NEMOX, THE CRAFTY ROBBER OF THE MARSHES
Nemox, the fisher, who lived in the hollow of a great pine tree in
the depths of the marsh country, lay stretched out flat upon a lofty
limb of his home tree, intently watching a clumsy black figure which
shuffled through the aisles of the pines far beneath him.
He thought the black, shadowy figure must be Moween, the black bear,
but not feeling quite certain about it, Nemox peeped down over the
limb curiously, hanging over as far as he dared, keeping his position
upon the limb by digging his claws in deeply. His eyes sparkled
maliciously and cunningly as he made sure that it actually was Moween
herself. Then he knew she had come straight from her den up on
Porcupine Ridge to forage for food, because down below, on the
needle-strewn floor of the forest, Moween knew she could find plenty
of prey for the taking. Close hidden beneath the low-hanging
branches of the spruce bush, she sometimes came across a frightened
partridge, and the roots of the pines were simply riddled with rabbit
burrows. One might always rout out a sleepy hedgehog or two, if
there chanced to be nothing better, for Moween knew the secret of
avoiding its terrible quills and searching out the creature's weak
spot without injury to her own snout. So while Moween rummaged
about, waddling in and out among the bushes, snuffing and grunting as
she threw over a rotting log with her great padded foot, Nemox, the
crafty one, continued to watch her and think deeply. Very well he
knew that the old mother bear had left her two innocent furry little
cubs back in her den, up on the side of the mountain. Nemox, the
fisher, in one of his cat-like rambles, had run across them one day,
just outside their door, cuffing each other about, and rolling over
each other like kittens, as their mother watched them fondly. Well
Nemox knew that the two cubs were still too young to follow their
mother long distances, or down the steep ledges, so of course, he
reasoned, they must be at home, alone and unprotected, this very
minute.
Instantly Nemox had made his plans, and while the little black mother
bear had buried her whole head in a hollow log, hoping to find honey,
Nemox began to slide and claw himself down out of the pine tree,
being careful, of course, to climb down upon the far side that Moween
should not spy him. Then, like a fleet shadow, he slipped off
through the thick underbrush, and following the wide swath of the
mother bear's trail, he set out for her den.
Everybody knows that Nemox, the fisher, is the craftiest, most savage
and powerful fighter of his age in the marshes, and most of his
kindred feared him, giving him a wide berth. Nemox belonged to the
cat family, and was sometimes called "the black cat of the woods."
Sinuous of body and not unlike his cousin the weasel, only larger, he
could readily leap forty or fifty feet, and always landed, cat-like,
upon his prey. To all this was added great knowledge of woodcraft
and reasoning powers, for the clever fisher had easily studied out
the fact that the bear had left her cubs unprotected. No wonder then
that the fisher was reckoned as a terror of the marsh country, for it
took the craftiest of the wild to outwit him.
In and out between the rocky ledges and tall ferns, always heading
for the bear's den, travelled Nemox, and just as he drew near the
spot where the little mother bear had cleverly hidden her den, he
came right upon the little cubs, who were just outside the entrance
of the den, and lay rolling over each other, having a regular frolic,
cuffing at a swarm of black butterflies which fluttered about the
milkweed blossoms. But the pretty sight of the round furry babies of
Moween at play did not for an instant touch the cruel heart of the
fisher, who merely bared his sharp teeth as he hid behind a
convenient blackberry bush, watching them.
With twitching tail and whiskers, cat-like, the fisher began to creep
stealthily towards his prey, flattening his lithe body and keeping
out of sight as he crept nearer and nearer the innocent cubs. A
swift dart, and he shot straight through the air and launched himself
upon one of the cubs, while the other one sat up in amazement and
began to whimper like a frightened child. Soon Nemox was busy with
tooth and nail over the limp carcass of the cub, when suddenly his
keen ear caught the sound of a stealthy pad, pad, pad; so light a
footstep it was that no one but Nemox could have heard it.
Instantly, fearing the return of the mother bear, Nemox left the
wounded cub, for he had no notion of letting Moween, the angry
mother, catch him at his cruel work, as well Nemox knew that with one
blow of her great paw, armed with its lance-like claws, she could
strike him to earth. He realised he would be no match for her unless
he chanced to catch her napping.
So the fisher drew off, watching his chances from a safe distance,
for, if the truth were known, Nemox was in some respects, unless
cornered, cowardly. He slunk into the shadow of a dark ledge, where
his dark fur blended so well with the gloom that he remained
completely concealed. He realised that he had taken himself off just
in time, for the next instant the tall brakes were thrust aside; but
instead of the mother bear making her appearance, who should peer out
but Eelemos, the fox. Very cautiously the fox came forth from the
bushes, and peered out in rather surprised fashion upon the scene
before him; the badly wounded cub, and the other one, who still
whimpered and whined helplessly, crying for its mother. Now the fox
chanced to be very hungry, and the sight of the wounded cub tempted
him. So he crept warily forward, his yellow eyes all agleam, and so
intent was the fox upon the coming feast that he paid no attention to
the other cub's little whine of joy and recognition as a great,
black, furry bulk fairly tore its way through the thick jungle. Mad
with rage and fear Moween's little red eyes flashed with anger as she
caught sight of the fox and her wounded cub, and with one great bound
she was upon him, growling terribly, and then, before the fox could
even defend himself, the mother bear had laid him low, and soon all
that remained of the proud, sly fox was just a battered red pelt, and
a bedraggled, limp brush. Then Moween went back to attend to the
little wounded cub, uttering low whines of distress, and lapping it
tenderly, trying to revive it.
All this time Nemox, the fisher, was peering out at her from a crack
in the ledge, and he had seen the awful fate of Eelemos, the fox, and
was very thankful he had got away from the den just in time. Now the
fisher had not chanced to select the best spot for his hiding-place,
for at the back of the ledge was the home of Unk-Wunk, the hedgehog,
who had been asleep inside all the time, curled up in a round ball,
until, finally, Nemox had so crowded him that he became impatient and
suddenly unrolling himself, just to teach the intruder better
manners, he gave him a smart slap across his sneaky pointed snout
with his dreadful quilly tail. Nemox was so taken by surprise that,
stifling his angry snarls so the mother bear might not hear him, he
sneaked back home to the pine forest, his snout full of sharp quills,
and spent most of the night spitting crossly and trying to pull them
out of his burning flesh.
Next morning, bright and early, Nemox started off hunting once more.
He climbed many trees looking for game, but in vain; he even found no
partridges roosting down in lower branches, as usual, for already
they had left their nightly haunts. At last Nemox reached the foot
of a giant larch tree, and right in the top of its branches he spied
a great loose bundle of leaves and twigs.
"Ah," thought Nemox, "the hawks have a young family up there, or
possibly there are eggs in the nest; so much the better," for Nemox
loved eggs almost more than a young hawk. Very hungry was Nemox by
this time, so he began to climb the tree. At last he reached a limb
where he could peer into the nest. He was thankful that the old
hawks were away, for there were eggs in the nest. Nemox knew he must
hasten, for a brooding hawk is never long away from her eggs.
Flattening himself close to the limb Nemox crawled to it, and had
just sampled one egg when, with a sudden, wild rush of whirling
wings, the mother hawk landed right upon his back, digging her sharp
talons into his quivering flesh, as he snarled and spit and tore in
her grasp. Finally, with a swift twist of his agile body, Nemox
managed to reach the throat of the hawk, and in spite of the beating
wings, which nearly thrashed the breath from his body, Nemox clung
and clung to the hawk's throat, until they both fell to earth. And
then Nemox had his first decent meal for days, and afterwards he
climbed up to the nest and finished off the eggs, which he did not
forget.
Now high above the nest of the hawk, and over towards the lake, stood
a lonely hemlock tree, its limbs broken off by storm after storm.
Upon the summit of this tree Quoskh, the great blue heron, came year
after year to build her nest and raise her brood. From her high
nest, where she sat with the young herons, now just out of their
pin-feather age, the mother heron could plainly look down upon her
neighbour the hawk, and saw all the terrible tragedy which took
place. She saw the dark, slim body of Nemox, the robber of the
marshes, as he battled with the mother hawk, and then the end of it
all. Quoskh, the heron, was afraid for her own young, so much so
that for a long while afterwards she dreaded to leave them alone long
enough to fly off after food. Soon, however, they became large
enough to fly to the lake with her, and she was glad. But Quoskh
never forgot about the hateful fisher, and always hoped that some day
she might get the better of him.
Right in the heart of the marsh-land lay Black Lake. Spread out like
a sheet of molten lead it lay, its lonely waters walled about by
thick jungles of sedge and cat-tails; a desolate spot, seldom visited
by man, but known and haunted by all the kindred of the wild. You
might trace their well-worn trails through the swamp on all sides.
Here came Moween, the black bear, and her one cub, for the other she
had lost. The sharp teeth of Nemox had done their work. On the edge
of the lake Unk-Wunk, the porcupine, loved to loaf, digging out lily
roots, and towards night, when shadows crept over the water, Nemox,
the fisher, would sneak down, hoping to trap some little wild thing.
One day about twilight, when the little herons were half-grown, a
large colony of herons came to the lake. It was approaching time for
their annual colonizing plans, and they always meet and talk it over.
Down they flocked in droves, on wide azure wings, calling to each
other their lonely salute, "Quoskh, quoskh." And after standing on
the pebbly shore solemnly upon one foot for a while, at a signal they
all began to dance a most fantastic sort of a dance, which is called
"the heron dance." Many were the curious eyes watching the strange
dance of the herons. Among them was Nemox, the fisher, who almost
forgot to hide himself, so taken up in watching the herons was he.
However, as he watched them a sudden fascinating odour came to his
nostrils and he forgot everything else--it was catnip.
Soon he reached the bed of catnip, all silvery green leaves,
sparkling with dew. He nibbled and ate, until finally, overcome
completely by the fascinating odour, he simply lay down and rolled
about, purring like a cat for sheer delight. He felt dreamy and
care-free. But just as he was enjoying himself supremely, down
floated the wide wings of Quoskh, the great blue heron, and with two
stabs of her sword-like beak she had blinded Nemox, and with her
wings beaten the breath completely out of his body.
Then, triumphantly, the heron spread her great blue wings and flew
off into the twilight, calling "Quoskh, quoskh, quoskh" to her mate
across the silence of the marshes.
THE BOTOLPH
PRINTING WORKS,
8, GATE STREET,
KINGSWAY, W.C.2