[Illustration: MRS. BEAR FIERCELY TUGGED AT THE CRUEL CHAIN]
THE THREE BEARS
OF PORCUPINE RIDGE
WILD DWELLERS OF FOREST MARSH AND LAKE
[Illustration]
BY
JEAN M. THOMPSON
AUTHOR OF
WATER WONDERS
ETC
ILLUSTRATED BY
CHARLES COPELAND
W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON-CHICAGO
_Copyrighted, 1913_,
BY W. A. WILDE COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
WILD DWELLERS OF FOREST, MARSH AND LAKE
_In loving memory of
My Mother,
EMMA CAROLINE FIELD_
CONTENTS
I. THE THREE BEARS OF PORCUPINE RIDGE 11
II. RING NECK, LEADER OF THE FLYING WEDGE 23
III. THE REVOLT OF TIMOTHY 37
IV. THE LITTLE RED DOE OF DEER PASS 47
V. DAME WOODCHUCK AND THE RED MONSTER 61
VI. TRACKED BY A CATAMOUNT 71
VII. THE CALL OF THE MOOSE 89
VIII. THE LAST WOLF OF THE PACK 103
IX. HOW UNK-WUNK THE PORCUPINE MET HIS MATCH 115
X. THE GHOST OF THE WAINSCOT 127
XI. WHY THE WEASEL NEVER SLEEPS 141
XII. MRS. WHITE-SPOT AND HER KITTENS 153
XIII. IN THE BOBCAT’S DEN 169
XIV. WHY AHMUK THE BEAVER MOVED 183
XV. NICODEMUS, KING OF CROW COLONY 195
XVI. THE STORY OF RUSTY STARLING 209
XVII. WHERE THE PARTRIDGE DRUMS 219
XVIII. HOW SOLOMON OWL BECAME WISE 233
XIX. THE KING OF BALSAM SWAMP 245
XX. THE GIANT OF THE CORN-FIELD 257
XXI. THE BRAVERY OF EBENEZER COON 273
XXII. THE NARROW ESCAPE OF VELVET WINGS 285
XXIII. NEMOX, THE CRAFTY ROBBER OF THE MARSHES 297
XXIV. THE KEEPER OF TAMARACK RIDGE 309
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
MRS. BEAR FIERCELY TUGGED AT THE CRUEL CHAIN _Frontispiece_
THAT VERY INSTANT TOM FIRED 85
MRS. WHITE-SPOT TEACHING THE LITTLE SKUNKS HOW TO TAKE A BATH 157
SOLOMON FAILED TO SEE THE TRAP 239
[Illustration: THE THREE BEARS OF PORCUPINE RIDGE]
I
THE THREE BEARS OF PORCUPINE RIDGE
“Woof, woof, woof,” called the little black mother bear gruffly, turning
over a rotten log with her snout and uncovering a fine ant’s nest.
“Woof, woof,” answered back the two round black balls of animated
fur--the cubs, as they scrambled eagerly and clumsily over the log, and
began to feed greedily upon their mother’s find.
The little black mother bear and her two cubs lived in a cozy den just
below Porcupine Ridge, which happened to be far up on the side of
Cushman Mountain. They were a happy little family, the three bears, and
every day the two cubs grew more ball-like and lovable to their patient
mother, who always managed to lead them to the very best feeding places.
Through the dense, dark spruce forests, far down into the swamps below
she took them, where they fed happily upon young frogs or crawfish, and
the juicy sprouts of the skunk cabbages. Occasionally she would show
them the way across the burnt swale, where the wild raspberries grew
luscious and red.
The three bears nearly always slept inside their den the greater part of
the day, but as soon as the hermit thrush began to sing her sleepy
lullaby song, and the old gray hoot owl, who lived in a giant sycamore
tree just below the Ridge, “who-oo, oo’d,” then Mrs. Bear would nudge
the two sleeping cubs with her snout, and cuff them about with her great
paws playfully, until they were wide awake. Then off they would all
three start in the moonlight to make a night of it in the forest. And
they never thought of coming back to the den again until morning, when
they had usually satisfied their pressing hunger.
Oh, life on Porcupine Ridge was peaceful and happy enough for the old
mother bear and her two roly-poly cubs, and they were very contented
with life until one eventful day something happened which changed
everything, and this was how it came about.
One night, when it was “dark o’ the moon,” Mrs. Bear discovered a great
patch of ripe raspberries in the edge of the swamp, and so while the two
cubs were busy feeding upon the luscious berries, she suddenly became
possessed with a keen desire for an adventure. So plunging deep into the
swamp, she was soon across its treacherous quagmires, on through the
dense spruce bush, and soon came out upon the far side of the swamp. She
headed for the sheep pasture at first, but soon lost all desire for
fresh lamb, for just then her keen nose had scented something far more
desirable and delicious. It was honey.
On and on scrambled Mrs. Bear through the sheep pasture, utterly
forgetting the cubs; past the rail fence she waddled, where sat the old
gobbler turkey and his ten timorous wives, fast asleep, but uttering
little, flurried peepings even in their dreams. But Mrs. Bear passed
them carelessly by, and hurried on, with little eager “woof, woof’s,”
until she had come to the farmer’s home lot, and then she knew she had
found that for which she searched, for suddenly she came upon five
beehives. With her snout she soon managed to upset one hive, and then
coat, snout and paws were soon smeared thickly with the sticky honey.
Mrs. Bear might have wished the cubs were there, but if she did she was
enjoying herself far too keenly to trouble about them then.
She soon finished one hive of honey and then turned over another, but as
by this time she began to feel that she had had plenty for a while, just
out of pure mischief, with her snout and paws, she simply tipped over
the other hives. Suddenly Mrs. Bear discovered that a few angry bees had
awakened and were clinging tightly to her thick fur, whereupon she
immediately started off for the swamp at a quick, shambling trot, for
well she remembered a certain deep, muddy water-hole, and making
straight for the spot, she was soon rolling and wallowing contentedly
about, trying to rid herself of the troublesome bees, and the sticky
honey. It was here that the cubs joined their mother, who grunted and
“woof, woofed,” and as soon as the long yellow rays of approaching dawn
began to shoot up from the other side of the mountain, the three bears
scrambled back to their den on the Ridge, and were soon fast asleep.
Of course the farmer found his overturned beehives, the next morning,
and angry enough he was, I can tell you.
“Ugh, a bear did this,” he grumbled, as he examined closely the great,
wide footprints which Mrs. Bear had left all over the ground. By
following the bear tracks the farmer soon knew just what ground the old
bear had covered. He even traced her to the mud wallow where she had rid
herself of the bees and honey. Then the farmer sat about concocting a
scheme to catch Mrs. Bear, for well he knew she would return again after
more honey. But if there is one thing in all the world which a bear
enjoys eating more than honey, it is a great hunk of crumbly maple
sugar, for bears have a wonderfully keen sweet tooth. The farmer climbed
up Mount Cushman, and when he had reached a spot in the very heart of
the spruce woods, which happened to be about a mile below Porcupine
Ridge, he went to work and set a trap for Mrs. Bear, and this is how he
went about it.
First he hollowed out a kind of den near a deep spring, around which
grew quantities of jack-in-the-pulpit plants, for the bears dearly love
to browse upon the tender shoots of these plants. Then in the hollow he
placed the bear trap, made of strong steel. After setting the trap he
covered it craftily over with a layer of loose twigs, upon which he put,
last of all, a great piece of soft, springy moss. Back of the trap he
laid the bait temptingly, which happened to be a dead woodchuck. So that
when Mrs. Bear should step upon the moss tussock covering the steel
trap, she would instantly spring it.
Then the farmer went home and waited, visiting the trap daily, to see if
Mrs. Bear had been there. Of course she had visited the place, for there
the farmer found bear tracks, but who cares for a dead woodchuck when
the blackberries are ripe, the frogs young and tender, and there is even
honey, if one cares to go a journey for it.
At last the farmer was almost in despair, thinking old Mrs. Bear never
would be caught, and he knew when food grew scarce in winter time his
turkeys and young lambs would no longer be safe from Mrs. Bear. So
finally he thought out a new plan. And that very night when Mrs. Bear
and the two cubs halted at the spring on their way down from the Ridge,
to munch jack-in-the-pulpit sprouts, Mrs. Bear paused and stuck her
black snout inquisitively inside the farmer’s den, and what do you
suppose met her astonished eyes? Right over back of the moss tussock
which concealed the trap, instead of the dead woodchuck was a great,
brown hunk of hard maple sugar. Mrs. Bear would travel far for honey,
but she completely lost her head when she scented maple sugar, so she
planted one great, padded foot in the center of the moss tussock, then,
before she knew it, something stung and gripped like fire into her great
fore-paw, and with a sudden howl of surprise and rage, she backed out of
the den, trying with all her might to shake off the cruel, biting thing
which hurt her foot so wretchedly.
Meantime, the cubs sat up in amazement among the tall ferns, and looking
at their mother’s sad plight, howled and whined in sympathy.
Quite mad by this time with her agony and rage, not knowing what she was
about, Mrs. Bear bolted, with the trap still clinging to her foot.
Cutting a great, wide path in her flight through the underbrush on she
ran. Up and down the mountain she tore, all night long, with the cruel
trap ever biting deeper and deeper into her foot at every turn.
“Bang, bang,” went the farmer’s gun, and the cubs hearing the loud
noise, terrified out of their small wits, scurried off and lost
themselves in the shadows of the great woods, while their poor mother,
with a scream of baffled rage and pain dropped crashing into the
underbrush.
But the bear happened to be simply stunned by the shot, and so the
farmer and his boys took stout ropes and tied her four feet together
and slipping a stout pole between them, in this fashion they carried her
down the mountain, and then chained her to a tree near the barn. For the
farmer and his boys were very proud of their live bear, and proposed to
exhibit their treasure to all the neighbors.
Oh, how miserable and unhappy the poor, little black bear mother was,
tied fast to the tree, while boys and men poked at her and prodded her
with sharp sticks, just for the sake of hearing her fierce, angry
growls. Sometimes, when too hard pressed, she would even climb into the
tree, to get away from her tormentors, but in vain; the chain was too
short for her to get very far away from them all, so she just howled and
howled.
“I shall have to put an end to that old bear; she’s too noisy,” remarked
the farmer that night, as he went to bed.
The moon came up that night over Cushman Mountain, big and yellow, and
afar off among the thick, dark spruces, even above the singing of the
frogs, Mrs. Bear’s little round, alert ears had caught the sound of an
occasional, helpless whimpering cry, which seemed to her strangely
familiar. It was the two motherless little cubs crying, hunting
everywhere for their mother. Slowly but surely they were tracking her
and even now they were coming down the mountain slope, and very soon the
mother bear, straining her little red eyes, caught sight of the two
little round shambling forms of the cubs, stealing from behind the barn.
The next thing they were all rubbing noses and “woof, woofing” together
happily, while their mother fondled them eagerly, cuffing them playfully
about with her free paw, almost forgetting about her smarting wounds, so
delighted was she to have the cubs with her once more.
But time was flying fast; already had the old hoot owl come back from
his night’s wanderings, and gone to sleep in his hole in the sycamore
tree. Pale yellow rays had begun to take the place of the moon which had
set; dawn was on the way, and the bears realized that they must get
away.
Fiercely tugging at the cruel chain Mrs. Bear began to worry it, giving
mighty tugs and wrenches, while the two cubs whimpered a chorus of
encouragement. Finally something gave way, and trailing a long length of
chain behind her, old Mrs. Bear and the two cubs made straight across
Balsam Swamp, and then scrambled and clawed their way up the side of
Cushman Mountain, and not an instant too soon, for by this time the sun
had come up, and day had dawned.
Then the little black bear and her cubs crawled into their den under
Porcupine Ridge, and the tall, wild sweet ferns, the clematis and
nettles fell over their door, and you never would have suspected that
the bear family were safe at home again, and had no fears whatever for
anything, for they had all gone fast asleep.
[Illustration: RING NECK LEADER OF THE FLYING WEDGE]
II
RING NECK, LEADER OF THE FLYING WEDGE
High above the clouds, in the vast spaces of the heavens, the wedge-like
flock of wild geese traveled. Unless your ear was very keen, you could
barely catch the sound of their steady honking cry, far down below upon
earthland, nor could you distinguish the faint outline of the wedge,
unless there should happen to be a rift in the thick cloud curtain above
which they flew.
All through the night they had journeyed, and for many long days and
nights before, and the flock were becoming very wing weary; still, in
spite of this, they never swerved from their course, and kept up their
rhythmic, plaintive “honk, honk-honk, honk,” as they flew. The call was
necessary; it encouraged the weaklings of the flock, and kept the wedge
together in unbroken line, for should one of the trailers fall far
behind, he would quickly be swallowed up in the thick mists away up
there in the trackless sky.
Alone, ahead of the flock, flew Ring Neck, the mighty old leader of the
flying wedge. For years he had led the migrating flock; wide and strong
were his great black wings, never swerving or faltering in their flight,
while his loud, strident “honk, honk” sent back courage to the flock
which trailed behind him. He it was who gave the first signal for
migrating, telling them when it was time to leave the sheltered wildness
of the southern lagoon, where they had wintered, with its deep coverts
and long, trailing mosses, and start north.
Each year his kindred trustingly followed where he led them, thousands
of long, weary miles. Usually the flock flew all night. If the moon
chanced to be bright, you might see from earth the shadowy forms of the
geese and flocks of migrating birds pass swiftly across the surface of
the moon.
Just behind Ring Neck flew the next most important bird of the flock,
Black Crest, a young gander who in time would probably fall into line as
chosen leader of the flock, in case the old king should drop out. In
fact, even now Ring Neck had often to fight for his high position, for
each year Black Crest grew more and more jealous of the leadership, and
but for the terrific beatings which the old leader gave him, from time
to time, to teach him his place, the younger goose would certainly have
been leader. But Ring Neck had no idea of giving way to this younger
bird, no, not until his eyes grew too dim to pierce the mists, or his
great wings too feeble to lead the flock.
“Honk, honk, honk,” called Ring Neck steadily and clearly, slowing down
his steady wing movement a trifle and floating. Then, at a signal, the
whole flock began to drop very gently to earth, following their leader;
down, down they fell. Now they were below the heavy white cloud masses,
but still far above the morning mists. Ring Neck was leading them to
feeding grounds and water. Finally, with swift wings he plunged straight
through the mist curtain, and there right beneath the wedge gleamed a
beautiful lake, spread out in the sunrise like a great silvery mirror.
The flock were tired out, and glad enough that their leader had decided
to rest. He seldom failed in his calculations, and could always locate
water, no matter how high he might be flying, and always when he gave
the signal to descend, they sighted the welcome pond.
“Honk, honk; come on, follow me,” called Ring Neck reassuringly,
plunging eagerly straight for the lake. Then, all of a sudden he slowed
down, swerving a trifle, and uttering a warning cry to the flock to hold
back.
Now what Ring Neck had seen with his sharp eyes was that, close among a
thicket of reeds and cat-tails, he had sighted a strange flock of geese.
Slowly fanning the air with his great wings, keeping himself afloat, and
holding back the flock, Ring Neck swerved toward the strangers. There
were six of them, all of equal size, and his keen old eyes flashed down
upon them with curiosity and jealousy as he watched them floating calmly
about upon the water. Never had he encountered such strange geese
before; stiffly they floated, rocking gently upon the water, but the
strange part of it all was, they neither dipped nor flirted their wings,
or moved their rigid heads about as all his own wild kindred always did
when they struck water. No, these strange geese simply held their heads
in a stiff, fixed position. Were they swimming, resting, or feeding, or
simply keeping still, biding their time, insolently waiting for Ring
Neck to lead his weary flock to water, and then perhaps fall upon them,
tired out as they were, and drive them afar?
Now Ring Neck was old and stubborn, and very brave, so he made up his
mind not to give in to the strangers, but as he wanted the coveted lake
for his own flock, he determined to drive them off.
Uttering a loud, strident scream of rage, he swooped like an arrow down
toward the strangers; with wildly whirling wings he beat the air, trying
to frighten them to rise from the water.
“Bang, bang, bang” snapped out the duck-hunter’s gun, for he had been
cleverly concealed, not very far away from his wooden decoy ducks, only
Ring Neck had been so taken by the decoys that he had not seen him. As
the gun spoke, down fluttered old Ring Neck the leader, and before the
smoke and dropping feathers cleared, the gun pealed out and three of the
flock fell into the water, and the hunter soon had them in his bag. But
not so Ring Neck, for the shot had merely disabled one wing, so that he
lay spread out, flapping helplessly upon the water, trying vainly to
rise in air; no use, and soon with snapping beak, and strong, wild
thrusts of his black feet he was fighting off the hunter, but it was no
use; he was finally made a prisoner.
“Well, old fellow,” commented the hunter to himself, “I’ve shortened
your proud career for a while, I reckon; you’re a mighty fine specimen
of a goose; leader of the flock, I expect,” and he examined, admiringly,
Ring Neck’s glossy head, and the changeable feathers of his neck,
circled about with its silver ring, gradually trying to calm his wild
struggles, as he smoothed his beautiful plumage.
Then the hunter made up his mind not to kill Ring Neck, for he had
another, better plan. He resolved to train the wild goose as a decoy,
and put him in among the wooden birds.
“Perhaps, who knows,” remarked the hunter, “you will be able to call
down the rest of your flock if they come back this way next fall. I’ll
try you and see.”
So Ring Neck was spared, and then began his training as a decoy. Just so
long as the wild geese continued to fly north, each morning, very early,
Ring Neck was thrust into a bag and taken, with the hideous wooden
decoys, to the lake. He soon learned to hate and despise the clumsy,
imitation birds, and at first tried to rise and fly away from them, but
his wing was not strong enough to sustain him, and so he always fell
back weakly among them, where he would peck and jostle them about
angrily; but as the wooden things never showed fight he soon tired of
them and let them alone. Diving and feeding, floating naturally and
contentedly upon the lake among the stupid decoys, he it was who heard
the first faint “honk, honk” of a coming flock of geese; then he would
become wildly excited and send back a loud answering cry, fluttering his
wings and tolling the strange birds down to their doom. Not that Ring
Neck wished the hunter to shoot them, which he always did if they came
near enough. But somehow Ring Neck always hoped that the flock might be
his own; perhaps he even hoped to warn them away. At any rate Ring Neck
soon became a very valuable decoy to the hunter, who grew very fond of
him.
As soon as the wild geese ceased to fly over, the hunter left the lake,
for the season was over, nor would it open again until autumn, when the
birds flew back south, stopping at the lake upon their journey to rest.
So Ring Neck became a decoy no longer, but was allowed his freedom about
the lodge. Strangely enough, he had lost all his wild desire to fly
northward and join the flock, even though the association with the
decoys had been galling. With each week his lame wing grew stronger,
however, and finally his old, wild nature stirred within him, and he
flew off alone.
Ring Neck became strangely lonely, for it was hard for the old leader to
be without the companionship of the flock. After floating and feeding
out on the lake all day, at night he would beat down the coarse grass
with his strong webbed feet, and crouching low he would tuck his broad
beak beneath his wing and try to sleep and forget his loneliness. But
often he was disturbed, for a crafty fox or some enemy, a wild night
prowler, would thrust aside the reeds, and then with whirring,
frightened thrashings, and terrified squawks, Ring Neck would fly to the
water for safety. At daybreak he would feed near the banks, plunging
down deep into the mud and ooze at the bottom, searching among the
snake-like lily roots and water weeds for fresh clams, crawfish and in
the shallows for shoals of little silvery minnows.
One morning he rose to the surface of the water, flirting his great
burnished wings, and sending showers of pattering drops over the lily
pads, and suddenly stretching out his glittering neck he uttered a loud,
hoarse call, full of pleading and loneliness--a cry of longing for his
kindred. Then from a little hidden inlet, to his joy and surprise, came
back a meek, answering reply--“honk, honk, honk.”
With swift, steady strokes Ring Neck followed the call, and there he
found her--a beautiful green-headed duck, one of his own flock. She had
dropped out of the flying wedge, weeks before, and had not had courage
to join them again; perhaps she had even been wounded by the hunter and
had not been able to fly. At any rate she was very lonely, and soon Ring
Neck made his presence known, and after consulting together, they built
a beautiful nest, high and dry upon a little reedy island right in the
middle of the lake, and there they raised ten young geese.
There were few lonely moments now for Ring Neck and his mate, for the
young birds had to be taught to forage for food, and most important of
all, as soon as their wing feathers grew, they must learn to fly, and
strengthen their wings for long flights, for Ring Neck knew that before
the lake filmed over with its first ice, the flock must be far away in
the southern lagoon, where no frost or cold could reach them.
All summer long the old birds trained the young geese for their long
journey, and then when the frost began to touch the tips of the tallest
trees, down in the lowlands, and to nip the little fox grapes, the
migrating instinct came to Ring Neck and his mate. Another bear came to
Ring Neck; perhaps when the flocks began to move southward, the hunter
would come back and once, as if to remind him, he heard the crack of the
terrible rifle, off in the woods, and saw the thin trail of smoke, which
he knew. That day he flew back almost panic-stricken to the island, and
with his mate and family nestled hidden together in the thick tangles of
water weeds all that night.
Early the next morning, before the mists had lifted from the bosom of
the lake, they all took to the water to feed. But somehow, Ring Neck was
overcome with his restless instinct of migrating, so that he failed to
feed with the others. He would float about, nervously, ruffling his
feathers, and flapping the water with his strong wings, uttering little
short, wild calls to his mate, until at last she became as excited as
he. Then, suddenly, afar off, from somewhere beyond the blue hills, Ring
Neck detected a faint, strangely familiar sound.
“Honk, honk, honk-honk,” it sounded, every instant coming plainly nearer
and nearer, until Ring Neck, almost wild with expectation and
excitement, would make little sudden flights above the water, screaming
and darting back to his mate again and again. Plainly he was trying to
urge her to join him in long flight. She flew with him a short distance,
then back to the water, uttering little, reassuring quacks, then Ring
Neck joined her, and they urged the little ones to follow them. All the
time the great, wild flock were coming nearer and nearer, and soon they
were hovering right over the lake.
Ring Neck rose from the water, giving a strange, unusual cry, then from
far above floated back a ringing, answering challenge; he had been
answered, and recognized. It was his old, lost flock, and at their head
flew Black Crest, his enemy, their new leader.
Winging with great, wide, swift circles Ring Neck soon caught up with
the wedge, then followed a whirling, flashing of wings, far up there in
space; a handful of feathers floated down, and when Black Crest, whipped
and beaten as he had never been before, dropped back into second place
as usual, Ring Neck, their old proud leader, took his position again at
the head of the flying wedge. Swerving low, almost to the bosom of the
lake, he led the flock downward, calling all the time in loud,
commanding voice for his family to join him. Back came the answering
calls of his faithful mate, as she and the young geese rose from the
water in a body, and took their places, falling into the tail-end of the
wedge, as the great wild flock, headed by Ring Neck, went “honk,
honking” away to the southern lagoon for the winter.
[Illustration: THE REVOLT OF TIMOTHY]
III
THE REVOLT OF TIMOTHY
A little gray mouse, who lived in the wainscot, poked its nose
cautiously out of a crack beneath the hearth, intending to snatch a
morsel of food from Timothy’s plate, which always stood there, heaped
with dainties, but the next instant the little mouse had changed its
mind, for there sat Timothy himself right upon the hearth in front of
the fire guarding his plate. So, with bright, bead-like eyes, trembling
nose and whiskers, the mouse, taking courage, just stared at Timothy,
monarch of the kitchen.
Such a majestic air had Timothy as he sat there in his own place, which
none presumed to usurp; his silvery gray paws tucked neatly beneath his
warm furry breast, his big, yellow eyes just mere slits of sleepiness.
Timothy saw the gray mouse quite plainly, but he never felt hungry
enough to bother much about chasing mice, and, just to show his
supremacy, Timothy merely opened one eye and stared insolently at the
mouse, uttering little muffled, rumbling growls deep down inside, which
so terrified the foolish little mouse that he immediately scuttled off
behind the wainscoting, squeaking as he ran.
After his nap Timothy lazily stretched first one gray velvet foot, then
another, strolled indolently to his plate, turning over the food,
carefully selecting choice bits, nosing out that which he scorned upon
the clean hearth, for Timothy was a spoiled cat, and he allowed no one
to interfere. Everybody waited upon him, moving their chairs even, for
he was monarch of the hearth.
After his lunch, selfish Timothy took a stroll. Ah, if he only had
suspected, everything would soon be changed for him in the kitchen, for
even now the dearest little stray dog, with soft coat of white and tan
spots, had been received into the family while Timothy was out. Upon his
return he soon saw the little spotted dog occupying his place, and
eating from his own tin plate.
Fiercely indignant at the sight, Timothy arched his gray back until the
fur stood up in ridges, as he spat vindictively at the stranger, while
his big yellow eyes glared with such sullen hate that the little spotted
dog shook with fear. Still he did not offer to fight, or give back to
Timothy his place on the hearth, and actually ate up everything upon the
tin plate, while Timothy had to stand and look on, with deep, angry
growls of jealous rage. Timothy felt sure if he stood there long enough
he would be able to frighten away the dog, so he took up his position
upon the opposite side of the hearth, and just glared and glared.
But the little dog was brave and did not go away, and soon Timothy
decided to vent his displeasure upon the whole family by leaving the
house altogether. Of course they would be so anxious to get him back
they would surely send the spotted dog away, and then he, Timothy, would
return to the hearth. So Timothy went away. Vainly they searched for
him, even setting out his tin plate each day filled with chicken bones
to tempt him back. But Timothy resolved to punish them all, and the
pampered fellow had actually taken to the woods, for his heart was so
filled with bitter hate and jealousy that he simply would not return to
the kitchen. Now the woods where Timothy wandered alone were wild and
lonely, and in them were fierce “Bob Cats,” ugly lynx with sharp, tufted
ears, who snarled and fought at night, and many others whom Timothy had
never met. The first night in the forest he crouched beneath a clump of
spruces. Soon a hedgehog came grunting along, and when Timothy spat at
the hedgehog it simply turned its back upon him. “My, you’re a sad
coward. I’ll teach you a lesson,” said Timothy; then he began to cuff at
the hedgehog and worry him. The next thing Timothy did was to climb a
tree as fast as he could, for the hedgehog had turned upon him and
driven his nose full of sharp spines. Most of the night he spent
miserably trying to free himself from the sharp hedgehog needles. Next
morning he was hungry. In a certain tree he found a bird’s nest, with
three scrawny young birds, so he had just put forth a paw to select one
for his breakfast, when down upon his back lighted the mother hawk, and
drove Timothy off into the forest.
That night, faint with hunger, Timothy climbed a tall sycamore tree and
tucking his paws beneath him tried to sleep. But he kept longing for the
cozy, peaceful hearth which he had left, as chilly winds swept through
the woods and moaned through the sycamore, making its brown, withered
leaves flap and clatter in a lonely fashion, quite different to the
customary cheery singing of the copper kettle upon the hearth. A family
of hoot owls awoke in their nest in the sycamore. Soon they discovered
poor Timothy, and began to peck at him viciously, hooting at him, and
glaring at him with great, fierce eyes, so that Timothy hastily
scratched his way down from the tree. Soon something soft and white came
fluttering down from the sky, and little flakes of cold snow began to
settle upon Timothy’s gray coat, while the wind began to howl, and the
storm to break. Where could he go? Poor, miserable Timothy! The snow lay
white upon the ground, and Timothy took long flying leaps to escape it.
Occasionally he would pause to lift and flirt his feet, for he hated to
get them wet; besides, they ached with the cold. A thought struck him;
he would go back to the house and see if the spotted dog was still
there; so he crept to the kitchen window and peered in, and by the light
of the fire he saw that his place was still occupied by the little dog.
So off again crept miserable Timothy to the great cold lonely barn. He
slept upon the hay, where the cold snow sifted down upon him, and the
wind whined and howled over his head all night. For days Timothy stayed
there; he managed to catch a few stray mice after a long chase, but
soon his sides grew thin, his soft gray fur shabby and coarse and dark,
while his eyes were furtive and sullen. But Timothy’s proud, jealous
spirit was nearly broken, and one night he decided to go back to the
hearth. So he stole into the kitchen after everybody was asleep, and
then a wonderful thing happened.
The little spotted dog stood up and welcomed him, wagging his tail so
hard that his whole body shook, and he actually greeted poor Timothy
with a bark of joy. Then lonely Timothy, pining for sympathy, ventured a
trifle closer to the hearth, and the little dog sidled over to meet him,
and actually began to lap Timothy’s rough fur tenderly, whereupon
Timothy, to show that he bore no further ill will, sidled and rubbed
himself gently against the tan and white spotted coat of the gentle
little dog. Then Timothy and his friend ate together from the tin plate,
sat down upon the hearth, and Timothy began a whirring, buzzing song of
contentment which might be heard even above the singing of the copper
kettle, as he washed and scrubbed his neglected fur coat, making a
complete and fresh toilet suitable for the kitchen.
The next morning when the farmer’s wife came into the kitchen such a
sight met her eyes; Timothy had come back, and slept upon the hearth
nestled quite closely to the little spotted dog, and they remained fast
friends forever after.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE RED DOE OF DEER PASS]
IV
THE LITTLE RED DOE OF DEER PASS
As soon as winter really set in in the North country and the snow began
to drift upon the mountains and deepen in the passes, the little Red Doe
and her mate sought safe sanctuary with the herd, in the thick cover of
Balsam Swamp, where the balsams and spruces grew dense, and there they
herded together in their winter “yard,” hidden away among the evergreen
thickets where they fed all winter upon the mosses and lichens of the
swamp. The herd would tread down the snow as it fell, and feed around
the swamp in a circle, and when they had nibbled close all the moss and
undergrowth, toward spring they would reach up and feed upon the tender
budding shoots of soft maple and spruce and barks which grew overhead.
While merciless blizzards raged all through the long winter, there they
remained, for the deer always seek shelter in such a “yard,” seldom
venturing out, unless they are pressed by hunger, and the snow crusts
are strong enough to bear their weight without breaking through, for
the slender leg of a deer is easily snapped.
It had been a long, bitter winter for the herd in Balsam Swamp, and
there were so many of them to feed there that by spring the food supply
where they had foraged had become so scant that only the older, taller
deer of the herd could reach high and pull down the tender saplings.
Thus it happened, as is frequently the case through winter, that many of
the young, tender deer died from sheer starvation, because they did not
care to leave the “yard” and were not tall enough to reach high for
food.
They were all very glad, at last, when the first signs of spring
appeared, and the bluebirds arrived, and the wild geese, coming back
from the southland, went trailing over, “honk, honking” through the
mists, high over the mountains, in the early morning. Winter was broken
at last, and the little Red Doe and her mate came out into the open
forest. The mate, a fine young buck, with strong, pronged antlers, with
which he fought many a battle for her, led the way, glad to be out in
the freedom of the mountain passes once more, after their long retreat.
Their sides and flanks were lean from long fasting and privation, but
soon they were feeding upon the short, sprouting herbage of the
valleys. The maples were in bud; food was plentiful enough now, and all
the herd scattered, glad to be free.
All summer long the Red Doe and her mate ranged together, care-free,
through the mountains, climbing high up to the summit of Mount Cushman,
gazing across upon other mountain ridges, where the tall pointed spruces
stood out like sentinels against the sky-line. Going down at night into
the deep solitude of the valleys, where the deep, purple night shadows
fall early, into the woodsy smell of balsam and spruce, which becomes
doubly fragrant after dew-fall. Here are the deer passes, where they
rest at night in safety.
They were never molested in their travels, and should a fox or lynx
cross their trail, the mate would bravely charge upon it with his strong
horns, and send it slinking away into the shadows. And so the pair
became bolder and tamer, and upon moonlight nights they would come close
to the farmer’s dwelling; into the orchards to feed upon the early
apples, and even find the gardens, where they did shocking work among
the pea vines and young, tender, sweet corn. Almost every evening, just
at twilight, you might see them steal forth from the spruce woods,
cross the road together, and if they met a farmer, they would halt
curiously to stare after him, heads held erect, gazing after him with
great, gentle, inquisitive eyes, alert and wondering. Then, suddenly,
like a flash, having satisfied their curiosity, they were off--over the
stone fence together they bounded, and the next instant you caught just
a fleeting glimpse of their short, white tails, held high, like a flag,
vanishing, flashing in and out among the dark spruces.
They had one favorite resting place in Deer Pass, where the thick pines
grew close together in a certain deep hollow, through which a brook
bubbled musically. Here, deep down among the plumy, green ferns the Red
Doe and her mate often stayed at night. Sometimes, in the early morning,
if you chanced to pass that way, you might even catch a glimpse of two
beautiful heads upon slender necks raised above the ferns, and if you
did not come too close to their retreat, they would not offer to move.
Midsummer came, and then there were _three_ deep hollows among the
sweet-scented ferns in their retreat, and a little spotted fawn followed
the pair. Beautiful was the little creature, with soft, reddish-brown
coat mottled with white spots, which looked like snowflakes, and such
great, appealing, innocent eyes. The Red Doe and her mate were so fond
of the fawn that they never permitted it out of their sight. Those were
very happy days now in the deer family. But a change was in store for
them of which they knew nothing.
In the month of October comes the hunter’s moon, and then the deer law
is raised, up in that Northern country where the Red Doe lives; and the
hunters are allowed to shoot the males for ten days, but must not molest
or shoot the does or their fawns.
So when the maple leaves were red upon the sides of the mountains and
the wild geese began to head for the south again, and the partridges to
drum in the hedges, then came the hunters. The little Red Doe and her
mate, and the fawn, had, by this time, become quite fearless of man, and
almost tame, for nothing ever molested them; so, with no suspicion of
their great danger, they camped in the old spot at night, for near at
hand were sweet, frost-bitten apples, and besides, the fawn was not yet
old enough to follow over long trails through stiff mountain climbs. So
one morning they slept late in their old resting place, and the
hoar-frost lay in little jeweled crystals, powdering their red coats as
well as the ferns about them. Deep down, hidden together, they herded,
and so they failed to see the hunter who came creeping stealthily toward
their retreat, dodging warily from spruce to spruce. With gun in hand he
stole, ever creeping nearer and nearer to their camping-place. Was it
the cracking of a twig at last, or did the buck catch the man scent?
Instantly he jumped to his feet, antlers held high and straight, waiting
to give the signal of warning to his mate.
Too late. A loud report, a puff of smoke, and he fell, even as he gazed.
In a second, the little Red Doe was off; off and away, the little
dappled fawn following after as best it might. But alas, when the fawn
reached a section of barb wire fence, it leaped too short, and fell back
entangled in the wire. Meantime, the Red Doe, terrified and frantic,
forgetting in her great panic even the fawn, bounded on and on, seeking
safety in the deep forest.
When the hunter had secured his prize, the carcass of the buck deer, he
began to follow the trail of the Red Doe, and soon stumbled upon the
little helpless fawn. The little innocent thing knew no fear, and
allowed the hunter to disentangle it from the wire. Then, thinking what
a fine pet the little fawn would make for his children, the man carried
the little creature home. After a time it became quite tame and used to
the children, and so they built a small pen especially for it, close to
the great barn.
Lonely and alone, after this, wandered the little Red Doe; all through
fall she roamed, quite solitary, over mountains and through the passes,
avoiding all the herd; she would mate with none of them. One moonlight
night she strayed into the vicinity of a large barn seeking corn-stalks,
and there, to her great joy, she discovered the lost fawn in its pen.
It was an easy matter, with her long, slim legs, for the doe to leap the
fence, and soon the lonely mother doe was rubbing noses and fondly
lapping the dappled coat of her lost baby. Again and again did the doe
leap back and forth over the high board fence of the pen, vainly urging
the fawn to follow her. But it was no use; the fence was far too high;
the little fawn could not leap it, and so the mother doe had to go away.
But night after night the patient Red Doe came back into the pen with
the fawn, bounding away with the first peep of day. Away, into the
safety of the deep spruce woods, for she was no longer tame; she knew
the terrifying fear of man, at last.
Soon winter shut down again, and the deep snow fell, and the visits of
the little mother doe to her fawn became less and less frequent. And
finally the fawn was taken into the warm barn, and she saw it no more.
Then, the last time the doe failed to find her fawn, hungry and cold, in
the midst of a great swirling snow-storm, she turned away, traveling
wearily back over the old Deer Pass, over the trail to Balsam Swamp for
shelter.
That year the herd was large in the swamp, where they circled round and
round, feeding upon anything which offered itself as food, only trying
to keep from starving until winter should break up again. By early
spring everything within reach had been nibbled bare, as usual; then the
stronger ones of the herd ventured out into the forests. The little Red
Doe had lived through the winter, but she had fared badly, for she no
longer had her mate to reach up, with his tall, antlered head, and pull
down tender branches for her to nibble. She was very thin and weak as
she dragged herself out of the “yard,” aimlessly wandering, loitering,
separated from the herd.
Night came on, and she heard the spring chorus of the “peepers,” as they
awoke, down in the bogs. Other night sounds came creeping through the
great, silent places, and finally, close at hand, a sudden, wild,
snarling yell echoed through the mountains. It was the cry of a hungry
old lynx evidently out trailing game. The Red Doe was instantly alert.
Was the lynx, an old enemy of the herd, trailing her? Then, before she
knew where it came from, the lynx had sprung from an overhanging birch,
and leaped upon her flank, burying its cruel teeth in her tender flesh.
A swift bound. The doe managed to shake off the clinging lynx, who was
old and weak from lack of food. And before the lynx could gather itself
together for another spring, she was off. Fleet as the wind she flew but
she could never keep up the pace for long, for she had not the strength
now; besides, the lynx had wounded her badly. But with wonderful courage
she bounded on and on, leaping boulders and rough places, until she
struck at last the old, familiar trail which led to the old camping
place in Deer Pass. There she sank down at last, between the thick
spruces, into a nest of brown, dried bracken and young fern shoots.
Weak and spent she lay and rested the next day. By night she hoped to be
strong enough to travel once more, for she must seek food.
Small and slim over Mount Cushman arose the crescent moon that night,
and pale little stars twinkled overhead, but the Red Doe was too weak to
journey on. Then, in and out of the shadows, among the pointed spruces,
stole a slim, red figure on long, slender legs, its small head held
erect, its soft eyes expectant and alert. And the Red Doe heard; she
knew instinctively to whom those small, cleft hoofs, bounding so lightly
to her over the mosses, belonged.
The Red Doe raised her slim neck with an effort, and peered over the
tall brakes, and then out of the shadows, with little, eager bounds of
joy, came her fawn. At last he had grown tall enough to leap the hateful
pen, and all the subdued wildness of his nature had come back again with
the return of spring, and guided by its instinct, the fawn had sought
and found the old camp and his mother.
There they stayed together in their fern bed until morning, and
comforted and rested, almost well of her wounds, the doe was able to
travel once more. And so, just as the hermit thrush and bluebird
started their morning chorus, the Red Doe and her fawn bounded off
together, seeking new pastures in the secret places of the forest.
[Illustration: DAME WOODCHUCK AND THE RED MONSTER]
V
DAME WOODCHUCK AND THE RED MONSTER
Dame Woodchuck woke up early one Candlemas Day from her long, all
winter’s sleep. She stretched her cramped claws drowsily, then waddled
to the entrance of her burrow, and scratched and poked away the dry
leaves, with which she had banked up her door in the fall to keep out
Jack Frost. Then, with the tip of her snout and round black ears outside
the hole, she sniffed in a deep breath of the keen, frosty air. It was
still cold, very, but the sun shone and the next minute she had cocked
her head one side to listen, for she had heard a bluebird’s note.
“Po-quer-ee, po-quer-ee. Spring is here; what cheer!” he piped.
Surely if the bluebirds had arrived, then the Dame must be stirring;
but, unwilling to trust the actual announcement of spring entirely to
the bluebird, she resolved to find out in her own way if spring had
actually arrived. So out she crawled, and mounting the great flat stone
over her home, she sat bolt upright, her little black feet held tight to
her breast, then took a long, anxious look, first over one furry
shoulder, then the other. The Dame looked for her shadow; if she failed
to see it beside her, then she would know that spring had come, for
always, in this way, do the woodchuck family predict the first arrival
of spring. But if she should actually see her shadow over her shoulder,
then she knew that the snow was bound to blow into her burrow just
exactly as far as the sun’s shadow shone in, and that there was going to
be six weeks more of winter weather. And then, in spite of the
bluebirds’ call, she would have gone right back to sleep again.
But this time the Dame failed to see her shadow over her shoulder, which
made her so happy that she gave a little sharp bark for sheer joy, and
rushed inside the burrow to wake up the woodchuck Twins, and tell them
the good news that spring had really come for good. Out came the Twins,
yawning and stretching themselves, and when they were thoroughly awake,
they all had a grand frolic.
Dame Woodchuck and the Twins had lived in their home in the middle of
the clover field, beneath a great rock, for years. It was such a fine,
safe spot for a woodchuck’s burrow; you would never suspect where the
door was. You wondered too how the Dame, who was very fat, ever managed
to squeeze herself into such a narrow crack beneath the flat rock. But
somehow she did, and like a flash, too, if she saw danger approaching.
Beneath the great rock ran quite wonderful passageways, which led into
many secret chambers; so the woodchuck family were never crowded for
spare rooms, for year after year they had worked beneath the ground
improving their home, digging with their little sharp claws and teeth.
And best of all, where you never would expect it, was a secret
passageway; down deep, then up over a stone, then to the right, then
through a network of roots it led, and the first thing you knew you were
right out-of-doors. This was the back door of the Dame’s burrow.
And so if the farmer’s yellow dog should take it into his head to stop
off in the pasture and try to dig into the woodchuck’s home, when he was
quite busy digging at one door, why, they could all easily have escaped
by the rear entrance.
Wild and beautiful was the country where Dame Woodchuck and her family
lived. Clover, pink and sweet, covered the whole field, and not too far
away the farmer had planted his beans. Beans and honey sweet clover the
woodchucks cared for more than almost anything else in life. About
sunset they would all crawl out, sitting up together, all three of them
in a row, upon the flat rock at first, looking with contentment forth
over the clover field; then, suddenly, perhaps the Dame would playfully
cuff one of the Twins, and over he would roll into the deep clover, and
then a regular frolic would begin, as they nibbled among the pink
blossoms.