"I hain't come to borry yer gun, Mr. Barron, but to ax yer advice."
Mrs. Gammit's rare appearances were always abrupt, like her speech;
and it was without surprise--though he had not seen her for a month or
more--that Joe Barron turned to greet her.
"It's at yer sarvice, jest as the gun would be ef ye wanted it, Mrs.
Gammit--_an'_ welcome! But come in an' set down an' git cooled off a
mite. 'Tain't no place to talk, out here in the bilin' sun."
Mrs. Gammit seated herself on the end of the bench, just inside the
kitchen door, twitched off her limp, pink cotton sunbonnet, and wiped
her flushed face with the sleeve of her calico waist. Quite unsubdued
by the heat and moisture of the noonday sun, under which she had
tramped nine miles through the forest, her short, stiff, grey hair
stood up in irregular tufts above her weather-beaten forehead. Her
host, sitting sidewise on the edge of the table so that he could swing
one leg freely and spit cleanly through the open window, bit off a
contemplative quid of "blackjack" tobacco, and waited for her to
unfold the problems that troubled her.
Mrs. Gammit's rugged features were modelled to fit an expression of
vigorous, if not belligerent, self-confidence. She knew her
capabilities, well-tried in some sixty odd years of unprotected
spinsterhood. Merit alone, not matrimony, it was, that had crowned
this unsullied spinsterhood with the honorary title of "Mrs." Her
massive and energetic nose was usually carried somewhat high, in a not
unjustifiable scorn of such foolish circumstance as might seek to
thwart her will.
But to-day these strenuous features found themselves surprised by an
expression of doubt, of bewilderment, almost one might say of
humility. At her little clearing in the heart of the great wilderness
things had been happening which, to her amazement, she could not
understand. Hitherto she had found an explanation, clear at least to
herself, for everything that befell her in these silent backwoods
which other folks seemed to find so absurdly mysterious. Armed with
her self-confidence she had been able, hitherto, to deal with every
situation that had challenged her, and in a manner quite satisfactory
to herself, however the eternal verities may have smiled at it. But
now, at last, she was finding herself baffled.
Joe Barron waited with the patience of the backwoodsman and the
Indian, to whom, as to Nature herself, time seems no object, though
they always somehow manage to be on time. Mrs. Gammit continued to fan
her hot face with her sunbonnet, and to ponder her problems, while the
lines deepened between her eyes. A big black and yellow wasp buzzed
angrily against the window-pane, bewildered because it could not get
through the transparent barrier. A little grey hen, with large,
drooping comb vividly scarlet, hopped on to the doorsill, eyed Mrs.
Gammit with surprise and disapprobation, and ran away to warn the rest
of the flock that there was a woman round the place. That, as they all
knew by inheritance from the "shooings" which their forefathers had
suffered, meant that they would no longer be allowed in the kitchen to
pick up crumbs.
At last Mrs. Gammit spoke--but with difficulty, for it came hard to
her to ask advice of any one.
"I sp'ose now, mebbe, Mr. Barron, you know more about the woods
critters'n what I do?" she inquired, hopefully but doubtfully.
The woodsman lifted his eyebrows in some surprise at the question.
"Well, now, if I don't I'd _oughter_," said he, "seein' as how I've
kinder lived round amongst 'em all my life. If I know _anything_, it's
the backwoods an' all what pertains to that same!"
"Yes, you'd _oughter_ know more about them than I do!" assented Mrs.
Gammit, with a touch of severity which seemed to add "and see that you
do!" Then she shut her mouth firmly and fell to fanning herself again,
her thoughts apparently far away.
"I hope 'tain't no _serious_ trouble ye're in!" ventured her host
presently, with the amiable intention of helping her to deliver her
soul of its burden.
But, manlike, he struck the wrong note.
"Do you suppose," snapped Mrs. Gammit, "I'd be traipsin' over here
nine mile thro' the hot woods to ax yer advice, Mr. Barron, if
_'twarn't_ serious?" And she began to regret that she had come. Men
never did understand anything, anyway.
At this sudden acerbity the woodsman stroked his chin with his hand,
to hide the ghost of a smile which flickered over his lean mouth.
"Jest like a woman, to git riled over nawthin'!" he thought. "Sounds
kinder nice an' homey, too!" But aloud, being always patient with the
sex, he said coaxingly--
"Then it's right proud I am that ye should come to me about it, Mrs.
Gammit. I reckon I kin help you out, mebbe. What's wrong?"
With a burst of relief Mrs. Gammit declared her sorrow.
"It's the aigs," said she, passionately. "Fer nigh on to a month,
now, I've been alosin' of 'em as fast as the hens kin git 'em laid.
An' all I kin do, I cain't find out what's atakin' 'em."
Having reached the point of asking advice, an expression of pathetic
hopefulness came into her weather-beaten face. Under quite other
conditions it might almost have been possible for Mrs. Gammit to learn
to lean on a man, if he were careful not to disagree with her.
"Oh! Aigs!" said the woodsman, relaxing slightly the tension of his
sympathy. "Well, now, let's try an' git right to the root of the
trouble. Air ye plumb sure, in the first place, that the hens is
really _layin'_ them aigs what ye don't git?"
Mrs. Gammit stiffened.
"Do I look like an eejut?" she demanded.
"Not one leetle mite, you don't!" assented her host, promptly and
cordially.
"I was beginning to think mebbe I did!" persisted the injured lady.
"Everybody knows," protested the woodsman, "as how what you don't
know, Mrs. Gammit, ain't hardly wuth knowin'."
"O' course, that's puttin' it a leetle too strong, Mr. Barron," she
answered, much mollified. "But I do reckon as how I've got _some_
horse sense. Well, I _thought_ as how them 'ere hens _might_ 'ave
stopped layin' on the suddint; so I up an' watched 'em. Land's sakes,
but they was alayin' fine. Whenever I kin take time to stan' right by
an' _watch_ 'em lay, I git all the aigs I know what to do with. But
when I _don't_ watch 'em, _clost_--nary an aig. Ye ain't agoin' to
persuade me a hen kin jest quit layin' when she's a mind ter, waitin'
tell ye pass her the compliment o' holdin' out yer hand fer the aig!"
"There's lots o' hens that pervarted they'll turn round an' _eat_
their own aigs!" suggested the woodsman, spitting thoughtfully through
the open window. The cat, coiled in the sun on a log outside, sprang
up angrily, glared with green eyes at the offending window, and
scurried away to cleanse her defiled coat.
"Them's not _my_ poultry!" said Mrs. Gammit with decision. "I thought
o' that, too. An' I watched 'em on the sly. But they hain't a one of
'em got no sech onnateral tricks. When they're through layin', they
jest hop off an' run away acacklin', as they should." And she shook
her head heavily, as one almost despairing of enlightenment. "No, ef
ye ain't got no more idees to suggest than that, I might as well be
goin'."
"Oh, I was jest kinder clearin' out the underbrush, so's to git a
square good look at the situation," explained Barron. "Now, I kin till
ye somethin' about it. Firstly, it's a weasel, bein' so sly, an'
quick, an' audashus! Ten to one, it's a weasel; an' ye've got to
trap it. Secondly, if 'tain't a weasel, it's a fox, an' a _mighty_
cute fox, as ye're goin' to have some trouble in aketchin'. An'
thirdly--an' lastly--if 'tain't neither weasel nor fox, it's jest
bound to be an extra cunnin' skunk, what's takin' the trouble to be
keerful. Generally speakin', skunks ain't keerful, because they don't
have to be, nobody wantin' much to fool with 'em. But onc't in a
while ye'll come across't one that's as sly as a weasel."
"Oh, 'tain't none o' them!" said Mrs. Gammit, in a tone which conveyed
a poor opinion of her host's sagacity and woodcraft. "I've suspicioned
the weasels, an' the foxes, an' the woodchucks, but hain't found a
sign o' any one of 'em round the place. An' _as_ fer _skunks_--well, I
reckon, I've got a nose on my face." And to emphasize the fact, she
sniffed scornfully.
"To be sure! An' a fine, handsome nose it is, Mrs. Gammit!" replied
the woodsman, diplomatically. "But what you _don't_ appear to know
about skunks is that when they're up to mischief is jest the time when
you don't smell 'em. Ye got to bear that in mind!"
Mrs. Gammit looked at him with suspicion.
"Be that reelly so?" demanded she, sternly.
"True's gospel!" answered Barron. "A skunk ain't got no smell unless
he's a mind to."
"Well," said she, "I guess it ain't no skunk, anyhow. I kind o' feel
it in my bones 'tain't no skunk, smell or no smell."
The woodsman looked puzzled. He had not imagined her capable of such
unreasoning obstinacy. He began to wonder if he had overrated her
intelligence.
"Then I give it up, Mrs. Gammit," said he, with an air of having lost
all interest in the problem.
But that did not suit his visitor at all. Her manner became more
conciliatory. Leaning forward, with an almost coaxing look on her
face, she murmured--
"I've had an _idee_ as how it _might_ be--mind, I don't say it is, but
jest it _might_ be----" and she paused dramatically.
"Might be what?" inquired Barron, with reviving interest.
"Porkypines!" propounded Mrs. Gammit, with a sudden smile of triumph.
Joe Barron neither spoke nor smiled. But in his silence there was
something that made Mrs. Gammit uneasy.
"Why _not_ porkypines?" she demanded, her face once more growing
severe.
"It _might_ be porkypines as took them aigs o' yourn, Mrs. Gammit, an'
it _might be bumbly-bees_!" responded Barron. "But 'tain't likely!"
Mrs. Gammit snorted at the sarcasm.
"Mebbe," she sneered, "ye kin tell me _why_ it's so impossible it
could be porkypines. I seen a big porkypine back o' the barn, only
yestiddy. An' that's more'n kin be said o' yer weasels, an' foxes, an'
skunks, what ye're so sure about, Mr. Barron."
"A porkypine ain't necess_ar_ily after aigs jest because he's back of
a barn," said the woodsman. "An' anyways, a porkypine don't eat aigs.
He hain't got the right kind o' teeth fer them kind o' vittles. He's
_got_ to have something he kin gnaw on, somethin' substantial an'
solid--the which he prefers a young branch o' good tough spruce,
though it _do_ make his meat kinder strong. No, Mrs. Gammit, it ain't
no porkypine what's stealin' yer aigs, take my word fer it. An' the
more I think o' it the surer I be that it's a weasel. When a weasel
learns to suck aigs, he gits powerful cute. Ye'll have to be right
smart, I'm telling ye, to trap him."
During this argument of Barron's his obstinate and offended listener
had become quite convinced of the justice of her own conclusions. The
sarcasm had settled it. She _knew_, now, that she had been right all
along in her suspicion of the porcupines. And with this certainty her
indignation suddenly disappeared. It is _such_ a comfort to be
certain. So now, instead of flinging his ignorance in his face, she
pretended to be convinced--remembering that she needed his advice as
to how to trap the presumptuous porcupine.
"Well, Mr. Barron," said she, with the air of one who would take
defeat gracefully, "supposin' ye're right--an' ye'd _oughter_
know--how would ye go about _ketchin'_ them weasels?"
Pleased at this sudden return to sweet reasonableness, the woodsman
once more grew interested.
"I reckon we kin fix _that_!" said he, confidently and cordially.
"I'll give ye three of my little mink traps. There's holes, I reckon,
under the back an' sides o' the shed, or barn, or wherever it is that
the hens have their nests?"
"Nat'rally!" responded Mrs. Gammit. "The thieves ain't agoin' to come
in by the front doors, right under my nose, be they?"
"Of course," assented the woodsman. "Well, you jest set them 'ere
traps in three o' them holes, well under the sills an' out o' the way.
Don't go fer to bait'em, mind, or Mr. Weasel'll git to suspicionin'
somethin', right off. Jest sprinkle bits of straw, an' hayseed, an'
sech rubbish over 'em, so it all looks no ways out o' the ordinary.
You do this right, Mrs. Gammit; an' first thing ye know ye'll have yer
thief. I'll git the traps right now, an' show ye how to set 'em."
And as Mrs. Gammit walked away with the three steel traps under her
arm, she muttered to herself--
"Yes, Joe Barron, an' I'll show ye the thief. An' he'll have quills on
him, sech as no _weasel_ ain't never had on him, I reckon."
On her return, Mrs. Gammit was greeted by the sound of high
excitement among the poultry. They were all cackling wildly, and
craning their necks to stare into the shed as if they had just seen a
ghost there. Mrs. Gammit ran in to discover what all the fuss was
about. The place was empty; but a smashed egg lay just outside one of
the nests, and a generous tuft of fresh feathers showed her that there
had been a tussle of some kind. Indignant but curious, Mrs. Gammit
picked up the feathers, and examined them with discriminating eyes to
see which hen had suffered the loss.
"Lands sakes!" she exclaimed presently, "ef 'tain't the old rooster!
He's made a fight fer that 'ere aig! Lucky he didn't git stuck full o'
quills!"
Then, for perhaps the hundredth time, she ran fiercely and noisily
behind the barn, in the hope of surprising the enemy. Of course she
surprised nothing which Nature had endowed with even the merest
apology for eyes and ears; and a cat-bird in the choke-cherry bushes
squawked at her derisively. Stealth was one of the things which Mrs.
Gammit did not easily achieve. Staring defiantly about her, her eyes
fell upon a dark, bunchy creature in the top of an old hemlock at the
other side of the fence. Seemingly quite indifferent to her vehement
existence, and engrossed in its own affairs, it was crawling out upon
a high branch and gnawing, in a casual way, at the young twigs as it
went.
"Ah, ha! What did I tell ye? I knowed all along as how it was a
porkypine!" exclaimed Mrs. Gammit, triumphantly, as if Joe Barron
could hear her across eight miles of woods. Then, as she eyed the
imperturbable animal on the limb above her, her face flushed with
quick rage, and snatching up a stone about the size of her fist she
hurled it at him with all her strength.
In a calmer moment she would never have done this--not because it was
rude, but because she had a conviction, based on her own experience,
that a stone would hit anything rather than what it was aimed at. And
in the present instance she found no reason to change her views on the
subject. The stone did not hit the porcupine. It did not, even for one
moment, distract his attention from the hemlock twigs. Instead of
that, it struck a low branch, on the other side of the tree, and
bounced back briskly upon Mrs. Gammit's toes.
With a hoarse squeak of surprise and pain the good lady jumped
backwards, and hopped for some seconds on one foot while she gripped
the other with both hands. It was a sharp and disconcerting blow. As
the pain subsided a concentrated fury took its place. The porcupine
was now staring down at her, in mild wonder at her inexplicable
gyrations. She glared up at him, and the tufts of grey hair about her
sunbonnet seemed to rise and stand rigid.
"Ye think ye're smart!" she muttered through her set teeth. "But I'll
fix ye fer that! Jest you wait!" And turning on her heel she stalked
back to the house. The big, brown teapot was on the back of the stove,
where it had stood since breakfast, with a brew rust-red and
bitter-strong enough to tan a moose-hide. Not until she had reheated
it and consumed five cups, sweetened with molasses, did she recover
any measure of self-complacency.
That same evening, when the last of the sunset was fading in
pale violet over the stump pasture and her two cow-bells were
_tonk-tonking_ softly along the edge of the dim alder swamp, Mrs.
Gammit stealthily placed the traps according to the woodsman's
directions. Between the massive logs which formed the foundations
of the barn and shed, there were openings numerous enough, and
some of them spacious enough, almost, to admit a bear--a very
small, emaciated bear. Selecting three of these, which somehow
seemed to her fancy particularly adapted to catch a porcupine's
taste, she set the traps, tied them, and covered them lightly
with fine rubbish so that, as she murmured to herself when all
was done, "everythin' looked as nat'ral as nawthin'." Then, when
her evening chores were finished, she betook herself to her
slumbers, in calm confidence that in the morning she would find
one or more porcupines in the trap.
Having a clear conscience and a fine appetite, in spite of the potency
of her tea Mrs. Gammit slept soundly. Nevertheless, along toward dawn,
in that hour when dream and fact confuse themselves, her nightcapped
ears became aware of a strange sound in the yard. She snorted
impatiently and sat up in bed. Could some beneficent creature of the
night be out there sawing wood for her? It sounded like it. But she
rejected the idea at once. Rubbing her eyes with both fists, she crept
to the window and looked out.
There was a round moon in the sky, shining over the roof of the barn,
and the yard was full of a white, witchy radiance. In the middle of it
crouched two big porcupines, gnawing assiduously at a small wooden
tub. The noise of their busy teeth on the hard wood rang loud upon the
stillness, and a low _tonk-a-tonk_ of cow-bells came from the pasture
as the cows lifted their heads to listen.
The tub was a perfectly good tub, and Mrs. Gammit was indignant at
seeing it eaten. It had contained salt herrings; and she intended,
after getting the flavour of fish scoured out of it, to use it for
packing her winter's butter. She did not know that it was for the sake
of its salty flavour that the porcupines were gnawing at it, but
leaped to the conclusion that their sole object was to annoy and
persecute herself.
"Shoo! Shoo!" she cried, snatching off her nightcap and flapping it at
them frantically. But the animals were too busy to even look up at
her. The only sign they gave of having heard her was to raise their
quills straight on end so that their size apparently doubled itself
all at once.
Mrs. Gammit felt herself wronged. As she turned and ran downstairs she
muttered, "First it's me aigs--an' now it's me little tub--an' Lordy
knows what it's goin' to be next!" Then her dauntless spirit flamed up
again, and she snapped, "But there ain't agoin' to be no next!" and
cast her eyes about her for the broom.
Of course, at this moment, when it was most needed, that usually
exemplary article was not where it ought to have been--standing beside
the dresser. Having no time to look for it, Mrs. Gammit snatched up
the potato-masher, and rushed forth into the moonlight with a gurgling
yell, resolved to save the tub.
She was a formidable figure as she charged down the yard, and at
ordinary times the porcupines might have given way. But when a
porcupine has found something it really likes to eat, its courage is
superb. These two porcupines found the herring-tub delicious beyond
anything they had ever tasted. Reluctantly they stopped gnawing for a
moment, and turned their little twinkling eyes upon Mrs. Gammit in
sullen defiance.
Now this was by no means what she had expected, and the ferocity of
her attack slackened. Had it been a lynx, or even a bear, her courage
would probably not have failed her. Had it been a man, a desperado
with knife in hand and murder in his eyes, she would have flown upon
him in contemptuous fury. But porcupines were different. They were
mysterious to her. She believed firmly that they could shoot their
quills, like arrows, to a distance of ten feet. She had a swift vision
of herself stuck full of quills, like a pincushion. At a distance of
eleven feet she stopped abruptly, and hurled the potato-masher with a
deadly energy which carried it clean over the barn. Then the
porcupines resumed their feasting, while she stared at them
helplessly. Two large tears of rage brimmed her eyes, and rolled down
her battered cheeks; and backing off a few paces she sat down upon the
saw-horse to consider the situation.
But never would Mrs. Gammit have been what she was had she been
capable of acknowledging defeat. In a very few moments her resourceful
wits reasserted themselves.
"Queer!" she mused. "One don't never kinder seem to hit what one aims
at! But one always hits _somethin'_! Leastways, I do! If I jest fling
enough things, an' keep on aflingin', I might hit a porkypine jest as
well as anything else. There ain't nawthin' onnateral about a
porkypine, to keep one from hitt'n' him, I reckon."
The wood-pile was close by; and the wood, which she had sawed and
split for the kitchen stove, was of just the handy size. She was
careful, now, not to take aim, but imagined herself anxious to
establish a new wood-pile, in haste, just about where that sound of
insolent gnawing was disturbing the night. In a moment a shower of
sizable firewood was dropping all about the herring-tub.
The effect was instantaneous. The gnawing stopped, and the porcupines
glanced about uneasily. A stick fell plump upon the bottom of the tub,
staving it in. The porcupines backed away and eyed it with grieved
suspicion. Another stick struck it on the side, so that it bounced
like a jumping, live thing, and hit one of the porcupines sharply,
rolling him over on his back. Instantly his valiant quills went down
quite flat; and as he wriggled to his feet with a squeak of alarm, he
looked all at once little and lean and dark, like a wet hen. Mrs.
Gammit smiled grimly.
"Ye ain't feelin' quite so sassy now, be ye?" she muttered; and the
sticks flew the faster from her energetic hands. Not many of them, to
be sure, went at all in the direction she wished, but enough were
dropping about the herring-tub to make the porcupines remember that
they had business elsewhere. The one that had been struck had no
longer any regard for his dignity, but made himself as small as
possible and scurried off like a scared rat. The other, unvanquished
but indignant, withdrew slowly, with every quill on end. The sticks
fell all about him; but Mrs. Gammit, in the excitement of her
triumph, was now forgetting herself so far as to take aim, therefore
never a missile touched him. And presently, without haste, he
disappeared behind the barn.
With something almost like admiration Mrs. Gammit eyed his departure.
"Well, seein' as I hain't scairt ye _much_," she muttered dryly,
"mebbe ye'll obleege me by coming back an' gittin' into my trap. But
ye ain't agoin' to hev no more o' my good herrin'-tub, ye ain't." And
she strode down the yard to get the tub. It was no longer a good tub,
for the porcupines had gnawed two big holes in the sides, and Mrs.
Gammit's own missiles had broken in the bottom. But she obstinately
bore the poor relics into the kitchen. Firewood they might become, but
not food for the enemy.
No more that night was the good woman's sleep disturbed, and she slept
later than usual. As she was getting up, conscience-stricken at the
sound of the cows in the pasture lowing to be milked, she heard a
squawking and fluttering under the barn, and rushed out half dressed
to see what was the matter. She had no doubt that one of the audacious
porcupines had got himself into a trap.
But no, it was neither porcupine, fox, nor weasel. To her consternation,
it was her old red top-knot hen, which now lay flat upon the trap,
with outstretched wings, exhausted by its convulsive floppings. She
picked it up, loosed the deadly grip upon its leg, and slammed the
offending trap across the barn with such violence that it bounced up
and fell into the swill-barrel. Her feelings thus a little relieved,
she examined Red Top-knot's leg with care. It was hopelessly shattered
and mangled.
"Ye cain't never scratch with _that_ ag'in, ye cain't!" muttered Mrs.
Gammit, compassionately. "Poor dear, ther ain't nawthin' fer it but to
make vittles of ye now! Too bad! Too bad! Ye was always sech a fine
layer an' a right smart setter!" And carrying the victim to the block
on which she was wont to split kindling wood, she gently but firmly
chopped her head off.
Half an hour later, as Mrs. Gammit returned from the pasture with a
brimming pail of milk, again she heard a commotion under the barn. But
she would not hurry, lest she should spill the milk. "Whatever it be,
it'll be there when I git there!" she muttered philosophically; and
kept on to the cool cellar with her milk. But as soon as she had
deposited the pail she turned and fairly ran in her eagerness. The
speckled hen was cackling vain-gloriously; and as Mrs. Gammit passed
the row of nests in the shed she saw a white egg shining. But she did
not stop to secure it.
As she entered the barn, a little yellowish brown animal, with a
sharp, triangular nose and savage eyes like drops of fire, ran at her
with such fury that for an instant she drew back. Then, with a roar
of indignation at its audacity, she rushed forward and kicked at it.
The kick struck empty air; but the substantial dimensions of the foot
seemed to daunt the daring little beast, and it slipped away like a
darting flame beneath the sill of the barn. The next moment, as she
stooped to look at the nearest of the two traps, another slim yellow
creature, larger than the first, leaped up, with a vicious cry, and
almost reached her face. But, fortunately for her, it was held fast by
both hind legs in the trap, and fell back impotent.
Startled and enraged, Mrs. Gammit kicked at it, where it lay darting
and twisting like a snake. Naturally, she missed it; but it did not
miss her. With unerring aim it caught the toe of her heavy cowhide
shoe, and fixed its teeth in the tough leather. Utterly taken by
surprise, Mrs. Gammit tried to jump backwards. But instead of that,
she fell flat on her back, with a yell. Her sturdy heels flew up in
the air, while her petticoats flopped back in her face, bewildering
her. The weasel, however, had maintained his dogged grip upon the toe
of her shoe; so something _had_ to give. That something was the cord
which anchored the trap. It broke under the sudden strain. Trap and
weasel together went flying over Mrs. Gammit's prostrate head. They
brought up with a stupefying slam against the wall of the pig-pen,
making the pig squeal apprehensively.
Disconcerted and mortified, Mrs. Gammit scrambled to her feet, shook
her petticoats into shape, and glanced about to see if the wilderness
in general had observed her indiscretion. Apparently, nothing had
noticed it. Then, with an air of relief, she glanced down at her
vicious little antagonist. The weasel lay stunned, apparently dead.
But she was not going to trust appearances. Picking trap and victim up
together, on the end of a pitchfork, she carried them out and dropped
them into the barrel of rain water at the corner of the house.
Half-revived by the shock, the yellow body wriggled for a moment or
two at the bottom of the barrel. As she watched it, a doubt passed
through Mrs. Gammit's mind. Could Joe Barron have been right? _Was_ it
weasels, after all, that were taking her eggs? But she dismissed the
idea at once. Joe Barron didn't know everything! And there,
indisputably, were the porcupines, bothering her all the time, with
unheard-of impudence. Weasels, indeed!
"'Twa'n't _you_ I was after," she muttered obstinately, apostrophizing
the now motionless form in the rain-barrel. "It was them dratted
porkypines, as comes after my aigs. But _ye're_ a bad lot, too, an'
I'm right glad to have got ye where ye won't be up to no mischief."
All athrill with excitement, Mrs. Gammit hurried through her morning's
chores, and allowed herself no breakfast except half a dozen violent
cups of tea "with sweetenin'." Then, satisfied that the weasel in the
rain-barrel was by this time securely and permanently dead, she fished
it out, and reset the trap in its place under the barn. The other trap
she discovered in the swill-barrel, after a long search. Relieved to
find it unbroken, she cleaned it carefully and put it away to be
returned, in due time, to its owner. She would not set it again--and,
indeed, she would have liked to smash it to bits, as a sacrifice to
the memory of poor Red Top-knot.
"I hain't got no manner o' use fer a porkypine trap what'll go out o'
its way to ketch hens," she grumbled.
The silent summer forenoon, after this, wore away without event. Mrs.
Gammit, working in her garden behind the house, with the hot, sweet
scent of the flowering buckwheat-field in her nostrils and the drowsy
hum of bees in her ears, would throw down her hoe about once in every
half-hour and run into the barn to look hopefully at the traps. But
nothing came to disturb them. Neither did anything come to disturb the
hens, who attended so well to business that at noon Mrs. Gammit had
seven fresh eggs to carry in. When night came, and neither weasels nor
porcupines had given any further sign of their existence, Mrs. Gammit
was puzzled. She was one of those impetuous women who expect
everything to happen all at once. When milking was over, and her
solitary, congenial supper, she sat down on the kitchen doorstep and
considered the situation very carefully.
What she had set herself out to do, after the interview with Joe
Barron, was to catch a porcupine in one of his traps, and thus,
according to her peculiar method of reasoning, convince the confident
woodsman that porcupines _did_ eat eggs! As for the episode of the
weasel, she resolved that she would not say anything to him about it,
lest he should twist it into a confirmation of his own views. As for
those seven eggs, so happily spared to her, she argued that the
capture of the weasel, with all its attendant excitement, had served
as a warning to the porcupines and put them on their guard. Well, she
would give them something else to think about. She was now all
impatience, and felt unwilling to await the developments of the
morrow, which, after all, might refuse to develop! With a sudden
resolution she arose, fetched the gnawed and battered remains of the
herring-tub from their concealment behind the kitchen door, and
propped them up against the side of the house, directly beneath her
bedroom window.
At first her purpose in this was not quite clear to herself. But the
memory of her triumph of the previous night was tingling in her veins,
and she only knew she wanted to lure the porcupines back, that she
might do _something_ to them. And first, being a woman, that
something occurred to her in connexion with hot water. How conclusive
it would be to wait till the porcupines were absorbed in their
consumption of the herring-tub, and then pour scalding water down upon
them. After all, it was more important that she should vanquish her
enemies than prove to a mere man that they really were her enemies.
What did she care, anyway, what that Joe Barron thought? Then, once
more, a doubt assailed her. What if he were right? Not that she would
admit it, for one moment. But just supposing! Was she going to pour
hot water on those porcupines, and scald all the bristles off their
backs, if they really _didn't_ come after her eggs? Mrs. Gammit was
essentially just and kind-hearted, and she came to the conclusion that
the scheme might be too cruel.
"Ef it be you uns as takes the aigs," she murmured thoughtfully, "a
kittle o' bilin' water to yer backs ain't none too bad fer ye! But ef
it be _only_ my old herrin'-tub ye're after, then bilin' water's too
ha'sh!"
In the end, the weapon she decided upon was the big tin pepper-pot,
well loaded.
Through the twilight, while the yard was all in shadow, Mrs. Gammit
sat patient and motionless beside her open window. The moon rose,
seeming to climb with effort out of the tangle of far-off treetops.
The faint, rhythmic breathing of the wilderness, which, to the
sensitive ear, never ceases even in the most profound calm, took on
the night change, the whisper of mystery, the furtive suggestion of
menace which the daylight lacks. Sitting there in ambush, Mrs. Gammit
felt it all, and her eager face grew still and pale and solemn like a
statue's. The moonlight crept down the roofs of the barn and shed and
house, then down the walls, till only the ground was in shadow. And at
last, through this lower stratum of obscurity, Mrs. Gammit saw two
squat, sturdy shapes approaching leisurely from behind the barn.
She held her breath. Yes, it was undoubtedly the porcupines. Undaunted
by the memory of their previous discomfiture, they came straight
across the yard, and up to the house, and fell at once to their
feasting on the herring-tub. The noise of their enthusiastic gnawing
echoed strangely across the attentive air.
Very gently, with almost imperceptible motion, Mrs. Gammit slid her
right hand, armed with the pepper-pot, over the edge of the
window-sill. The porcupines, enraptured with the flavour of the
herring-tub, never looked up. Mrs. Gammit was just about to turn the
pepper-pot over, when she saw a third dim shape approaching, and
stayed her hand. It was bigger than a porcupine. She kept very still,
breathing noiselessly through parted lips. Then the moonlight reached
the ground, the shadows vanished, and she saw a big wildcat stealing
up to find out what the porcupines were eating.
Seeing the feasters so confident and noisy, yet undisturbed, the
usually cautious wildcat seemed to think there could be no danger
near. Had Mrs. Gammit stirred a muscle, he would have marked her; but
in her movelessness her head and hand passed for some harmless natural
phenomenon. The wildcat crept softly up, and as he drew near, the
porcupines raised their quills threateningly, till nothing could be
seen of their bodies but their blunt snouts still busy on the
herring-tub. At a distance of about six feet the big cat stopped, and
crouched, glaring with wide, pale eyes, and sniffing eagerly. Mrs.
Gammit was amazed that the porcupines did not at once discharge a
volley at him and fill him full of quills for his intrusion.
The wildcat knew too much about porcupines to dream of attacking them.
It was what they were eating that interested him. They seemed to enjoy
it so much. He crept a few inches nearer, and caught a whiff of the
herring-tub. Yes, it was certainly fish. A true cat, he doted on fish,
even salt fish. He made another cautious advance, hoping that the
porcupines might retire discreetly. But instead of that they merely
stopped gnawing, put their noses between their forelegs, squatted
flat, and presented an unbroken array of needle points to his
dangerous approach.
The big cat stopped, quite baffled, his little short tail, not more
than three inches long, twitching with anger. He could not see that
the tub was empty; but he could smell it, and he drew in his breath
with noisy sniffling. It filled him with rage to be so baffled; for he
knew it would be fatal to go any nearer, and so expose himself to a
deadly slap from the armed tails of the porcupines.
Just what he would have attempted, however, in his eagerness, will
never be known. For at this point, Mrs. Gammit's impatience overcame
her curiosity. With a gentle motion of her wrist she turned the
pepper-pot over, and softly shook it. The eyes of the wildcat were
fixed upon that wonderful, unattainable herring-tub, and he saw
nothing else. But Mrs. Gammit in the vivid moonlight saw a fine cloud
of pepper sinking downwards slowly on the moveless air.
Suddenly the wildcat pawed at his nose, drew back, and grew rigid with
what seemed an effort to restrain some deep emotion. The next moment
he gave vent to a loud, convulsive sneeze, and began to spit savagely.
He appeared to be not only very angry, but surprised as well. When he
fell to clawing frantically at his eyes and nose with both paws, Mrs.
Gammit almost strangled with the effort to keep from laughing. But she
held herself in, and continued to shake down the pungent shower. A
moment more, and the wildcat, after an explosion of sneezes which
almost made him stand on his head, gave utterance to a yowl of
consternation, and turned to flee. As he bounded across the yard he
evidently did not see just where he was going, for he ran head first
into the wheelbarrow, which straightway upset and kicked him. For an
instant he clawed at it wildly, mistaking it for a living assailant.
Then he recovered his wits a little, and scurried away across the
pasture, sneezing and spitting as he went.
Meanwhile the porcupines, with their noses to the ground and their
eyes covered, had been escaping the insidious attack of the pepper.
But at last it reached them. Mrs. Gammit saw a curious shiver pass
over the array of quills.
Now it was contrary to all the most rigid laws of the porcupine kind
to uncoil themselves in the face of danger. At the same time, it was
impossible to sneeze in so constrained an attitude. Their effort was
heroic, but self-control at last gave way. As it were with a snap, one
of the globes of quills straightened itself out, and sneezed and
sneezed and sneezed. Then the other went through the same spasmodic
process, while Mrs. Gammit, leaning halfway out of the window,
squealed and choked with delight. But the porcupines were obstinate,
and would not run away. Very slowly they turned and retired down the
yard, halting every few feet to sneeze. With tears streaming down her
cheeks Mrs. Gammit watched their retreat, till suddenly some of the
vagrant pepper was wafted back to her own nostrils, and she herself
was shaken with a mighty sneeze. This checked her mirth on the
instant. Her face grew grave, and drawing back with a mortified air
she slammed the window down.
"Might 'a' knowed I'd be aketchin' cold," she muttered, "settin' in a
draught this time o' night."
Not until she had thoroughly mastered the tickling in her nostrils did
she glance forth again. Then the porcupines were gone, and not even an
echo of their far-off sneezes reached her ears.
In the days that followed, neither weasel, wildcat, nor porcupine came
to Mrs. Gammit's clearing, and the daily harvest of strictly fresh
eggs was unfailing. At the end of a week, the good lady felt justified
in returning the traps to Joe Barron, and letting him know how
mistaken he had been.
"There, Mr. Barron," said she, handing him the three traps, "I'm
obleeged to you, an' there's yer traps. But there's one of 'em ain't
no good."
"Which one be it?" asked the woodsman as he took them.
"I've marked it with a bit of string," replied Mrs. Gammit.
"What's the matter with it? I don't see nawthin' wrong with it!" said
Barron, examining it critically.
"Tain't no good! You take my word fer it! That's all I've got to
say!" persisted Mrs. Gammit.
"Oh, well, seem' as it's you sez so, Mrs. Gammit, that's enough,"
agreed the woodsman, civilly. "But the other is all right, eh? What
did they ketch?"
"Well, they ketched a big weasel!" said Mrs. Gammit, eyeing him with
challenge.
A broad smile went over Barron's face.
"I knowed it," he exclaimed. "I knowed as how it was a weasel."
"An' _I_ knowed as how ye'd say jest them very words," retorted Mrs.
Gammit. "But ye don't know everythin', Joe Barron. It wa'n't no weasel
as was takin' them there aigs!"
"What were it then?" demanded the woodsman, incredulously.
"It was two big porkypines an' a monstrous big wildcat," answered Mrs.
Gammit in triumph.
"Did ye ketch 'em at it?" asked the woodsman, with a faint note of
sarcasm in his voice. But the sarcasm glanced off Mrs. Gammit's
armour. She regarded the question as a quite legitimate one.
"No, I kain't say as I did, _exackly_," she replied. "But they come
anosin' round, an' to teach 'em a lesson to keep ther noses out o'
other people's hens' nests I shook a little pepper over 'em. I tell
ye, they took to the woods, asneezin' that bad I thought ye might 'a'
heard 'em all the way over here. Ye'd 'ave bust yerself laffin', ef ye
could 'a' seed 'em rootin'. An' since then, Mr. Barron, I git all the
aigs I want. Don't ye talk to me o' _weasels_--the skinny little rats.
_They_ ain't wuth noticin', no more'n a chipmunk."