STRANGE HAPPENINGS
A furious thunder storm was sweeping down Goose Creek; hailstones nearly
the size of marbles bounded from limb to limb or cut through the tender
leaves on their way to earth. Such things sometimes happened in the last
days of June, but rarely were they followed by a wind as cold as that
which in the night swept through the pines around the barn of Farmer
Slown. It whistled in the holes and cracks and made the wood pussies'
new home drafty and uncomfortable.
So the mother very wisely went out in search of warmer covering for
their nest and after digging into leaf piles and finding them
disagreeably wet, turned her attention to hunting strips of bark on the
dry sides of dead trees. This search brought her to Farmer Slown's
fence, the posts of which she carefully examined until, within the yard,
very near the barn, she found just what she wanted. But it was not bark,
it was the Farmer's blue cotton night shirt which, following the storm,
he had hung on the fence to dry and had forgotten to bring in with the
rest of his wash.
The mother reached up to feel it, then taking a firm hold with her
teeth, pulled and swung it about until her weight brought it down on top
of her. This surprised her mightily, and being entangled in its folds
she nearly gave it a better musk bath than it had had on the eventful
evening when the Farmer came out of his bed to the aid of his cowardly
hound. With her under it the night shirt performed some strange antics;
then suddenly it released her and fell in such a helpless heap that
excited as she was she realized it was after all not a living enemy
which had leaped upon her. Instantly calming down, she dragged it under
the barn where some chewing and tearing on the part of the whole family
soon made it into very good bedding, though Farmer Slown might not have
thought so. Indeed, he was in one of his rages all the next day while
hunting for it in vain from one end of his field to the other.
But comfortable as the blue night shirt proved to be, the mother was not
quite satisfied with her bed, and so on the following night went out in
search of something else warm. She looked first to see if by any chance
there might be another night shirt growing on the fence, but was very
satisfied at finding instead two pairs of socks and an undershirt which
the Farmer, still following his usual habit, had unwisely hung out on
this makeshift clothesline.
After supper he remembered the clothes and went out to bring them in,
but, feel about as much as he liked, he could not find them, they were
gone, absolutely and completely. Then he grew really peeved and, using
some harsh language, commenced a ferocious march around the yard, armed
with a lantern and a stick. At length, still completely mystified, he
sat down on his doorstep to think the thing out.
"Last night it was the night shirt," he muttered. "Tonight it's socks
and an undershirt! What on earth can be doing all this dirty work? It
can't very well be the wind blowing them away. It couldn't be an eagle;
nor a tramp way out here; it can't be the goat--no, the goat would do it
all right, but she's safely tied. Bugs couldn't have eaten them. Pshaw!
I can't see what did take them, but one thing I am sure of and that is
that they didn't walk off by themselves!" With that he slapped a
mosquito on his neck and went inside the house.
A few minutes later, however, he strode out like one to whom has
suddenly come a great idea. In his hand were two socks which he
proceeded to nail to the fence with the feet hanging down as naturally
as before.
"Now, you spook you, get those if you can!" he said encouragingly.
Returning then to the house he put out the lights and posted himself at
an open window with shot gun at his elbow and a pocket full of spare
cartridges. As he looked at the bait on the fence opposite he chuckled
grimly and acknowledged himself very clever indeed.
But if the weird creature, whatever it was, had earlier been eager for
his clothes it certainly was so no longer. Hours passed and still the
Farmer sat there with eye glued on the two socks hanging in the
moonlight. Behind them the woods came in close and black, throwing long
shadows which moved from time to time under the influence of the night
wind. There was a gentle rustle of countless leaves, the hooting of
distant owls, the call of Great Blue Heron and the patter of flying
squirrels as they leaped onto his roof from the nearest tall tree. There
was also the endless hum of the insect army, increased now and then by
the rasping of a locust in a limb close by; but nothing of an unusual
nature.
Suddenly the Farmer rubbed his eyes and leaned forward, then rubbed them
again; one sock was gone! Yes, there was no doubt about it! He had seen
nothing, heard nothing strange, yet there in the moving black and white
shadows hung only one lone sock. It seemed so impossible that he just
sat there with mouth open.
A few minutes later, however, he reached stealthily for his gun with a
hand that trembled oddly. His eyes had a queer bulge and chills were
running up his spine and into the roots of his stiff hair. The other
sock was gone!
Carefully closing the window, Farmer Slown tiptoed about the house,
noiselessly barring doors and even propping things against them. For the
first time in his life he had seen something uncanny, had felt that the
great woods contained something more cunning, perhaps more powerful,
than he. He shivered while listening suspiciously. And at this
unfortunate moment, the black and white hound took the notion to feel
lonely and to howl at the moon. It was the lonesomest, most woebegone
sound imaginable. Perhaps it could not be said that the Farmer ran up
the dark stairs, rather might it be said that he flew. Behind the locked
door of his room he felt better, but still the weird loneliness of the
dark woods came through from the window. With a jerk he pulled down the
shade, then jumped into bed, clothes and all.
If he felt shivery that night, at least the wood pussies did not. The
mother was now entirely satisfied with their nest, for it was truly a
wonderful one. She had found the last two socks somewhat harder to tear
down than the others, but had managed to get them by pulling the ends
through the fence one at a time and then straining back with all her
strength until the wool stretched on the nail and gave way with such
suddenness as to roll her over. This stretching and sudden jerk was what
caused each sock to vanish through the fence so quickly that the Farmer
could not see it go. The moving shadows did the rest. Into them the
black wood pussy with her long white stripes fitted in as naturally as
if a part of them.