Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
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[Illustration: The Hermit and Pal Took Many a Trip into the forest.]
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FOLLOWERS OF THE TRAIL
By
ZOE MEYER
Illustrated by
WILLIAM F. STECHER
Boston
Little, Brown, And Company
1926
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Copyright, 1926,
By Little, Brown, and Company.
All rights reserved
Published May, 1926
Printed in the United States of America
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CONTENTS
PAGE
PAL 1
THE CALL OF THE SPRING 19
THE ADVENTURES OF KAGH, THE PORCUPINE 35
THE TRAIL OF THE MOOSE 48
IN THE BEAVERS' LODGE 65
SILVER SPOT 81
WHEN THE MOON IS FULL 96
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF RINGTAIL, THE RACCOON 109
THE HAUNTER OF THE TRAIL 126
WHERE WINTER HOLDS NO TERRORS 140
BROWN BROTHER 154
IN THE WAKE OF THE THAW 171
THE TWINS 184
THE WHITE WOLF 202
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ILLUSTRATIONS
The Hermit and Pal took many a trip
into the forest Frontispiece
PAGE
Slowly it advanced, its body almost brushing
the snow 15
And then occurred a memorable battle 33
Pal stopped, clearly astonished 45
As if carved from the rock the big moose stood 49
The Hermit took the one chance that presented
itself 59
The dam, when finished, was a work worthy of
a trained engineer 67
A full grown fox stood motionless in the sunlight,
a rabbit hanging limply from her jaws 83
The big frog was flipped out upon the bank 97
Ringtail had heard the agonized cry of his
playmate 119
He crouched upon a branch, glaring down at
the animated leaf-pile 131
The hawk dropped like a thunderbolt and
caught him in its talons 143
Instantly the fawn thrust out his delicate muzzle
and licked the outstretched hand 155
Both glared but refused to let go 175
The other cub forgot her fear and demanded
her sugar lump 189
High on his rocky ledge he lifted his muzzle to
the moon 205
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FOLLOWERS OF THE TRAIL
In the depths of the green wilderness, where dark spruce and hemlock
guard the secrets of the trail, are still to be found wild creatures who
know little of man and who regard him with more of curiosity than of
fear. Woodland ponds, whose placid waters have never reflected the dark
lines of a canoe, lie like jewels in their setting of green hills; ponds
where soft-eyed deer come down to drink at twilight, and where the weird
laughter of the loon floats through the morning mists. Toward the south,
however, man is fast penetrating the secrets of the forest, blazing dim
trails and leaving fear and destruction in the wake of his guns and
traps.
Occasionally a hunter, unarmed save perhaps for a camera, enters the
wilderness to study its inhabitants, not that he may destroy them, but
that he may the better understand them, and through them draw closer to
nature. Such a man was the Hermit, who dwelt alone in a log cabin where
the southern border of the wilderness terminated abruptly at an old
snake fence. Tall forest trees leaned toward the clearing and many a
follower of dim forest trails approached the fence during the hours of
darkness to peer curiously, though somewhat fearfully, at the lonely
cabin.
Perhaps the visitor might be a black bear in search of the berries which
were sure to be found at the edges of the cleared ground; perhaps a
lynx, staring with pale, savage eyes upon the cabin, hating the man who
occupied it, yet fearing his power. Again it might be an antlered deer
who paused a moment, one dainty hoof uplifted, brown eyes, wholly
curious, fixed upon the silent dwelling. Only the smaller woodfolk such
as rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, porcupines, and now and then a fox,
dared make a closer investigation of the clearing.
As for the man himself, he would, if possible, have made a friend of
every wild creature who came near his dwelling. Broken in health, he had
turned wearily from the rush and clamor of the city to the clear,
balsam-scented air of the woods, where he was fast gaining a health and
vigor that he had not believed possible. Out of a lean face, tanned by
exposure and wrinkled with kindly humor, a pair of keen gray eyes looked
with never-flagging interest upon the busy world about him.
The Hermit, in spite of his comparative isolation from those of his
kind, was far from leading a life of uselessness. Having been from
boyhood an enthusiastic student of botany, he had located in the big
woods many a leaf, bark and root which, when sent back into the busy
world, proved a blessing to ailing humanity.
He knew where to find the aromatic spice-bush to cool the burning of
fever, and where in the spring grew the tenderest willow twigs whose
bark went into cures for rheumatism. Sassafras yielded its savory roots
for tea and tonics, and the purplish red pokeberry supplied a valuable
blood purifier. So he harvested the woods for others, at the same time
finding for himself health and contentment.
Twice yearly he took his harvest to the nearest shipping center, setting
forth as the first streaks of dawn appeared in the east, and returning
when the serrated wall of the wilderness was etched sharply against the
sunset sky, and the songs of the robin and the hermit thrush gave voice
to the twilight.
Since his arrival at the cabin the Hermit had been much alone, his only
visitors being occasional hunters or trappers who passed his home by
chance, or asked shelter when overtaken by the night. At infrequent
intervals one of his distant neighbors would drop in to chat or to ask
aid in case of illness or accident, for many had found the Hermit a help
at such a time. They were, for the most part, busy farmers wresting a
home from the wilderness, a task which left them little idle time.
One summer evening, as the fiery ball of the sun was sinking out of
sight behind the forest wall, leaving the world bathed in the hush of
twilight, the Hermit heard a scratching upon his doorstep. Looking up
from the fire over which he was cooking his supper, he saw in the open
doorway a small black and white dog, its forefeet upon the sill, its
great brown eyes fixed in mute appeal upon the face of the man. A moment
they looked into each other's eyes; then, without a word, the Hermit
held out his hand.
It was a simple gesture, yet it heralded a change in the lives of both.
Into the eyes of the homeless dog sprang a glad light, followed by such
a look of adoration that the man experienced a warm glow of pleasure.
Out of their loneliness each had found a friend.
From that day the two were never far apart. When the Hermit went into
the forest for his harvesting, Pal, as the wanderer had been named,
accompanied him, his proud protector. While the man worked, Pal often
ranged the near-by woods, his sensitive nose eagerly seeking out the
latest news of the wild; yet he was never out of sound of the Hermit's
call. To the dog, as to the man, the woods were a never-ending source of
interest, and he seldom offered to molest the wild creatures unless they
seemed unfriendly toward his master. Pal would have attacked the biggest
beast of the wilderness unhesitatingly in defense of the one who had
befriended him.
In going about his work the Hermit, as a rule, saw few of the forest
inhabitants, but from tree or thicket bright eyes were sure to be
following his every movement with keen interest. Fear, when once
instilled into the wild creatures, is not easily banished, but little by
little they came to regard this quiet man as a friend.
An instance of their trust was shown one day when, as the Hermit worked
in his herb garden at the rear of the cabin, a rabbit slipped through
the fence. With great bounds the little animal crossed the garden toward
him, its ears lying along its back and its gentle eyes wide with terror.
The Hermit glanced up in surprise; then his face set and he raised his
hoe threateningly. Close behind the fleeing bunny came a weasel, its
savage red eyes seeing nothing but its expected prey. In another bound
the rabbit would have been overtaken and have suffered a terrible death
had not the Hermit stepped between with his uplifted hoe.
With a snarl the weasel paused, its eyes flaming with hatred. For a
moment it seemed inclined to attack the man. At that point Pal rounded
the corner of the cabin to see the savage little beast confronting his
adored master. The sight aroused all the ferocity in the dog's nature.
The light of battle flared in his usually mild eyes and the hair rose
stiffly along his back. With a sharp bark, he charged. The weasel,
seeing itself outnumbered, turned and sped toward the forest, where it
vanished with the dog in hot pursuit. The Hermit returned to his hoeing,
glad that he and Pal had been the means of saving one life from the
cruel fangs which kill purely for the lust of killing.
On another day the Hermit owed his own life to the faithful dog. He had
gone some distance into the woods to visit a bed of ginseng which he had
discovered a fortnight before. In the rich leaf-mold the plants grew
lustily, covering the forest floor for some distance with their
spreading green umbrellas. With delighted eyes the Hermit stood gazing
upon his rich find, but when he stooped to ascertain whether or not the
roots were ready for drying, his outstretched hand was quickly arrested
by Pal's frenzied barking. He quickly withdrew his hand and moved
slightly until he could follow the dog's gaze. There, scarcely a foot
away, lay a coiled rattler, the ugly head raised. Even as the man
looked, the tail sent out its deadly warning.
The Hermit was surprised but not alarmed, for he had dealt with rattlers
before. With one blow of the mattock, which he always carried for
digging, the head of the big snake was crushed and its poisoned fangs
buried in the earth.
"Good old Pal! You probably saved my life. I would never have seen the
reptile in time," the Hermit said feelingly, as he patted the head of
the gratified dog. The rattles were carried home as trophies and the
love between man and dog was deepened, if such a thing were possible.
Thus, with long rambles in the forest and with hours of harvesting and
drying roots and berries, the days sped by, lengthening into weeks and
the weeks into months. Birch and maple dropped their leaves, a rustling
carpet about their feet. Wedges of wild geese winged their way southward
through the trackless sky, making the nights vocal with their honking.
The bear, woodchuck, skunk, raccoon and chipmunk, fat from their summer
feeding, had retired to den or hollow tree where they were to sleep
snugly through the cold months.
Then one night the Storm King swept down from the North, locking the
forest in a frozen grip which only the spring could break. A thick
mantle of snow covered the wilderness over which a deep silence brooded,
broken now and then by a sharp report from some great pine or spruce as
the frost penetrated its fibers. The sun, which now shone but a few
hours of the day, could make no headway against the intense cold, but
those creatures of the wilderness which were still abroad were prepared
to meet it with warm coats of fur, through which the frost could not
penetrate.
The Hermit and Pal enjoyed the short crisp days and took many a trip
into the forest, the man upon snowshoes, the dog with his light weight
easily upborne by the crust. Then there were long, quiet evenings by the
fire, when the Hermit studied and Pal drowsed beside him, one eye on the
man, ready to respond to the least sign of attention.
At this season of hunger many wild creatures, which in the days of
abundance were too shy to approach the cabin, overcame their timidity,
to feast upon the good things spread for them about the clearing. The
birds, especially, grew so tame that they would fly to meet the Hermit
the moment he stepped forth. The bolder ones even found a perch on his
shoulders or head, chatting sociably or scolding at each other.
Occasionally one of the larger animals visited the banquet, and though
these were regarded somewhat askance by the regular frequenters, a truce
which was never violated held about the food supply.
One clear, crisp day in the late winter when the snow crust sparkled
under the sun's rays as if strewn with diamond dust, and the cold was
intense, Pal frolicked away by himself into the woods as the Hermit was
feeding his wild friends. That was nothing unusual but, as the afternoon
wore on and he did not return, his master began to feel a slight
uneasiness. Pal had never before stayed away so long. Occasionally the
Hermit went to the window which looked out upon the dark wall of the
wilderness, but there was no movement in its borders and the cold soon
drove him back to his warm fireside.
At length, when the sun was well down in the western sky, there came a
familiar scratching on the door of the cabin. The Hermit sprang to open
it, giving a relieved laugh at sight of Pal upon the doorstep. But,
strange to say, the dog would not enter. With a sharp bark he trotted a
short distance down the path, looking back at his master.
"No, no, Pal, I don't want to take a walk to-day. Come in and get warm,
you rascal, and give an account of yourself," the Hermit called, still
holding the door open though the air was chilling.
The dog wagged his tail, but made no move toward the house. Instead, he
whined, trotted a few steps farther and looked eagerly back into his
master's face. It was clear to the Hermit that Pal wished him to follow,
but for a moment he hesitated, contrasting the warmth within the cabin
with the bitter cold and loneliness of the forest. Then he looked again
at the dog, who had not taken his pleading eyes from his master's face.
"All right, Pal, just come in until I bundle up. This cold would freeze
a man in no time if he were not well protected."
The Hermit turned back into the cabin and the dog, apparently
understanding, no longer hung back. His adored master had not failed
him. A few minutes later both issued from the house with the dog in the
lead, soon disappearing from sight in the shadows of the forest.
In the morning of that same day Dave Lansing, a young hunter and
trapper, had left his rude cabin some miles to the north of the Hermit's
clearing to visit his trap line. Ill luck seemed to be with him. In the
first place he had been delayed long after his accustomed time for
starting. Then, one after another, he had found his traps rifled, until
he had turned away from the last one angry and disgusted. Still a
perverse fate seemed to be following him. Several miles from his cabin,
he stumbled upon something buried in the snow; there was a sharp click,
and with a sudden grunt of pain he sank to the ground, his axe flying
from his hand and skimming for some distance over the smooth snow crust.
Dave sat up, dazed. The pain which he suffered, however, soon cleared
his brain and he found that he was caught in the steel jaws of a trap.
The trap was not of his own setting, but this made him no less a
captive. He tried to press open the jaws but they held stubbornly. Then
he remembered his axe. Crawling as far as the trap would permit, he
stretched himself at full length upon the snow and reached desperately.
The instrument which would have been his salvation was six inches out of
reach. Moreover, the strain upon his foot was so unbearable that he was
obliged to draw back in order to ease it.
Now, as the full significance of his plight dawned upon him, even Dave's
stout heart quailed. He was helpless to free himself without the axe,
and so far as he knew there was no human being within ten miles of the
spot. Moreover the intense cold was beginning to penetrate his warm
clothing. He no longer felt the pain of his imprisoned foot.
Circulation had slowed down and numbness was fast creeping up his limb.
He swung his arms and beat his hands upon his breast, but in spite of
all he could do the chill penetrated more deeply into his bones. He
realized that if he were not rescued within a few hours he would freeze
to death, for no one could long remain inactive in that biting cold.
Dave smiled somewhat grimly as he reflected that he was now in the
predicament of the helpless creatures which every day perished in his
traps.
Suddenly his unpleasant thoughts were interrupted by a scratching in the
snow behind him, and turning quickly he saw a small black and white dog
regarding him in a friendly manner. Dave's heart leaped. Surely, where
there was a dog there must be a man. He held out his hand to the dog
while he shouted again and again with all his might, waiting
breathlessly each time for the answer which did not come.
At length he gave up the attempt and turned his attention to his small
companion. It was evident that the dog was alone, but perhaps if he
could be made to understand, he might bring help. With this thought new
hope returned. Pointing in the direction from which the dog had
appeared and looking intently into the great brown eyes, Dave commanded,
"Go, sir! Go get your master."
Several times the words were repeated while Pal stood undecided. Then
suddenly he seemed to understand and with a joyous bark trotted swiftly
away and soon disappeared down a white corridor of the woods. It was not
until he had gone that Dave remembered the axe which the dog might have
brought to him had he not, in his eagerness, forgotten it. He groaned
and buried his face in his hands, but the opportunity was gone and he
resolutely fixed his thoughts upon the hope of the dog's return.
The woods were very still. As the coppery sun sank lower, it cast long
blue shadows upon the snow, while the cold grew more intense. Dave
shivered and huddled down as far as possible into his coat.
Gradually there grew upon him the feeling that he was not alone; that he
was being watched by hostile eyes. A strange prickling of his scalp
under his fur cap caused him to turn his head slightly and so meet the
unwinking gaze of a pair of pale yellow orbs. Involuntarily Dave
stiffened. The creature's round, moon-like face, gray-brown fur and
tufted ears proclaimed it a Canada lynx, one of the most savage of the
cat tribe.
[Illustration: Slowly it advanced, its body almost brushing the snow.]
As a rule, the lynx, in common with other wilderness inhabitants, is shy
of man; still he is not to be trusted. The winter had been a hard one,
game was scarce and the animal was emboldened by hunger. Moreover it
seemed to know that the man was crippled. Slowly it advanced, its body
almost brushing the snow, its huge furry pads making no sound upon the
smooth crust, its unwinking eyes fixed upon those of the man.
The perspiration stood out upon Dave's forehead as he stared back into
the brilliant, cruel eyes of the lynx. He was unarmed save for his
hunting knife, a poor weapon against so savage a beast, yet he drew it,
determined to die fighting.
A few paces away the lynx paused and the trapper could see the muscles
of its powerful hind legs gather for the spring. His own muscles braced
instinctively to meet it. But strangely the animal's attention wavered.
It sniffed the air uncertainly. An instant later there came a furious
barking and a yell which seemed to shatter the silence as a delicate
vase is shattered by a blow. The lynx shrank back and with one bound
melted into the shadows of the forest. At the same moment Pal, closely
followed by his master, rushed up and with a friendly red tongue licked
the trapper's face.
"I didn't know I could yell so," chuckled the Hermit. "Like to scared
the beast to death. It is a good thing Pal found you when he did,
though. You look about frozen."
He had picked up the trapper's axe, which he now used to good effect. In
another moment the cruel jaws of the trap had been loosened and the foot
was free, though Dave was unable to stand. Good woodsmen as they were,
they were equal to the emergency. The axe again came into play, and on a
rude sledge made of thick spruce boughs, the wounded man began the trip
to the Hermit's cabin which was nearer than his own. Pal frisked
joyously about, now at the head of the little procession, again bringing
up the rear, growling deep in his throat at some imaginary enemy of the
wonderful beings whom it was his duty to protect. It was some distance
through the heavy forest, fast growing shadowy with the coming of night.
Before the old rail fence came into view, the Hermit was spent with
fatigue, while Dave Lansing was all but fainting from the pain of his
rough ride.
At length, however, the cabin was reached. The almost frozen trapper was
gradually thawed out and his wound dressed, the Hermit showing himself
wonderfully skillful in the process. This done, the host set about the
preparation of supper while Dave lay comfortably in the bunk watching
him, with a warm glow of thankfulness for his rescue and a determination
to be more humane in his dealings with the creatures of the wild. As for
Pal, he dozed contentedly before the fire, his eyes occasionally turning
to the man whom he had rescued from death, but for the most part
following every movement of his adored master.
THE CALL OF THE SPRING
As the days began to lengthen and the sun climbed higher, the forest
country of the north stirred under the icy fetters that had bound it for
long, weary months, during which the snow had drifted deep and famine
had stalked the trails. Under the influence of a warm south wind the
sunlit hours became musical with the steady drip, drip of melting snow,
while new life seemed to flow in the veins of the forest creatures grown
gaunt under the pinch of hunger. Only Kagh, the porcupine, had remained
full fed, but Kagh had been unusually blessed by a kind Providence, in
that every tree held a meal for him in its soft inner fibers.
It was yet too early to expect the final breaking up of winter. There
would still be days when the cold would be intense and snow would drift
in the trails. Nevertheless spring had called, and even the sluggish
blood of the porcupine responded. Every day the earth's white mantle
grew more frayed about the edges, leaving a faint tinge of green on
warm southward slopes.
It was on one of these mild days that Mokwa, the black bear, shouldered
aside the underbrush which concealed the mouth of the snug cave where he
had hibernated, and stepped forth into the awakening world. Half blinded
by the glare of sunlight upon the snow, he stood blinking in the doorway
before he shambled down the slope to a great oak tree where a vigorous
scratching among the snow and leaves brought to light a number of
acorns. These he devoured greedily and, having crunched the last sweet
morsel, sniffed eagerly about for more. Mokwa had fasted long, and now
his appetite demanded more hearty fare than nuts and acorns.
The nights were chill, but each day brought a perceptible shrinking of
the snowy mantle, leaving bare patches of wet, brown earth. One day
Mokwa, breaking through a thick clump of juniper bushes, came out upon
the bank of the Little Vermilion, its glassy surface as yet apparently
unaffected by the thaw. For a moment the bear hesitated, his little
near-sighted eyes searching the opposite bank and his nose sniffing the
wind inquiringly; then, as if reassured, he stepped out upon the ice
and made for the opposite shore.
On the surface the ice appeared solid enough, but in reality it was so
honeycombed by the thaw that it threatened to break up at any moment and
go out with a rush. Mokwa was in mid-stream when a slight tremor beneath
his feet warned him of danger. He broke into a shuffling trot, but had
gone only a few steps when, with a groaning and cracking which made the
hair rise upon his back, the entire surface of the river seemed to
heave. A great crack appeared just before him. With a frantic leap he
cleared it, only to be confronted the next moment by a lane of rushing
black water too wide for even his powerful muscles to bridge. Mokwa
crouched down in the center of his ice cake, which was now being swept
along in mid-stream with a rapidity which made him giddy. The weight of
the bear helped to steady his queer craft, and unless it should strike
another floating cake, Mokwa was in no immediate danger.
Thus he drifted for miles, while the banks seemed to glide swiftly to
the rear and the stream grew gradually wider. At length a faint roar,
growing louder every moment, caused Mokwa to stir uneasily as he peered
ahead across the seething mass of black water and tumbling ice cakes.
Suddenly his body stiffened and his eyes took on new hope. His cake had
entered a side current which carried him near shore. Closer and closer
drifted the great cakes all about him until at length, with a hoarse
grinding, they met, piling one upon the other, but making a solid bridge
from shore to shore. The jam lasted but a moment, but in that moment the
bear leaped, as if on steel springs, and as the ice again drifted apart
and swept on to the falls not far below, he scrambled ashore, panting
but safe. Here, with tongue hanging out, he stood a moment watching the
heaving waters which seemed maddened at the loss of their prey. Then he
turned and vanished into the forest.
Mokwa now found himself in unknown territory, but, as he managed to find
food to supply his needs, he accepted the situation philosophically and
was far from being unhappy.
One day his wanderings brought him to the edge of the wilderness where,
inclosed by a zigzag fence of rails, he caught his first glimpse of
human habitation. Concealed in a clump of young poplars, he gazed
curiously at the Hermit who was chopping wood at the rear of his cabin,
and at Pal who ran about, sniffing eagerly here and there, but never far
from his adored master.
At length one of his excursions into the border of the forest brought to
Pal's keen nostrils the scent of the bear. Pal hated bears. The hair
stiffened along his back while a growl grew in his throat, rumbled
threateningly and broke forth into a volley of shrill barks.
"Bear! Bear! Bear!" he called in plain dog language; but the ears of the
Hermit seemed to be strangely dull and, thinking that the dog had taken
up the trail of a rabbit or at the most that of a fox, he whistled Pal
back to the clearing. Pal obeyed reluctantly, stopping every few steps
to look back and voice his opinion of the intruder; but, by the time he
had joined his master, the bear had slipped into the forest.
Late that same afternoon, as Mokwa stood at the top of a small hill, a
bright glitter from a grove of straight, smooth trees below, caught his
eye. The glitter was alluring and, with no thought save to gratify his
curiosity, the bear shambled quickly down the slope and brought up
before a tree on the trunk of which hung a small, shining bucket. The
sunlight reflected from the tin dazzled his little eyes, while to his
ears came a curious, musical "plop, plop."
Without even taking the precaution to glance around him, Mokwa reared
upon his haunches and examined the pail into which a clear fluid
splashed, drop by drop, from a little trough inserted in the tree. A
faint but delectable odour drifted to the sniffing black nose of the
bear. It was Mokwa's first experience with maple sap and he proceeded to
make the most of it.
Though unable to reach the liquid, owing to the smallness of the pail,
he could easily lick the spile which conveyed the sap from the tree, and
this Mokwa did with evident relish. His tongue sought out every crevice
and even greedily lapped the tree about the gash; then, growing
impatient at the slowness with which the wonderful fluid appeared, he
turned his attention to the pail. Mokwa wished, no doubt, that several
inches might have been added to the length of his tongue, but, though
that useful member failed him, necessity found a way. He soon discovered
that it was possible to dip in one paw from which the sweetness could
easily be licked. However, the pressure of his other paw upon the rim of
the pail caused it to tip, and sliding from the spile, it rolled upon
the ground.
The accident did not dismay the bear. On the contrary it filled him with
joy, for it served to bring the contents of the pail within reach, and
he lapped up every drop before it could soak into the earth. The pail,
too, was cleansed of sap as far as the eager tongue could reach, though,
during the process, it rolled about in a way which sorely tried the
bear's patience. At length it came to rest against the trunk of a tree,
with which solid backing Mokwa was enabled to thrust in his muzzle far
enough to lap up the last sweet drops.
But alas! when he attempted to withdraw his head, Mokwa found himself a
prisoner. With the pressure against the tree the sap-bucket had become
wedged so tightly upon his head that it refused to come off. Though the
bear twisted and turned, banging the tin upon the ground and against
trunks of trees, the endeavor to rid himself of this uncomfortable and
unwelcome headdress was in vain. Mokwa grew more and more frantic and
the din was so terrific that a horrified cottontail, with eyes bulging
until they seemed in danger of rolling down his nose, sat frozen in his
tracks at the edge of a spruce thicket. The Hermit, on his way to
inspect his sap-buckets, broke into a run.
Mokwa, in his mad scramble, had paused a moment for breath. He heard the
man's footfalls and the sound filled him with fresh alarm. With a last
despairing effort he rose upon his haunches and tugged at the battered
pail. This time his efforts were rewarded. A peculiar twist sent it
flying, and the bear, free at last, made quick time to the friendly
shelter of the spruce thicket, sped by the loud laughter of the Hermit.
"Guess that bear will never bother my sap-buckets again," the man
chuckled, as he picked up his bright new pail, battered now past all
recognition.
On the day following his harrowing experience in the sugar-maple grove
Mokwa was a much chastened bear, but the incident soon faded from his
memory and he once more trod the forest trails as if they had been
presented to him for his sole use by Dame Nature herself. In the swamp
the pointed hoods of skunk cabbage were appearing, the heat generated
by their growth producing an open place in the snow about them. The
odour from which the name is derived was not at all offensive to the
bear who eagerly devoured many of the plants, varying the diet with
roots and small twigs swelling with sap.
In the damp hollows the coarse grass was turning green, and before long
the swamps were noisy with the shrill voice of the hylas, while the
streams once more teemed with fish.
As the season advanced Mokwa grew fat and contented, exerting himself
only enough to shuffle from one good feeding ground to another. He would
grunt complainingly at any extra exertion, as, for instance, that which
was required to reach the small wild sweet apples which he dearly loved,
and which were clustered thickly on their small trees at the edge of the
forest. At this season Mokwa's diet was almost strictly vegetarian and
the smaller creatures of the wilderness, upon which he sometimes preyed,
had little to fear from him.
The long summer days drifted by and autumn was not far away. Mokwa grew
restless; both his food and surroundings palled upon him. At length,
following a vague though persistent inner impulse, he turned his face
northward toward the hills which had been his birthplace and from which
he had been so strangely carried.
Long before daylight he had taken the trail and, in spite of the
protests of his overfed body, had pushed steadily on, pausing at the
edge of the tamarack swamp long enough to open with his sharp claws a
rotting log that lay in his path, a log which yielded him a meal of fat
grubs. Then he shambled on, drawn by some irresistible force. The mist
which hung like a white veil over the low ground bordering the swamp was
fast dissolving in curling wisps of vapor under the ardent rays of the
sun. The forest was alive with bird song; squirrels chattered to him
from the trees and the rattle of the kingfisher was in his ears, but
Mokwa held a steady course northward, his little eyes fixed on some
unseen goal.
About noon he came out upon the bank of the Little Vermilion, not far
from the place where he had so narrowly escaped death on the floating
ice. The roar of the falls came to him clearly on the still air and the
big bear shivered. If he remembered his wild ride, however, the memory
was quickly effaced by the discovery of a blueberry thicket, a luscious
storehouse that apparently had never been rifled. Mokwa feasted
greedily, at first stripping the branches of fruit and leaves alike; but
at length, the keen edge of his appetite dulled, he sought only the
finest berries, crushing many and ruthlessly tearing down whole bushes
in his greed to get a branch of especially choice fruit. Then, his face
and paws stained with the juice and his sides uncomfortably distended,
he sought a secluded nook in which to sleep off his feast.
Toward evening, when the shadows grew long and the hills were touched
with the red and gold of the setting sun, Mokwa again took up the
northward trail, to which he held steadily most of the night. Morning
found him emerging from a thicket of juniper upon the banks of the river
at a place that he instantly recognized as the one from which he had
begun his unwilling travels.
Turning sharply to the right, the bear's eager eyes discovered the trunk
of a hemlock which had been blasted by lightning. Rearing himself upon
his haunches against it, and reaching to his utmost, he prepared to
leave his signature where he had so often left it, always above all
rivals. Ere his unsheathed claws could leave their mark, however, he
paused, gazing at another mark several inches above his own.
The hair rose along his back and his little eyes gleamed red while he
growled deep in his chest; yet, stretch as he would, he could not quite
reach the signature of the other bear. Mokwa dropped to all fours, rage
filling his breast at this indication of a rival in what he considered
his own domain. He hurried on, keenly alert, growing more and more
incensed at every fresh trace of the interloper. Here he came upon
evidences of a meal which the rival had made upon wake-robin roots.
Satisfied before he had devoured all he had dug, some of the roots still
lay scattered about, but, though Mokwa was hungry, he disdained the
crumbs from the other's table. He dined, instead, upon a fat field mouse
which he caught napping beside its runway. Again he pressed on, his
anger steadily fanned by fresh evidences of the hated rival who seemed
always just ahead.
Mokwa slept that night in his old den, but the next morning found him
once more on the trail of the enemy, a trail which was still fresh. He
had not gone far when his rival was, for the time being, forgotten,
while he sniffed eagerly at a new odour which drifted to his sensitive
nostrils. It was the scent of honey, a delicacy which a bear prizes
above all else. At that moment, as if to confirm the evidence of his
nose, a bee flew by, followed by another and another, all winging their
way back to the hive. The red gleam faded from Mokwa's eyes as he
followed their flight; then he broke into a shuffling run as he came
within sight of the tree to which the bees were converging from all
directions.
About half way up the great trunk Mokwa's eyes discovered a hole which
he knew at once to be the mouth of the hive. He quickly climbed the tree
on the side opposite the hole, peering cautiously around until he had
reached a point directly opposite the hive. Then, craftily reaching one
paw around the tree, with his claws he ripped off a great section of
bark, disclosing a mass of bees and reeking comb.
At once the bees seemed to go mad. Their angry buzzing filled the air,
but failed to strike terror to the heart of the robber. His thick fur
rendered him immune to their fiery darts, though he was careful to
protect his one vulnerable spot, the tender tip of his nose. In another
moment he would have been enjoying the feast had he not discovered
something which caused the hair to rise along his back and his eyes to
glow with hate.
Advancing from the opposite direction was another bear, a bear larger
than Mokwa and scarred with the evidences of many battles, a bear who
trod the forest with a calm air of ownership. Across Mokwa's mind
flashed the memory of a certain tree with his own signature the highest
save one. The owner of that one was now approaching with the evident
intention of claiming the sweet prize.
Mokwa's anger rose. He scrambled from the tree and, with a savage roar,
was upon his rival almost before the latter had become aware of his
presence. And then occurred a memorable battle, a battle for sovereignty
and the freedom of the trails. Mokwa's rival was the larger of the two,
but Mokwa had the advantage of youth. Sounds of the fray penetrated far
into the woods. Delicate flowers and vigorous young saplings were
trampled underfoot; timid little wild creatures watched with fast
beating hearts, ready for instant retreat should they be observed, while
above their heads the bees were busy carrying the exposed honey to a
safer hiding-place.
Back and forth the combatants surged. For a time it was impossible to
judge to whom the victory would go; but at length youth began to tell.
The older bear was pushed steadily back. At last, torn and bleeding, his
breath coming in laboring gasps, he turned and beat a retreat, far from
the domain of the bear whose claim he had preempted.
[Illustration: And then occurred a memorable battle.]
Mokwa, too exhausted to follow, glared after him until he had vanished
among the trees; then, much the worse for his fight, he turned again to
the spoils, now doubly his by the right of conquest as well as of
discovery. The owners of the hive, too busy to molest him, went on about
their work of salvaging the contents and Mokwa made a wonderful meal,
although he licked up a number of bees in his eagerness for the honey.
Then, glutted with the feast, he crept away to lick his bruises and
recover from the fray.
Mokwa fell asleep with the pleasant assurance that no more would the
hated signature appear above his own on the hemlock trunk. The spring
had called him to great adventure, but the summer had led him home and
left him master of the forest.
THE ADVENTURES OF KAGH, THE PORCUPINE
As the moon swung clear of the pointed fir tops and shone full upon a
tall spruce tree in the wilderness, a dark object, looking not unlike a
great bird's nest upon one of the branches, suddenly came to life. Kagh,
the porcupine, had awakened from his dreamless slumber and, though
scarce two hours had elapsed since his last satisfying meal upon tender
poplar shoots, he decided that it was time to eat. With a dry rustling
of quills and scratching of sharp claws upon the bark, he scrambled
clumsily down the tree. Then, with an air of calm fearlessness which few
of the wilderness folk can assume, he set off toward the east, his short
legs moving slowly and awkwardly as if unaccustomed to travel upon the
ground.
Now, when Kagh left the spruce tree, it seemed he had in mind a definite
goal; yet he had not gone far when his movements took on the aimlessness
characteristic of most of a porcupine's wanderings. Here and there he
paused to browse upon a young willow shoot or to sniff inquiringly at
the base of some great tree. Once he turned sharply aside to poke an
inquisitive nose into a prostrate, hollow log, where a meal of fat white
grubs rewarded his search.
Kagh emerged from the thick, tangled underbrush upon a faint trail,
invisible to all save the keen eyes of the forest folk. Here travel was
easier and he made better time, though it could not be said that he
hurried. He had not gone far upon the trail when he heard behind him a
soft pad, pad. At the sound he paused a moment to stare indifferently,
expecting to be given a wide berth, for, though Kagh seldom takes the
offensive, even the savage lynx, unless crazed by winter hunger, will
let him severely alone. This time, however, Kagh was disappointed, for
the newcomer was a furry bear cub who had never had experience with a
porcupine to teach him wisdom.
The cub stopped and sat upon his haunches to stare curiously at the
strange creature in his path, while Kagh, incensed by the delay, tucked
his nose under him until he resembled nothing so much as a huge
bristling pincushion. He lay still, his small eyes shining dully among
his quills. The cub regarded him for a moment; then he advanced and
reached out an inquisitive paw toward the queer-looking ball. For this
Kagh had been waiting. There was a lightning swing of his armed tail
which, if it had reached its mark, would have filled the paw with deadly
quills. Fortunately, however, the cruel barbs failed to reach their
mark, for, an instant before the swing, the small bear received a cuff
which sent him sprawling into the bushes, and Mother Bruin stood in the
trail confronting the porcupine.
Kagh, like most of the wilderness folk, knows that there is a vast
difference between a full-grown bear and a furry, inquisitive cub.
Though he was not afraid, the appearance of the mother bear was more
than he had bargained for, and he immediately rolled himself into a ball
again, every quill bristling defiantly. The old bear, however, wise in
the lore of the dim trails, paid no more attention to him. Calling her
cub, she shambled off through the bushes, the youngster casting many a
backward glance at this little, but seemingly very dangerous creature.
Kagh went on his way well satisfied with himself. As before, he traveled
leisurely, pausing often to browse or to stare at some larger animal
upon whose path he chanced.
Of all the creatures of the wilderness the porcupine seems the most slow
and stupid, yet he bears a charmed life. In the woods, where few may
cross the path of the hunter and live, the porcupine is usually allowed
to go unhurt. Because he can easily be killed without a gun, his flesh
has more than once, it is said, been the means of saving a lost hunter
from starvation. As a rule, the creatures of the wilderness, too, let
him strictly alone, knowing well the deadly work of his quills, which,
when embedded in the flesh, sink deeper and deeper with every frantic
effort toward dislodgment.
Only under the stress of winter hunger will an animal sometimes throw
caution to the winds and attack this living pincushion. And then his
dinner is usually the price of his life, for there is no escaping the
lightning-like swing of the barbed tail.
In the course of time Kagh came to the edge of a tamarack swamp. Here
the ground was soft and spongy. The prostrate trunks of a number of
great trees lay half submerged in lily-choked pools, beside which stalks
of the brilliant cardinal flower flamed by day in the green dimness.
Scrambling upon one of these decaying logs the porcupine made his way,
almost eagerly for him, far out among the lily-pads. Kagh reveled in
succulent lily stems and buds, and as he feasted he uttered little
grunts of satisfaction.
Here he would probably have been content to spend the remainder of the
night had not an interruption occurred. Another porcupine crawled out
upon the same log and proceeded confidently toward the choice position
at its farther end. At sight of Kagh he paused a moment; then he went
on, his quills raised. Kagh looked up from his feasting, astonished that
any one should thus intrude upon his hunting-ground.
And then on the end of the old log in the tamarack swamp was fought a
bloodless battle, a conflict mainly of pushing and shoving. Much to his
disgust, Kagh was hustled to the very end of the log and was at length
pushed off, splashing into the cool water beneath. For a moment the
victor peered down at him with indifferent eyes, then deliberately
turned his back and began to feed upon the lilies, leaving Kagh either
to sink or swim. The latter, however, was in no danger. Buoyed up by
his hollow quills he soon reached the shore, none the worse for his
sudden bath, save for his sorely ruffled feelings. For the time being
his hunger for lily-pads had been satisfied but, as he shambled out of
the swamp toward the dryer woods, he grunted complainingly.
A dim light among the trees warned him of the approach of day, and Kagh
looked about for a place to take a nap. Immediately in his path a
prostrate pine trunk with a snug hollow at the center offered an
inviting shelter, but when the porcupine poked in his blunt black nose,
he found the retreat occupied. A red fox lay curled in a furry ball,
fast asleep. Even in slumber, however, a fox is alert. At the sound of
Kagh's heavy breathing the occupant of the log was instantly wide awake.
By right of discovery and occupation the hollow trunk belonged to the
fox, but Kagh's moral sense was either lacking or undeveloped. He wanted
the hollow. Therefore he set about securing it in the easiest and most
effective way. By pressing his quills close to his body and backing into
the log, the sharp points presented a formidable front against which the
fox had no protection. So, as Kagh backed in, the fox backed out,
incensed but helpless. In a very few moments the porcupine was fast
asleep, his conscience quite untroubled. As the sun rose higher, a
bloodthirsty weasel thrust its pointed nose into the log and glared with
red eyes of hate upon the sleeping porcupine, then went his way,
spreading terror and destruction among the smaller wood folk.
About noon Kagh awoke and, crawling to the opening of the log, looked
about him. As a rule the porcupine travels and feeds by night, but Kagh
was a creature of whims and he decided that he had been fasting quite
long enough. Accordingly he set out in a leisurely search for food,
loafing along the base of a sunny ledge of rock. A meal of grubs and
peppery wake-robin roots left him happy, but still he rambled on,
following his nose and alert for any new adventure.
Suddenly he lifted his head and sniffed the air. To his nostrils drifted
the faint scent of smoke, and smoke in Kagh's mind was associated with
campfires and delectable bits of bacon rind or salty wood. For the first
time since leaving his spruce tree the evening before, Kagh hurried. He
blundered along the trail in a way which would have scandalized the
other forest inhabitants, among whom silence is the first law of
preservation.
Near the camp a rabbit had crept timidly from the forest and was sitting
erect upon its haunches, its quivering nose testing the wind, its
bulging eyes missing nothing that went on around it. Kagh paid no more
attention to the rabbit than to the bush under which it sat. He
blundered into the camp, from which the hunter was absent in search of
game, but the next moment he backed off, squeaking with pain and
surprise. He had walked straight into the warm ashes of the campfire.
His discomfort was soon forgotten, however, as he came upon a board
saturated with bacon grease. Kagh's teeth were sharp as chisels and the
sound of his gnawing could be heard far in the still air. He ate all he
could hold of the toothsome wood, then started upon a tour of inspection
of the camp.
An open tent-flap drew his attention. Forthwith he walked inside,
knocking down as he went, an axe which had been propped close beside the
entrance. Kagh sampled the axe-helve and, finding to his liking the
faint taste of salt from the hand of the man who had wielded it, he
succeeded in rendering it almost useless before his interest flagged.
His inquisitive nose now drew him to a small bag of tobacco beside which
lay a much blackened cob pipe. Whether Kagh did not care for tobacco, or
whether some new fancy at that moment took possession of him, no one can
tell. At any rate he nosed the pipe from its place, scattered the
tobacco to the four winds, and then shambled from the tent and
disappeared among the trees.
Ten minutes later he was sound asleep in a poplar sapling. What the
hunter said when he returned to camp and beheld the work of his visitor
is not recorded.
Kagh's was a restless spirit. Moonrise again found him abroad in search
of food and adventure. This time he traveled far for a slow old fellow.
At length he came to the zigzag fence of split rails which prevented the
wilderness from encroaching upon the clearing of the Hermit.