“gnaw, gnaw, gnaw” of Unk-Wunk’s sharp teeth through the shack flooring,
would simply raise his head and utter little timorous, muffled whines
under his breath, never offering to drive him away; if the truth were
known the yellow dog was terribly afraid of Unk-Wunk. He would not
hesitate to bay fiercely, chase a fox, coon, or even a bob cat, but once
he had returned to camp with his jowls stuck full of Unk-Wunk’s terrible
quills, and after that he played the coward whenever he saw a hedgehog.
When you studied Unk-Wunk carefully, you might think him a very stupid,
dull-looking animal. But back of his ugly, half-witted skull lay an
alert brain, what there was of it. He dearly loved to play a joke, and
for sheer sport would roll himself up into a ball and lie stupidly in
one of the well-worn trails of the wood people; unsuspectingly, they
would creep nearer and nearer the queer looking bundle. Then Unk-Wunk’s
dull eyes, peering out at them, perhaps, from beneath his hind leg,
would sparkle with malice, and, like a flash, out would fly his tail,
which held the very sharpest, most penetrating quills on his body. Then
the curious one would usually go squeaking off on a jump, very much
wiser than it had been before concerning the hedgehog family.
One autumn evening Unk-Wunk visited the marsh pool; his desire for a
feast of lily roots, before the pool froze over, was keen upon him. To
his dismay he found the pool already occupied by the blue heron family
who were wading about upon their long, stilt-like legs for minnows or
crawfish. Unk-Wunk realized well enough that he would be at the mercy of
the herons’ long, sword-like beaks once he entered the water, so he just
stood behind the shelter of a spruce bush and thought out a plan to get
rid of the herons, and have the pool to himself.
Waddling clumsily back into the deep woods, Unk-Wunk found a bed of dry
beech leaves, and then deliberately laying himself down among them, he
rolled his spiky body back and forth among them until every quill held a
leaf; he was completely coated over with dry leaves, so that even his
head was concealed. Then he crept warily back toward the pool and
suddenly uttering a loud “Unk-Wunk, Unk-Wunk,” he appeared right in
plain view of the herons. Ordinarily the sight of a mere stupid hedgehog
would never have stirred the wise herons, and they would simply have
flown at him, flapping their great wings in his face, and sent him off.
But as soon as they caught a glimpse of the strange appearing thing, all
covered with leaves, and heard it actually cry out, with shrill,
terrified screams they all spread their wings and flew off over the
mountain, perfectly panic-stricken at the strange thing they had seen.
It did not take the sly Unk-Wunk long to rid himself of the leaves, and
plunge into the pool which he now had all to himself.
Now among the kindred of the wild Red-Brush, the Fox, is reckoned as the
wisest of the wise. Still, in spite of his reputation for wisdom, he
too had once been an easy mark for Unk-Wunk. In his travels Red-Brush
was wont to seek his prey in all manner of curious places. He never
failed to investigate hollow logs along the trail, for times without
number he had run across an apparently vacant log, and discovered it to
be occupied by a rabbit or some other easy prey.
Unk-Wunk had feasted well. A covey of partridges had strayed to his very
door after beechnuts, and he had chanced to come home just in time to
catch them. In vain did the brave little cock partridge drum at him,
trying to mislead Unk-Wunk and turn his attention away from the mother
partridge and her little brood, which scattered like fallen beech leaves
in all directions. Unk-Wunk simply stood still and let the father
Partridge bluster until he had become more emboldened by the seeming
passivity of the hedgehog, which did not offer to molest him, and
foolishly drew nearer, drumming in his very face, and so fell an easy
prey to sly Unk-Wunk. After his feast all he desired was a safe, quiet
spot to take a nap in. A hollow beech log lay conveniently at hand, and
inside this Unk-Wunk crawled.
“Pat, pat, pat,” came Red-Brush the crafty one, swinging jauntily over
the trail, even before Unk-Wunk had a chance to close his eyes. They had
sighted the fox, however, long before he arrived at the log, and
instantly Unk-Wunk changed his position inside the log. Turning about he
took care to leave the mere tip of his tail showing from the entrance.
Then, with his little dull eyes twinkling, grunting softly to himself
over the cruel joke he would play upon sly Red-Brush, Unk-Wunk waited
for him.
Red-Brush advanced very cautiously. Ah, surely something had moved
inside the entrance of the log. Soon the inquisitive yellow eyes were
close to the opening. A sudden swift slap, and Unk-Wunk had played his
joke. He grunted derisively as the fox tore off back to his burrow with
a snout full of terrible quills.
Everybody knows that in an actual trial of wits the fox might really
outwit a hedgehog. Humiliated enough was Red-Brush at the mean joke
which Unk-Wunk had played upon him, and made up his mind, fox fashion,
that he would one day get even with him. At last he took to dodging the
trail of Unk-Wunk, hoping to catch him napping, for he had conceived a
plan. The longed-for opportunity came at last. Chancing to stroll to the
pool, the fox concealed himself in a leafy thicket to wait for game,
which often came to the pool, and peering out from behind the rushes
whom should he see but Unk-Wunk grubbing for lily roots. The sly fellow
finished his feast, and so gorged himself with his favorite delicacy
that instead of going home he settled himself at the top of a hill, just
above the pool, for a nap.
The golden eyes of Red-Brush never left him; he bided his time until the
hedgehog was fast asleep, then stole softly to the top of the hill.
Unk-Wunk lay curled there in a round ball, and Red-Brush, with a swift
blow of his paw, started the ball rolling swiftly down-hill. Unk-Wunk
would uncurl himself before he reached water, for this they always do;
with a bound Red-Brush reached the pool ahead of the ball, and just as
Unk-Wunk gave a swift twist of his body to uncurl, the jaws of Red-Brush
snapped together with a click, finding the unprotected throat of the
hedgehog, and Unk-Wunk, the cruel joker, had at last met his match.
[Illustration: THE GHOST OF THE WAINSCOT]
X
THE GHOST OF THE WAINSCOT
A little wire cage stood in a certain shop-window, and in it were two
white mice, the funniest little fellows, with snow-white fur coats and
pink, trembly noses, having long, silky, white whiskers, and eyes like
tiny red jewels. All the school children had a way of stopping on their
way to and from school to visit the white mice. They would stand close
to the great glass window, pressing their noses quite flat against the
pane, as they watched with delight the funny capers of the white mice,
Fluff and Muff, for thus the children had named them. Fluff was the
larger mouse, and he would spend hours whirling about in the small wire
wheel, going so swiftly at times that all the children could make out
was just a round ball of white fur revolving in space.
The wheel had a way of creak, creak, creaking merrily whenever Fluff
whirled very fast, and, to tell the truth, this creaking was not wholly
unmusical; and it had such a queer effect upon Muff, who apparently had
an ear for music, that she would instantly commence a giddy sort of
dance, all by herself, whirling madly around to the strange
accompaniment of the creaking wheel just so long as Fluff kept up the
music. All day long the two white mice frolicked together, only nestling
down for short naps in their white cotton wool bed when they were quite
exhausted. All this was entertaining to the children, who never wearied
watching their antics. But one morning when they stopped at the great
window, as usual, there was no wire cage with white mice in its
customary place between the glasses of pickled limes and lollipops; in
fact, the mice were gone.
So one boy, somewhat braver than the rest, volunteered to go into the
shop and find out what had become of their favorites; indeed, if the
truth were known, this boy had been saving up his pennies for a week in
hopes that he might finally have enough to buy the white mice. Just as
soon as he entered the shop he knew something dreadful had happened,
even before he asked the shopkeeper, for right upon the counter lay the
wire cage, broken and bent, its door gone, and the whirling wheel
wrenched from its socket. The man told him that the cat had done it;
had been shut into the store over night by mistake. So the boy, feeling
very sad, just bought lollipops for his money, instead of saving up any
longer for the mice, and went to school.
Now this is actually what _did_ happen the night before, only the
shopkeeper knew nothing about it, of course. When the great wooden
shutters had been put up for the night, and all lights put out in the
shop, it became very dark and still; to be sure the tortoise-shell cat
had skulked between the shopkeeper’s legs somehow, and slipped in slyly
without his being aware of it. But, as it happened, she had not sneaked
in for white mice; back of a certain barrel, over in the corner, she
knew of a rat hole. That was what she had in mind all the time. She was
not specially interested in white mice; she thought them freaks, at
best.
So darker and darker grew the shop, and very silent, until finally a
rasp, rasping sound came from behind the barrel. The cat crept
stealthily across the floor on velvet-padded feet, and crouched
expectantly. But the sly old rat did not come out just then; in fact he
appeared to be moving something beneath the floor, dragging it noisily
about. So the cat waited patiently; she meant to have the rat if she
waited there all night.
“Pat, pat, pat,” sounded a scurry of footsteps; it was the rat. He was
getting ready to come out of his hole, and pussy gathered herself
together for a quick leap. Boldly the old rat came forth, just as he had
done night after night for weeks. A swift flash, and the cat had landed
upon his back. “Squeak, squeak,” shrilled the rat angrily, burying its
sharp teeth in the cat’s nose, and causing her to loose her hold a
second. Then, before she could recover herself, the old brown rat was
off and away. She covered his retreat toward the barrel, but the rat
flew in another direction, up over the high counters, with pussy after
him. In and out among the jars of pickled limes, lollipops and gum-drops
he doubled, the cat following, always managing to head him off when he
made for the barrel. Over among the goldfish globes into the shop-window
he scratched his way, and finally tried to hide behind a great glass
jar. No use; the cat’s great, yellow eyes, blazing like automobile
lamps, found him. Right over the cage of white mice leaped the rat in a
perfect frenzy. Just then Fluff and Muff, almost frightened out of
their wits at the dreadful commotion in their window, came out of their
nest, and Fluff instantly began to whirl madly about in the creaking
wheel, and pussy in her eagerness and haste mistook the moving wheel for
the rat, and sprang with all her weight upon the wire cage, giving the
old rat just the right chance to slip off to his retreat behind the
barrel.
Topsy-turvy turned the wire cage; the wire door was wrenched off its
hinges, and instead of the old brown rat which the cat expected to grab,
she found herself with a little bit of a white mouse in her claws. What
she did with Muff I am not quite certain; at any rate Fluff managed to
escape, and off he tore across the shop floor, sliding in and out
between boxes and barrels, half mad with fear, his little heart beating
so when he paused that it shook his whole body. Finally he reached a
green door; there was a little crack beneath the door, and Fluff decided
to squeeze through. He came to a long dark passage next, then another
door slightly ajar, and he entered the kitchen. The room was so large,
silent and lonely that he was afraid; to his joy, he spied a little hole
close beside the hearth and instantly slipped into it. To his surprise
it was not so small as it had at first appeared to be, but it led in to
a narrow, musty-smelling passage, which seemed to be very long, for he
could not even see the end of it. The white mouse sat up on his little
haunches, peering curiously about him, and even taking time to comb out
his white silken whiskers, for strangely enough he felt very safe,
somehow. The strange, musky odor was quite familiar to him; he sniffed
at it with trembly pink nose. He recognized the trail of his kindred in
that scent, and knew that the smooth runway had been worn by the travel
of many pattering feet. Perhaps even Muff, his little mate, had passed
over the trail.
Off scurried the white mouse at this delicious thought; he determined to
follow the new trail to its very end. Suddenly a stranger, a little
brown mouse, poked its head inquisitively out of a side track, took just
one brief look at the white mouse, and instantly whisked out of sight.
Fluff could hear her shrill squeaks of consternation and fear growing
fainter and fainter as she hurried away. He stood stock-still waiting;
perhaps she would return; but she never did. Instead, she went squeaking
along the trail telling, in mouse language, no doubt, of the ghostly
thing which she had met on her way to the kitchen larder.
This particular track, as it happened, was quite a favorite one and led
for a long distance back of the wainscot. It had many turnings and
secret passageways; even into the attic and down into the cellar it led.
The rats often cantered over it at night with burdens of eggs or apples
which they filched from the cellar; no wonder then the track was
well-worn and smooth with the passing of so many pattering feet.
The white mouse, although he had never before seen a brown mouse, was
anxious to make the acquaintance of the one he had met; perhaps she
could show him the way to find Muff, whom he was beginning to miss
terribly. So he boldly took the same road which the brown mouse had
taken. He had not gone very far, however, before he heard a dragging
sound ahead of him, and right in his path he saw a great gray rat
dragging a large nubbin of corn. The white mouse stood stock-still, too
frightened to run; he was so afraid of this monster. He trembled and
shook so that his small teeth fairly chattered together. But he need not
have been so very frightened, for the instant that old rat caught sight
of the white thing crouching in its path it gave one long, terrified
squeak, turning about in its tracks and scuttling madly off, even
forgetting all about the corn nubbin in its haste to get away. Away from
the ghost-like vision, the like of which it had never before
encountered, in the wainscot passageway.
The white mouse gained courage at last, and being very hungry it ate the
corn nubbin itself, daintily pulling off each grain of corn, and eating
out just the heart of the kernel.
For days and weeks the white mouse roamed through the wainscot solitary
and alone, shunned by every rat and mouse in the place, vainly traveling
over the secret passageways, always hoping to turn some corner and meet
Muff, his lost mate. How he longed for company, but he never could
manage to get close enough to a brown mouse to become acquainted. One
day he met a little company of very young mice; they halted and stared
at him several seconds with their bright, bulging eyes. Fluff even
ventured to give a pleading little squeak which meant to reassure them,
but it was no use; evidently they too took him for a ghost, for like a
flash they were off, and all he saw of them was five vanishing brown
tails.
One day the white mouse chanced to discover quite a new runway which he
hastened to explore. As he followed it the way seemed not quite so musky
as the old trails, and soon he sniffed with delight a whiff of clear,
outside air. The bright sunshine which met him as he poked his nose
outside the hole almost blinded his little pink eyes, and the soft
spring breeze ruffled his white fur coat, but Fluff enjoyed it. Peering
warily about he leaped to a beam in the wood-shed, followed it until he
had reached a knot-hole which led through the cow shed; from there he
scuttled as fast as he could run, right into the old red barn, and
diving deep into the hay he lay there hidden until he regained his
courage and spent breath.
Now all through the fragrant hay run many secret passages, and as the
white mouse entered one of them, ahead of him he saw a familiar figure;
it was a mouse, and as she turned toward him, he caught a glimpse of
white fur, and, strangely enough, the little mouse did not turn and flee
away from him in terror, as the house mice had done. Fluff saw that she
wore a coat of light brown fur, but that her breast was as white as his
own fur coat, as were also her silken whiskers. At first he had thought
it might be his lost mate, but as he came closer he saw that the
stranger had large, bat-like ears, and bright, beady brown eyes; not
pink ones, like his mate’s.
Oh, it was pleasant not to be shunned, to be taken for a ghost. The
lonely white mouse drew a trifle nearer to the mouse with the white fur
vest, until at last they had actually touched noses, which, in mouse
circles, means they had become fast friends. The stranger happened to be
a little field-mouse who had wintered in the haymow, and had only come
back to the barn in search of a few soft wisps of corn silk to begin her
new nest with, for she had begun to think of building one out in the
corn-field, just as she did every summer, so as to be close at hand when
the milky sweet corn was ripening, because very small baby mice are fond
of sweet corn in the milk.
And so, just because the little field-mouse was very lonely, she took
pity upon the solitary white mouse and let him help build the new nest.
They carried corn-husks together, then lined it deftly with the soft
silk, and before the corn had ripened and turned yellow, there were five
wee mice in the nest, and three of them wore brown fur coats, with white
vests, exactly like their mother’s, and the other two were pure white
with pink eyes and noses. As for the cowardly rats and mice who still
live behind the wainscot, and travel up and down its worn trails, day
and night, they always peer ahead of them when they turn a sudden
corner, exactly like a boy who is foolish enough to be afraid of the
dark, because they always expect to meet the ghost which once haunted
the wainscot, and drove them all nearly mad with fright.
[Illustration: WHY THE WEASEL NEVER SLEEPS]
XI
WHY THE WEASEL NEVER SLEEPS
It is said by those who have a way of learning all the wood secrets and
the intimate habits of the wild, that the owl always sleeps with both
eyes wide open, the fox with but one eye closed, and that the sly old
weasel, the very craftiest of all the wild kindred, never actually
sleeps at all; hence we often hear the old saying, “You never can catch
a weasel asleep.” From far up in the North country comes the tale of how
this actually comes about; why the weasel is never caught napping.
Once upon a time, oh, ages ago, of course, the weasel was not so full of
craft, or so hateful and sly as he is in these days. Now he is about the
worst dreaded of all the smaller creatures which wear either fur or
feathers, shunned and hated by all his kindred, just because of his bad
reputation. First, because of his cruel manner of dealing with his prey,
for he just yearns to kill any young bird, or small stray animal which
happens to cross his evil trail merely for the sake of the kill, and he
does it so craftily that he will usually leave a mere pin-prick of a
wound, perhaps, in his victim’s neck to show just how it died. But
always before he leaves he’ll make sure to suck every drop of blood from
its small body. That’s the way of the weasel tribe; you cannot beat them
for their cruel, crafty manners, and they’ll trail their prey until it
is completely exhausted, then fall upon it and kill it. The weasel
always manages to save its own pelt, for in winter Nature changes its
fur from brown to white, all excepting the tip of its tail, which
remains dark. This aids the sly fellow to creep quite close to some
unsuspecting little animal, because its white coat so blends with the
snow its movements are not seen. There are weasels of many tribes; some
of them are called pole cats. They belong to a race away back, when all
weasels were sluggish, for in the old days weasels always slept soundly
enough, just like all other animals.
And so it happened that away up north in the fur-bearing country, in a
beautiful forest of giant spruces, which overhung a kind of a deer run,
or trail, right between two ranges of wild mountain land, there lived
altogether in peace and comfort a great many of the kindred of the
wild. There the little black bear had her den and raised each year her
little family, the brown hare thumped his signals against the great tree
trunks unmolested and unafraid, the hedgehog grunted and grubbed in
peace, and the red fox raised her cubs and they all gamboled together
contentedly on a loamy side hill. Oh, they had great times there
together, all living in harmony and unafraid, because they never
encountered anything harmful in the forest, for man had not entered
their spruce wood then.
On the edge of the mountain streams the gentle beavers came and raised
their mud cabins, which the muskrat tribes came and studied and copied
the best way they knew how, for ’tis a fact that long ago the beavers
taught the muskrat all he knows about building his house. So there they
lived beside the stream together; there were no snares set for them, no
blue smoke ever lifted in clouds through the fragrant spruces, for there
were no banging guns to frighten them. The only sounds you heard in the
great forest in those days were made by innocent things: the gurgling of
the little mountain brooks, the dropping of an acorn, the chatter of
squirrels, or the crashing of bushes when the black bear and her cubs
tore through the woods on her way to the pool to drink and wallow in
the mud. Sometimes it was so still in the deep woods you could fairly
hear the needles dropping down from ever so far above, down upon the
mossy carpet where the deer herded. No doe or fawn had ever raised its
head in alarm to see a rifle aimed between its gentle eyes those
peaceful times.
First thing all the wild things knew, something strange had entered
their peaceful forest. It began with arrows; the Indians were their
first enemies. Gradually they learned to know about the strange whine of
an arrow, and to fear the sight of a brown naked body, topped off by a
crest of painted feathers. So some of them taking alarm wandered off
into a wilder country, but most of them stayed behind, for you see they
dearly loved their forest home.
Next thing that happened in the great North woods, the trappers arrived;
they began snaring and trapping, and took away every little wild fur
pelt they could get. Perhaps the beaver family fared the worst of all,
because their fur coats would bring a fine price in market. But the
greedy trappers did not stop at that; they soon got after the skunk
family, the weasels, hares, anything which wore fur. They would
cunningly set their snares close to a beaver village, and of course, in
those days, the poor things were so trusting and innocent that they
never suspected their danger; so of course they were not on the lookout,
and all through the long winter they were trapped by hundreds.
By spring, which is the time when the beaver tribes get together and
talk over their plans, because beavers usually increase so during
winter, that in time some of them move out, and found other settlements,
to make room, breaking up into colonies and each one going off. When the
old king of the beavers called a council, he could hardly believe his
eyes, for really there were so few of his tribe left that there were
barely enough to found one good-sized settlement. About this time all
the other little fur-bearing animals began to take stock; the skunks had
been hunted out, and few remained; as for the weasel tribe, all that
remained of a large colony was just the old king and queen of the tribe
and one young kitten weasel.