THE WIT OF CLOWN-FACE, THE BADGER
It was full of the moon at the seashore, and the young field corn
close by was ripe; each pearly kernel almost bursting with its
milky-sweet contents. What a time for a corn roast or frolic; so
thought all the boys along that particular strip of beach, which
shelved its way down from a dense forest of spruce and hemlock to the
edge of the water.
There were others, the furry things, the four-footed people of the
woods, who knew just as well as the boys what good times were to be
had at that particular season, and they made their plans accordingly.
The boys had visited the beach that same night, roasted their corn
and oysters, and left long before. The shore was apparently quite
deserted. The ebbing tide was stealing out softly, scraping and
rasping upon the little round pebbles, sending little golden shells
tinkling musically against each other, as the water lapped and
filtered through them. Overhead shone the great yellow moon, making
a wide silvery path straight out across the water. One wondered
where the road ended. Back from the beach in the dark woods, plenty
of life was now stirring, for the nocturnal prowlers were waking up,
though the small windows of the scattered farmhouses were dark and
still. Above the noise of the ebb tide the katy-dids were heard
contradicting each other tirelessly, hoarsely, "katy-did,
katy-didn't." Crickets shrilled in the long, coarse beach grass; a
distant screech-owl set up an occasional shivery wail. Then, from
amid the thickets of scrub oak and barberry bushes, came another
call--an unusual cry, not often heard, which began with a tremulous
whimper, ceased, then went on; and was finally taken up and answered
by another similar whimpering cry, and still another, from different
parts of the woods. The first call had been given forth by an old
hermit racoon, or a "little brother of the bear." He was something
of a leader, and was sending out a summons for all his relatives to
join him in a moonlight frolic.
The old hermit scrambled hastily down from his home tree, which
happened to be the deserted nest of a great owl. Plainly the old
hermit would soon outgrow this borrowed home, for when sweet corn is
in the milk, and the little salt wild oysters are plentiful down on
the beach, then the racoon became so very fat that he could barely
waddle. Of course he felt obliged to fatten himself in late summer,
for already he was making ready for his all-winter's sleep and his
long, long season of fasting.
Having reached the ground, the hermit sent out another call--the
rallying cry of his tribe; for dearly the racoon loves to feast and
frolic in company and was becoming impatient to start off. The only
reason, I suspect, why the old hermit lived absolutely alone, at this
time, was merely because there was absolutely not an inch of spare
room for another racoon in the nest.
To his joy, his kindred had responded, and soon from out of the
shadowy places stole one waddling form, then another, until finally
five racoons were in the party. Then with the hermit leading them,
Indian file, they all made their way leisurely to the distant corn
field. In and out among the tall rows of nodding, whispering blades
they stole, and standing upon their little black hind feet, they
would reach up the corn stalk, and deftly pull down a plump ear with
their forepaws, which they used as cleverly as hands. They never
made the mistake of selecting blackened, mildewed ears; these and the
shrivelled, dwarfed ears they tossed disdainfully aside, and my! what
havoc those coons did make in the corn field that night! They would
strip off the silky green husks and eat out only the full, milky
kernels, smearing their black noses and paws liberally with the
juice, which they would hasten to rinse off at the first water they
found.
[Illustration: OUT POPPED THE FUNNY PAINTED FACE OF THE BADGER.]
There were others in the field that night, but they never interfered
with one another; there was plenty of corn for all. The woodchuck
family also enjoyed sweet corn in the milk and, tempted by the
moonlight, they had left their burrow to feast. Off beyond, skirting
the edges of the tall corn, skulked a swift, fleeting
shadow--Redbrush, the fox, bound for the chicken coops, or hoping to
find a covey of quails or partridges sleeping in the edge of the
wheat field. Back in a little creek which bubbled in places,
broadening out into still, deep haunts for trout and pickerel, the
moonlight found its way. Here and there you might discover the huts
of the muskrats, mostly deserted, for the inhabitants were all
abroad. You might see their brown heads above water, follow the wake
of their silvery trails, and hear their playful squeaks as they
chased each other from village to village. Oh, there were squeaks
a-plenty that night all through the deep clover and among the tall
grain, while beneath roofs, fast asleep and dreaming, were the
children.
For the most part the wild things appeared to live together in peace
and harmony; occasionally bitter feelings were felt when the racoons
thrust their black paws into a woodpecker's nest and robbed it of
eggs. Then, too, old Mrs. Diamond-back, the turtle, would deposit
her eggs in a spot which she fondly imagined very secret, failing
utterly to look up above, where, from a branch, the greenish
inquisitive eyes of the hermit watched her every movement. Taking it
altogether, there was little to disturb their happy life then. Times
were going to change and very soon in an unexpected fashion.
Clown-face, the badger, had been routed out of his distant home-nest
on the far side of the mountain by an enemy. Because he enjoyed
roving, he took up the life of a tramp and made a trip to the
seashore, for he dearly loved the little black mussels which he
remembered having once found there. As it happened, badgers were not
common in that section of the country; perhaps one of them had never
happened to venture over upon that side of the mountain even, so none
of the wild things had ever encountered this queer-looking fellow.
Queer looking he certainly was, and the funniest thing about him was
that the sly old fellow, who had often looked at himself in some
still pool, knew exactly how odd he appeared to others. He had wit
enough to use this knowledge for his own purposes. Once seen, the
clown face of the badger was not soon forgotten by other animals. He
soon discovered that when a stranger appeared suddenly on the trail
whom he did not care to meet, all he had to do usually was to stand
still, and stare and stare at the intruder, who invariably would back
out or side-step from the trail, leaving it clear to the badger; why,
I will explain.
In the first place, the badger was just about as broad as he was
long. His thick fur coat, which was flowing and parted in the middle
of his back, nearly reaching the ground, looked for all the world as
if he carried a goatskin rug across his back. His legs were short
and he appeared not unlike a great, hairy caterpillar as he waddled
along. But his fore feet carried two tremendously long hooked claws
which, if cornered, he would use in fight, for his courage was very
great. His head was broad and furry, with short ears. The strangest
thing about the badger was his face, which was marked exactly like a
funny clown. Although his back was grey--one may still hear the
saying, "grey as a badger"--his head and neck were of short, dark
brown fur, while like a dash of white paint ran a mark of snowy fur
from the bridge of his nose, back to the nape of his neck. On either
cheek was another dash of white, reaching from the tops of his ears
to the corners of his mouth. Below this was marked out a little
crescent of white, set off by a stripe of dark fur. Altogether, the
badger always appeared to be wearing a kind of painted disguise. No
wonder then, when he stared straight at any animal who had never seen
such a funny face, that it turned and ran in an opposite direction.
Such was the make-up of Clown-face, the badger. Even now he was
making his way in the moonlight to new grounds, where he would be
seen and feared. Clown-face was in search of a deserted burrow into
which he could crawl and rest, for he was tired. He soon came to the
deserted home of the woodchuck family. Into this he crept, taking
care to crawl in and turn around, so as to leave his painted face
right in the doorway; then he went to sleep.
After the hermit racoon and his friends had feasted upon sweet corn,
they left the corn field and took a stroll down the beach. The tide
was out. In among the wet pebbles scurried droves of little green
crabs, while clinging to rocks were small, salt wild oysters, which
racoons dearly love and which, for this reason, are sometimes called
"coon oysters," so greedily do the racoons search for them. It was a
funny sight to see the five fat racoons strolling along the beach by
moonlight. When they came to a bunch of oysters, down they would
plump and, taking the oyster in their hind feet, they would deftly
crack it open against a stone and dabble it up and down in the water
with their little black hands, washing it thoroughly. For the
racoon, you know, from its habit of washing its food, is often called
"Lotor, the washer." There the little company of coons stayed until
turn of tide, when they went back over the wet sand, treading upon
their toes and leaving their almost human five-fingered little tracks
all along the beach, as they went back to the forest again.
The first to reach home that night was the woodchuck family. They
were quite ready for sleep, in the fine burrow which they had spent
days in digging. The bushes rustled as they swished them aside, and
the rustling they made awakened the badger who had been dozing in the
entrance of the burrow. Just as Dame Woodchuck came to her door, out
popped the funny painted face of the badger right into her very eyes.
It grunted at her fiercely and she hastily backed away with a cry of
terror. Never had the woodchucks seen anything like the badger.
They waited for it to come out, but it stayed right in the burrow, so
the old woodchuck made bold to go to the _rear_ entrance, and
squeezing her fat body flat she entered, only to be met by the awful
clown-like face again. She hastily backed out. All night the badger
remained in possession of the woodchuck's burrow and for days after,
until finally they left it to him and began to dig a new burrow some
distance away from the old one.
The next night all the wild kindred were again astir. The woodchucks
had spent most of the day upon their new burrow. They still had to
add chambers; it was at least a home, so off they went foraging with
the others, for corn is not always in the milk and it is not always
moonlight. That night the old hermit racoon had planned to go back
into the forest to dig wake-robin roots. Often, after a great feast,
the coons enjoy a diet of these roots, perhaps eating them as a sort
of medicine, because they are hot and as fiery as pepper, although,
with all their biting, peppery taste, the coons devour them greedily.
In Indian file, off started the coons, and soon succeeded in finding
a bed of the coveted wake-robin roots, which they began to tear up
hastily.
Clown-face, the badger, was also abroad, hunting field-mice or any
young, tender creature which he might track. Creeping through the
matted jungles of undergrowth, he soon discovered the racoons digging
up roots. Thinking to have some fun at their expense and perhaps
drive them away from something which he might eat, suddenly he stuck
his painted clown-like face through a dark opening of the bushes and
grunted at them. The old hermit himself spied the horrible face
first, and so frightened was he that without pausing to finish the
root in his black paws, he tore off through the bushes with all the
others following him. The hermit did not stop running until he
reached his home tree, for never had he seen or dreamed of such a
face as that which had peered out at him from the woods.
In time Clown-face, the badger, by using his wits managed to have
things pretty much his own way there in the forest. He found where
the young quails nested. He foraged in the unprotected huts of the
muskrats and stole their young. He ate the turtles' eggs and made
himself a great nuisance to all. The only living thing which
Clown-face, the badger, dreads now is the hedgehog, for, being almost
as ugly and strange-appearing as the badger, it does not fear him or
turn aside. So between the two is a bitter feud, because Clown-face
often ventures to devour the hedgehog's rations. Some time I know
there is going to be a terrific encounter between them in the woods,
because the stupid-appearing hedgehog never troubles himself to get
out of the badger's way, but lies down in his very path, quite
unconcernedly. One day Clown-face is going to get to the limit of
his patience and rebel. Then I wonder which one will come off the
better, the badger or the hedgehog?
Meantime, the wit of Clown-face, the badger, serves him very well.
He still roams over the forest trails and along the beach unmolested
by the dwellers of the wild.