was still secure, for no human foot had crossed the deep ravine or
ventured nearer than the opposite hilltop. Her nose told her that
unmistakably; but still she was uneasy, and whenever the cubs were
playing she felt, without knowing why, that she was being watched. When
she trailed over all the ridges in the twilight, seeking to know if
enemies had been near, she found always the scent of two human beings on
a flat rock under the dwarf spruces; and there were always the two
trails coming up and going down the brook. She followed once close
behind the two children, seeing them plainly all the way, till they came
in sight of the little cabin under the cliff, and from the door her
enemy man came out to meet them. For these two little ones, whose trail
she knew, the old she-wolf, like most mother animals in the presence of
children, felt no fear nor enmity whatever. But they watched her den and
her own little ones, that was sure enough; and why should any one watch
a den except to enter some time and destroy? That is a question which no
mother wolf could ever answer; for the wild animals, unlike dogs and
blue jays and men, mind strictly their own business and pay no attention
to other animals. They hate also to be watched; for the thought of
watching always suggests to their minds that which follows,--the hunt,
the rush, the wild break-away, and the run for life. Had she not herself
watched a hundred times at the rabbit's form, the fox's runway, the deer
path, the wild-goose nest? What could she expect for her own little
ones, therefore, when the man cubs, beings of larger reach and unknown
power, came daily to watch at her den?
All this unanswered puzzle must have passed through the old wolf's head
as she trotted up the brook away from the Indian cabin in the twilight.
When in doubt trust your fears,--that is wolf wisdom in a nutshell; and
that marks the difference between a wolf and a caribou, for instance,
which in doubt trusts his nose or his curiosity. So the old wolf took
counsel of her fears for her little ones, and that night carried them
one by one in her mouth, as a cat carries her kittens, miles away over
rocks and ravines and spruce thickets, to another den where no human eye
ever looked upon their play.
"Shall we see them again, little brother?" said Mooka wistfully, when
they had climbed to their watch-tower for the third time and seen
nothing. And Noel made confident answer:
"Oh, yes, we see um again, lil sister. Wayeeses got um wandering foot;
go 'way off long ways; bimeby come back on same trail. He jus' like
Injun, like um old camp best. Oh, yes, sartin we see um again." But
Noel's eyes looked far away as he spoke, and in his heart he was
thinking of his bow and his long arrow with the sharp point, and of a
moonlit night with white shapes flitting noiselessly over the snow and
scratching at the door of the little cabin.
_The Way of The Wolf_
A new experience had come to the little wolf cubs in a single
night,--the experience of fear. For weeks they had lain hid in the dark
den, or played fearlessly in the bright sunshine, guarded and kept at
every moment, day or night, by the gaunt old mother wolf that was their
only law, their only companion. At times they lay for hours hungry and
restless, longing to go out into the bright world, yet obeying a
stronger will than their own, even at a distance. For, once a wild
mother in her own dumb way has bidden her little ones lie still, they
rarely stir from the spot, refusing even to be dragged away from the
nest or den, knowing well the punishment in store if she return and find
them absent. Moreover, it is useless to dissimulate, to go out and play
and then to be sleeping innocently with the cubs when the old wolf's
shadow darkens the entrance. No concealment is possible from wolf's
nose; before she enters the den the mother knows perfectly all that has
happened since she went away. So the days glided by peacefully between
sleep and play, the cubs trusting absolutely in the strength and
tenderness that watched over them, the mother building the cubs' future
on the foundation of the two instincts which are strong in every wild
creature born into a world of danger,--the instinct to lie still and let
nature's coloring hide all defenseless little ones, and the instinct to
obey instantly a stronger will than their own.
There was no fear as yet, only instinctive wariness; for fear comes
largely from others' example, from alarms and excitement and cries of
danger, which only the grown animals understand. The old wolf had been
undisturbed; no dog or hunter had chased her; no trap or pitfall had
entangled her swift feet. Moreover, she had chosen her den well, where
no man had ever stood, and where only the eyes of two children had seen
her at a distance. So the little ones grew and played in the sunshine,
and had yet to learn what fear meant.
One day at dusk the mother entered swiftly and, without giving them food
as she had always done, seized a cub and disappeared. For the little
one, which had never before ventured beyond sight of the den, it was a
long journey indeed that followed,--miles and miles beside roaring
brooks and mist-filled ravines, through gloomy woods where no light
entered, and over bare ridges where the big stars sparkled just over his
ears as he hung, limp as a rabbit skin, from his mother's great jaws. An
owl hooted dismally, _whoo-hooo!_ and though he knew the sound well in
his peaceful nights, it brought now a certain shiver. The wind went
sniffing suspiciously among the spruce branches; a startled bird chirped
and whirred away out of their path; the brook roared among the rocks; a
big salmon jumped and tumbled back with resounding splash, and jumped
again as if the otter were after him. There was a sudden sharp cry, the
first and last voice of a hare when the weasel rises up in front of him;
then silence, and the fitful rustle of his mother's pads moving
steadily, swiftly over dry leaves. And all these sounds of the
wilderness night spoke to the little cub of some new thing, of swift
feet that follow and of something unknown and terrible that waits for
all unwary wild things. So fear was born.
The long journey ended at last before a dark hole in the hillside; and
the smell of his mother, the only familiar thing in his first strange
pilgrimage, greeted the cub from the rocks on either side as he passed
in out of the starlight. He was dropped without a sound in a larger den,
on some fresh-gathered leaves and dead grass, and lay there all alone,
very still, with the new feeling trembling all over him. A long hour
passed; a second cub was laid beside him, and the mother vanished as
before; another hour, and the wolf cubs were all together again with the
mother feeding them. Nor did any of them know where they were, nor why
they had come, nor the long, long way that led back to where the trail
began.
Next day when they were called out to play they saw a different and more
gloomy landscape, a chaos of granite rocks, a forest of evergreen, the
white plunge and rolling mist of a mountain torrent; but no silver sea
with fishing-boats drifting over it, like clouds in the sea over their
heads, and no gray hut with children running about like ants on the
distant shore. And as they played they began for the first time to
imitate the old mother keeping guard over them, sitting up often to
watch and listen and sift the winds, trying to understand what fear was,
and why they had been taken away from the sunny hillside where the world
was so much bigger and brighter than here. But home is where mother
is,--that, fortunately, is also true of the little Wood Folk, who
understand it in their own savage way for a season,--and in their wonder
at their new surroundings the memory of the old home gradually faded
away. They never knew with what endless care the new den had been
chosen; how the mother, in the days when she knew she was watched, had
searched it out and watched over it and put her nose to every ridge and
ravine and brook-side, day after day, till she was sure that no foot
save that of the wild things had touched the soil within miles of the
place. They felt only a greater wildness, a deeper solitude; and they
never forgot, though they were unmolested, the strange feeling that was
born in them on that first terrifying night journey in their mother's
jaws.
* * * * *
Soon the food that was brought home at dawn--the rabbit or grouse, or
the bunch of rats hanging by their tails, with which the mother
supplemented their midday drink of milk--became altogether too scant to
satisfy their clamorous appetites; and in the bright afternoons and the
long summer twilights the mother led them forth on short journeys to
hunt for themselves. No big caribou or cunning fox cub, as one might
suppose, but "rats and mice and such small deer" were the limit of the
mother's ambition for her little ones. They began on stupid grubs that
one could find asleep under stones and roots, and then on beetles that
scrambled away briskly at the first alarm, and then, when the sunshine
was brightest, on grasshoppers,--lively, wary fellows that zipped and
buzzed away just when you were sure you had them, and that generally
landed from an astounding jump facing in a different direction, like a
flea, so as to be ready for your next move.
It was astonishing how quickly the cubs learned that game is not to be
picked up tamely, like huckleberries, and changed their style of
hunting,--creeping, instead of trotting openly so that even a porcupine
must notice them, hiding behind rocks and bushes and tufts of grass till
the precise moment came, and then leaping with the swoop of a goshawk on
a ptarmigan. A wolf that cannot catch a grasshopper has no business
hunting rabbits--this seemed to be the unconscious motive that led the
old mother, every sunny afternoon, to ignore the thickets where game was
hiding plentifully and take her cubs to the dry, sunny plains on the
edge of the caribou barrens. There for hours at a time they hunted
elusive grasshoppers, rushing helter-skelter over the dry moss, leaping
up to strike at the flying game with their paws like a kitten, or
snapping wildly to catch it in their mouths and coming down with a
back-breaking wriggle to keep themselves from tumbling over on their
heads. Then on again, with a droll expression and noses sharpened like
exclamation points, to find another grasshopper.
Small business indeed and often ludicrous, this playing at grasshopper
hunting. So it seems to us; so also, perhaps, to the wise old mother,
which knew all the ways of game, from crickets to caribou and from
ground sparrows to wild geese. But play is the first great
educator,--that is as true of animals as of men,--and to the cubs their
rough helter-skelter after hoppers was as exciting as a stag hunt to the
pack, as full of surprises as the wild chase through the soft snow after
a litter of lynx kittens. And though they knew it not, they were
learning things every hour of the sunny, playful afternoons that they
would remember and find useful all the days of their life.
So the funny little hunt went on, the mother watching gravely under a
bush where she was inconspicuous, and the cubs, full of zest and
inexperience, missing the flying tidbits more often than they swallowed
them, until they learned at last to locate all game accurately before
chasing or alarming it; and that is the rule, learned from hunting
grasshoppers, which a wolf follows ever afterward. Even after they knew
just where the grasshopper was hiding, watching them after a jump, and
leaped upon him swiftly from a distance, he often got away when they
lifted their paws to eat him. For the grasshopper was not dead under the
light paw, as they supposed, but only pressed into the moss waiting for
his chance to jump. Then the cubs learned another lesson: to hold their
game down with both paws pressed closely together, inserting their noses
like a wedge and keeping every crack of escape shut tight until they had
the slippery morsel safe under their back teeth. And even then it was
deliciously funny to watch their expression as they chewed, opening
their jaws wide as if swallowing a rabbit, snapping them shut again as
the grasshopper wiggled; and always with a doubt in their close-set
eyes, a questioning twist of head and ears, as if they were not quite
sure whether or not they were really eating him.
Another suggestive thing came out in these hunts, which you must notice
whether you watch wolves or coyotes or a den of fox cubs. Though no
sound came from the watchful old mother, the cubs seemed at every
instant under absolute control. One would rush away pell-mell after a
hopper, miss him and tumble away again, till he was some distance from
the busy group on the edge of the big lonely barren. In the midst of his
chase the mother would raise her head and watch the cub intently. No
sound was uttered that human ears could hear; but the chase ended right
there, on the instant, and the cub came trotting back like a well-broken
setter at the whistle. It was marvelous beyond comprehension, this
absolute authority and this silent command that brought a wolf back
instantly from the wildest chase, and that kept the cubs all together
under the watchful eyes that followed every movement. No wonder wolves
are intelligent in avoiding every trap and in hunting together to outwit
some fleet-footed quarry with unbelievable cunning. Here on the edge of
the vast, untrodden barren, far from human eyes, in an ordinary family
of wolf cubs playing wild and free, eager, headstrong, hungry, yet
always under control and instantly subject to a wiser head and a
stronger will than their own, was the explanation of it all. Later, in
the bitter, hungry winter, when a big caribou was afoot and the pack hot
on his trail, the cubs would remember the lesson, and every free wolf
would curb his hunger, obeying the silent signal to ease the game and
follow slowly while the leader raced unseen through the woods to head
the game and lie in ambush by the distant runway.
From grasshoppers the cubs took to hunting the wood-mice that nested in
the dry moss and swarmed on the edges of every thicket. This was keener
hunting; for the wood-mouse moves like a ray of light, and always makes
at least one false start to mislead any that may be watching for him.
The cubs soon learned that when Tookhees appeared and dodged back again,
as if frightened, it was not because he had seen them, but just because
he always appears that way. So they crouched and hid, like a cat, and
when a gray streak shot over the gray moss and vanished in a tuft of
grass they leaped for the spot--and always found it vacant. For Tookhees
always doubles on his trail, or burrows for a distance under the moss,
and never hides where he disappears. It took the cubs a long while to
find that out; and then they would creep and watch and listen till they
could locate the game by a stir under the moss, and pounce upon it and
nose it out from between their paws, just as they had done with the
grasshoppers. And when they crunched it at last like a ripe plum under
their teeth it was a delicious tidbit, worth all the trouble they had
taken to get it. For your wolf, unlike the ferocious, grandmother-eating
creature of the nursery, is at heart a peaceable fellow, most at home
and most happy when mouse hunting.
There was another kind of this mouse chasing which furnished better
sport and more juicy mouthfuls to the young cubs. Here and there on the
Newfoundland mountains the snow lingers all summer long. In every
northern hollow of the hills you see, from a distance, white patches no
bigger than your hat sparkling in the sun; but when you climb there,
after bear or caribou, you find great snow-fields, acres in extent and
from ten to a hundred feet deep, packed close and hard with the pressure
of a thousand winters. Often when it rains in the valleys, and raises
the salmon rivers to meet your expectations, a thin covering of new snow
covers these white fields; and then, if you go there, you will find the
new page written all over with the feet of birds and beasts. The mice
especially love these snow-fields for some unknown reason. All along the
edges you find the delicate, lacelike tracery which shows where little
feet have gone on busy errands or played together in the moonlight; and
if you watch there awhile you will surely see Tookhees come out of the
moss and scamper across a bit of snow and dive back to cover under the
moss again, as if he enjoyed the feeling of the cold snow under his feet
in the summer sunshine. He has tunnels there, too, going down to solid
ice, where he hides things to keep which would spoil if left in the heat
of his den under the mossy stone, and when food is scarce he draws upon
these cold-storage rooms; but most of his summer snow journeys, if one
may judge from watching him and from following his tracks, are taken for
play or comfort, just as the bull caribou comes up to lie in the snow,
with the strong sea wind in his face, to escape the flies which swarm in
the thickets below. Owl and hawk, fox and weasel and wildcat,--all the
prowlers of the day and night have long since discovered these good
hunting-grounds and leave the prints of wing and claw over the records
of the wood-mice; but still Tookhees returns, led by his love of the
snow-fields, and thrives and multiplies spite of all his enemies.
One moonlit night the old wolf took her cubs to the edge of one of these
snow-fields, where the eager eyes soon noticed dark streaks shooting
hither and yon over the bare white surface. At first they chased them
wildly; but one might as well try to catch a moonbeam, which has not so
many places to hide as a wood-mouse. Then, remembering the grasshoppers,
they crouched and crept and so caught a few. Meanwhile old mother wolf
lay still in hiding, contenting herself with snapping up the game that
came to her, instead of chasing it wildly all over the snow-field. The
example was not lost; for imitation is strong among intelligent animals,
and most of what they learn is due simply to following the mother. Soon
the cubs were still, one lying here under shadow of a bush, another
there by a gray rock that lifted its head out of the snow. As a dark
streak moved nervously by one of these hiding-places there would be a
rush, a snap, the _pchap pchap_ of jaws crunching a delicious morsel;
then all quiet again, with only gray, innocent-looking shadows resting
softly on the snow. So they moved gradually along the edges of the great
white field; and next morning the tracks were all there, plain as
daylight, telling their silent story of good hunting.
To vary their diet the mother now took them down to the shore to hunt
among the rocks for ducks' eggs. They were there by the hundreds,
scattered along the lonely bays just above high-water line, where the
eiders had their nests.
At first old mother wolf showed them where to look, and when she had
found a clutch of eggs would divide them fairly, keeping the hungry cubs
in order at a little distance and bringing each one his share, which he
ate without interference. Then when they understood the thing they
scattered nimbly to hunt for themselves, and the real fun began.
Now a cub, poking his nose industriously into every cranny and under
every thick bush, would find a great roll of down plucked from the
mother bird's breast, and scraping the top off carefully with his paw,
would find five or six large pale-green eggs, which he gobbled down,
shells, ducklings and all, before another cub should smell the good find
and caper up to share it. Again he would be startled out of his wits as
a large brown bird whirred and fluttered away from under his very nose.
Sitting on his tail he would watch her with comical regret and longing
till she tumbled into the tide and drifted swiftly away out of danger;
then, remembering what he came for, he would turn and follow her trail
back to the nest out of which she had stolen at his approach, and find
the eggs all warm for his breakfast. And when he had eaten all he wanted
he would take an egg in his mouth and run about uneasily here and there,
like a dog with a bone when he thinks he is watched, till he had made a
sad crisscross of his trail and found a spot where none could see him.
There he would dig a hole and bury his egg and go back for more; and on
his way would meet another cub running about with an egg in his mouth,
looking for a spot where no one would notice him.
From mice and eggs the young cubs turned to rabbits and hares; and these
were their staple food ever afterward when other game was scarce and the
wood-mice were hidden deep under the winter snows, safe at last for a
little season from all their enemies. Here for the first time the father
wolf appeared, coming in quietly one late afternoon, as if he knew, as
he probably did, just when he was needed. Beyond a glance he paid no
attention whatever to the cubs, only taking his place opposite the
mother as the wolves started abreast in a long line to beat the thicket.
By night the cubs had already caught several rabbits, snapping them up
as they played heedlessly in the moonlight, just as they had done with
the wood-mice. By day, however, the hunting was entirely different. Then
the hares and rabbits are resting in their hidden forms under the ferns,
or in a hollow between the roots of a brown stump. Like game birds,
whether on the nest or sitting quiet in hiding, the rabbits give out far
less scent at such times than when they are active; and the cubs,
stealing through the dense cover like shadows in imitation of the old
wolves, and always hunting upwind, would use their keen noses to locate
Moktaques before alarming him. If a cub succeeded, and snapped up a
rabbit before the surprised creature had time to gather headway, he
dropped behind with his catch, while the rest went slowly, carefully, on
through the cover. If he failed, as was generally the case at first, a
curious bit of wolf intelligence and wolf training came out at once.
As the wolves advanced the father and mother would steal gradually ahead
at either end of the line, rarely hunting themselves, but drawing the
nearest cub's attention to any game they had discovered, and then moving
silently to one side and a little ahead to watch the result. When the
cub rushed and missed, and the startled rabbit went flying away,
whirling to left or right as rabbits always do, there would be a
lightning change at the end of the line. A terrific rush, a snap of the
long jaws like a steel trap,--then the old wolf would toss back the
rabbit with a broken back, for the cub to finish him. Not till the cubs
first, and then the mother, had satisfied their hunger would the old
he-wolf hunt for himself. Then he would disappear, and they would not
see him for days at a time, until food was scarce and they needed him
once more.
One day, when the cubs were hungry and food scarce because of their
persistent hunting near the den, the mother brought them to the edge of
a dense thicket where rabbits were plentiful enough, but where the cover
was so thick that they could not follow the frightened game for an
instant. The old he-wolf had appeared at a distance and then vanished;
and the cubs, trotting along behind the mother, knew nothing of what was
coming or what was expected of them. They lay in hiding on the lee side
of the thicket, each one crouching under a bush or root, with the mother
off at one side perfectly hidden as usual.
Presently a rabbit appeared, hopping along in a crazy way, and ran plump
into the jaws of a wolf cub, which leaped up as if out of the ground,
and pulled down his game from the very top of the high jump which
Moktaques always gives when he is suddenly startled. Another and another
rabbit appeared mysteriously, and doubled back into the cover before
they could be caught. The cubs were filled with wonder. Such hunting was
never seen before; for rabbits stirred abroad by day, and ran right into
the hungry mouths instead of running away. Then, slinking along like a
shadow and stopping to look back and sniff the wind, appeared a big red
fox that had been sleeping away the afternoon on top of a stump in the
center of the thicket.