Up at the edge of the woods the wood-cutters had felled a tree into the
open pasture. As they trimmed the trunk, they threw the smaller branches
into a big pile. Uncle Mark intended to burn them when they became dry
enough, but forgot all about it. There they had lain for years, till
they were dead and covered with moss. Over the heap of half-rotted
brushwood a tangle of wild vines had spread, and up through them a
thicket of blackberry bushes had grown.
This was just the place for a rabbit nest. Mother Wa-poose could squat
anywhere in the pile and her brown coat would blend with the dead brush
so perfectly that only the keenest eye could see her. No hawk or owl
could swoop through such a tangle of vines and brush, and no fox or dog
could creep through the close-set hedge of thorny blackberry bushes
without losing a good deal of his hide.
Through the thicket Mother Wa-poose cut two or three paths just wide
enough for herself, but not big enough for a dog or a fox. In the middle
of the brush pile, she dug a little round hollow about a foot across and
lined it with coarse grass. On the top of this she placed another lining
of finer grass. Then she filled the hollow quite full of soft fur from
her own coat. No bird's nest could be cosier or safer. To be sure, it
was on the ground, but the land sloped and no water could settle into
it.
One day as little Luke was passing by the brush pile, his keen eye saw
Mother Wa-poose. "There," said he to himself, "is just the place for a
rabbit's nest. I'll take a look at Mother Wa-poose's babies."
So he got down on his hands and knees, pulled the bushes apart, and
crept into the thicket. He saw the nest, but could not get quite to it
because of the sharp thorns on the blackberry bushes.
"Good morning, Man-cub," said Mother Wa-poose.
"Good morning, Mother Wa-poose," said little Luke; "don't be afraid,
I only want to take a look at your babies."
"Oh, I'm not afraid," said Mother Wa-poose. "None of us are afraid of
you any more. Look all you want to. But don't come any nearer. I am
afraid you will open a path for Kee-wuk the Red Fox, or for Old Boze the
Hound. Both of them have been around here several times. They know that
I and my babies are here, but they can't get in. Old Boze tried it the
other day, but went back to the house with a pair of bloody ears for
his pains."
"Yes, I noticed his ears," said little Luke, "and wondered what he had
been up to."
The little boy sat down as comfortably as he could and looked at Mother
Wa-poose and her babies.
"Mother Wa-poose," said he after a while, "what makes you wriggle your
nose so?"
"Oh," said Mother Wa-poose, "I do that to keep my smeller clear. You see
we have so many enemies that we have to be on the watch all the time,
and I can smell a fox or a dog almost as far as I can see them. You
see I always sit with my nose to the wind, and my ears in the other
direction. My nose tells me who is coming in front; my ears tell me who
is coming from behind; and my eyes keep watch on both sides. I sleep
most of the day, but my eyes, my ears, and my nose are always awake.
Why, I knew you were coming almost half an hour ago. My nose told me.
It is only in such a place as this that my three sentinels ever get
any rest.
"When I haven't any babies to care for, I like to sit in a more open
place in the sun. So long as I have a chance to run each way, I am not
much afraid of anybody. And if it wasn't for the men with their dreadful
fire-sticks, we of the Wa-poose family would have a pretty safe and easy
time of it."
Just then the deep bay of a hound was heard. "There," said Mother
Wa-poose, "there's Old Boze now. Would you like to see how I can fool
him?"
"I would indeed," said little Luke, "if you are not afraid. Old Boze is
a wise, old hound, and he may catch you."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of that," said Mother Wa-poose. "You just sit here
where you can see, and I'll go down there and give Old Boze the time of
his life. I think he must be trailing me now by the sound. I was down in
the garden last night after a meal of cabbage leaves, and I suppose he
has found my track."
Mother Wa-poose sprang out of her hiding place and went down the slope
ten feet at a bound. She crossed her old track near the pasture bars and
hopped slowly on to the edge of the blackberry patch. There she sat till
she was sure that Old Boze had found her new trail. Then she skipped
here and there through the briar patch till she came out on the other
side. With a great leap she cleared the fence and ran on down through
the cornfield. When she was clear of that, she ran along beside the
stone wall till she came to the creek. Over the creek she went at one
leap; then down through the alder bushes till she came back again into
the pasture. Two or three times she crossed the brook. Then she came
around up through the woods to the brush pile, where little Luke was
sitting. From its lower edge there was a good view all down through the
pasture. There Mother Wa-poose sat up and watched the old hound, her
big, round eyes shining with glee.
Old Boze followed her trail into the blackberry thicket. Round and round
he followed the scent, pushing his way through the stout bushes. Every
bush was armed with a thousand sharp hooks, and every hook clung to the
old hound's skin. He fairly whimpered with pain. Now and then he gave
tongue, until at last he came out on the other side. But his ears were
in tatters and blood drops oozed from his skin in a thousand places.
At the fence he was balked. Up and down beside the fence he ran several
times, nosing the ground for the scent.
"Look at him! Look at him," said Mother Wa-poose, fairly shaking her
sides with laughter. "Isn't he a sight? But that won't teach him
anything. He'll do it the next time. Rabbit chasing must be lots of fun
for him."
"I really do think he enjoys it," said little Luke.
Old Boze jumped over the fence and found the trail again. He followed
it until he came to the creek. There he was puzzled. But he crossed the
brook and found the trail at last. Over in the pasture he lost it again.
Mother Wa-poose had been too cunning for him this time. After nosing the
ground in all directions for a long time in vain, the old hound gave it
up, and went back to the house.
"You see," said Mother Wa-poose, "if it wasn't for the fire-sticks, the
hounds would not bother us much. Why will the house people be so cruel
to us? We never harm them. Last fall the fire-sticks killed six of my
children." And Mother Wa-poose's eyes filled with tears at the thought.
"It is too bad," said little Luke, "but Uncle Mark says that if some of
the rabbits weren't killed off every year, they'd soon eat all the grass
from the sheep and cows, and we wouldn't be able to raise any cabbages
or turnips at all. Besides, you know, the house people like rabbit's
flesh to eat. I used to eat it myself, but I'll never do it any more."
"How dreadful!" said Mother Wa-poose. "I don't see how anybody can eat
flesh. Clover, or a nice, tender cabbage leaf is a good deal better."