The Weasels were very unpopular with most of the forest people, the pond
and meadow people did not like them, and those who lived in the farmyard
couldn't bear them. Something went wrong there every time that a Weasel
came to call. Once, you know, the Dorking Hen was so frightened that she
broke her wonderful shiny egg, and there were other times when even
worse things had happened. Usually there was a Chicken or two missing
after the Weasel had gone.
The Weasels were very fond of their own family, however, and would tell
their best secrets to each other. That meant almost as much with them as
to share food, for they were very inquisitive and always wanted to know
all about everything. They minded their own business, but they minded
everybody's else as well. If you told a thing to one Weasel you might be
sure that before the night was over every Weasel in the neighborhood
would know all about it. They told other people, too, when they had a
chance. They were dreadful gossips. If they saw a person do something
the least unusual, they thought about it and talked about it and
wondered what it meant, and decided that it meant something very
remarkable and became very much excited. At such times, they made many
excuses to go calling, and always managed to tell about what they had
seen, what they had heard, and what they were perfectly certain it
meant.
They went everywhere, and could go quietly and without being noticed.
They were small people, about as long as Rats, but much more slender,
and with such short legs that their bodies seemed to almost lie on the
ground. All their fur was brown, except that on their bellies and the
inside of their legs, which was pure white. Sometimes the fur on their
feet matched their backs and sometimes it matched their bellies. That
was as might happen. You can easily see how they could steal along over
the brown earth or the dead leaves and grass without showing plainly. In
winter they turned white, and then they did not show on the snow. The
very tip of their short tails stayed a pale brown, but it was so tiny as
hardly to be noticed. Any Hawk in the air, who saw just that bit of
brown on the snow beneath him, would be likely to think it a leaf or a
piece of bark and pay no more attention to it.
The Weasel mothers were very careful of their children and very brave.
It made no difference how great the danger might be, they would stay by
their babies and fight for them. And such workers as they were! It made
no difference to them whether it was day or night, they would burrow or
hunt just the same. When they were tired they slept, and when they
awakened they began at once to do something.
[Illustration: IN WINTER THEY TURNED WHITE. _Page 178_]
Several families lived in the high bank by the edge of the forest, just
where the ground slopes down to the marsh. They had lived there year
after year, and had kept on adding to their burrows. There was only one
doorway to each burrow and that was usually hidden by some leaves or a
stone. They were hardly as large as Chipmunk's holes and easily hidden.
"It is a good thing to have a fine, large home," said the Weasels, "but
we build for comfort, not for show."
All the Weasel burrows began alike, with a straight, narrow hall. Then
more halls branched off from this, and every little way there would be a
room in which to turn around or rest. In some of these they stored
food; in others they had nothing but bones and things which were left
from their meals. Each burrow had one fine, large room, bigger than an
Ovenbird's nest, with a soft bed of leaves and fur. Some of the rooms
were so near the top of the ground that a Weasel could dig his way up in
a few minutes if he needed another door. They were the loveliest sort of
places for playing hide-and-seek, and that is a favorite Weasel game,
only every Weasel wants to seek instead of hiding. There was never a bit
of loose earth around these homes, and that is the one secret which
Weasels will not tell out of the family--they never tell what they do
with the earth they dig out. It just disappears.
Weasels like to hunt in parties. They say there is no fun in doing
anything unless you have somebody with whom to talk it over. One night
four of them went out together as soon as it was dark. They were young
fellows and had planned to go to the farmer's Hen-house for the first
time. They started to go there, but of course they wanted to see
everything by the way. They would run straight ahead for a little while,
then turn off to one side, as Ants do, poking into a Chipmunk's hole or
climbing a tree to find a bird's nest, eating whatever food they found,
and talking softly about everything.
"It is disgraceful the way that Chipmunk keeps house," said one of them,
as he came back from going through a burrow under a tree. "Half-eaten
food dropped right on the floor of the burrow in the most careless way.
It was only a nut. If it had been anything I cared for, I would have
eaten it myself."
Then they gossiped about Chipmunks, and said that, although they always
looked trim and neat, there was no telling what sort of housekeepers
they were; and that it really seemed as though they would do better to
stay at home more and run about the forest less. The Chipmunk heard all
this from the tree where he had hidden himself, and would have liked to
speak right out and tell them what he thought of callers who entered
one's home without knocking and sneaked around to see how things were
kept. He knew better than to do so, however. He knew that when four
hungry Weasels were out hunting their supper, it was an excellent time
to keep still. He was right. And there are many times when it is better
for angry people to keep still, even if they are not afraid of being
eaten.
After they had gone he came down. "It was lucky for me," he said, "that
I awakened hungry and ate a lunch. If I hadn't been awake to run away
there's no telling where I would be now. There are some things worse
than having people think you a poor housekeeper."
Just as the Chipmunk was finishing his lunch, one of the Weasels
whispered to the others to stop. "There is somebody coming," said he.
"Let's wait and see what he is doing."
It was the Black-tailed Skunk, who came along slowly, sniffing here and
there, and once in a while stopping to eat a few mouthfuls.
"Doesn't it seem to you that he acts very queerly?" said one of the
Weasels to the rest.
"Very," replied another. "And he doesn't look quite as usual. I don't
know that I ever saw him carry his tail in just that way."
"I'd like to know where he is going," said another. "I guess he doesn't
think anybody will see him."
"Let's follow him," said the fourth Weasel, who had not spoken before.
While he was near them they hid behind a hemlock log out of which many
tiny hemlocks were growing. Once in a while they peeped between the soft
fringy leaves of these to see what he was doing. They were much excited.
"He is putting his nose down to the ground," one would say. "It must be
that he has found something."
Then another would poke his little head up through the hemlocks and look
at the Skunk. "He couldn't have found anything after all," he would say.
"I can't hear him eating."
"It is very strange," the rest would murmur.
Now it just happened that the Black-tailed Skunk had scented the Weasels
and knew that they were near. He had also heard the rustling behind the
hemlock log. He knew what gossips Weasels are, and he guessed that they
were watching him, so he decided to give them something to think about.
He knew that they would often fight people larger than themselves, but
he was not afraid of anybody. He did not care to fight them either, for
if he got near enough to really enjoy it they would be likely to bite
him badly, and when a Weasel has set his teeth into anybody it is not
easy to make him let go. "I rather think," said he to himself, "that
there will be four very tired young Weasels sleeping in their burrows
to-morrow."
"He's walking away," whispered one of the Weasels. "Where do you suppose
he is going?"
"We'll have to find out," said the others, as they crept quietly out of
their hiding-places.
The Skunk went exactly where he wanted to. Whenever he found food he ate
it. The Weasels who followed after found nothing left for them. They
became very hungry, but if one of them began to think of going off for
a lunch, the Skunk was certain to do something queer. Sometimes he would
lie down and laugh. Then the Weasels would peep at him from a
hiding-place and whisper together.
"What do you suppose makes him laugh?" they would ask. "It must be that
he is thinking of something wonderful which he is going to do. We must
not lose sight of him."
Once he met the Spotted Skunk, his brother, and they whispered together
for a few minutes. Then the Spotted Skunk laughed, and as he passed on,
the Black-tailed Skunk called back to him: "Be sure not to tell any one.
I do not want it known what I am doing."
Then the four young Weasels nudged each other and said, "There! We knew
it all the time!"
After that, nobody spoke about being hungry. All they cared for was the
following of the Black-tailed Skunk. Once, when they were in the marsh,
they were so afraid of being seen that they slipped into the ditch and
swam for a way. They were good swimmers and didn't much mind, but it
just shows how they followed the Skunk. Once he led them over to the
farm and they remembered their plan of going to the Hen-house. They were
very, very hungry, and each looked at the others to see what they
thought about letting the Skunk go and stopping for a hearty supper.
Still, nobody spoke of doing so. One Weasel whispered: "Now we shall
surely see what he is about. He ought to know that he cannot do wrong or
mischievous things without being found out. And since we discover it
ourselves, we shall certainly feel free to speak of it."
Collie, the watch-dog, was sleeping lightly, and came rushing around the
corner of the house to see what strangers were there, but when he saw
who they were, he dropped his tail and walked away. He was old enough
to know many things, and he knew too much to fight either a Skunk or a
Weasel. Every one lets Skunks alone, and it is well to let Weasels alone
also, for although they are so small they bite badly.
Now the Black-tailed Skunk turned to the forest and walked toward his
hole. The Screech-Owl passed them flying homeward, and several times
Bats darted over their heads. When they went by the Bats' cave they
could tell by the sound that ten or twelve were inside hanging
themselves up for the day. A dim light showed in the eastern sky, and
the day birds were stirring and beginning to preen their feathers.
"What do you think it means?" whispered the Weasels. "He seems to be
going home. Do you suppose he has changed his mind?"
When he reached his hole the Black-tailed Skunk stopped and looked
around. The Weasels hid themselves under some fallen leaves. "I bid you
good-morning," said the Skunk, looking toward the place where they were.
"I hope you are not _too_ tired. This walk has been very easy for me,
but I fear it was rather long for Weasels. Besides, I have found plenty
to eat and have chosen smooth paths for myself. Good-morning! I have
enjoyed your company!"
When even the tip of his tail was hidden in the hole, the Weasels
crawled from under the leaves and looked at each other.
"We believe he knew all the time that we were following him," they said.
"He acted queerly just to fool us. The wretch!"
Yet after all, you see, he had done only what he did every night, and it
was because they were watching and talking about him that they thought
him going on some strange errand.
[Illustration]