HOW PORCUPINE RIDGE WAS SETTLED
The remains of a large camp-fire smouldered, right in the heart of a
forest of giant spruces far up in the North country. It had
smouldered there sullenly all through a long, summer day, being left
by the campers to die of its own accord. By this time they were far
away, striking a new trail through the woods.
Night was coming on now. Down in the still, dark places, stealthy
sounds, rustlings, and padded footsteps might be heard along wild
trails, for with the coming of darkness the prowlers, who forage best
at night, were beginning to stir abroad. Certain dark, shambling
figures--one, two, three--came shuffling across a streak of moonlit
forest. It was Moween, the little black mother bear and her two
cubs. They had come down from their mountain den to hunt in the deep
forest lowlands and swamps. Redbrush, the old fox, hit the trail in
hot haste; he had scented wonderful game, perhaps a covey of plump,
sleeping partridges. Impatiently he made a sudden, wide detour, even
crossing a brook and wetting his feet, which he disliked, just to
avoid meeting a cross old lynx whom he despised. Two cottontails,
also scenting both fox and lynx, leaped high over the tops of the
rank brakes and bounded off in another direction with long leaps,
halting to lie flat, trembling and panting, staying there concealed
until the dreaded ones had gone on. It happened that what the
cottontails had imagined to be a lynx or Redbrush, the fox, was only
Unk-Wunk, the porcupine, grubbing unconcernedly over the trail,
grunting to himself monotonously his "unk-wunk, unk-wunk," rattling
his quills softly as he crept leisurely in and out among the tall
ferns, fearing neither man nor beast.
Occasionally he would halt to root, pig fashion, beneath some rotten
log for grubs or wake-robin roots, for which he had a great desire.
Then again he would stop, and standing upon his hind legs he would
reach up and strip off the bark from some young, tender sapling with
his sharp teeth. Not very far behind Unk-Wunk followed another
porcupine, his mate. She was somewhat smaller in size and less
aggressive and also, if possible, just a trifle more stupid-looking
and droll than he. In fact, she would actually pass right by some
really choice morsel which she wished keenly, just because it
happened to be a little outside the range of her small, dull piggy
eyes. So, often Unk-Wunk would stop to nose out food for her, for
she usually depended upon him to locate the meals for both of them,
and he seldom failed her.
To-night Unk-Wunk was very keen upon a new trail, but you would never
have suspected it from his manner, because he never hurried. Still,
if you knew him very well indeed, you might detect that his gait was
rather more confident than usual, that in spite of his devious
turnings aside, he always returned again to the same trail. All day
the two porcupines had slept well in the round, deeply hollowed-out
hole of a spruce tree, and between naps Unk-Wunk had watched with
growing interest a thin, blue spiral of smoke as it filtered and
wavered through the tops of the tall spruces far above. Upon several
occasions the porcupine had seen similar trails of mysterious blue
smoke, and whenever, out of sheer curiosity, he had followed the
smoke to its lair, always had he been repaid for his long journey,
because smoke usually meant a camp, and campers recklessly threw away
much food, more especially bones, bacon rinds, and even, pieces of
mouldy pork or ham.
So Unk-Wunk, the wise one, lifted his blunt muzzle from time to time
and sniffed deeply of the faint, delicious odours which sudden winds
blew in whiffs from the far-off camp. As soon as it commenced to
grow dusky down below, Unk-Wunk grunted to his mate to follow, and
together they started off upon their raids.
Naturally selfish of nature and secretive is the porcupine, and when
an inquisitive intruder ventured to cross Unk-Wunk's trail, he would
hold his own ground, never stirring from his tracks, but, standing
sullenly in the path, force everything to turn out for him. Or,
should they presume to show courage enough to face him, he would
simply drop right down in his tracks, roll himself into the
well-known prickly ball, and let them come on. This they usually
decided not to do in the end, for most wanderers along the trails
were not deceived; well they knew that out of his small,
dull-appearing eyes Unk-Wunk was craftily watching their every
movement, waiting for them to come near enough to him to slap them
with his barb-laden tail.
Thus Unk-Wunk and his mate grubbed along, not too hurriedly, which
would have been a mistake, for some other watcher might have its
curiosity aroused and follow them, and they would perhaps be
compelled to share their find with another. Finally following
devious trails, the porcupines reached the deserted camp. Unk-Wunk
was glad there was no one there, because once, when he had gnawed
very loudly, a sleeping man had been awakened and fired a gun at him.
Wandering in and out among the blackened embers groped Unk-Wunk,
grunting impatiently while nosing over a pile of empty tins cans.
But soon, to his joy, he discovered a bone which he rasped and
rasped, pushing away his mate when she presumed to touch it. Next,
oh, joy, he found a long bacon rind. He actually fought with his
mate for this, forcing her to go back to a greasy board which he had
been gnawing.
Things began to look more promising and Unk-Wunk and his mate were so
busy with their foraging, they utterly failed to hear the soft,
velvet, padded footsteps of another, who had been following their
trail from the first. They failed also to catch the gleam of a pair
of blazing, yellow eyes which peered out at them maliciously from
behind the blackened background of a stump, watching, watching their
every movement. It was a large tawny wildcat. For some time the cat
watched the porcupines, lashing its tail softly against the pliant
ferns; each instant the tail seemed to switch a trifle more
impatiently; the wildcat was making ready for an attack. Finally,
unable to endure their grunts of joy an instant longer, for the cat
was gaunt with hunger, it crouched low, then shot right into the very
centre of the camp. Spitting, snarling, yelling its horrid wails,
which echoed through the woods, it charged upon the porcupines.
Regardless of Unk-Wunk's raised, quilly armour it flew straight at
him, tussling, scuffling, spitting and snarling, eager to take away
the bone.
[Illustration: SPITTING, SNARLING, YELLING ... IT CHARGED UPON THE
PORCUPINES.]
"Slap." The tail of the porcupine, laden with its most deadly
quills, landed right between the blazing, yellow eyes of the wildcat,
almost blinding it. Then a terrific battle took place; the whirling
wildcat, mad with pain, tore about in a wide circle, scattering
blackened firebrands in all directions. It looked, for a time, as if
a small cyclone had struck the camp. All the while the cat kept up
its uncanny screams which struck sudden terror to many a small wild
thing along the trails, sending them cowering back into their dens
and hidden coverts. Under the whirling rain of ashes and embers,
wise Unk-Wunk and his mate managed to sneak off into the woods
unobserved. And at last the wildcat, angry and defeated, slunk away,
rubbing its snout, trying to rid itself of the awful quills, spitting
and scolding as it went.
But the really tragic part of all this was what followed. Back in
the deserted camp had lain one sullen, smouldering firebrand. It
might have died out of its own accord in time had it not been
disturbed. But the wild scuffle between the wildcat and the
porcupine had revived it, tossing it right into a bed of dry leaves
and sun-baked ferns.
Out upon the hills the summer drought had been hard; the pastures lay
brown and scorched by the hot sun, while in the woods the underbrush
was tinder dry. So the fire took courage, kindled, snapped and
crackled, then burst into bright flames and started on its travels.
Up the tall stems of giant spruces it ran, leaping across from one
feathery top into the next. Behind, it left blackened trunks; and
below, beds of glowing embers, while all in an instant the forest
trails became fairly alive with multitudes of wild things, frenzied
animals, great and small, all trying to get away from the raging
flames. Wildcats, timid cottontails, the black bear and her cubs,
they all travelled together hurrying, hurrying on ahead of the fire.
Wild deer left their runs, and, forgetting their lifelong terror of
enemies, leaped off and away. Ahead, far in advance, tore one great,
brave buck deer, trying to lead his mate and her fawn to safety. The
bear shambled close behind, howling as she ran, snapping back at a
biting firebrand which scorched her back. Great snakes cut through
the fern jungles like black whips, rushing on ahead of the scorching
breath of the destroying flames.
Back of the larger, stronger ones travelled the less fleet of foot,
the more timid of the wild things. Among these were the porcupines,
Unk-Wunk and his mate. Most of them were headed for Balsam Swamp,
for there, instinctively, they knew they would find water, because
deep in the swamp lay Black Pond, a never-failing water hole, which
had its source in many a mountain stream. If they only could get to
the water then they would be safe.
Never in all his lifetime had Unk-Wunk travelled so fast, and they
were even then far behind the others; surely they would be caught by
the fire. Already, in spite of their protecting quills, the
porcupines began to feel the scorching breath of the flames close
behind them. Old Unk-Wunk was almost spent and deliberately halted
right in his tracks. His usually half-shut eyes were strained with
anxiety; besides they smarted and stung from the smoke. He was
almost tempted to lie right down and give up the awful chase, to defy
the cruel thing which was even now scorching and blistering his tired
feet. His mate, always following his example, would, of course, do
exactly as he did; in fact, she would have followed him straight back
into the flames.
But no, Unk-Wunk was not ready to give up. Instead, grunting,
scrambling, hastening as fast as he was able, the porcupine suddenly
and deliberately left the trail; it looked almost as if he were going
straight into the track of the fire. He managed to reach a certain
flat, shelving ledge, which was just ahead of the fire. Then rolling
himself into a round ball, he lay down upon the high ledge and rolled
right off into space, landing some distance down below upon another
ridge of rock. In between the rocky ledges he crept, where the
moisture trickled constantly down from above, making it cold and wet;
right close to the great rocky ridge he lay and waited. The next
instant down tumbled another round, quilly ball from the ledge above.
It was his mate; the faithful thing had followed Unk-Wunk, just as he
knew she would do. There in the cool, moist-laden rock they clung
tight together and went fast asleep, too weary and scorched and
terror-stricken to move; and the great fire raged around them, but
when it came to the ridge, it leaped right over the spot where they
lay, and they were safe.
Most of the more fortunate fleet-footed wild animals managed to reach
Balsam Swamp. There the great snowy owl finally settled, and makes
her nest there each year. The eagles built their nest above upon a
ledge, and the heron tribe located close by. But Moween, the little
black bear and her cubs, went back to the forest and made her den
right beneath the ridge where Unk-Wunk and his mate found safety, so
that the porcupines and the bears have ever since been near
neighbours.
The spot has for many years been known as Porcupine Ridge. Almost
any time, if you stray that way, and care for a stiff climb, you can
pick up quantities of loose quills near the spot, and sometimes you
may even run across a quilly ball lying right on top of the ledge, or
catch one of the numerous porcupine family picking its way leisurely
among the rocks. So now you can fully understand why this particular
spot has always been called Porcupine Ridge, because it was really
settled by none other than old Unk-Wunk and his mate at the time of
the great forest fire.