THE YELLOW THIRST
The old woodchuck hole—it was one whose owner had been killed by Red Fox
himself earlier in the season—served very well, when enlarged, for the
rest of the summer. Red Fox did not occupy it, objecting as he did to the
restlessness of the puppies, and preferring the spicy air beneath some
thick spruce or fir near at hand. The puppies, with their increasing size
and independence of spirit, were by this time growing troublesome to
their mother, who had a busy time keeping them out of scrapes. The
reputation of their father had secured them against many of the perils
which beset young foxdom; and, except for the one little victim snatched
away by the eagle, their number was not diminished. Never meddling, never
teaching, never disciplining, apparently unaware, indeed, of their
existence, Red Fox stood behind the little family and watched that it
came to no hurt. Why he did this it would have puzzled him to decide, had
the question in any way occurred to him. He would have concluded,
probably, that it was all for the sake of the slim red mate; though back
of this motive; without any doubt, the deeper instinct of fatherhood was
at work.
[Illustration: “HE SAW A BIG RACCOON GO RUNNING BY.”]
The little foxes were now given to stealing off at twilight, or by
moonlight, studying for themselves the mysteries of the trails; and
sometimes, though not always, unknown to the young adventurers, Red Fox
would manage to conduct his own hunting in the near neighbourhood. More
than once his wisdom was justified by the event.
One day, as he was lying in wait in a clump of weeds for a rabbit which
he had some reason to expect in the runway before him, he saw a big
raccoon go running by on her toes, her big, dark, inquisitive eyes
peering into every shadowy place. They detected Red Fox at once, hidden
though he thought himself; and Red Fox knew himself discovered, by the
change of expression, the sudden narrowing of the pupils, of those
strange, restless eyes. The raccoon ran on, however, as if she had seen
nothing, and Red Fox never moved. Each knew the other very well, and each
had the highest respect for the other’s prowess in battle. There was no
desire to interfere on either side. Had a fight been forced upon them,
Red Fox would unquestionably have come out conqueror, but not without
rememberable scars; for all his quick intelligence would have been
needed, in addition to his strength and courage, to assure him the
victory over so redoubtable an adversary as the big raccoon.
Some ten paces behind their mother ran three little raccoons, evidently
in haste to catch up. They did not see Red Fox; and Red Fox, on his part,
eyed them quite casually. He allowed himself no thought of how appetizing
a morsel one of those fat little coons would be. Out of the corner of one
eye, however, he cast a keen glance up along the runway, and noted that
the mother raccoon had turned, and was looking backwards, to make quite
sure that the great fox would respect the tacit truce that stood between
her and him.
No sooner had the group of young coons gone, and disappeared with their
mother down the runway, than another of the bright-eyed, bar-faced,
ring-tailed little ones came along. He was in no hurry whatever, and
seemed to care not a jot how far the rest of his family might get ahead
of him. He went loafing along, nosing here and there, and apparently took
no thought of all the perils of the wilderness. It may have been mere
rash folly on his part, or it may have been the extreme of confidence in
his mother’s ability to protect him even at long range; but he certainly
showed himself lacking in that wholesome apprehensiveness which so helps
a wilderness youngster to grow up. Red Fox wrinkled his black nose at the
sight of such heedlessness, but had no thought of molesting the unwary
traveller.
The little raccoon, however, had hardly got by, when Red Fox caught sight
of one of his own irrepressible litter stealing up swiftly on the trail.
It was the biggest of the whelps, this one, a particularly sturdy and
well-grown youngster, who bid fair to one day rival his father in size
and strength. He had none of his father’s wisdom, however, or he would
not have been following the trail of the whole raccoon family. Red Fox
was exasperated at this exhibition of blind, headlong rashness. He saw
himself, in a moment more, being drawn into a bloody and altogether
unprofitable contention with the big raccoon,—perhaps with her mate also.
This was not to be endured. Darting from his hiding-place he stood across
the runway, and turned a face of censure upon the foolish puppy. The look
and attitude, together with a faint murmur of a growl, conveyed plainly
enough to the youngster all that was necessary for him to know. Sullen
and unconvinced, the youngster shrank back, turned, and went trotting
reluctantly homeward, probably telling himself that his father had some
hidden motive for his interference. When he had disappeared up the
runway, Red Fox turned his head, and saw the big raccoon just vanishing
in the other direction. She had been back to look after her dilatory
offspring.
A few days later another of the ambitious puppies, starting out about
sunset to follow the trails alone, got himself engaged in an enterprise
too great for him. Under a rock on the edge of a little grassy, steeply
sloping glade, where the red-gold light fell richly through the thin
tree-tops along the lower edge, the youngster had found a woodchuck hole.
Very proud and aspiring, he crouched beside it like a cat and waited for
the occupant to come out. In a few minutes the occupant did come
out,—grumpy woodchuck with a good appetite, starting out to forage for
his bloodless evening meal of herbs and roots. The moment he emerged, the
rash young fox pounced upon him, expecting an easy and speedy victory.
But the woodchuck was no whit dismayed. His squat, brown body, rather fat
and flabby-looking, was in reality a mass of vigorous muscles. His long,
gnawing teeth, keen-edged as chisels, were very potent weapons. And there
was not a drop of craven blood in his sturdy little heart. With an angry,
whistling sort of squeak, he turned savagely upon his assailant and set a
deep, punishing grip into his neck.
The young fox was startled, and let go his hold with a short yelp at the
unaccustomed pain. He was game, however, and reached straightway for
another and more effective hold. He bit and bit, slashing his antagonist
severely; while the woodchuck, satisfied with the grip he had gained,
held on like a bulldog, worrying, worrying, worrying. For perhaps three
or four minutes the two thrashed around in the rose-lit grass before the
hole,—the inexperienced puppy working desperately and rapidly tiring
himself out, while the crafty old woodchuck held on and saved his breath,
biding his opportunity. A minute or two more and he would have had the
little fox at his mercy, bewildered and exhausted. But just at this
critical point in the fight, when victory was already within his reach,
he relaxed his hold, violently shook himself free, and darted like a
brown streak into his hole.
The old fighter’s cool and watchful eyes had caught sight of Red Fox,
slipping swiftly and secretly up along the grassy edge of the glade to
his offspring’s rescue. Very well did Red Fox know the woodchuck’s
prowess, and he was not dissatisfied with the fight that the youngster
had put up. He licked the youngster’s wound approvingly, and then settled
himself down by the hole to watch for the woodchuck to come out again. He
was willing enough to avenge the youngster’s wound and at the same time
dine on plump woodchuck. But he waited in vain. This was a woodchuck of
experience and craft. Some eight or ten feet away, behind a thick clump
of weeds that grew against a log, he had another doorway to his dwelling.
Here, with just his nose stuck out, he himself kept watch upon Red Fox,
moveless and patient. For a good half-hour Red Fox watched the first
hole, while the woodchuck peered forth from the other; and the coloured
sunset faded into the grayness of the dewy forest twilight. Then Red Fox,
growing tired of inaction, went off on another and less monotonous quest.
The woodchuck stayed indoors for a good hour more, then came forth
confidently and went about his harmless business, an enemy to none but
grass and leaves.
[Illustration: “SETTLED HIMSELF DOWN BY THE HOLE TO WATCH FOR THE
WOODCHUCK TO COME OUT.”]
As the summer drew past its full, there crept over all the Ringwaak
country a severe and altogether phenomenal drought. For weeks there was
no rain, and all day the inexorable sun sucked up the moisture. The
streams shrank, the wells in the settlement grew scant and roiled, the
forest pools dried up, leaving tangles of coarse, prostrate weeds and
ugly spaces of scum-encrusted mud. Under this mud, before it dried, the
water insects and larvæ and small crustaceans buried themselves in
despairing disgust. Many of the frogs followed this wisely temporizing
example; while others, more venturesome and impatient, set out on
difficult migrations, questing for springs that the drought could not
exhaust. The fields down in the valley, but yesterday so richly green
with crops, became patched and streaked with sickly grayish yellows. The
maples, and poplars, and birches all over the wooded uplands began to
take on autumn tints long before their time,—but with a dull lack-lustre,
instead of the thrilling and transparent autumn brilliancy. Only the
great balsam poplars, and elms, and water-ash, growing along the little
chain of lakes far down the valley and striking roots far down into the
damp, kept their green and defied the parching skies.
With this travail of inanimate nature all the furred and feathered life
of the wild suffered in sympathy. The stifling and devitalized air set
their nerves on edge, as it were. They were harassed with a continual
vague discomfort, and could not tell what ailed them. Their old
occupations and affairs lost interest. They grew peevish, resentful,
quarrelsome. Instead of minding each his own business, and quietly
getting out of one another’s way, they would choose rather to go out of
their own way to assert their rights; and so there were frequent
unnecessary battles, and bloody feuds sprang up where there had of old
been a prudent tolerance and respecting of claims. With certain of the
animals, indeed, this state of overtense nerves went the length of a kind
of madness, till they would run amuck, and blindly attack creatures whose
wrath they could not hope to withstand for a moment. For example, a bear,
shuffling sulkily down to seek a wallowing-place in some shrunken pool of
the brook, was met by a red-eyed, open-jawed mink, which darted at his
nose in a paroxysm of insane fury. The little maniac clung to the big
beast’s tender snout till he was battered and torn to pieces. Then the
bear, injured and furious, hurried on to the brook to bury his bleeding
muzzle in the wet mud, for the drawing out of the poison and the
assuagement of the pain. The blood of a bear not being very susceptible
to such poisons, he was soon none the worse for the strange assault; but
some other animals, in a like case, would have probably found themselves
inoculated with the assailant’s madness.
[Illustration: “THE LITTLE MANIAC CLUNG TO THE BIG BEAST’S TENDER
SNOUT.”]
Another instance of the sinister influences at work throughout the wilds
occurred about this time to the Boy. He was moving in his noiseless
fashion along an old, mossy wood-road, his bright eyes taking in every
detail of the shadowy world, when he saw a small yellow weasel running
directly toward him. Instantly he stopped, stiffened himself to the
stillness of a stump, and waited in keen curiosity to see what the weasel
was up to. He was not left long in doubt. Almost before he could realize
what was happening, the snaky little beast reached his feet, and with
gnashing teeth and blazing eyes darted straight up his leg. It had almost
gained his throat—its evident object—before he regained his wits enough
to strike it to the ground with a blow of his hand. In a flash, however,
it was back at him again, with a virulence of malice that filled the
Boy’s ordinarily gentle soul with rage. As he again dashed it down, this
time with all his strength, he sprang forward simultaneously and caught
it under his foot as it touched the earth. Then, with a savage
satisfaction that amazed himself, he ground the mad beast’s life out
under his heel. The experience, however, had something fearsome and
uncanny about it, which for a few days spoiled his interest in the
wilderness. Under the malign spell of the drought, the woods had lost for
him their sweet, familiar influence.
One scorching morning somewhat later, when the curse of the yellow thirst
had lain upon the land for weeks, Red Fox, looking down from the shade of
the juniper-bush, saw a big muskrat climb the bank of the dwindling brook
and start straight across the meadow toward the deep woods, where no
muskrat in its senses had any business. Red Fox eyed its erratic progress
suspiciously. He did not like these beasts that lost their heads and
acted as nature never intended them to act. Suddenly, to his angry alarm,
he saw the big, headstrong, foolhardy member of his litter creep out from
the den and steal warily down to intercept the approaching muskrat. The
young fox, of course, took every precaution to conceal himself, keeping
behind the grass tufts and crawling belly to earth. But the muskrat
detected him; and at once, instead of darting, panic-stricken, back to
the brook, came straight at him fiercely. Red Fox saw that the muskrat
had gone mad, and that a single one of its venomous bites might be fatal
to its ignorant young antagonist. Like a red streak he left his lair, and
was out across the meadow, coming upon the muskrat a little behind and to
one side. So intent were the two as they approached each other that they
never saw Red Fox’s coming. Another second and they would have been at
each other’s throats, and nothing but a miracle could have saved the
youngster, though he would undoubtedly have killed the muskrat in half a
minute. But at this instant Red Fox arrived with an arrowy, straight
spring, and his invincible jaws caught the muskrat’s neck close behind
the ears. There was no chance for the mad little animal to bite, or even
squeal. One jerk and its neck was broken. Red Fox left the sprawling
victim on the ground, and trotted back to his lair under the bush,
willing to leave the prize to the youngster who had started out to win
it. But the latter, sullenly enraged at what he considered his father’s
wanton interference, would have nothing more to do with it. He turned off
sulkily into the woods, and the body was left neglected in the sun, an
object of immediate interest to the ants and flies.