old enough to be cute and cunning, and company for the old ones; those
days the weasels were about the happiest, most harmless family who
lived in the great North woods. They slept then, same as all other
animals do, taking plenty of long naps. One day when the old King and
Queen Weasel were fast asleep, all rolled together in a fur ball, clear
back in their burrow on the back of a ledge, just above the beaver
village, a hunter happened to pass by their door, and the little weasel
was out on the ledge frolicking, while the old weasels were fast asleep.
“Ping!” went a shot, and when the trapper went off he took with him a
little brown fur weasel’s coat hanging to his belt. Now the old weasels
in their dreams had perhaps heard the echo of that shot; at least the
old King Weasel imagined he had heard the young weasel’s squeak of fear.
So up he got in a mighty hurry and found the little one gone, and when
they reached the edge of the ledge, there they found upon a bed of soft
velvety green moss just the tiny, bare carcass of the little one,
stripped of its fur coat.
Then the old King Weasel fell into such a horrible rage that it is said
his very eyes turned as red as blood in his head, and that they have
actually stayed that way ever since, because of his terrific anger. The
result was that, being very wise, he and his mate conferred together,
and they finally came to an agreement between themselves that it was all
their fault; that if they had not been lazy and asleep the little one
would never have met such a sad fate, so they resolved ever after that
to be watchful and vigilant. They determined to live no longer a
sluggish life, and said that no one should ever, ever catch them napping
again, and they resolved to bring up all their tribe which should follow
after them to keep to this resolution.
This was all very well, but ’tis said that they have never been able to
overcome their terrific anger at losing so many of their tribe; this
accounts perhaps for their mean dispositions, and makes them suspicious
of everything which chances to cross their trails. His little red eyes,
which he still retains, are sly, full of malicious revenge and hate;
that’s because he cannot help it, for the weasel was born thus. He has
inherited his bitter spirit, and so he just kills and kills, just for
sheer spite.
Now this movement and counsel together on the part of the whole weasel
tribe finally set all the other wild things to thinking, for they all
were victims of the weasel’s enemies. So all those who had lost
relatives through trappers or Indians held a mighty counsel together.
In the end they came to the unanimous decision that they must drop
forever their old, innocent trust of everything which chanced to enter
the forest; that hereafter they must be very wise, always on guard
against anything and everything which came near their trails, and more
especially were they to be on the lookout for anything which resembled
man.
So now you know why it is that the owl takes her rest with both yellow
eyes wide open. This too is why, when the beavers are obliged to work in
gangs all through the night, as they often do in time of flood, that
they invariably select one of their number, a trustworthy sentinel, to
guard their village. On some sightly spot the sentinel takes his stand
like some brave soldier, always on guard, and the very instant he sees
or hears anything at all suspicious upon the outskirts of the camp he
immediately gives his signal of warning. “Slap” goes his flat tail
against a log, and this serves to arouse the whole colony.
The eyes of the brown hare and her kindred were formerly gentle and
unafraid. It is not so now, for they always wear a hunted, startled
expression; actually at times they almost seem to bulge from their
sockets with fear and anxiety. The hare is ever on the alert; she must
never be caught unawares, and thus it is she always sleeps with her
long, silken ears at just the right angle, so she can readily hear the
snapping of even the smallest twig.
The muskrat and the woodchuck formerly built their huts with but one
door; now they have two exits, and while the enemy is entering one door
they are already off and away by way of the back door. They have learned
their lesson. They are full of suspicion and craft.
As for old Brother Weasel, why, he is the very craftiest one of them
all, and you can never actually catch him asleep any more, no matter how
hard you may try to do so, and now you know why.
[Illustration: MRS. WHITE SPOT AND HER KITTENS]
XII
MRS. WHITE-SPOT AND HER KITTENS
Timmy lived in the red farmhouse at the foot of the mountain. Up the
lonely mountain road, just above, runs a merry brook which crosses the
road occasionally, and at such places it flows beneath a little plank
bridge.
Over this road Timmy often traveled on his way to and from the cow
pasture. It was a very quiet, lonely road, thickly hedged upon each side
with bushes and overhanging white birches upon which Timmy loved to
swing, and on the dark green spruces he found lumps of amber gum; so,
altogether, he thought it a most attractive road. Just before the brook
decides to cross the road, in one very secluded spot, it spreads itself
out and makes quite a fine deep pool, which forms a splendid swimming
hole. Not many of the boys knew about it, but all the little wild
dwellers of fur and feathers, who lived near by in the forest, knew all
about that pool, and often came there to drink and bathe.
One evening in late spring, before the maples were out, almost before
the ice had gone from the brook, along came Mrs. White-Spot and her four
kittens wandering down the trail. She crept warily around the bend of
the brook, pushing her black snout cautiously through the dried ferns to
make sure no hidden foe lay in ambush; then she marshaled her family
behind her, uttering a series of reassuring squeaks, and they followed
her down to the deep pool.
Mrs. White-Spot took up her position upon a large flat stone, just at
the edge of the pool, and then went about teaching the little skunks how
to take a bath. First she urged them all to venture out upon the flat
stone, then, as one after another of the little skunk children followed
her, she suddenly pushed each one of them with her snout off into the
deep water of the pool.
At first they did not care for the wetting, and began to set up little
protesting squeaks of terror, trying to scramble back again to the
stone. But no sooner did they emerge from the water than, firmly, but
gently, their mother pushed each one back into the pool again. Head over
heels they went with a splash and a squeak. But finally when they had
become quite accustomed to the water, they began to enjoy
[Illustration: MRS. WHITE-SPOT TEACHING THE LITTLE SKUNKS HOW TO TAKE A
BATH]
themselves, and splashed about like happy children, nosing and jostling
each other in high glee.
Now Mrs. White-Spot was very proud of her little family, for they were
as fine and handsome a litter of baby skunks as one might wish to see.
They resembled their mother very much, and she was a beautiful creature,
just about the size of the large family cat, with fur soft and fine, jet
black, and so long that when the wind blew across her back it waved and
undulated like a field of grain, with every motion of her body; and
straight from the tip of her dainty, pointed nose, right across her
back, ran a patch of pure, snow-white fur, ending at the tip of her
tail, which looked precisely like a great soft black plume.
Mrs. White-Spot was so very much taken up giving her children a proper
bath that she did not see that some one was eagerly watching her from
behind a screen of alders. But there right on the edge of the plank
bridge stood the farmer’s boy; he had come padding down the mountain
road with his bare feet, on his way from the sheep pasture, and his step
had been so light the mother skunk had not heard him. The boy was very
glad that the yellow dog had decided to stay behind and dig out the
woodchuck hole up the road. At first, when the boy had heard the queer
little squeaking cries of the skunk family, he thought it must be the
call of a muskrat, swimming down stream, but just then he happened to
catch a glimpse of flashing black and white forms in the water, and the
boy instantly halted. Very fortunate for him that he did so, or Mrs.
White-Spot would have spied him, and then his curiosity about the skunk
family would have been satisfied for all time. The boy had not forgotten
the occasion when his brother’s clothes had had to be buried for a whole
week once, just because he had unsuspectingly crossed the track of a
prowling skunk, and now the boy, who had caught sight of Mrs. White-Spot
and recognized her, almost held his breath and feared to move even a
toe, lest she espy him.
Fortunately, the anxious little mother skunk kept right on bathing the
babies, and at last, when she considered that they had been properly
washed, she began to give little sharp, persuading squeaks, trying to
call them to follow her out of the water. She left the flat stone and
climbed out on the bank, and three of the little skunk children followed
her, but the smallest one of all, evidently the “runt” of the litter,
and a weakling, failed to follow the others, vainly clawing with his
little black feet at the edge of the stone, and falling back each time
he tried to climb out, uttering little helpless, protesting cries of
terror.
Mrs. White-Spot halted, waiting patiently for the little one to climb
out, but finally, when he failed to appear, she left the others and went
back to the pool. Out onto the flat stone she scrambled, and then
reaching into the water, she caught the little weakling by the nape of
its neck, just as an old cat lifts its kittens, and placed him upon the
flat stone. Just as she was turning away, the little skunk gave a
sudden, helpless cry, and losing its footing upon the stone, over it
went head first into the pool again. With infinite patience Mrs.
White-Spot again turned back and went to his aid, lifting him out of the
water once more, at the same time uttering little soft cries of
encouragement; then she nosed the little one up the bank, urging him to
follow after.
The boy had watched Mrs. White-Spot’s performance with keen joy, not so
much because he was greatly impressed by the charming little domestic
scene which he had witnessed, as by the fact that he had been so lucky
as to discover a whole family of skunks upon the farm, and because he
meant to trap them, for skunk pelts are very valuable to a farmer boy.
The boy was wishing and hoping to get money enough ahead to buy a
certain “Flexible Flyer” he had in mind, and which he longed to own
before the first snow came. If he could only sell five good skunk pelts,
then he could buy his sled. So the boy made up his mind to track the
skunk family and discover just where they made their home. Accordingly,
he carefully climbed over a rail fence into the pasture where the brook
ran, taking good care to keep out of sight and scent of Mrs. White-Spot,
but meantime, hidden behind the bushes, he watched them at a safe
distance. The little family were having the funniest frolic together,
rolling over their mother and cuffing each other, like kittens at play,
while old Mrs. White-Spot tried her best to seem dignified, but in spite
of herself had to join in the fun occasionally, and would toss the
little ones over with her snout.
Skunks dearly love to make their homes under some old building, and the
boy felt almost certain that they were heading for an old sugar house
further up the brook; so creeping stealthily along he traced them, and
sure enough when they reached the old shanty, they all disappeared
beneath its sunken floor. Before the boy went to bed that night, he had
set five traps, baited in tempting fashion, close to the chicken house,
and then with happy visions of the new Flexible Flyer dancing in his
dreams he slept until morning. But when he went to inspect his traps,
although he discovered that one of them had been sprung by some night
prowler, not a skunk did he find, although several plump hens had
disappeared.
The yellow dog bustled about importantly that day with his nose to the
ground, uttering little baffled whines; evidently he had struck the
trail of something, but he came back, finally, giving up the scent in
half-hearted fashion, just as he usually did.
The following week, when the moon, big and yellow, came peeping out over
Mansfield Mountain, down the little lonely mountain road, following the
brook from the old sugar house, wandered Mrs. White-Spot and her small
family, their piebald coats flashing in and out among the tall,
dew-drenched grasses and ferns; the little ones following their mother
closely giving squeaks of delight, for all skunks dearly love to be
abroad upon moonlight nights.
Straight and sure, on went Mrs. White-Spot, and led her children right
to the farmer’s barn-yard, just about a mile below the bathing pool.
Evidently she mistrusted that the boy had forgotten to shut up the hens
that night, and that some of the foolish birds were roosting low outside
the coops. In spite of much encouragement, the little weakling lagged
behind the rest of her family; occasionally its mother waited for it to
catch up with the others, when she would rub noses with him
affectionately. But Mrs. White-Spot happened to feel very hungry, for as
she drew near the farmyard she suddenly caught the game scent, and then
she hurried on, eager for the great feast ahead.
Four foolish, sleepy hens, with muffled, terrified squawks, were quickly
caught, and a stillness settled over the farmyard, broken only by the
sound of little satisfied grunts; the chicken feast had begun. Then
something happened, and a series of terrified squeaking cries came to
Mrs. White-Spot’s ears; it was the little weakling; he must be in
danger. Instantly the mother skunk forgot her hunger and went to
investigate. Sure enough, the little skunk was in trouble; he had
accidentally got caught in one of the boy’s traps, which had been
temptingly baited with a chicken head. Fortunately he had been caught
by just the end of one toe, and Mrs. White-Spot set about at once to
free him. First she tried to pull the little one from the trap, then,
finding she could not, she began with her little sharp teeth to try to
gnaw the toe from the trap, trying to quiet the little skunk’s cries of
fear and pain by uttering comforting squeaks, and much nose rubbing.
It was just at this critical moment that the yellow dog, who had been
fast asleep in the barn all the time, awoke and, suddenly becoming
brave, scenting adventures, out in the moonlight, he bounded, overbold
and ferocious, baying wildly, from the stable window, and in an instant
had sighted the skunk family.
Then Mrs. White-Spot in great fear and sudden desperation gave a tug
with her sharp teeth. The little weakling was free of the trap and the
yellow dog, not knowing what was in store for him, bounded confidently
right into the midst of the little family group. The next instant, to
the great surprise of the dog, who had expected them all to run when
they caught sight of him, Mrs. White-Spot turned and bravely faced her
enemy. Poor foolish yellow hound, he knew nothing about skunks, and so
he did not turn about and run. Why should he? What could such small
black and white creatures ever do to bother him?
But the next instant the yellow dog found out his mistake, for with
blinded eyes, smarting as though they had been filled with red pepper,
staggering back in dismay, groveling and whining, and frantically trying
to rub his head and yellow hide free of the sickening skunk scent which
covered him he ran about in circles blindly digging up the earth wildly
with his claws. All in vain; at last, in sheer desperation, fearing he
knew not what, he managed to get away and crawl far out of sight beneath
the barn. Mrs. White-Spot was revenged.
Calling her little family together, calmly they went back to their
interrupted feast, and afterward lifting the little weakling in her
teeth by its neck, and calling the rest to follow her, the skunk family
all went back together over the moonlit road together, and finally
reached the home nest and went to sleep, well content with their
adventure.
Strangely enough the yellow dog can never be persuaded to follow the
trail of a skunk; he will never forget his terrible experiences with
Mrs. White-Spot and her family; furthermore, he had to be banished from
society for days, and could barely be tolerated in the wood-shed, and so
cowardly did the yellow dog become that even a sudden glimpse of the
black and white cat and her kittens sends him bolting like a shot
beneath the barn with whines and trembling body.
As for Mrs. White-Spot, she remained in her snug home beneath the sugar
house for a long time, until all the little ones had grown up and were
old enough to look after themselves, and the farmer’s boy did not get
the skunk pelts after all, but trapped muskrats instead, and in time
sold enough to buy the longed-for Flexible Flyer.
[Illustration: IN THE BOBCAT’S DEN]
XIII
IN THE BOBCAT’S DEN
Through tangled jungles of wild blackberry vines and tall brake crept a
tawny, mottled figure with stealthily velvet tread. At a distance the
creature resembled a tiger, but following close behind its padding
footsteps into the open, it appeared somewhat less formidable. Its head
was round, but flattened at the top of its skull, and its jaws were
beautifully marked and lined out with dark streakings. Its ears were
fairly long and tufted, resembling in this respect its near relative,
the dreaded Canadian lynx; its greenish, watchful eyes were alert and
glittered savagely as it halted close to the edge of the swamp, where it
was bound for its prey, but it had scented the presence of others, and
had stopped to reconnoiter.
The solitary prowler was a full-grown, male bay lynx, commonly known in
the northern country as the bob, or wildcat. This great cat resembles
closely in its habits the tiger of the jungles, and loves best the
dark, secret places of the forest; so, when the whine of the lumbermen’s
saws breaks the silence of the woods, the great tawny cat is ever
seeking new dens, going back farther into the wilderness.
Already had the frost touched the maples in the low-lying grounds, and
the forest trails were deep with fallen, yellow beech leaves, so that
the comings and goings of all the wild things were rendered doubly
silent.
In the heart of the swamp, for which the bobcat was headed, lay a
sluggish pond, its waters black with rotting water weeds, and alive with
catfish and pickerel. Close in the edge of the tall reeds lay an old
flat-bottomed boat in which were two boys, who were fishing for catfish.
Already, back in the dense forest surrounding the pond, it was growing
black with coming night shadows, but the boys hadn’t noticed it, because
the fish were biting splendidly, as they always do just after sunset,
leaping right out of the water with sudden splashes, in the center of
the pond. Over the farther side of the pond a great night-bird was
fishing, sailing low and screaming its uncanny cry as it dove after a
fish. One of the boys suddenly noticed it, for the cry made him shiver.
“Say, Jud, what’s that thing, anyhow?” he questioned.
“Just a loon, I guess,” replied the older boy, easily, hooking a
wriggling catfish, and taking it from his hook carefully, lest it stab
his fingers with its sharp horn.
“Sounds awful kind of scary an’ lonesome, I think, Jud, ’specially when
it’s most dark, like it is now. Say, Jud, let’s quit and start for
home.”
“Well, we may as well, I guess,” replied Jud, “but I hate to leave now;
it’s terrible good fishing. I got two dandy big fellows the last few
bites. Guess we got enough, though, for a good mess, and we’ll go before
it gets any darker. Say, mother’ll be awful glad of the fresh fish.”
“Bet she will,” replied Tom, as he carefully strung his catch on a
willow withe. “Say, it’s funny we can’t get meat and things up here like
we do home in Cleveland.”
“Course, we couldn’t expect to, but who cares? Mother’s most well of her
cough, staying up here,” replied Jud.
“Say, Jud, I don’t seem to remember this place,” spoke Tom, as they
plunged waist high through a forest of tall brakes into swampy, black
mire. “Do you s’pose we’re on the right road? Wish we had one of the
camp men along.”
“Oh, we’re on the right track. If we keep straight on, I guess we’re
bound to strike that piece of corduroy road; then we’re all right
anyhow; that’s the lumbermen’s trail,” replied Jud confidently. A long,
weird, mocking cry came back to the boys from the direction of the black
pond.
“There’s that hateful old loon yelling again; wish we could shoot him,”
remarked Tom.
“Hugh, guess when you hit a loon, you’ll have to be pretty old. Why,
Indian Pete’s lived all his life in the woods and in a canoe, and he’s
only shot one loon; they dive even before the bullet can reach ’em, and
they can stay under water and come up a long ways off from the place
where you first see ’em dive. They’ve got a crazy kind of a call; guess
that’s why they say some people are ‘loony’ when they go out of their
minds. Say, Tom,” suddenly exclaimed Jud, blankly, as he paused, “I--I
don’t see---- Say, did we come through all these dead woods?” Ahead of
the boys towered a great forest of giant spruce, their dead bayoneted
limbs showing gray and ghost-like in the darkness.
“Nope, we sure never saw ’em before. We couldn’t ever get through ’em,
anyhow, I guess,” replied Tom.
“Well, I guess we’re kind of off the track, somehow,” agreed Jud. “We’ve
got to go round these woods. I believe the corduroy road lies over that
direction,” and Jud pointed west.
Wearily the two boys tramped back over the trail, which was growing
darker every instant, little suspecting that they were lost, hopelessly
lost, in the jungle of the forest, and night was close upon them.
Back on the trail the bobcat kept padding silently on its way bound for
the pond. It had come out into the clearing, and gave a muffled snarl of
dismay when it had discovered the two boys. Back into the shelter of the
tall reeds it crept, and lying there flat upon its tawny mottled
stomach, it peered forth sullenly and somewhat curiously, watching the
boys until they finally left the pond.
Then clawing and scratching its way up a giant spruce, it sent out a
long, reassuring yell to its mate, for back in the bobcat’s den, under a
distant ledge, she waited with their three young kittens. From her lair
she answered the call; it came back through the distance, echoing over
the tops of the pines, and through the silent places. This was what the
boys had heard and mistaken for the call of the loon.
On and on plodded the two boys, Jud leading the way for his smaller
brother through the awful jungle as best he could, which was not very
well, because every minute the way appeared to grow darker and wilder.
At last, in spite of his hopeful words to Tom, Jud had to admit that
they were lost, probably miles away from the home camp.
“What’ll we do now, Jud Brown?” questioned Tom, almost in tears because
of his blistered feet.
“Well, no use for us to go on, I guess, even if we could,” replied his
brother, rather dejectedly; “seems to be a ledge just ahead of us. We’re
climbing it now; guess we better find a dry spot and stay in it until
daylight.”
“Guess the folks’ll worry some when we don’t get back. Mother’ll wonder
why we don’t come,” said Tom, anxiously. “Why, look up there, Jud;
there’s a big, black mountain above, I should think.”
“Yep, ’tis, and I guess it’s old Hog Back by the outlines I can just
make out,” and Jud peered into the darkness, anxiously.
“Say, anyhow, it’s an awful black, wild-looking spot right here; perhaps
there might be bears, or panthers, or something, Jud,” began Tom.
“Oh, well, there might be, but anyhow the best thing we can do is not to
try to climb old Hog Back to-night. As soon as it’s daylight I can find
my bearings all right, for I know about where the mountain lies, but
we’ll camp under this ledge. Say, great luck, I’ve found two matches in
my pocket. We’ll build a fire and cook our fish. Why, we’ll be all right
’til morning,” announced Jud, his spirits rising. “There’s a few hard
crackers left, too. Oh, we’re all right.”
The ledge was flat and dry; a great bare stone formed its outer edge,
but farther back it was overshadowed by a natural stone roof, and here
it was carpeted by soft moss.