THE RATTLESNAKE DEN
FUZZY often wandered far down the mountain side.
One hot week in July his restless wandering carried him almost down to
the valley. He had been chasing a jack rabbit through the tall grass
when he was startled by a sound like the rustling of a dry leaf, only
ever so many times louder. He jumped out of the way till he could find
out what it would be that could make such a queer sound.
As he did so, a great snake shot from its coil to the spot where he had
been but an instant before. Its mouth was open and it displayed two
long, sharp fangs. Its scaly back was mottled with cross-wise stripes,
dark, reddish brown, with yellow edges to the lighter spots.
Fuzzy’s fur rose along the back of his neck. He had caught many
a snake and eaten it with relish, but not this kind. This one was
different. This must be what had made that ominous rattling sound. He
had nearly stepped on it.
He started to climb between two bowlders and go on his way, but no
sooner had he set foot on the spot than there came another of those
peculiar rattling sounds, then another, and another. He had stepped
into a den of rattlesnakes.
Now the rattler always plays fair. It gives warning before it strikes.
As an actual fact, it will not strike at all unless some one comes
near stepping on it or makes it fear for its life. But the unfortunate
Fuzzy-Wuzz had actually stepped into the retreat of a whole colony of
baby snakes. And the babies themselves were equipped with poison fangs.
There must have been other mothers there, too, the way they rattled.
And now the first snake was all coiled ready to spring again, her ugly
flat head rising straight up out of the middle of the coil and her tail
again rattling its buttons warningly.
The little bear leapt for his life, but he was not quite quick enough.
One of the snakes, (he never knew which one,) struck his left hind foot
a terrific blow, driving its fangs in till it had squeezed the little
poison bag that lies at the root of each fang, so that the poison ran
down a groove in the fang.
Fuzzy ran till he was safely away from that dangerous neighborhood,
then he began to feel the effects of the poison. His foot swelled, and
he felt as if he could lie right down and die.
A great many animals would have died. A man who has been struck by a
rattler can only be saved by drawing all the poison out of the wound,
and other mighty serious treatment.
It was a mighty serious matter with the little bear. But bears are
hardy specimens. They can survive a great many things that other
animals cannot. He was pretty ill for a time, but three weeks later he
came limping back to the Ranger’s cabin.
My, how glad the children were to see him! How they hugged and feasted
him! He liked it, too. He had been through a lot since last he went
exploring.
Wiggledy was just as glad to greet his chum. Every one was glad except
Clickety-Clack, the little screech owl, whom he was soon chasing as
merrily as ever, and Dapple, the yearling fawn, who had never had much
to do with him. After that for several days the pup and the bear dug
quietly for ground squirrels.
These ground squirrels were skimpy tailed and stupid, and lived in
holes that they dug for themselves and their large litters of young
along the edges of the mountain meadows. Several families of them had
home-steaded in one corner of the Ranger’s garden patch, where they ate
things as fast as they grew. The Ranger was mighty glad when he saw
Fuzzy after them.
The chums would each select a hole and see which could dig out a
squirrel the quickest, dog or bear. But Fuzzy always won, for his long
claws were much better digging implements than the pup’s.
There were mice, too, to be found under the fallen logs farther back in
the woods. These mice of the high Sierras were red-backed fellows whose
coats so matched the reddish soil that they were hard to see, even when
they sat right out in plain sight. Fuzzy depended more on his nose than
his eyes when he followed their run-ways around the stumps and rocks
that hid their homes.
Sometimes he would find a whole mossy nestful of them in some hollow
stump or under a rock. Then the young mice, if they were old enough
to run, would race in all directions, and Fuzzy-Wuzz could only turn
around and around, wondering which one to chase first, while Wiggledy
barked and hopped about in wild excitement.