THE MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
WHISTLER’S wounded finger continued to heal rapidly, and it now
occasioned him but little trouble. He did not use his left hand much,
however; and one day he was a good deal surprised, and a trifle alarmed,
on discovering that the arm itself had become much smaller than the
other. He at once showed it to his aunt, who relieved his apprehensions
by assuring him that its shrunken appearance was owing to its not being
used. She also improved the opportunity to give him a few hints on the
importance of exercise to bodily health.
“If you should keep your arm motionless for a long time,” she said, “it
would finally wither and become useless. So it is with our whole
bodies,—they suffer, and fall away, if they do not get exercised enough.
The reason that Clinton is stronger and stouter than you is, that his
body has been exercised more than yours. He was quite slender when he
was a little child. And it is precisely the same with our minds. If we
want to increase any of our faculties, we must make a good use of them,
and they will be sure to grow. But, if we don’t exercise them, they will
fall away, just as your arm has done.”
One morning, a few days after the picnic, there was a great commotion on
the premises, occasioned by the discovery that some murderous marauder
had visited the yard in the night, and taken the lives of a score of
Clinton’s hens and chickens. A brood of young chickens, which slept in a
barrel laid upon its side, apart from the other fowls, were all
murdered, together with their mother; while in the hen-house the ground
under the roosts was strewn with the bodies of the slaughtered. Clinton
rushed into the house in a high state of excitement, on making the
discovery, and the whole family hastened to see the bloody spectacle.
Many were the exclamations of sorrow and pity, as they gazed upon the
bodies of plump, matronly hens, and exemplary pullets, and feeble,
infantile chickens, now stiffened in death, their plumage ruffled and
stained with blood. Several of the fowls, however, were missing, having
evidently been either devoured or carried off. Among these was one of
the lords of the poultry-yard, who, perhaps, had attempted to defend his
family from the midnight assassin, and had been carried off bodily, as a
trophy of victory. The survivors were silent and melancholy, and the
shadow of a great calamity seemed to have settled upon them. The
remaining rooster, to be sure, was so ungracious as to crow lustily over
the bodies of his murdered household, in the presence of all the family.
Whistler charitably suggested that this was a song of triumph for his
own escape; but Clinton, who knew the jealous rogue better than his
cousin did, thought it was quite as likely that he was exulting over the
tragic downfall of his rival. Perhaps, however, with the bravado natural
to his race, he affected an indifference and stoicism which he did not
feel, and crowed, as boys sometimes whistle in a grave-yard, merely to
“keep his courage up.”
After the first outburst of regret and pity which the spectacle called
forth from all present, their curiosity was thoroughly awakened to
ascertain what animal had committed this cruel outrage upon a happy and
peaceful family. After a careful examination of the premises, no track
or trace of the creature could be found. All was mystery. There was
nothing but the slaughtered victims upon which to found a speculation,
and these told no tales against their murderer. Clinton was the first to
hazard a guess in regard to the assassin.
“It must have been either a fox or a wild-cat,” he said; “don’t you
think so, father?”
“If I were going to guess, I should say it was a skunk,” replied his
father.
“O, no, father,—a skunk wouldn’t have killed so many of the fowls, would
it?” said Clinton, who was unwilling to admit that so common and
despised an animal had done the mischief. “Besides,” he added, “we have
skunks around here all the time, and why didn’t they ever do such a
thing before?”
“If I remember right, they have done just such things before,” replied
his father.
“Well, it was a long time ago, before I owned the fowls,” said Clinton.
“It isn’t many months since Mr. White caught a skunk in the act of
killing his fowls,” added Mr. Davenport.
“But they have never disturbed our fowls since I owned them, and that is
over five years,” suggested Clinton.
“And there is a good reason for that; you have always kept your fowls
well secured against wild animals, until this summer,” replied his
father.
This was true. Clinton was at first very particular to shut up the
poultry at night, so that no animal could get at them; but their
exemption from attack for several years had gradually allayed all fears
on this score, and of late he had not properly secured his charge from
the midnight attacks of their natural enemies.
“Well,” said Clinton, “I don’t believe it was a skunk; I think it was a
fox or a wild-cat, or it may have been a ’coon. I mean to borrow Mr.
Preston’s trap, and see if I can’t catch him, to-night.”
“I’ll give you fifty cents for his skin, if you catch a ’coon, a
wild-cat, or a fox,” said his father, as he turned away from the scene
to resume his morning work.
“Agreed; and you shall have it for nothing, if it’s a skunk,” replied
Clinton, with a laugh.
“No, I thank you,—I shan’t accept that offer,” replied his father.
“Come, Annie, I wouldn’t look at the poor things any longer,” said Mrs.
Davenport, leading her little daughter away.
“Here, mother,” said Clinton, “what am I to do with them? Wouldn’t some
of those large ones be good to eat?”
“They may be good enough, for all I know; but I should not like to eat
anything that was killed in that way,” replied his mother. “Besides,
they are hardly fat enough to eat well. You had better bury them in the
garden; I don’t think they are good for anything else.”
“I will do it right away, then,” said Clinton; and he and Whistler
procured shovels, and began to dig the holes.
“I should like to see a skunk,” said Whistler; “do they show themselves
around here very often?”
“Yes, I see them occasionally,” replied Clinton. “One moonlight evening,
last spring, I had been away, and when I came home, I saw one sitting on
our door-step; but he walked off as soon as he heard me, and I didn’t
think it best to follow him.”
“They are nasty-looking things, I suppose,” said Whistler.
“Why, no; there is nothing very bad-looking about them,” replied
Clinton. “Their fur is brown, with white stripes, and if it wasn’t for
their odor, they would be hunted for their skins. People sometimes eat
skunks when they can’t get anything else, and they say the meat is very
well flavored.”
“What kind of a trap is it you are going to borrow?” inquired Whistler;
“will it kill the animal, or only make a prisoner of him?”
“It is a steel trap, such as they catch wolves with,” replied Clinton.
“It catches the creature by the leg, and he can’t get away, unless he
leaves his leg behind.”
“Perhaps you will catch a wolf,” suggested Whistler.
“No, a wolf didn’t do this. He would have eaten or carried off more of
the hens,” replied Clinton.
“Don’t you suppose the wolves come down here from the forests,
sometimes?” inquired Whistler.
“Yes, I know they do,” replied Clinton. “Last winter two men were in the
woods, about a dozen miles north of Brookdale, when a deer dashed out
from a thicket, within two rods of them, with a large wolf close on to
his heels. Before they could raise their rifles the wolf had the deer by
the neck; but they fired, and shot them both dead. I saw both of the
animals over to the Cross Roads. The wolf was over seven feet long, and
he was a savage-looking fellow, I can assure you. Another man, last
winter, was crossing a pond on skates, when a pack of wolves made after
him, and, in his hurry and fright, he skated into a hole in the ice, and
was drowned.”
“Do the wolves ever come this way in the summer?” inquired Whistler.
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “there are often great fires in the woods, in
summer, that burn for weeks, and then the wolves, and bears, and moose,
get driven from their quarters, and sometimes they pay us a visit. Mr.
Oakley, who lives on the Passagamet river, fifteen miles from here, had
ten sheep killed by wolves, about a year ago. A part of the flock came
round the house, and looked frightened, and the folks went over to the
pasture where the sheep were kept, to see what the matter was. They
found seven of them dead, and some of them were torn dreadfully; but
three of them were alive, and were hurt but very little. They only had a
little scratch on the throat, that looked as if it might have been made
with the point of a pin. They carried these three home, and clipped off
the wool around their wounds, and washed off the blood, and put on some
salve; but they all died in an hour or two. The wolves poisoned them, or
else they were frightened to death.”
“And you say bears sometimes prowl around here, too,” said Whistler.
[Illustration]
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “four or five years ago, one was seen over in
the woods, where we went the other day when we saw Dick Sneider. Last
winter father and I rode over to a logging-camp, in a sleigh, and spent
two or three days with the loggers. We had a capital time. We ate with
the men, and slept on heaps of leaves, in their log huts. They had
rousing fires, burning all night, in the middle of the huts; and,
instead of chimneys, the smoke went off through a large hole in the
roof. But that isn’t what I was going to tell you about. We stopped one
night at ‘Uncle Tim’s,’ as they call him, about half way between here
and the camp. He lives in a ‘clearing’ in the woods, and there’s no
other house for miles around. He told me a good many stories about wild
beasts, and one of them was about a bear that he killed last fall. One
morning he discovered that some creature had made great havoc in his
cornfield in the night, and he found the tracks of a bear all over the
lot. He saw, by the tracks, that it was a very large and heavy animal;
and, as he had a bear-trap, he thought he would try to catch him with
it, rather than have a fight with him. So he baited the trap, and set it
in the cornfield; but the next morning he found it just as he left it.
The bear had walked all around it two or three times; but he knew too
much to go into it, and he made his supper off of green corn again.
Well, Uncle Tim said his dander was up, then, and he made up his mind
that if the bear got any more of his corn, he should take some of his
bullets with it. So, in the evening, he took his rifle, and hid himself
among the trees just by the edge of his clearing, pretty near the place
where the bear’s tracks were. Well, he waited, and waited, hour after
hour, but he couldn’t hear nor see anything of the bear. It wasn’t very
dark, as there was a moon. His wife and two boys, and his big dog, were
in the house, waiting and watching as patiently as they could; for Uncle
Tim told them not to show themselves unless he gave a loud whistle.
Well, about one o’clock in the morning, he thought he heard a slight
noise, and, sure enough, there was the old fellow within a few feet of
him, and looking directly at him. Uncle Tim took good aim, and then
blazed away, with as heavy a charge as his gun would bear. The ‘varmint’
gave one spring towards him, and fell dead almost at his feet. He
weighed about five hundred pounds, and I don’t remember how much oil
Uncle Tim got out of him, but it was a good lot. He got a bounty from
the state, too, for killing him.”
“He must be a brave man,” said Whistler.
“O, these old pioneers don’t mind such things,” said Clinton; “they soon
get used to bears and wolves. But I saw in a newspaper, the other day,
an account of a fight a little boy had with a bear, that was really
worth bragging about. He lived near Lake Umbagog, which is on the line
between Maine and New Hampshire, and I believe he was only nine years
old. He saw a bear in an oatfield, near the house, and he thought he
would pepper him with a few buck shot. The bear was wounded, and showed
fight; so the little fellow picked up a club, and went at him. The boy’s
mother saw the fight, and she gave the alarm to his father and an older
brother, who were at work near by; but when the bear saw them coming, he
made off as fast as he could. The family gave chase, but they were not
well armed, and were obliged to let him escape. Well, a few days after,
that same bear was seen near the same place, with a sheep in his mouth;
and that same little fellow went at him again, with a club, and made him
drop the sheep, and scamper off into the woods. At another time this
bear came to the house, when the woman was alone. He put his fore paws
on the window sill, and stuck his head and shoulders into the room, and,
after he had looked around a little, he walked off without touching
anything.”
“That is being a little too neighborly. I shouldn’t like to live quite
so near the bears as that,” said Whistler.
“I should want something more than a club, if I had got to meet one,”
said Clinton.
“But I shouldn’t be afraid to meet a fox, or a wild-cat, or a ’coon, in
the woods,—should you?” added Whistler.
“I shouldn’t want any better fun than to meet a ’coon or a fox,” replied
Clinton; “but if I had got to tackle a wild-cat, I should want to be
pretty well armed. It isn’t every man that can ‘whip his weight in
wild-cats,’ as they say out west.”
“Why, I had an idea they were a good deal like our house-cats, only they
are not tame,” said Whistler.[2]
Footnote 2:
Whistler was partly right. The domestic cat, when deprived of a home,
sometimes takes to the woods, and leads a savage life. It is then a
wild-cat; but it is a very different pussy, for all that, from the
large, tiger-like creature to which that name properly belongs.
“They do look something like a cat,” replied Clinton, “but they are
twice as big, and almost as savage as tigers. I saw a dead one, once.
They have little short tails, and very strong, ugly-looking jaws. A boy
that lives at the Cross Roads killed the one I saw. He was hunting
rabbits, about half a mile from the village, when he saw the head of a
strange-looking animal in a tree right over him. He didn’t know what it
was, but he concluded to fire; and, just as he did so, the creature
sprang right at him. The shot didn’t seem to hurt him much, but he was
in a terrible rage. The boy dodged him as he leaped from the tree, and
then they had a pitched battle for three or four minutes. The fellow got
some pretty hard scratches, and had his clothes torn; but he beat the
wild-cat with the breach of his gun until he killed him. He lugged the
body home, and he felt as grand as any body you ever saw, for a month
afterwards. The wild-cat weighed about twenty-five pounds, and he had
the skin stuffed, and has got it now.”
The slaughtered fowls were now all buried, and the boys went in to
breakfast. In the course of the forenoon, after Clinton had done his
work, he and his cousin went down to Mr. Preston’s, to get the trap. The
story of the catastrophe awakened the interest and sympathy of the
neighbors, and quite a discussion ensued as to the nature of the enemy
that had done the mischief. Mr. Preston said it would not be at all
strange if a wild-cat or fox was prowling around the neighboring woods,
but he thought it quite as probable that a skunk had killed the fowls.
He did not think it was a raccoon, as, he said, this animal eats only
the heads of the poultry it kills. As Mr. Preston was an old logger,
having spent his winters in the forests for many years, he was well
acquainted with the wild animals in that quarter, and Clinton placed
considerable confidence in his opinion. Still, he was not quite
satisfied that his chickens had fallen a prey to the despised skunk, and
Mr. Preston accordingly hunted up his rusty wolf-trap, and gave him some
directions in regard to baiting and setting it.
Ella, who listened to this conversation, seemed somewhat alarmed to hear
that the woods around Brookdale were ever visited by such strangers; and
when Whistler told her that even wolves and bears sometimes came down
into the neighborhood, she declared most vehemently that she should not
dare to go out of sight of the house again while she stayed there.
“O, yes, you will; you will come over and see us,” said Clinton.
“No, I shan’t; you have wild-cats around your neighborhood,” she
replied.
“But Willie and I will come down with guns, and escort you up and back
again, if you’re afraid,” added Clinton.
“I hate guns; I should be afraid to go with you, if you carried
them,—boys are so careless with fire-arms,” replied Ella.
“Then we’ll come without guns,” remarked Willie.
“Yes; and I’m thinking _you_ would run as fast as I should, if you saw a
wild beast coming,” said Ella, laughing.
“No, I shouldn’t, either; I’d stand my ground as long as any body
would,” replied Whistler, with some warmth.
“Well, Ella,” said Clinton, “I really wish you _would_ come over once
more, before you and Willie go home; and Em, and Hatty, too,—I want you
all to come.”
“Well, perhaps we will, after you have caught your wild-cat,” said Ella,
as the boys moved off.
“She is pretty good at quizzing,” said Clinton to his cousin, as they
walked away. “I really hope I shall catch something; if I don’t play a
joke upon Ella, then, no matter.”
“If you do, you will be paid off, with interest, I can promise you
that,” replied Whistler; and he related an instance in which Ella “came
up” with a boy who took the liberty to play a practical joke upon her.
The day was very warm, and the heat of the sun almost overpowering. Mr.
Davenport took a long “nooning,” as was his custom when the weather was
oppressively hot. Throwing himself upon a settle, after dinner, in the
coolest room he could find, he sometimes indulged in a nap, but more
frequently employed the hour of rest with a book or newspaper, or in
conversation with his wife or children, or in thinking over the affairs
of the farm. On this occasion, Clinton brought in the trap, and showed
it to him. After examining it in silence, he inquired:
“How much is your loss, Clinty?—have you figured it up?”
“No, sir; I haven’t thought anything about that,” he replied.
“Then it doesn’t trouble you much, I presume,” said his father.
“No, sir; I care a good deal more for the poor hens than I do for the
money,” replied Clinton.
“That’s right!” said his father; “you’ve made considerable profit out of
your poultry, and you must expect to meet with some losses, once in a
while. Losses are inseparable from business; and the wisest way is to
make the best of them when we can’t avoid them. If a man meets with
nothing but prosperity, he is apt to grow reckless in his management,
and oppressive towards others; or he becomes wholly absorbed with the
world, and forgets that there is a God or a future life. But adversity,
if a man knows how to profit by it, will correct these faults. I have
met with some pretty serious losses in my day; but I can see, now, that
I am better off than I should have been if they had never befallen me.”
“Do you think you are better off for being cheated out of everything you
owned, when Mr. Jellison failed?” inquired Clinton.
“I have no doubt of it, now, although it was a severe blow to me at the
time,” replied his father. “I was a young man then, and had set my heart
too intently on making money, as though that were the great object of
life. Perhaps, if I had not met with that loss, I should have grown up a
miser. I have learned this lesson, on my way through the world: that a
man’s happiness doesn’t depend on the amount of money he owns. In one
sense, in fact, we do not own anything—we are only stewards. The
property is lent to us for the time, and we are bound to make a good use
of it. It belongs to the world, or, rather, to God. It was in the world
before we came, and it will remain here after we have gone; and we shall
have to give an account of the use we make of it while it is in our
hands. As I have a claim on all you own, so there is One who has a claim
on whatever I possess.”
“But I didn’t know you had a claim on my money,” replied Clinton.
“Have you ever settled for your board, and clothing, and education, and
all the other expenses of your bringing up?” inquired his father.
“No, sir,” said Clinton.
“Well, your hundred dollars would not go far, if you undertook to pay
those bills,” continued his father. “More than that, the law of the land
gives me a right to all your earnings until you are twenty-one years
old; did you know that?”
“No, sir; I never heard of that before,” replied Clinton.
“It is so,” resumed his father; “but, in return, the law obliges me to
support you, during that time, unless you run away from me, or refuse to
obey me. And you will find that this dependence upon others will follow
you through life. We never outgrow it, no matter how old or how rich we
become. We are all of us beholden to others, but most of all to God,
every day of our lives.”
This conversation led Clinton to make an estimate of his pecuniary loss
during the afternoon, and he found that it amounted to the sum of five
dollars and fifty cents. He showed Whistler his account book, which was
kept in a neat and accurate manner. In this book he set down all his
receipts and expenses on account of the poultry, and at the close of
each year he “struck a balance,” and ascertained the amount of his
profits. At this time he had one hundred dollars in a savings bank, on
interest, besides about five dollars in his own hands,—all of which his
fowls, and the labor of his own hands, had earned him. He also owned his
stock of poultry, which, before the disaster of the previous night, he
valued at about twenty dollars.
After tea the boys baited the trap, and set it in the garden, near the
hen-house. They skilfully concealed it under leaves and other litter,
leaving only the bait prominent; and, after watching it from the chamber
window as long as there was light enough to distinguish anything, they
went to bed, to dream of bears, and wolves, and wild-cats, and to see
visions of nondescript beasts not to be found in any work on natural
history.
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