Hermit's cabin, silvered with the radiance of the full moon. At no time
was Kagh troubled with bashfulness and now, under the influence of that
flooding radiance, he decided to investigate the cabin and the
clearing. The fence, ending in a rough wall of field stone, made a
capital highway along which he shuffled happily until brought to an
abrupt halt by the appearance of another fence traveler. The white
quills with their dark points erected themselves from his blackish-brown
fur until he looked twice his normal size. This time, however, his armor
failed to strike terror to the heart of the enemy.
Kagh, the porcupine, was scornful of man and feared but one beast, the
one who now advanced toward him along the wall. That long, silky fur,
jet black save for two broad white stripes running down the back, and
that plumy tail, could belong to but one creature. The skunk, returning
from a neighborly visit to the Hermit's cabin, probably with a view to a
meal of fat chicken, advanced with its usual air of owning the earth.
This time the porcupine did not dispute the passage. Instead, he curled
up and dropped to the ground, whence he proceeded on his way,
complaining peevishly to himself.
All was still about the cabin. Kagh circled it until he came to the
lean-to at the back that served the Hermit as a storehouse. Here the
animal's useful nose caught an alluring scent. The logs of the building
were thick, but patient search was at length rewarded by the discovery
of a large chink. His keen cutting-teeth at once came into play and the
sound of his gnawing, which carried clearly in the still night air,
awakened the Hermit.
[Illustration: Pal stopped, clearly astonished.]
"Only a porcy," he said to himself, after listening a moment, and he
went peacefully to sleep, little dreaming of the havoc which that same
"porcy" was to make.
In a very short time Kagh had succeeded in gnawing a hole large enough
to permit his entrance into the storehouse. Then indeed he found himself
in rich pasturage. The first thing he came to was a small basket of
eggs, a delicacy which he prized highly. When these were neatly reduced
to shells, he gnawed a hole in a barrel near by and sampled the little
stream of flour which ran out. This was not to be compared with eggs,
however, and after scattering a goodly quantity about the floor, he
finished his meal on a side of fat bacon. When at last he turned his
face toward the forest, he found that the hole, which had been a tight
squeeze when he entered, was now out of the question, and he must do
some further gnawing before he could squeeze his fat sides through.
Once in the open he set a leisurely course toward the borders of the
forest, only to be interrupted by a series of staccato barks as Pal
rounded the cabin and glimpsed the night prowler. Like the bear cub, Pal
had had no experience with a porcupine to teach him prudence. He felt
that the beast had no business in the clearing and accordingly charged,
barking furiously, only to be met by a round ball of bristling quills.
Pal stopped, clearly astonished. Then, as the ball lay deceivingly
still, he rashly tried closer investigation, and was met with a smashing
blow from the barbed tail.
Several quills fastened themselves in the dog's soft and tender nose
and there they stayed, paining him unbearably. The aggressive challenge
changed to yelps of pain and, as swiftly as he had charged, Pal
retreated to the cabin, vainly trying to free his muzzle of the fiery
barbs. With his efforts they but sank the deeper. He suffered agony
until his master, aroused by the outcry, came to his relief. Holding the
struggling dog firmly with both hands, the Hermit extracted the quills
with his teeth. It was a painful process and both were glad when the
last quill was out.
Meanwhile, Kagh continued on his placid way toward the black forest
wall, just beyond the rail fence. He had fed well and had quickly routed
his enemy. Altogether he considered the world a happy place for
porcupines. In the darkness which precedes the dawn he took his way to a
slender poplar sapling standing near the border of the woods. This he
climbed as far as his weight would permit and, seated comfortably on one
branch, with his hand-like paws tightly clasping another, he went
peacefully to sleep, lulled by every passing breeze.
THE TRAIL OF THE MOOSE
On a bare, rocky promontory far up in the north country, where the
turbulent waters of the Little Vermilion cut through lanes of pointed
fir and dark spruce, a gigantic moose stood, his ungainly body and huge
antlers silhouetted against the sky of sunset. Below him the noisy,
hurrying waters were churned into foam over innumerable hidden rocks; to
the rear lay the wilderness, green, shadowy and mysterious.
The moose was a magnificent beast, the ridge of his shoulders rising to
a height of little less than seven feet. His great antlers, the
admiration and desire of every hunter in the Little Vermilion country,
showed a spread of almost six feet from tip to tip. As if carved from
the rock the big moose stood, his eyes on the distant waters, only his
ears moving slightly to test the wind. Then, as some vagrant whiff from
the gently moving air assailed the sensitive nostrils, or some faint
sound reached his ears, the great beast turned and vanished into the
forest, as light and soundless as thistledown for all his twelve
hundred pounds of bulk. Not even a twig snapped under his feet.
[Illustration: As if carved from the rock the big moose stood.]
As night shrouded the dim trails, the moose turned southward through the
darkness. In spite of the dense wilderness he advanced rapidly, his huge
antlers laid along his back that they might impede his progress as
little as possible, his nose thrust upward, sifting the wind. In about
an hour he came out upon the shore of a lonely pond among the hills. A
faint breeze ruffled the mirror-like surface upon which the delicate
white cups of water-lilies seemed to hold a light of their own among the
dark green pads.
With a sigh of satisfaction the moose waded in and plunged his muzzle
into the clear water, breaking the star reflections into innumerable
points of light as the ripples widened over the pond. For some time he
fed greedily, moving slowly along the shore. At times his great head was
wholly submerged as his long, flexible upper lip sought out the
succulent roots and buds; again it was raised, while from the gently
moving jaws the water dripped with a musical plash into the pond.
Suddenly the wilderness was startled from its calm by the appearance of
a dazzling finger of light which crept across the pond and came to rest
upon the dark bulk of the moose at his feeding. The great beast raised
his head to stare into the strange, blinding radiance. He could not see
the dark form crouched in the boat behind the light, nor the long
sinister object leveled upon him. He could only stare, fascinated, an
easy mark for the hunter behind the jack-light.
From the forest in the rear of the moose came a faint sound. It was only
the crackling of a twig, yet it served to break the spell under which
the beast stood, for in the wilderness the snap of a twig is one of the
most ominous of sounds. The animal wheeled sharply just as the hunter
pulled the trigger. There was the sharp crack of a rifle which woke the
echoes and startled the wilderness into an added alertness, while the
ball sped across the water, barely missing the form of the moose. Before
the disappointed hunter could again pull the trigger the great beast had
reached the shore with a bound and was crashing through the forest, over
windfalls and through thickets with the speed of an express train.
Lesser wilderness folk watched his flight with startled eyes, keeping
well out of his path. Even the fierce Canada lynx knew better than to
attack that living whirlwind, though his pale eyes gleamed maliciously
and his claws dug deep into the bark as the moose passed directly
beneath the branch on which the big cat crouched. The fleeing animal did
not see him.
That night, far from the pond, the moose made his bed on a wooded knoll,
lying, as is the custom of his kind, with his back to the wind. Should
danger approach from the rear his keen nose would give him warning,
while eyes and ears would protect him from anything approaching against
the wind.
With the first light of day he was on his feet, enjoying a breakfast of
birch twigs, obtained by breasting down a sapling and holding it beneath
his body while he fed upon the tender tips. His meal finished, he backed
off, leaving the sapling to spring up again unharmed. His fear of the
night before had vanished and once more he was lord of the wilderness, a
beast to be admired but let severely alone.
Again he turned southward, stepping daintily, the "bell," or tuft of
coarse hair beneath his chin, swinging to his pace. Occasionally a
cottontail leaped from his path and paused to stare, big ears alert and
nose twitching sensitively; or a red squirrel, that saucy mischief-maker
of the woods, chattered derisively at him from the safe side of a spruce
trunk. But the moose paid no more heed to them than to the lofty trees
which arched above his path.
Gradually the shadows lengthened and again dusk swathed the forest
aisles in gray mystery. As the darkness deepened, the moose moved more
cautiously, testing each step for crackling twigs. His great head swung
much lower than the ridge of his shoulders as he paused occasionally to
listen, his gray-brown form melting into the shadows as if he wore a
cloak of invisibility.
Thus he came again to the wilderness pond where he had so nearly met
fate in the form of the hunter's bullet. The glare was gone and peace
once more brooded over the placid water. For a long moment he stood upon
the bank, listening and looking; then a vagrant puff of air brought to
his nostrils a strange odor. His great muscles tightened, but, as no
sound broke the stillness, he moved cautiously in the direction of the
scent.
At the edge of a small natural clearing among the trees he paused to
reconnoiter. In the center of the clearing glowed the embers of a
campfire, the smoke of which had reached him at the pond. A small tongue
of flame occasionally leaped up, illuminating a circle of darkness. On
the side opposite the moose lay a still, dark form wrapped in a blanket.
For some time the animal stood, the pupils of his eyes contracting or
expanding as the glow of the embers waxed or waned. Then a brand in the
campfire burned through and broke with a snap, sending up a shower of
sparks. Whether the sound reminded him of the rifle report of the
previous night or whether the man-smell at that moment startled him, is
uncertain. At any rate his eyes suddenly grew red with anger and, with a
roar, he charged straight toward the sleeping form beside the fire.
Immediately the hunter awoke to action. In order to free himself of the
entangling blanket he rolled over, a fortunate move which accomplished a
double purpose in that it took him just out of reach of the charging
animal. Before the moose could stay his mad rush and turn, the man had
scrambled up a tree. From that safe perch he watched helplessly the
destruction of his camp. The hunter being out of reach, the big moose
charged upon his camp supplies, and the night was made hideous with the
crashing of pots and pans.
The noise seemed to drive the brute to a frenzy. With a wild bellow he
crashed away through the forest, the remains of a frying pan impaled
upon the sharp point of an antler. As he rushed, it banged against trees
and drove him to greater speed until it was left behind on a branch. As
for the hunter, he could only gaze wrathfully upon his wrecked camp and
bemoan the fate which had twice brought to him the coveted game, only
to snatch it away again unharmed.
The night tumult had aroused the Hermit in his cabin, a mile distant at
the edge of the forest. With the coming of daylight he set out to
ascertain what had happened. By good fortune he stumbled upon the camp
just as the disgusted hunter was leaving and he heard the story of the
charging moose, the evidence of whose mad flight was apparent for some
distance. He invited the hunter to spend a few days in his cabin, an
invitation which the man thankfully accepted. Though each morning found
him abroad, armed and eager, he caught no further glimpse of the big
moose.
Meanwhile, the wilderness was becoming an uncomfortable place for the
hunter. The myriad swarms of insects gave him no peace by day or night,
while the big moose was spending long peaceful hours far away at the
edge of a tiny, wood-girt lake. During the day the moose dozed on a cool
mud bed in the shallows, his body submerged save for the tip of his
nose. This, too, disappeared from sight occasionally as the flies became
too persistent. At night he wandered abroad, searching out the best
feeding-grounds.
Late summer gave place to autumn with its warm mellow days and its
nights tinged with frost. The sun shone through a faint haze, touching
to glowing color the maples in the swamp and the golden birches on the
knolls. Now and then a leaf drifted to the ground with a faint rustle.
At the edge of the wilderness where stood the cabin of the Hermit and
those of his widely scattered neighbors, the aromatic smell of burning
leaves hung all day in the still air, while the early stars looked down
on bright heaps of burning rubbish. It was the outdoor cleaning time.
On several occasions, as the Hermit stood dreamily watching the thin
wisps of smoke curl upward from the burning heap, he heard the call of a
moose to its mate or its challenge to a rival. The sound thrilled him as
no sound had for years. He longed to answer the summons. Accordingly,
one day he made a trip into the borders of the wilderness where a group
of slender birch trees huddled. Like Hiawatha he stripped one of a
section of its bark.
The next evening found him seated comfortably on the top rail of the
snake fence which separated his upland pasture from the closely
pressing forest. The sun had set, and a mellow twilight with a tang of
frost in the air was fast obscuring the black stumps and welding
together the clumps of blueberries and wild raspberries.
The man sat so still that gradually the small inhabitants of the
wilderness went fearlessly about their hunting or playing. If they
noticed him at all, perhaps they mistook him for a stake of the fence
upon which he sat. As he watched dreamily, the dusk grew deeper and the
first stars came out, one by one. Then the harvest moon appeared,
peeping over the tops of the firs and finally riding clear in the dark
sky, throwing a mysterious radiance over the clumps of juniper in the
pasture and trying vainly to penetrate the thick stand of second-growth
fir, spruce and maple at the edge of the forest.
Now the Hermit slowly raised to his lips the birch-bark trumpet which he
had fashioned. The next moment the brooding silence of the night was
startled by a harsh roar. The Hermit chuckled softly. "If there is a
moose within a mile he can't help hearing that," he thought.
He waited, his heart beating fast with excitement. The echoes rolled
for a moment among the hills, then died away, leaving the silence
unbroken.
Again he raised the trumpet to his lips and sent out a call into the
night. This time the sound had scarcely died away when an answering
challenge rolled from a pair of great lungs back in the wilderness. In
his excitement the man almost lost his perch upon the fence. "That's an
old bull, sure enough. Probably the same one that broke up the hunter's
camp," he said, speaking aloud, as is often the custom of those living
alone.
He listened a moment. Hearing no further sound, once more he raised his
trumpet, this time giving a low, seductive call. The effect was
immediate and unexpected. A short distance back in the forest there came
the crash of trampled undergrowth and, the next moment, a huge black
bulk detached itself from the dark background and stood forth in the
moonlight, alarmingly close.
[Illustration: The Hermit took the one chance that presented itself.]
The Hermit caught his breath. It was without doubt the big moose, and
that he was in no gentle mood was soon apparent. He listened a moment,
motionless as the trees at his back; then he brought forth a harsh roar
that sent a chill to the heart of the unprotected man. When he had come
to the pasture to try his trumpet, the Hermit had little expected an
answer, or at best had hoped merely to call up a cow moose. Instead, he
found himself confronted by the biggest bull moose he had ever seen.
Though his heart thrilled at sight of the great head and antlers, he
wished ardently that there might have been some stronger protection than
the frail fence between them.
Absolute immovability was his only hope and, like Molly Cottontail, he
"froze." Incensed at the silence where he had expected to find either a
mate or a rival, the big moose began to grumble deep in his throat and
to shake his antlers threateningly. Then he advanced a few steps.
Perspiration stood out upon the face of the Hermit, but he made no
movement. The moonlight was deceptive and the beast did not see the man
until he was uncomfortably close. Then a great bellow of rage burst from
him. At the same moment the Hermit took the one chance that presented
itself and dropped on the opposite side of the fence. The charge of the
big moose smashed the slight barrier as if it had been straw, but it
gave the man the chance he desired. He sprinted as he never had
sprinted before to a wild cherry tree which stood in an angle of the
fence. With an agility which he would not have believed possible, he
drew himself into its branches just as the moose reached the spot. There
the Hermit sat panting while the animal raged underneath, trying vainly
to spear his enemy with the bayonet-sharp points of his antlers.
Finding the man out of reach, the moose turned his attention to the
fence which he quickly reduced to kindling wood. The Hermit could only
watch the destruction of that which had taken days of labor. He used
vigorously the only weapon which he possessed, his tongue, but the big
moose cared nothing for the sound of the human voice raised in
protestation. Having vented his rage upon the hapless fence, he took up
his position beneath the tree, rumbling threateningly and tearing up the
ground with his sharp hoofs, one blow of which would have instantly
killed the man.
Occasionally he stepped into the fringe of the forest but at the least
movement of his prisoner in the tree he was back on guard, shaking his
huge antlers threateningly. Thus the time wore on. As the air grew
frostier, the Hermit shivered and huddled closer to the trunk of his
tree. "Wish I had your hide!" he muttered, looking wrathfully down at
his jailer.
Now and then the Hermit could hear Pal howling lonesomely. Fortunately,
he had shut the dog up in the house when he set forth upon his rash
adventure. "Never mind, Pal," he said aloud, "you may be glad you _are_
alone. I only wish I were." He aimed a vicious kick at the antlers,
which were not far below, but was forced to draw up his foot quickly.
At last, when the Hermit's cramped position had grown distressingly
painful, there came a welcome interruption. Suddenly the big moose
ceased his pawing and listened intently, his great ears strained to some
sound which had been inaudible to the Hermit. Both waited expectantly.
Far off, but unmistakable, came the call of a cow moose. Instantly the
bull sent out his rumbling reply, though he did not desert his post.
Again came the call, this time much nearer. The Hermit in his interest
forgot that he was a prisoner, that his feet had gone to sleep, and that
he was chilled through and through.
Now a crackling sounded from among the trees and a moment later a
shadowy bulk, followed by a smaller one which the Hermit rightly judged
to be a yearling calf, emerged from the dark forest. The bull, with a
low bleat ridiculous in so large a beast, sprang to meet them. The man
in the tree was forgotten as the two big animals followed by the calf,
vanished, three shadows among the darker shadows of the woods. The
Hermit was glad enough to lower himself from the tree and make his way
painfully to the cabin and the comfort of his fire and his dog. He had
had enough of moose-calling for a season.
The big moose reigned supreme in all the northland. When the snows of
winter began to whiten the wilderness, he led his herd to a sheltered
nook deep among the hemlocks. There the yard was formed, a labyrinth of
intersecting paths, kept free from deep snow and leading to the best
places for food and shelter. The herd lived in comparative comfort until
spring returned to the wilderness, and the bull moose, having shed his
great antlers, sought seclusion until a new pair should once more clothe
him with strength and courage.
IN THE BEAVERS' LODGE
Ahmeek, the beaver, swimming slowly with only his eyes and the tip of
his nose above the water, came to a stop at a spot where the shores of
the stream were low and flat. He was soon joined by his mate and the two
clambered out upon the bank where they looked about with satisfaction.
It was an ideal location for a beaver settlement. Poplars, yellow
birches and willows on the banks offered material for a dam and assured
an abundance of winter food; the low banks would enable the stream to
spread out, making a pond deep enough to prevent freezing to the bottom
in winter; best of all, it was a lonely spot where there was no evidence
of man.
Dusk had fallen like a gray mantle upon the wilderness when the beavers
began their work. Ahmeek selected a poplar to his liking, not far from
the bank of the stream. Grasping the trunk with his hand-like paws and
turning his head to one side in order to bring his great cutting teeth
into play, he bit out a huge chunk, following it with another and
another until the tree swayed and crashed to the ground. Then both
beavers set to work to strip it of branches and lay the foundations for
the dam.
The dam, when finished, was a work worthy of a trained engineer. The
twigs and trunks of trees Ahmeek and his mate laid lengthwise with the
current. On the upper face, where the force of the water would but drive
it the more tightly, the mass was plastered and bound together with a
cement of mud and stones, which in the freezing days of winter would
become impenetrable. Here again the beavers showed their wisdom by
leaving several low places over which the water could trickle, thus
relieving the pressure that otherwise would have broken the dam. Now the
stream overflowed its low banks, making a deep pond, soon to become the
home of pickerel and trout and of a great colony of water-lilies, a
delicacy for the beaver larder.
The next work was the construction of the lodge, a hollow mound of mud,
sticks and stones twelve feet in width and four in height, within which
was a dry room, its floor safely above the high-water mark. Two passages
led to this room, one straight, for carrying food, the other winding.
The main entrance was cleverly concealed beneath the roots of a great
tree which had fallen across the stream.
[Illustration: The dam, when finished, was a work worthy of a trained
engineer.]
Ahmeek and his mate were soon joined by other beavers, pioneers from
farther south, who, finding the spot to their liking, decided to
establish a colony. As with the human pioneers, there was a great
felling of trees and hours of heavy labor before the dwellings were
finished and the various families ensconced in their snug homes.
That first winter in the new colony was uneventful and when the ice
broke up in the spring the beaver city was swarming with sleek brown
youngsters who, while learning the serious business of life, found time
to indulge in play just as do the children of their human neighbors. At
twilight one after another would appear upon the bank, where he would
make his toilet, combing his thick, chestnut brown fur until it shone
like satin. No beaver is untidy about his dress.
Among the young beavers there was one who from the first took the lead.
Born in the lodge of old Ahmeek, king of the beavers, he showed every
indication of following in the footsteps of his father. He it was who
led the others in their frolic in the pond and upon the banks, and when
the sharp slap of a tail upon the water told of danger, none was more
quick to obey its warning.