,

and alders pushed a way to the air and light. These were woven into a

jungle so dense that only the rabbits thoroughly knew their way about

in it; but the foxes and cats followed their runways and often hunted

them on their own ground.

Early one morning Grimalkin went to the 'Jungle.' No dew had fallen

for many days, and the sun rose up a cloudless sky. Grimalkin glided

down a rabbit track, and so into a little clearing surrounded by walls

of thorn and wild rose. Here lay a tree trunk which had been uprooted

by the storm. Under its roots was a little cavern half hidden by ivy

and broken branches. Grimalkin jumped upon the trunk, and squatted

down to watch for rabbits and enjoy the morning sunshine. Presently a

bough snapped behind him, and he turned his head very slightly. His

muscles were tense to spring, when a soft voice of infinite

motherliness thrilled him. 'Purr-r-utchuck!' it said, which in cat

language means: 'Thy mother loves thee, little love!' Trotting towards

the tree came Zoe. She was thin and her coat looked rough, but her

eyes had a tender glow. Grimalkin watched her glide into the lair

under the ivy, and then he leaped after her. Carefully concealed from

curious eyes was a little chamber lined with grass bents. On the

ground squeaked and squirmed a heap of grey and white fur, and

encircling it proudly with her body lay Zoe. She purred softly to her

brood, and licked the tiny round heads thrust forward so eagerly for a

meal. She never noticed Grimalkin until his shadow darkened the

doorway, and then she sprang up--a very fierce mother--with back

arched. In the woods motherhood for a time swamps all other feelings;

and Zoe now looked upon her former lover as she would have done upon

any other creature who threatened her kittens.

However, Grimalkin had no evil intentions. He thrust his head into the

nursery and touched Zoe's whiskers; and, although her claws were drawn

back to strike, she suffered the caress. One of the kittens, mewing

plaintively, crawled to Grimalkin, and thrust its minute pink nose

into his side. Grimalkin stood frozen with horror for a moment,

glaring at his son, then with a hiss of indignation he leaped into the

bushes and fled. Henceforth he avoided the old fir tree, although he

often met Zoe elsewhere.

That summer was long remembered in the countryside as 'The year of the

great drought.' No dew or rain fell, and the whole land leaped and

quivered in the heat all day long. The pools and brooks dwindled,

leaving cracked patches of mud to show where they had been. Brooding

birds upon the nest gaped with thirst, but dared not leave their eggs

to seek the distant river. For the Fur Folk in Knockdane there was

only one little trickle of tepid water left; and all day long it was

crowded with thirsty birds who struggled with one another for room to

drink and bathe. It was hard work for Zoe in these days, for she had

to hunt for five besides herself. She grew very thin; but as the

kittens throve she did not spare herself, for that is the way of

mothers, human and furred.

One blazing noon she left her family for a little while, and was

sitting with Grimalkin in a hawthorn some little way from the

'Jungle.' Their attention was attracted by the thud of footsteps, and

they saw Paddy Magragh the earthstopper. He had paused to draw his

pipe from his pocket and light it. The cats watched intently lest he

should discover them, but he threw away the match and passed on.

By and by Grimalkin looked down the path and saw what looked like a

row of orange crocus flowers, which grew up in a moment and died down,

leaving the ground black behind them. The cats came down from the

tree, and at the first whiff of the burnt grass Zoe's back rose. She

knew that smell better than did Grimalkin, for she was more

accustomed to the ways of men, and had sat by the fireside; but there

the flames had been caged behind iron bars--here in the free woods

they had it all their own way. Grimalkin growled, and then,

stealthily, as though he had sighted a rabbit snare, he slipped into

the bushes and glided away. Zoe stood there longer, for although she

hated and feared the fire, yet it was less strange to her than to her

mate.

The flames crept along until they came to a large tuft of grass, as

dry as tinder. There was a sudden flare and the grass was gone; but

the topmost tongue licked a bramble bush, and in an instant it was in

a blaze. At night a fire puts on a certain majesty with which to cloak

its terrors; but by day it has nothing to redeem its native

fierceness. The brushwood was parched with the drought and the flames

roared up the dry stems.

Did some kind angel stoop and whisper a word of warning to Zoe? She

suddenly turned and ran to the 'Jungle,' which was not very far away.

The kittens were hungry and begged a meal, but she disregarded them,

and, picking up the youngest, set off at a steady pace across

Knockdane. The woods were quite silent but for the song of the birds.

Close to the nursery an old blackbird was feeding a brood of

fledglings, and a hedgehog nosed along the path. Above the tree tops a

faint smoke rose, quivering in the sunshine.

Zoe trotted away with her head up, carrying the kitten very carefully

lest her teeth should lacerate its tender skin. She crossed Knockdane

and sought the open country, for she mistrusted every tree and thicket

since she knew what she had left in the woods behind. She found an

empty rabbit hole, laid the kitten inside, and cantered back to

Knockdane; but it was more than half a mile away, and by the time she

reached it, little white ashes were floating over the 'Jungle' like

snowflakes, and the fire was singing merrily to itself. Nevertheless a

wide path separated it from where the kittens lay, and so far the

danger did not seem so very pressing.

Zoe picked up a second youngster and carried it off. As she set her

face towards Knockdane for the second time she saw that a thick smoke

was rolling up and reddening the sun. The country lay still in the

heat haze. As yet no one seemed to have noticed anything unusual on

the hill, for the valley was sparsely populated, and most people were

enjoying a siesta. When Zoe reached the 'Jungle' she saw a frightened

rabbit scudding away. The fire was raging in the saplings near and

licking away the brushwood with a fierce hiss. A charred space,

littered with red embers, lay in a circle of fire which was

encroaching ever further and further into the wood. The laurels

crackled as the heat changed them to molten gold and ruby before

dropping them into the flames. There was no time to be lost. Already

blazing fragments were dropping from the tree into the dead grass at

the edge of the 'Jungle,' and the brushwood burned like tinder when

kindled.

Zoe took up her third kitten, and this time she ran faster than

before. The old blackbird was croaking to her brood, beseeching them

to use their wings to escape, but they only gaped foolishly for more

worms. The hedgehog was waddling through the grass as fast as his

short legs would permit. Zoe easily overtook and passed him, but the

kittens were heavy and the day very hot. The sun came through the

leaves, and cast chequered patterns on the path. The woods were very

still, but for the rush and crackle of the fire.

For the third time Zoe toiled back up the hill. The air seemed hotter

and heavier than ever, and smoke hung among the trees. Suddenly she

came upon the vanguard of the fire. It had leaped the path and was

creeping into the 'Jungle' with a roar. Alder, fir branch, and briar

in turn flared up and fell before it, and the yellow flames streamed

skywards, dissolving into sparks and smoke. Behind lay utter

desolation. The charred tree-trunks stood up among the surrounding

blackness, and the leaves which the fire could not reach hung

blistered from their twigs. The fire was not two hundred yards away

from the fir tree. It was to be a race--Zoe against the flames; but

the former had a mile to travel, and a kitten to carry into the

bargain.

Her eyes smarted from the smoke and she was dizzy with fatigue, but

she gallantly took up her fourth baby, and ran for its life. She

caught a glimpse of some men hastening up the hill, but did not heed

them. She laid her kitten with the rest of the litter, and made the

best of her way back to Knockdane.

The 'Jungle' was crowned with flames. Everything was thickly peppered

with ashes and the sun shone luridly through the smoke. For a moment

Zoe was utterly at a loss--then she limped up the accustomed path

towards the fir tree. Once or twice she trod on a burning cinder, and

the heat made her whiskers shrivel; but she kept on bravely for the

sake of the baby in the pine-tree nursery.

She darted to the nest. There was just half a minute to spare before

the fire would sweep up to the tree. The earth was burning hot, and

already the ivy leaves were blistering. She plunged into the hole and

groped desperately for her treasure. The moments flew by--she could

not find it. Her eyes were accustomed to see in the gloom, but this

darkness was impenetrable. Ah! at last she touched the mewing kitten,

and gripping it turned to fly. Outside she shrank back, for she was

met by a veritable wall of flame. The fir tree was surrounded by fire,

for the grass was blazing, and the bushes were kindling in every

direction. There was only one place through which escape could be

made--where the burning zone was narrowest. Zoe gripped the kitten

tighter, laid back her ears, closed her eyes, and leaped. For one

fierce moment the fire actually licked her body, and then she dropped

safely on the ashes beyond. Her whiskers were gone, her beautiful

ruffle had shrivelled away, her coat was black with ashes; but the

kitten for whom she had dared so much was safe. She crawled wearily

away, dragging it after her, while the fire leaped and danced round

the old fir tree.

* * * * *

At sunset, as Grimalkin prowled through the fields at the back of the

church (for he avoided the woods while that mysterious bright power

hunted there) he saw Zoe, again carrying a singed kitten. In the hour

of danger old ties had reasserted themselves. She was going back to

man, for with all his ignorance he had treated her better than the

wild had done, and already four of the kittens lay in the Rectory

hayloft.

She put up her back when she saw Grimalkin, but he made no attempt to

stop her, and only trotted behind with a puzzled air. They came to the

gate of the Rectory yard, and Zoe crawled underneath; but Grimalkin

heard the scorched woods calling to him, and he could not follow, for

he hated the abodes of men. 'Meaow!' he cried, but Zoe took no notice.

At that moment a girl came into the yard, and stopped short in

surprise: 'Why, Zoe, my pet!' she cried joyfully. Zoe, trained in

caution by weeks of woodland life, climbed into the hayloft. The girl

knew better than to follow her there, but presently she came back

bearing a saucer of milk for the parched throat, and laid it down

outside. Grimalkin turned and crept away.

That night the drought broke, and a thunderstorm burst over Knockdane.

The rain poured in torrents and doused out the fire completely. But

for many months there was a wide black clearing where the 'Jungle' had

been; and a charred log in the middle was all that was left of Zoe's

nursery.

CHAPTER V

WHERE THE BATTLE IS TO THE STRONG

In March the nights are long and winds are cold; food is scarce, yet

hunters must live.

Grimalkin passed down the palings at the woodside, and stole on

noiseless feet among the grass-tufts under the stormy dawn.

Four summers have passed over Grimalkin's head since we saw him last;

four years of uninterrupted supremacy in the woods. His own kind

feared him; the lesser Fur Folk fled from him; the gamekeeper hated

him. He was the patriarch of his race, a Prince among his people. But

these four years, while raising Grimalkin to the height of his fame,

had taken their toll. His coat already showed a suspicion of grey

along the spine and jowl; his eyes were keen as ever, but many kills

had blunted the mighty claws and teeth; and his whiskers had fallen

in. Nevertheless the Spring Longing danced as gladsomely in his blood

as when he had been a kitten.

March mornings are stormy. The wind woke at daybreak and sighed up the

valley. The trees of Knockdane swept a stately arpeggio in answer as

the steely south-easter roared louder through the organ pipe of the

woods, and bent the tasselled larch on which the storm-cock chanted

to the celandines.

The sunrise was pale and watery, fitful gusts shook the bushes.

Grimalkin's thoughts ran on rabbits--the rabbits always come out on

the Long Bank first of all. He squatted under a briar brake, tucked

his paws away cosily before him, and watched.

* * * * *

A rustle among the brambles, a stir on the dead leaves. Grimalkin's

muscles stiffened, and his whiskers twitched. He crouched flat, then

slid forward sinuously, paw after paw. Never yet had he failed in his

spring on a March rabbit. His eye dilated and his muscles swelled with

the thought of victory. Then came the rub. The quarry, nervously

nibbling at the open grass, was outside striking distance. A young cat

might have risked a spring and failure. Grimalkin was too old a

hunter, and sat down to wait.

* * * * *

Again the grasses stirred, and green eyes, keen and deadly, were

framed in the waving stems. The hunter knew them well. A reproduction

of his own, they belonged to his great-grandson, a worthy whose

well-groomed face betrayed all feline vices.

The newcomer licked his lips, his face took a smug complacent

expression. He also scrutinised the rabbit--he also would wait. If

there should be a battle, well and good--let the strongest win.

Grimalkin made no sign save that he bared his teeth in a silent snarl

of concentrated hate; but hot anger boiled within him, for it is one

of the laws of the Fur Folk, that if one beast hunts the quarry of

another of the same kind, the latter may kill him if he will. But

never before had another cat dared to stalk Grimalkin's game, or beard

him to his face. It was intolerable, and he half turned, and in so

doing betrayed himself. The rabbit is the wariest of Wood Folk. If he

were not so he would have died out centuries ago. He sat up with alert

ears, and lilted suspiciously to a distance. The hunters saw that

their game had disappointed them, but they scarcely heeded it. They

watched one another for a minute with slowly undulating tail-tips.

Then very evenly and softly from the patriarch's throat rose the

challenge of Clan Cattus: 'mi-ee-awl.' His grandson answered, flinging

back the cry loudly and defiantly, interlarding it with those insults

of which a tom-cat is such an unrivalled master.

The heroes circled round one another, and then closed, striking out

tufts of fur until the ground was sprinkled with them. They buffeted

one another until they were utterly exhausted, and then drew back to

recover before renewing the attack. Grimalkin strained every sinew to

teach this upstart the respect due to his position and years, but--try

as he would--not a blow went home. Feint, counterfeint, undercut and

smashing downward stroke, all were parried, and Grimalkin sank down

breathless after every round with blood trickling from his ears. A new

sensation assailed him--his limbs seemed numb and feeble. He was

weary. It was not now revenge for which he sought--he was struggling

despairingly for the right to live. His blows grew more feeble, and

foam hung on his jaws. Now was the time for the superiority of young

blood to tell. Down came the iron paw, armed with the strong curved

claws, upon the veteran's skull. Grimalkin yelled and leaped back as a

hot red curtain fell before his sight. Baffled and half stunned, he

crept away, cowed, into the bramble covert.

The victor sat up and licked his wounds. Henceforth there was a new

king for the cat-folk in Knockdane.

* * * * *

The day was well begun. Why did the throstle pipe overhead? Why did

the daffodils dance in the breeze? Why was the Spring Longing so

insolently apparent in every bud and bough, and why did they flaunt it

so heartlessly in his face? Could they restore a darkened eye, or

rejuvenate weakened limbs? Thus might have mused Grimalkin of

Knockdane, who was king there no more. It had come at last, a cold

hand which grips man and beast alike, certain and irremediable. _Old

Age_ was stealing fast behind him. And old age means more to the Fur

Folk than to human beings. When their strength once declines ever so

slightly, they must go to the wall to make room for stronger hunters.

They are the lawful prey of any who can take them. If by any chance

they escape death by their fellows, nothing remains but Starvation--a

slower agony.

Grimalkin could not look into the future and see what Fate had in

store for him, but perhaps he was all the happier for it. Mortified

and baffled as he was at his defeat, he did not realise that a day

would come when he must pass by the full-grown buck rabbit for the

young and sickly, or later on prey on grass-mice which he now

disdained. But this day was still far off. Loud called the March wind

overhead. Grimalkin rose, and ceased to try and tear the darkness from

his blinded eye. He was hungry, and his hunter's skill still remained

to him. What he lacked in strength and endurance must be compensated

for by cunning. He crept from his hiding-place, and stole silently

down the path to his hunting grounds.

So passes Grimalkin from this tale, through the grey trees, into the

depths of the mysterious woods, where the race is only to the swift

and the battle to the strong, and about which man can know nothing

certainly.

THE BIOGRAPHY OF STUBBS THE BADGER

[Illustration: THE BIOGRAPHY OF STUBBS THE BADGER]

CHAPTER I

THE TWILIGHT HUNTERS

The spoor was impressed deeply in the muddy ground where a stream ran

by the path. The broad toes were well defined, and the punctures of

the great digging claws had cut the clay. 'There's badgers in the auld

earth again,' said Paddy Magragh, standing up.

It was a mild evening in March, with a grey sky streaked with faint

reflections of the unseen sunset. Paddy turned to the right, up a

track used more often by the Fur Folk than by man. There was a shallow

pit here, and under the brim opened the mouth of a big burrow.

Generations of persevering diggers had lived and died there, and each

had added his quota to the mound outside the hole, and excavated yet

another chamber among the honeycomb of galleries tunnelled into the

hill. However, for some years, the 'earth' had been empty, and the

dead leaves had drifted thickly against the entrance. The rabbits had

dug burrows about the place; and after a hard-pressed fox had taken

refuge there, two winters before, Magragh himself had built up the

'set' with stones and earth, so strongly that fox-pads could not open

it. Now, however, the barricade was scraped away, and leaves and grass

littered the mound outside. Magragh looked up at the fading sky and

turned homewards, but after a few steps he returned. Had Fate set him

in another sphere, he might have been a great naturalist. As it was,

although he had a profound knowledge of those of the Wild Folk who

furnished 'shpoort' for himself and his fellow men, of the lesser

breeds he was almost entirely ignorant. Nevertheless, the spirit of

the true naturalist slept in him, unsuspected, and to-night, for once

in a way, it awoke. He would not admit to himself that he desired to

see the inmates of this burrow without chance of 'shpoort' or

slaughter, but muttered shamefacedly: 'Shure, I'll watch a bit see

would the craythurs come out to-night.' Those who spend much time

alone under the free sky acquire this habit of soliloquy; indeed,

after a while, each finds himself his own best company.

Paddy Magragh sat down under a tree, and watched the light fade from

the surrounding bushes. The bats hawked to and fro, and a blackbird

'chink-chinked' in notes like the dripping of water. A rabbit came out

of a hole hard by with his scut buttoned down, and slid away to feed,

so softly that his footsteps never stirred the leaves; but he did not

see Paddy Magragh, who, in his tattered coat and broken boots, looked

as shapeless and as knotted as the old stump against which he leaned.

The woods were quite quiet but for the trickling of the little stream

near at hand, and even the nibbling of the rabbit in the brambles was

plainly audible.

When it was so dark that the shrews could only be located by their

voices as they squabbled in the dead leaves, there came a rustle at

the 'earth' mouth, and a striped snout was poked out. After the snout

slid a long grey body--a shadow among the shadows--humped and clumsy,

yet so silent that not a twig snapped under the heavy pads. Magragh

sat with his hands clasped over his 'ash-plant.' The badger snuffed

suspiciously, then waddled off by a little, well-worn path. A minute

or two afterwards, from the stream, could be heard the sound of water

lapped down a thirsty throat. Paddy was wise. He sat for another ten

minutes. The silence grew more tense and the darkness deeper. Then,

without any warning, a badger, larger than the last, scurried across

the pit so quickly that Magragh's old eyes had barely caught sight of

him before he vanished in the shadows.

'A pair o' thim,' said the old man, hobbling homewards.

A week later he waited there again; waited until the woodcock had

settled down to feed, and the light was almost gone, leaving the pit

so dark that his eyes saw nothing when his ears caught the rustle of a

single hunter turning up the hill from the 'earth.'

'There's cubs wid'in,' opined Paddy Magragh.

* * * * *

Tunnelled ten yards into the hillside, up a narrow gallery to the

right, and then down another, dug at right angles to avoid a rock

proof against even a badger's claws, was the nursery; and here the

cubs were born at the end of March. If Mother Badger had been wary

before, she now increased her caution to an unheard-of degree. Even

the distant shuffle of her mate's footsteps, as he went out to feed,

was sufficient to rouse her to a rumbling growl. She herself never

stirred outside the 'earth' until after midnight, and, even then, the

'wick-wick' of a wakeful throstle set her heart thudding.

It was the middle of April before Mother Badger took her cubs into

the woods. She chose a starlit night--the badgers love the stars

better than the moon--and led them to the burrow mouth. They crawled

up the mound outside, and then flopped down to rest; for their longest

journey hitherto had been across their nursery, and their short legs

soon grew weary. Although the alternate tracts of their pied snouts

were well defined, the black was washed over with chocolate colour;

otherwise they were exact replicas of their parents.

Mother Badger did not dare to lead them far afield that night. As it

was, once or twice she took alarm and hustled them underground.

However, the cubs did not trouble about the limitations of their

bounds. The sand at the burrow mouth was light and dry, and they

delightedly thrust their paws into it and scattered it about, just as

children at the seaside dabble their feet in the water. The biggest

cub found a rabbit scrape, and, thrusting in his nose, dug lustily.

Presently one of his sisters came pushing up and they fought

viciously, rolling over and over to the bottom of the mound, with

locked claws. This roused Mother Badger, who lay above the 'earth'

with one eye on her cubs and the other upon the woods. She waddled

down and cuffed them; then brought them back, and licked and fed them

tenderly. Long before dawn she took them below ground again; even

before Father Badger had returned home, grunting, to his solitary

dormitory.

[Illustration: HOMEWARD BOUND]

The next night, however, they went as far as the Hollow Field. Mother

went first, and the cubs, their eyes fixed upon her shaggy, bumping

quarters, followed her closely in single file. Her feet made no sound;

but now and then one of the little ones, less used to tread where the

least rustle aroused the whole woodside, snapped a twig. That was

their first real hunting. Last night by the 'earth' had merely been

play, but now they learned the science of smells, for a badger relies

very greatly upon his nose. They learned that, as the night wore on,

the scent grew stronger or fainter according to the dew-fall and the

wind and the state of the ground, and to what different smells

belonged. A strong taint blew aslant the hedge--that was fox. Mother

Badger sampled it scientifically, and the cubs dutifully followed her

example. The rabbit trails intersected one another in a labyrinth, but

the badger has no dealings with grown rabbits, and they passed these

by. Every tree and herb and bird and beast has its own particular

odour, and, as there is no directory of scent in the woods but that

which each of the Fur Folk compiles for himself, the little badgers

had to learn each separately.

Thus, follow-my-leader-wise, they entered the Hollow Field, and Mother

Badger sought a likely spot where the babies might receive a first

lesson in beetle-hunting. She dug up the turf, and grunted for her

family to turn over the scrapings. He who nosed deepest obtained the

morsel--a dor-beetle, well-flavoured, and devoured with gusto with the

condiment of Nature's providing.

Presently, the Mother Badger craned her long neck, and her little eyes

twinkled. She had winded something else which would afford a very good

object-lesson, besides supper, for the cubs. Each little one tiptoed

up and sniffed in turn: it was an unknown smell, but good--decidedly

good. 'Hunt it!' grunted Mother Badger, as plainly as grunt could

speak. Listening, they heard needlets of sound, and the ghost of a

rustle, as though some tiny thing thrust the grass-blades aside. The

eldest cub went first. He located it, as he thought exactly, and

snapped gingerly. He caught a mouthful of grass only, and the rest had

no better fortune. Mother Badger saw that she must assist, or else her

pupils would go supperless. She thrust in her snout, drew out a mouse,

and dropped it before them. The cubs rushed in helter-skelter, and

the eldest presently pushed his way out of the scrimmage with the

rest of his brothers and sisters tugging and snatching at the mouse

which dangled from his mouth. He tore it to pieces, growling, and the

others kept at a safe distance, for he was the biggest and strongest

of the litter. After this they turned down the field to the pool in

the middle, and here Mother Badger showed them another game. On the

bank the meadow-sweet grew rankly, and hearing the familiar

'plop-plop' of a frog in the dew-soaked herbage, she set the example

of chasing it. The cubs grew eager, and hunted with little squeaks and

snorts of excitement. Frog was better than mouse, for it could not run

from them so silently. Now and then there was a splash as some

amphibian, more lucky than his fellows, dived through the crowfoots

into the pond. When this occurred the cubs were puzzled--water was a

mystery to them--but another frog was soon afoot, and the chase began

again.

Thus, night by night, they learned field-craft, and gradually grew to

know the geography of the woods, with every pool and thicket and

pathway.

At the top of Knockdane there are three or four acres, which are so

rock-encumbered, and so overgrown with heather and bracken, that an

occasional broken-topped fir or oak sapling is the only tree which

will grow there. Here and there a narrow path twists through the fern,

and the industrious rabbit people, who live among the rocks, keep the

grass on those spots close and green. Above this, the hill grows

steeper till it meets a grey crag which drops sheer down from the fir

wood, whose brow, shaggy with gorse and ling, overhangs the place. The

Fur Folk all visit this wilderness. The rabbits and squirrels love it,

because the grass and fir-cones there are good, and the blood-hunters

follow them thither. There the badgers went one evening at sunset, and

feasted on the great worms which were tempted out by the coolness of

the night, and on the pignuts in the clearings. After their surfeit

the cubs could scarcely waddle among the bracken, for their tight

little bodies brushed the stems on either side. Under the crag they

stopped to drink, where the water dripped from the height above; and

as five badgers guzzling in the mud made much commotion and splashing,

Mother Badger never heard the thud of approaching feet until they were

almost on the top of her party. She grunted of danger, imminent and

serious, and gathered her cubs together. Dinny Purcell had made a

short-cut through Knockdane, on his way home from a meeting of the

local branch of the Gaelic League at Whelan's 'public'; and, as the

proceedings had terminated agreeably with some toasts to the success

of the League, Dinny felt valiant enough to defy any number of ghosts.

Mother Badger stood on the other side of the little marsh, and growled

thunderously; but Dinny did not hear, and stumbling and cursing,

knee-deep in mud, came on. The cubs glided into the fern, but the old

badger stood her ground. She had never met her match where strength

was concerned, therefore she did not trouble to use her teeth, but set

her snout against the intruder's legs and shoved.

'Holy Mother--it's the divil,' hiccoughed Dinny Purcell, crossing

himself; and he tried to run faster, but Mother Badger growled and

thrust again.

'Give over,' muttered Dinny, fuddled with drink, and striking out

timorously with his stick, he thwacked Mother Badger's shaggy coat,

and thereby incited her to charge again. Dinny would gladly have taken

to his heels, but as his feet were stuck fast in the mud it was

impossible; and sobered by superstitious fears, he remembered his

match-box, and fumbled for it. Mother Badger was normally placid and

slow to wrath, but this man's presence so near to her cubs angered

her. She caught the top of his boot--it was well for Dinny that her

fangs missed his leg--and bit it. Just then he found his matches, and

struck one. It was hot--bright--pungent, such as she had never winded

before. She backed hastily, but as what a badger has seized that will

he hold as long as there is breath in him, she ripped the boot from

top to sole. Dinny yelled, and dropping the match, which fell

sputtering into a puddle, he swung himself on to an adjacent rock and

tucked up his legs. 'It's the divil, an' he runnin' like a pig,' he

groaned.

But Mother Badger had no mind to fight for fighting's sake. Had she

not feared for her cubs, she would have fled at once from a creature

who could summon that hot, bright mystery at will. She withdrew

cautiously in her tracks, and one by one her cubs followed her from

rock or heather tuft where each lay. Once in the darkness, beyond the

reek of whisky and the dreaded voice of man, they breathed more

freely; and they bumped along in single file down to the beech and

bramble woods which lie by the Hollow Field, and which from bud-time

to leaf-fall are seldom visited by men.

But, from that day to this, Dinny Purcell swears that the devil met

him that night in Knockdane, in token of which he shows his split

boot-leather; and for every time of telling, the devil increases so

much in size and ferocity.

* * * * *

Towards the end of May the cubs were weaned, and henceforth they

hunted less with their parents, and more often alone, or in couples.

In this litter of four there were two sows and two boars, of which one

was the little badger who has hitherto been referred to as the 'eldest

cub,' but because his legs and likewise his snout were short and

stumpy, even for a badger, he was afterwards known in Knockdane as

Stubbs. It is he with whom this history deals.

The young ones opened the other galleries of the old 'earth,' and

slept in dormitories away from the nursery. But in June, when the

nights were short, and the badgers sometimes went hunting before the

sun was well set, and stayed out until the dawn had broken over the

hills, now and then it happened that morning overtook one of the

family far from home, and, blinded by the early sunshine, he was

obliged to seek some hide-up for the day.

By August, Stubbs was almost full-grown, and his knowledge of

field-craft was profound. He could detect a nest of young rabbits

hidden any distance underground, and once he had located the place, no

power on earth could hinder him from digging them out. He would work

all night, dislodging stones and shovelling earth, if at the end there

was a chance of a meal of rabbits. If, during his task, the

unfortunate doe-rabbit came home, he paid no attention to her. She

might stamp as much as she pleased at the stumpy tail protruding from

her nursery--nothing would turn Stubbs aside from his purpose. He

could also locate truffles six inches underground--the big knobby ones

which grow under oak trees, and the little potato-like ones which

smell so strong, and are found under laurels in Knockdane. Besides

this, he could wind a man a quarter of a mile away, and he knew every

'shore' and rock and tree in Knockdane.

The badger's daily round is more monotonous than those of most of the

Fur Folk. He is too large greatly to fear any other beast, and he is

so wary that he seldom comes in collision with man. Year in, year out,

from spring to autumn, autumn to spring, his comings and goings follow

the set rules of his ancestors. Now and again, however, a badger is

born to a more stirring career, and such a one was Stubbs.

In September the badgers lived well, and their sides grew sleek and

round. They dug up the bykes of the orange-bellied bumble-bees,

regardless of their stings, and guzzled over the sticky sweetness of

the honeycomb. Later they visited the crab-trees, and spent many a

blissful hour scrunching the sour pippins, and dropping the pieces

about the grass, for the badger is an untidy feeder.

At the end of the month the 'earth' was littered down in preparation

for the winter's Big Sleep. The whole family were still living under

one roof, so to speak, but as they mostly occupied galleries far

apart, it was almost more like a hotel. More than half a badger's life

is spent in sleep--profound, blissful sleep, in a world of great

silences and deep shadows. In October came a night with frost nip in

the air, and a damp mist. Stubbs felt the chill in his bones as he

crept to the entrance of the 'earth'; nevertheless, because he was

hungry, he went out. Shortly afterwards his brother came up, snuffed

the wind, stretched himself and yawned--then, because he was sleepy,

and the night undesirable, he waddled back again and slept the clock

round. The next night the rest did likewise--why hunt when they were

not hungry? There are few winter nights in Knockdane that are not

either cold or wet, and such nights the badgers eschewed. Now and

again they went out for a few hours, but in the small hours when the

morning frost set the grass in the meadows crackling with rime, they

grunted disgustedly and returned to bed.

The whole family--parents and young ones--slept through December

without ever stirring out, for snow was on the ground most of the

month; but in January I know not what mysterious influence, creeping

underground, knocked at the closed doors of the badgers' brains, and

told them that the frost was gone and the night was warm. Stubbs woke

first, and groped his way out. The air was mild and damp, and the roar

of the river was borne to him as, rain-laden, it plunged over the

weir. The dead leaves were moist and limp, and overhead a foggy moon

peered through the bare trees. He trotted stiffly down the woods and

visited his old haunts, but, go where he would, he could find nothing

to eat but a few sodden mushrooms. An hour later he returned, wet and

chilled, and lay down in his dormitory to suck his paws meditatively,

until sleep overtook him again. His head dropped on his forepads, and,

with a sigh, he fell into a slumber which lasted, with few waking

hours, until the Spring Longing came to the woods, and roused him with

the rest of the Fur Folk.

Spring nights are stormy with driving rain-showers, but under the

trees the Fur Folk are sheltered from the blustering winds, and come

and go from dusk to dawn; for the day on which the first throstle

sings is the beginning of the new year in the woods.

The badgers came out with the rest, but they were lean with long

fasting, and their toes were tender with much drowsy sucking. Stubbs

went through the elder trees, whose buds were growing big and purple,

and he dug up and ate the wild arum tubers. They were very bitter and

burning to taste, but a badger's palate is not a delicate one, and he

devoured them greedily. Besides, there was nothing else left to eat in

the woods, for, during the recent famine time, they had been patrolled

up and down by bird and beast.

In March, Mother Badger had another litter of cubs in the old nursery,

but there were fewer grown badgers in the 'earth' at this time, for

the younger boar cub of the previous season had been 'stopped' out one

February night, and had never come home again--perhaps the Carkenny

hounds knew why. Stubbs lived a bachelor life by himself at one end of

the 'earth.' Even now he was scarcely thoroughly awake after his long

sleep, and on any cold or wet night he lay abed. By April, however, he

felt better, and put on flesh; and it was then that he finally broke

with his family. One night he went round by the Heronry where grew

Father Badger's 'Claw-Clapping' tree, a young wych-elm. Father Badger

used to resort thither to polish his long digging claws and to scratch

himself, and his feet had patted down a little track round the roots.

Stubbs went up to the sapling, and began, with great satisfaction, to

chisel off strips of bark, for he was proud of his claws. He grunted

contentedly, and rubbed his shaggy sides up and down--and, the next

minute, heavy as he was, he was sent flying head over heels; for

Father Badger had come along, and was wroth to find his place usurped.

For the first time he realised that, during the Big Sleep, the cub had

become a full-grown badger almost as strong as himself. Therefore he

challenged; and it was a sign that Stubbs had arrived at adult badger

estate that he accepted his father's challenge. They ran at one

another, growling ferociously, but they did not use their teeth, only

thrust with their snouts; for it is the law of the Fur Folk that two

of a kind shall not fight to the death, and it is a law that is not

often broken. However, Father Badger was the older and the heavier,

and, although a year later Stubbs would have been fully his match, he

drove his son away. After that Stubbs did not return to the 'earth'

among the elder trees, but led a nomadic life in the woods for some

weeks, sleeping in a dry drain or old rabbit-hole, and at night

wandering miles abroad over the countryside. In those days there was a

drouth in Knockdane, and the streams dried up. It was serious for the

badger people, for they were often obliged to search very far afield

for water. Sometimes a shower fell, but never enough to fill the

springs. At such times the badgers resorted to a hollow in a path,

along which horses had passed in winter when the mud was deep. Now,

after a shower, each hoof-mark was a clay goblet of water, and the

badgers' thirsty red tongues used to lick out the contents gratefully.

One close night in May, Stubbs went down to the Great White House,

where the men live. The Great White House stands on a little oasis of

open grass, but the woods come up close round, and the rabbits

trespass under the very windows. In the field round, the men have

planted roots which are new to badger palates, and some of them are

very good. Stubbs sampled them all. Some were narcissus and hyacinth,

evil-tasting and slimy, and he threw them aside. Others, the crocus

and tulip, were better; but best of all were the snowdrops, which were

sweet and nutty, and of these Stubbs ate all he could find. At last he

ventured quite close to the walls of the house. Faint notes of music

beat from one of the windows, and these made Stubbs raise his head

suspiciously. All at once it seemed that eyes were watching him from

the shadow to his leeward side--mysterious eyes, eager yet timid. He

grunted, and dug up another bulb, but the sensation of being watched

grew stronger. Instinctively he knew that it was not an enemy who

spied upon him thus--rather the contrary. He could neither see, hear,

nor wind anything unusual, but that mysterious sense which is perhaps

the parent, not the outcome, of the other senses, told him that the

watcher was hidden under the oak tree to his right, and that he would

do well to pursue it thither. Suddenly the shutters of a window were

thrown open, and a golden beam of light was flung across the darkness.

It lit up the rough bark of the oak tree on the lawn, and at the foot

of the latter, blinking resentfully in the light, Stubbs saw the owner

of the watching eyes. In a second or two the light was shut off, and

the music grew muffled again; but Stubbs thought no more of bulbs, for

he heard the patter of feet which scampered back to the wood, and gave

chase.

Perhaps she did not run very fast, at all events he soon came up with

her. In size she was less than himself, but judged by badger standards

her charms were surpassing. Also she did not repulse him, for she came

from the Ballinakill 'earth' outside Knockdane, and had dwelt mateless

for many days.

So Stubbs and Grunter hunted together that night; that is, Grunter set

the pace and chose the paths, and Stubbs followed. They went by the

main badger path, and crossed the lane which runs across Knockdane,

slithering down a five-foot drop which is scored in every direction by

deep claw-prints, and entered the Big Meadow together. The cattle

slept in the dewy grass, and, stealing in among them, the badgers

hunted every inch of ground for beetles. Every now and then a

'bum-clock' boomed overhead, and then fell 'splotch' to earth. Small

chance had it when the badgers' noses probed for it in the grass: but

Grunter took the lion's share, for in the wood there is a law that,

during the days of courtship, the female may take what she will and

her mate shall not gainsay her.

Henceforward they hunted together night after night. Sometimes they

sought for partridges' eggs--eggs are a badger tit-bit, when he can

find them, which is not often--and these went down, shell and all,

'crunch-squolch.' Sometimes they beat a way through the standing

meadow grass, leaving a track behind which two days' sun would not

eradicate, or searched for wasps' nests in the hedge-banks. These were

honeymoon nights, and, sweet though they were, they could not last for

ever. It was the weather which first stimulated the pair to find a

permanent 'set.' It was showery, with now a cool wet evening which

made the badgers think of the comfort of a deep burrow in preference

to a makeshift rabbit-hole or drain; and then again came a hot starlit

night, a hunter's night, when Stubbs filed his claws on a tree-trunk

because of the wasted digger's energy within him.

On the second such night they went to Larch Hill. The soil there is

dry and sandy, and it is a pleasant place--cool in summer and warm in

winter--and, wherever the wind stirs, the supple larches bend before

it, and nod and whisper mysteriously among themselves. Here there was

an empty rabbit burrow, and Stubbs poked in his nose, and snuffled.

Grunter shouldered him aside and crawled in until only her shaggy

hind-quarters appeared. Then she began to dig, and a continuous shower

of sand spurted out between her hind-legs. When the heap bid fair to

block her in altogether, she backed awkwardly, shovelling it out as

she came. This was Stubbs' chance. He lumbered into the cavity, and

scraped likewise until his coat was full of dust. Grunter tried to

press in after him, but a well-directed kick sent her sprawling upon

her broad back, and she was obliged to wait outside until her mate was

tired. So they worked alternately, until a most respectable tunnel had

been driven under the larch trees.

Meanwhile, however, the herons flew in from the bogs, full cropped

after the night's fishing, and the morning wind was heavy with the

scent of elder flowers. The caverns of shadow around began to resolve

themselves into cool green arcades, and the woodcock croaked during

their aerial rompings overhead. The larks sang up on the hill, and the

wood birds answered with a blast of song. The badgers were tired and

dusty and sleepy. Grunter crept into the half-completed 'earth'; and

Stubbs, after pausing to lick his sore pads, followed her. They lay

down with grunts of content, snout to snout, stomachs upwards, and in

two minutes were snoring comfortably. That was their house-warming.

CHAPTER II

BORRIGAN'S BAITING

'Get out, ye baste!' growled Marky Borrigan, shaking the sack he

carried over the mouth of a barrel. There was a stifled grunt, a

struggle, and a grey bundle fell into the cask with a thud.

'Shure, we have him all safe,' said Borrigan, with a grin.

'Begob, that was a good night's work,' said Micksey Bolger, henchman

and confederate of the said Mark. 'Where had ye him cot?'

''Twas over in Knockdane. I was there at two o'clock this morning and

up at the "earth." I had the sack wid a bit o' cord run round the

mouth, an' I put it down the hole wid just the mouth set open, an' the

twine fast to a three-thrunk. I sent the dog huntin' down the wood,

and by and by I heard this felly cantherin' up as it might be a pig.

He stopped just fernent me, and bedam, he cut a look on me as wicked

as a Christian, an' I t'rew the stick at him an' druve him into the

sack in the hole. But, indade, whin I come to pick it up he was

fightin' inside like the divil an' all his childher, and a terrible

job I had to git him here, six mile in the ass-cair.'

'He's a gran' big felly,' said Bolger, peering into the cask. 'I'm

told Andy Grace'll bring his tarrier, an' there are two boys from

Ballyoughter wid a dog that won the coorsin' there at the New Year,

and two three more. This chap is fresh an' in fine condition. Bedam,

he'll put up a great fight this evening!'

'Put him, barrel an' all, into the ould barn,' said Borrigan. 'The

flure there is concrate, an' he'll not get away on us.'

They carried the barrel into the barn, and went away, and the yard was

left quiet.

All Stubbs' preconceived notions of life had been rudely shaken, when

he had darted into his burrow, only to find it changed into a

treacherous cul-de-sac; and they had been still more overset when he

found himself thus unceremoniously imprisoned in the barrel. At first

he was bewildered into quietude, but as, in spite of his stolid ways,

a badger is as plucky a beast as hunts the woods, he soon began to

revolve plans of escape. When all had been quiet for an hour and a

half (a badger's wits are like his legs, slow but serviceable), Stubbs

stood up and upset the barrel. The barn was lighted by a single

loophole, and was quite empty. The floor was of concrete and

undiggable, but the walls were plaster, and Stubbs' claws--the

strongest in the woods--stripped them bare quickly. Alas! underneath

were bricks, bricks--nothing but bricks: not a chink or cranny to give

purchase to his claws. In fear and trembling he hid in the cask again,

where the mild light of the summer morning could not filter; and

there, ostrich-like, he believed himself safe.

* * * * *

That day was a holiday, and therefore it was arranged that, in the

afternoon, the cur dogs of the neighbourhood should have an

opportunity of trying their mettle against Stubbs' formidable teeth

and claws. It was very hot, and the badger, accustomed to the fresh

mildness of the hours of darkness and the cool of the burrows, gasped

in the stuffy barn. There had been a pan of water in the place, but in

his first terrified scamper he had upset this, and it had not been

refilled. He panted, and watched a dusty streak of sunlight creep from

west to east along the wall. Every time that he heard a louder voice

or step outside, he fled into the barrel; for hitherto he had known

nothing but the silence and shadows of the woods at night, and noise

and light were both terrible to him.

At last he heard footsteps clatter up to the barn. The door was flung

open, and a flood of sunlight poured in.

'All right! he's in the tub,' said Borrigan, looking inside. Stubbs

felt himself lifted up and carried out. There was much clamour of

voices and shuffling of feet.

'Take two to one on Grace's tarrier.' ... 'Not weight enough. Shure,

none o' them dogs could pull him down.' ... 'A shilling on Comerford's

sheep-dog!' and so on.

The barrel was turned upon its side, and Stubbs, half blinded by the

glare, and wholly terrified, saw many men peering at him. The cluster

of grinning faces all seemed to be part of one awful monster; and he

slunk back, growling, with bared teeth.

'Begob, he'll put up a fight,' said Micksey Bolger. 'Let the dogs come

at him wan be wan, at first.'

The first was a medium-sized dog, with prick ears, and a woolly yellow

coat. He evinced a decided desire to fly at the throats of the rest of

his kind, but this being checked, he advanced truculently to the

barrel, with his scruff standing up. Some one kicked the tub and

shouted: 'Git up, ye divil'; and there was a chorus of yells from the

bystanders. Stubbs bundled out in a hurry, and at the same moment the

dog flew at his throat. The unprovoked assault restored his wits to

the badger. At any rate here was a definite enemy, who fought, not

with sacking and rope, but by recognised methods. He struck out,

scoring his assailant's shoulder, and then backed hastily into the

barrel, until only his striped snout could be seen. A badger realises

that his weakness lies in his lack of agility, and by preference he

fights with his back to a tree, that he may not be taken in the rear.

Three times the dog charged the barrel; and each time, strong and

vigilant, the badger drove him back, amid the shouts of the men and

the yells of the surrounding dogs. For the fourth time the dog--the

blood trickling down his muzzle--rushed in. His temper was up, he was

utterly reckless, and he left his shoulder unguarded. Like lightning

Stubbs' claws fell--and under that stroke the dog's ribs were laid

bare. His owner came forward and carried him out of the ring, and the

next dog was brought out.

Of the fight which Stubbs fought for the next hour I shall say little

more, for it is neither good to read about nor to write of. It will be

sufficient to say that of the five dogs which at last were set upon

him at once, four bear scars to this day, and the fifth never moved

again. Although Stubbs still crouched victoriously in the barrel, he

had sustained three or four wounds. His eyes were red, for he was very

angry, and he growled continuously; but he was very tired. However,

there was no dog left to match him.

The men stood round undecidedly, when suddenly a voice in the group

said: 'Shure, ye should set Kinchella's dog agin him!'

'Me dog's too good for this sort of job,' returned Kinchella. But his

voice was none of the steadiest, for, in addition to the farm and a

flourishing poaching business, Borrigan showed the match-box in the

window.[4]

[4] In some parts of Ireland a box of matches in a cottage window is a

secret sign that the place is a 'shebeen,' or house where drink is

distilled, or sold without a licence.

'Ah, now, what hurt to him,' said Mark in honeyed tones, for he was in

no hurry for his customers to depart. 'Shure, he is twice the size o'

that little baste there, and he'd have him pulled down aisy.'

'Pull him down, is it?' broke in another. 'Begob, that badger would

skkin anny dog between this an' the say, let alone that bit of a

sheep-dog o' Kinchella's.'

'He'd pull him down fast enough,' retorted Kinchella sharply, 'but

I've no mind to have him kilt on me, an' that lad's claws cut like a

mower!'

'Bring him, an' let us see it!' shouted another. 'Didn't me little

tarrier ate the face off him lasht week, an' him runnin' from him like

a rabbit.'

Kinchella turned round scowling. 'Bedam, but I'll fetch him,' he said

thickly; 'an' whin he has this baste aten, ye'll alther ye singin'.'

And he strode heavily away.

Now James Kinchella's dog, Moss, was well known. He was a big grey

sheep-dog with a wall eye; and although he counted a collie among his

immediate ancestors, the rest of his pedigree was buried in oblivion.

However, he was reckoned the best cattle dog in the country; and

besides, had the name for killing a dog (let alone a fox) in half the

time taken by his peers. He was the apple of his master's eye, and in

a cooler moment Kinchella would sooner have tackled the badger

himself, bare handed; but as it was, he presently reappeared with the

dog in a leash.

Stubbs was exhausted, for, besides the strain of his imprisonment, he

had been fighting for his life for more than an hour; nevertheless,

when some one kicked the barrel and shouted at him, he prepared for

battle again. But it was a hot evening, and the dog was not inclined

to fight. He sat down and yawned. To his master's orders he merely

whined apologetically and wagged his tail. 'More power to ye,' shouted

Grace sarcastically. Kinchella had been drinking, and his eyes were

hot and angry. He dealt his dog an unaccustomed kick, and urged him

savagely towards the barrel. Moss rose, hurt and puzzled; then

catching sight of Stubbs, he instantly associated him with the

outrage, and flew at his throat. The badger snapped back again, and

they grappled together. In many respects they were evenly matched, for

although the dog was the larger and more active of the two, the badger

was heavy, and furthermore was protected by the barrel. However, Moss

was too clever to be rash. He knew the power of Stubbs' paw, so he

circled round just out of reach, endeavouring to tempt his opponent

into the open that he might take him in the flank. But the badger was

also very wary. He knew the strength of his position, and refused to

budge. These feinting tactics went on for some minutes, and then the

men began to jeer: 'He should have him cot by now' ... 'Indeed, he is

a great lad on his pins' ... 'Not so handy wid his teeth'....

'Damn it,' shouted Kinchella, 'what chance has the dog wid ye dirthy

barrels?' And striding forward, in his drunken rage he tipped up the

cask, and tumbled the badger into the open yard, just as the dog

rushed in.

They met in a smother of dust, and whirled round. Now and then white

fangs snapped, and once--twice the great claws of the badger fell and

rose again, stained crimson. It was a fight to the death, and no man

there dared interfere; not even James Kinchella, who looked on, half

sobered by the result of what he had done. Gradually the dust cleared,

and the combatants, locked together, heaved this way and that in their

struggle. The dog had seized the badger behind the left ear and

shoulder, and again and again in his frenzy he almost lifted his

antagonist from the ground; but the latter had a lower hold, and

slowly and surely he was seeking his way to his enemy's throat. The

dog felt the relentless fangs closing more and more tightly, and he

fought madly for breath; but however torn, battered, beaten a badger

may be, he never quits his hold, even in death. Gradually his teeth

met ... the dog's struggles grew weaker ... his head lolled back.

'Pull off your divil, Borrigan!' yelled Kinchella, breaking into the

ring; but he was powerless to loosen Stubbs' jaws--those terrible jaws

that are designed for such work as this.

'Shure, he has him kilt!' said Bolger.

It was many minutes before the two could be separated, for the badger

clung to his dying adversary with a tenacity which defied them all.

Then the dog lay limp and still, and Stubbs himself was in little

better plight.

James Kinchella, completely sobered, picked up the body of his dog and

walked in silence to the gate. The men made way for him to pass, and

there were no more jeers nor laughter. 'Ye should put a bullet into

that felly's head, Borrigan,' growled the owner of the other dead dog.

But Borrigan knew that the publican at Rathmore would pay well for the

loan of the badger, and, without heeding the openly expressed anger of

the men, he drove Stubbs back to the barn, and locked the door.

* * * * *

Some hours later the last drunken shouts had died away, and the yard

was quiet once more. Stubbs had been hiding in a corner under a wisp

of straw, but now that the daylight--the hateful daylight--and the

noise were gone, he ventured to creep out. He was very tired, and his

wounds were stiff and sore; nevertheless he was determined to escape.

He shuffled round the place, testing every brick in the walls.

Presently one pale moon-beam filtered through the keyhole. The moon

was rising just as he had seen her rise night after night, behind the

larches in front of the badger earth, miles away in Knockdane. There

was only one crack, and that a very little one; nevertheless he

worked his claws into the interstice and dug. Some minutes' hard

labour, and then the loosened brick fell out. Inside, the mortar had

crumbled a little, and broke away in cakes; nevertheless the bricks

were sound, and now and then one jammed obliquely across the opening,

and it gave him much trouble to dislodge it. At the end of two hours

he had made quite a creditable breach in the masonry; but the wall was

far more strongly built than that of most Irish barns, and he seemed

as far as ever from the fresh air. Time after time he drew back

panting, his tongue dry with dust; but nothing in the woods is stouter

than a badger's claws except a badger's heart, and he always fell to

work again. By and by he came to a place where the bricks had broken,

and he tore them away more easily, scraping them out behind him with

his sturdy hind-legs. Once a shrewd kick sent one flying across the

barn with a clatter, and Stubbs scurried into the straw, in terror

lest the men should be upon him again; but luckily Borrigan slept

soundly, and never dreamed of how his captive was employing the night.

The moonlight began to fade, and the breeze which heralds the dawn

sighed around the farm. Stubbs knew instinctively that morning was

not far away, and that were he not free by then his chances of escape

would be poor indeed. But surely a fresher draught blew through the

stones? He stuck in his claws and scraped again, and five minutes

later a brick fell--not inside the barn, but outwards with a thud into

the field behind. He had made an opening at last. It was child's play

to enlarge the hole that his head might enter; and where a badger's

head and shoulders can go the rest of him can follow. He wormed his

way between the bricks, and tumbled head over heels into the nettle

bed below the wall.

No one saw him canter across the fields. The grass was soaked with

dew, and the moon, red and luminous in the haze, looked at him like a

friendly eye. He pattered along at his best pace, for the east was

growing bright, and he feared lest daylight should find him in the

open. He knew the country immediately round Knockdane as he knew the

passage of his own burrow, but these fields were strange to him.

However, he picked his way with that unerring instinct which is the

peculiar heritage of the Wild Folk, and of men who live as the Wild

Folk live. He turned northwards, and, fording the trout stream where

he paused to drink deeply and cool his sore feet, entered the

low-lying fields which lie between Coolgraney and Knockdane. The

grass was all but hidden under a blue blur of scabious, and the

cobwebs in the hedges were elaborately studded with dew-drops. In some

places the corn was already ripening, and the sparrows harvested there

before the farmer was astir. A kestrel patrolled the fields for

breakfast, and a hare lilted back to her form. Lazy pigeons flapped

over the barley fields, and the rabbits kicked up their scuts and

bolted into the hedges as the badger trudged past.

As he climbed the long slopes at the back of Knockdane, the early

beams of the August sunrise shot over the hill. A cock-pheasant,

gobbling blackberries, ran away at his approach, and boomed, crowing,

over the hedge. Something must indeed be amiss that the badger was

astir after sunrise. Stubbs had never seen the sun so high in all his

life, and to his eyes the whole world was bathed in perplexing

glare--green, blue, and golden. He climbed painfully over the boundary

wall and into the grateful shadows of the wood, where the mists, as

though entangled in the tree-trunks, were long in lifting.

He turned down the well-known track, and presently, like the gates of

a city of refuge, the mouth of the 'earth' opened before him. Not a

leaf stirred, but scent lay long on the warm air, and his nose told

him that Grunter was down there before him. He slid underground, and

limped through the comfortable darkness to the dormitory. There she

slept with her limbs extended awkwardly. She did not awaken; and

Stubbs, flinging himself down with his head between her fore-paws,

closed his eyes with a sigh of content. Two minutes later he was

completely oblivious to light or darkness, man or beast, as he sank

into a blessed sleep which bade fair to last far into the succeeding

night.

CHAPTER III

THE LARCH HILL 'EARTH'

On the sunny side of the wood where the larches spindle up tall and

thin, each trying to outstrip the rest in the race for free air and

sunshine, is the 'earth' which Stubbs and Grunter dug, as has been

already related. It had originally been an old rabbit burrow, but no

rabbits had used it for many years, although it was well drained,

warm, and dry. It consisted of one long main tunnel, with other side

chambers communicating with it, and of a smaller gallery running

parallel to the first. The 'earth' had only one main entrance,

although there was a rabbit-hole some distance off which opened into

the upper of the two principal galleries; but its roof was so low that

a badger could hardly have crept along it.

As a spider sits in the centre of his web, so the badgers lay in the

middle hall of their abode. Long, grey and sprawling, they snored

noisily in their sleep like pigs, with their pied snouts nestled

together in the stuffy darkness. At moonrise, however, Grunter woke,

punctual as an alarum clock. She rose from the warm bed of moss, and

stretched herself so vigorously that she woke her lord, who smote his

head against the roof and growled. She glided past him down the

passage, and came to the main entrance, where the fresh night air blew

in. Grunter was hungry. The last two nights it had rained, and the

badgers had lain a-bed, but to-night was fine and mild again. She

thrust her long snout right and left, and sampled all the strong damp

odours of the night before she ventured to trust herself to the woods;

but all was still, and she pattered away. Five minutes later Stubbs

stole out. By that mysterious telepathy which is the secret of the Fur

Folk, he knew whither she had gone, and followed her down the main

highroad of the badgers of Knockdane, under the wet bushes to the

fields by the river bank.

* * * * *

Greybrush came along about two hours later, and snuffed thoughtfully

at the hole. Greybrush was a Ballymore fox. He had been born in a

hedgerow during the spring, and now that autumn was coming on, he

sought winter quarters in Knockdane. There were certainly many

desirable points about this 'set.' He sat down and sucked his pads,

for they were wet with dew, shook his brush plumy again, and

meditated. The upshot of his meditations was that he presently entered

the 'earth.'

Before the autumn sun had struggled through the mist, the badgers came

home, grunting with comfort begotten of a raided bees' byke and

truffles. But when Stubbs poked his snout into the burrow he drew it

out again smartly, and his grunt said plainly and indignantly: 'Fox!'

Then more cautiously they proceeded to investigate. Stubbs crept in

first, and Grunter followed exactly two feet behind, in approved

badger fashion. The passage wound downwards, and the air inside being

hot and still, the scent was very strong. Suddenly the silence was

broken by a low snarl--the snarl of a full-fed fox awakened from his

sleep. Stubbs backed precipitately, for the sound was just under his

paws, and in so doing collided with his mate. For a few seconds there

was a scrimmage as they jammed shoulder to shoulder in the narrow

passage. Then Stubbs struggled free, and they fled to discuss the

situation from a safe distance. A fox is no match for a badger in open

fight, but in this case the advantage of position decidedly lay with

the intruder. As they deliberated, the ringing snarl sounded again.

That settled it. Sleep is a necessity to a badger, and it was already

long past bed-time. Stubbs was wet, full-fed, drowsy, and in no

fighting trim. They retired to the draughty main tunnel, and slept

there on the bare ground.

The next evening the fox went out hunting, and when the badgers woke

and gingerly investigated the dormitory, they found it empty. They

immediately took possession again, and sniffing fastidiously, dragged

out the deep comfortable bedding which they had prepared against the

winter; for Stubbs hates anything which a fox has tainted.

On his return Greybrush found the passage littered with moss and

leaves, while porcine snoring resounded throughout the earth. The fox

was too cunning to assail the badgers in their lair. He dug a hollow

in the rabbit burrow and slept there, for he was not particular, and

only desired some place to protect him from the weather; but he had no

intention of making an 'earth' for himself if he could find one

already made.

But it certainly was annoying for the badgers, for Greybrush's ideas

of cleanliness did not coincide with theirs. To find a rabbit's head

or other refuse lying about, distressed them terribly, and night after

night Stubbs delayed his hunting that he might scavenge the gallery

where the fox slept. It is also one of the laws of the badger code

that the nest shall be spring-cleaned twice a year: in March before

the cubs are born, and in September, in preparation for the winter's

sleep. The last-named clearance had only just been effected, and the

dormitory was in apple-pie order before the fox's intrusion. However,

the badger is nothing if not persevering, and Stubbs and Grunter

decided to make one last effort to oust the invader. They entered the

other gallery one night, prepared to turn their unwelcome lodger out

of doors; but the fox had opened up the ancient rabbit burrow to serve

as his back door in case of emergency, and when the indignant badgers

arrived, they found him 'not at home.' They congratulated themselves

on having ousted him so easily, and began to refurnish their chamber.

There happened to be a spell of warm dry weather just then, and the

fox lay out in the woods without once returning to Larch Hill, so that

they met with no hindrance. There is a clearing about two hundred

yards from the mouth of the 'earth,' overgrown with dead grass. Here

the badgers repaired for their harvesting. They tore up quantities of

dry grass and moss, and twisted them into long wisps deftly enough. By

the time Stubbs had made a selection of what he considered the finest

and driest bedding, the clearing looked as though a herd of pigs had

been rooting there. The path to the 'earth' was littered with balls of

grass and moss. Several times Grunter started home with a heavy load,

but by the time she had reached the burrow she had dropped all but

one little wisp, which, however, she carried underground, and

deposited with as much care as if she had housed the whole collection.

At this rate the badgers' progress was naturally slow, and it was

nearly a week before all was arranged to their satisfaction.

Alas! the first wet night found the evicted lodger back in his former

quarters, and the badgers, seriously perturbed, prepared to give

battle. They found the smaller gallery empty, but a snarl from the

passage beyond told them where the intruder had ensconced himself, and

they had perforce to retire baffled. This happened not once but many

times. Stubbs never came to close grips with his enemy; the fox was

too clever to be caught napping, and at the sound of shuffling pads in

the gallery, he used to back hastily into the old rabbit burrow, which

was too small for the badger's comfort.

So matters dragged on for more than a month, and then the hounds came

to Knockdane, and precipitated the crisis.

One night the fox went out betimes, but it was damp and raw, and the

badgers slept longer than usual, for their winter slothfulness was

creeping over them. The weather also accounted for the fact that Paddy

Magragh, the earthstopper, went his rounds before moonrise that he

might return the sooner to his warm cabin. It was only eight o'clock

when he came by the Larch Hill earth, and examined the marks outside.

He saw Stubbs' broad spoor (Stubbs' spoor was a spoor to be wondered

at--two and a half inches in width), and he chuckled, for he had heard

of Borrigan's 'baitin'' and its sequel. Then he set to work with such

right good-will that when Grunter wished to go out, an hour later, she

found a firm barricade of earth and branches piled against the

burrow's mouth. Grunter was very wary. The hated taint of man hung

about the place, mingled with the smell of wet earth. What might not

be lurking outside? She crept back to the entrance to the fox's

quarters, and picked her way delicately to Greybrush's back door,

which was so small that it had even escaped the keen eye of Paddy

Magragh. Then she buttoned down her stumpy tail, and waddled off

truffle-hunting.

* * * * *

The morning was grey and misty, with a cold nip in the air. Scent lay

strong in covert--every rabbit which hopped across the path left a

trail which lingered on the wet leaves. The tits aloft in the bare

branches chatted together in little splinters of song, and the

woodpigeons squabbled over clusters of unripe ivy berries. It was as

though the day was reluctant to come; and at noon, save for a pale

sun spot in the mist overhead, it was as still and damp as at

daybreak.

The jays, scolding in the Fir Plantation at the top of the wood, saw

Greybrush running hard from Carigaboola with seven couple of hounds

behind him. His tongue was out and his brush was down, and he thought

gratefully of the 'earth' on Larch Hill as he tore through the

brambles, and stubbed his nose against tree-roots, as fast as

his stiff legs would carry him. All the chaffinches cried:

'Spink--spink--see the fox! 'ware fox!' but as the hounds did not

understand finch language it did not matter much. He dived in through

his back door just as the foremost hound burst out of the covert. The

latter marked the place, and bayed there, with his comrades round him,

until the men rode up. The huntsman crashed through the bushes and

looked at the hole, and then he ordered a terrier to be brought and

put in, that it might bolt the fox. But Paddy Magragh came down the

path, and although he knew that he ought to have found and stopped

this hole, yet his love of the hunt was greater than his pride in his

woodcraft, and he said: 'Bedam, Captain, if ye put a terrier down

there ye'll niver see the tail of him again. This burra' goes into the

"earth" below, and there's badgers in it. Shure, they'd ate him.'

But the master, who was young and very foolish, said: 'This is too far

away to join the big "earth."'

'Them badgers would dig down to hell itself,' said Magragh. But the

master would have none of it, and called again for a dog.

Now Rip, the kennel terrier of the Carkenny pack, was as game and eke

as disreputable a little cur as ever ran with hounds. His rough coat

was pepper and salt, and his right ear was pricked, but the left had

drooped down ever since it had been torn in a great fight which he had

with an old dog-fox in Kiltorkan rocks. But he was a bold little

terrier and went straight into the 'earth' after Greybrush.

Stubbs was awakened by a smell of fox. Smells do not awaken human

beings as a rule, but a badger's nose is exquisite, and is always

alert, even when its owner is asleep. Since the fox had come to the

'earth' this was not an uncommon occurrence; as a rule Stubbs growled

in his dreams and lay still, but to-day his ear caught the sound of

scuffling close at hand, and he stood up. The burrow was pitch dark,

and the narrow passages carried sound like a telephone, but overhead

Stubbs heard--or rather felt--mysterious thuds. Grunter, quick to take

alarm, cowered down at the back of the chamber with the moss heaped

over her back, but the hair along Stubbs' spine rose, and he went out

to investigate. Now, as we have said, the Larch Hill 'earth' consists

of two main tunnels connected by a side passage. As Stubbs listened he

heard something moving along the other gallery, and knew that the fox

had bolted home in a hurry. Suddenly he whisked round. He was standing

at the spot where the passages crossed, and something had glided

behind him into his dormitory. He growled, and waddled back, for he

guessed what it was. Greybrush was thoroughly frightened, and not

daring to lie up in his own quarters, he had sought refuge in those of

the badgers. Stubbs began a systematic search of the chamber. It was

not large, but it was pitch dark, and so close that his nose could not

guide him. Halfway round he bumped into Grunter, who had also taken

the alarm, and for a minute or two there was a wild scuffle before

they could establish one another's identity. Greybrush, too terrified

to move, lay still in the middle, which was perhaps the best thing he

could have done, for the two badgers groped round the walls and thus

missed him.

But presently another smell was wafted down the gallery. Stubbs' nose

disentangled it from the scent of fox and damp earth around; and then

his little pig's-eyes grew red and angry, for he had not forgotten the

smell of dog which he had learned in Borrigan's yard that summer. The

terrier was groping his way awkwardly, for the dust in his nose made

him sneeze, and his eyes were as yet scarcely used to the darkness.

However, when he discovered which way the fox had gone he gave an

excited yelp, and came on. Stubbs rumbled threateningly. A badger does

not fight willingly, and always gives notice when his patience is

growing short. Rip instantly snarled and rushed in--fox or badger,

either was a legitimate adversary. In the dark he partially missed his

hold and seized Stubbs under the ear. Stubbs grunted, and flung his

head back, but Rip hung on gamely. Then the badger bored forward and

crushed him against the side of the passage, and he let go for an

instant; but the next moment he sprang in again, and his teeth met in

the other's shoulder. What little air there was in the burrow was

thick with dust, and both the combatants choked for breath. Stubbs cut

at the terrier with his digging claws, but the space was too confined,

and only a grunting gasp and momentary tightening of the teeth in his

neck told that his blows took effect. Rip then shifted his hold again,

and tugged and dragged at the badger's thick hair, with all four legs

widely extended. Stubbs lunged forward in vain--his enemy merely

retreated backwards as he felt the strain on his jaws slackening.

Suddenly the grip of the terrier's teeth gave way, and he staggered

back with his mouth full of grey hair. The badger ran forward and in

the darkness stumbled right on the top of the dog. Something hairy

brushed his mouth, and his jaws closed like a trap upon the terrier's

leg. It was well for Rip that it was his leg and not his body which

those teeth seized, or else all the life would have been squeezed out

of him very quickly; but as it was, as he fell he twisted himself

round and snapped at Stubbs' jaw. The badger grunted and let go, and

the terrier crawled backwards, dragging his broken leg and sobbing in

his breathing.

But as long as there was life in Rip's shaggy body there was pluck. He

rested for a few seconds, and then turned to the attack again. The

badger heard the muffled yelping close at hand, and knew that to win

his way to the open air he must face the snapping fury in front of

him. He resolved upon another plan. Grunting and gasping in the

stifling atmosphere he turned round, and plunging his pads into the

light soil, he began to throw up a barricade. He dug with his long

fore-claws, and shovelled the earth with his hind-legs until the pile

nearly filled the passage. He could hear the terrier whimpering and

scuffling on the other side as he attempted to climb the barrier, and

dug the deeper. Only when he had put two feet of earth between

himself and his assailant did he slink to the bottom of the burrow to

lick his wounds.

Rip climbed the barricade time after time. Then, when he was finally

convinced that it was useless, he dragged himself to the light of day

once more, tattered and torn, with his eyes and nose full of sand. But

they could see that he had fought a great fight, and Dennis the Whip

vowed that he should never go underground any more. Indeed, he never

could do so, but limped on one leg to the end of his days.

How Greybrush ultimately escaped from the badgers I do not know, but

he was not seen abroad in Knockdane for several days. However, after

the battle the badgers ceased to try and evict him. Instead, they dug

a new and deeper gallery at right angles to their former one, and

dwelt there. So that if you go to Knockdane and ask Paddy Magragh, he

will show you the Larch Hill 'earth,' and tell you that foxes live in

the upper tunnels and badgers in the lower. And if you could creep

down, where even Paddy Magragh cannot go, you might hear the rumbling

snores of Stubbs from a side dormitory; and in the deepest chamber of

all, well lined and cosy, the maternal snorts of Grunter, and the

squeals of her new-born cubs.