brim, the first weeks of babyhood passed uneventfully, so with Brock,
the badger, nothing of interest occurred till his eyes gradually opened,
and he could enjoy with careless freedom the real beginning of his
woodland life. Even thus early, what may be called the nocturnal
instinct was strong within him. He was alert and playful chiefly at
night, when, deep in the underground hollow, nothing could be heard of
the outer world but the indistinct, monotonous wail of the wind in the
upper passages of the "set." Droll, indeed, were the revels of the young
badgers when the parents were hunting far away. The little creatures,
awakened from a heavy sleep that had followed the last fond attentions
of their mother, were loath to frolic at once with each other in the
lonely, silent chamber. In their parents' absence they felt unsafe; that
mysterious whisper of admonition, unheard but felt, which is the voice
of the all-pervading spirit of the woods forever warning the kindred of
the wild, bade them be quiet till the dawn should bring the mother
badger to the lair once more. So, huddled close, they were for a time
satisfied with a strangely deliberate game of "King of the Castle," the
castle being an imaginary place in the middle of their bed. Towards that
spot each player pushed quietly, but vigorously, one or other gaining a
slight advantage now and again by grunting an unexpected threat into the
ear of a near companion, or by bestowing an unexpected nip on the flank
of the cub that held for the moment the coveted position of king. Withal
this was a sober pastime, unless Brock, the strongest and most
determined member of the family, chanced to provoke his playmates
beyond endurance, and caused a general, reckless scramble, in which tiny
white teeth were bared and tempers were uncontrolled.
As the night wore on, it almost invariably happened, however, that the
"Castle" game gave place to a livelier diversion akin to "Puss in the
Corner," when, on feeble, unsteady legs, the "earth-pigs" romped in
pursuit of each other, or squatted, grunting with excitement, in
different spots near the wall of their nursery. But, tired at last, they
ceased their gambols an hour or so before dawn, lay together in a warm,
panting heap, and slept, till, on the return of their mother to the
"set," they were gathered to the soft comfort of her folded limbs, and
fed and fondled to their hearts' content.
Though Brock grew as rapidly as any young badger might be expected to
grow, a comparatively long time passed by before he and the other small
members of the family ventured out of doors. Repeatedly they were
warned, in a language which soon they perfectly understood, that, except
under the care of their parents, a visit to the outer world would end
disastrously; so, while the old ones were abroad, the little creatures
dared not move beyond the opening to the dark passage between the
chamber and the gallery above. Sometimes, following their dam when she
climbed the steep passage to her favourite lookout corner within a mouth
of the burrow, they caught a glimpse of the sky, and of the trees and
the bracken around their home; but a journey along the gallery was never
made before the twilight deepened.
The purpose of such close confinement was, that the young badgers should
be taught, thoroughly and without risk, the first principles of
wood-craft, and thus be enabled to hold their own in that struggle for
existence, the stress of which is known even to the strong. Obedience,
ever of vital importance in the training of the forest folk, was
impartially exacted by the mother from her offspring. It was also taught
by a system of immediate reward. The old badger invariably uttered a low
but not unmusical greeting when she returned to her family at dawn.
Almost before their eyes were open, the sucklings learned to connect
this sound with food and comfort, and at once turned to the spot from
which it proceeded. Later, when the same note was used as a call, they
recognised that its meaning was varied; in turn it became, with subtle
differences of inflection, an entreaty, a command, and a warning that it
would be folly to ignore; but, whatever it might indicate, they
instinctively remembered its first happy associations, and hurried to
their mother's side. Hardly different from the call, when it conveyed
the idea of warning, was a note of definite dissent, directing the
youngsters to cease from squabbling, and to become less noisy in their
rough-and-tumble play. After they had learned each minute difference in
the call notes, their progress in education was largely determined by
that love of mimicry which always prompts the young to imitate the old;
and in time they acquired the tastes, the passions, and the experiences
of their watchful teachers.
While prevented from wandering abroad, they nevertheless were not
entirely ignorant of what was happening in the woods. They were not
quickly weaned; it was necessary, before the dam denied them Nature's
first nourishment, that they should have ready access to the brook that
trickled down the hillside hollow not far from the "set." But
meanwhile, young rabbits, dug from the breeding "stops" of the does,
were frequently brought to them, and the badgers were encouraged to
gratify a love for solid food which nightly became stronger.
In this part of the education of their young, the parent badgers adopted
methods similar to those of the fox and other carnivorous animals. When
first the mother badger brought a rabbit home, she placed it close
beside her cubs, so that they could not fail to be attracted by its
scent. For a moment, aware of something new and strange, they showed
signs of timidity, and crouched together in the middle of the nest; but
the presence of their mother reassured them, and they sniffed at the
warm body with increasing delight. The dam seemed to know each trifling
thought passing through their minds; and, observing their eager
interest, she dragged the rabbit into a corner of the bed, making great
show of savagery, as if guarding it from their attacks. Time after time,
she alternately surrendered and withdrew her victim, till the tempers of
the little animals, irritated beyond control by her tantalising methods,
blazed out in a free fight among themselves for possession of the
prize. The mother now retired to a corner of the "set," and listened
attentively to all that happened, till they had finished their quarrel,
and Brock, the middle figure in a group of tired youngsters, lay fast
asleep with his head on the rabbit's neck. Then she turned, climbed
quietly to the upper galleries, and, stealing out among the shadows of
the wood, came again to the breeding "stop," where she unearthed and
devoured a young rabbit that had been suffocated in the loose soil
thrown up during her former visit. After quenching her thirst at the
brook in the hollow, she journeyed to the upland fields, crossed the
scent of her mate in the gorse, and then "cast" back across the
hillside, making a leisurely examination of each woodland sign, to
satisfy herself that no danger lurked in the neighbourhood of her home.
For the badger, as for the tiny field-vole in the rough pastures of the
Cerdyn valley, the various scents and sounds were full of meaning, and
constituted a record of the night such as only the woodland folk have
learned fully to understand. The smell of the fox lay strong on a path
between the oaks; with it was mingled the scent of a bird; and a white
feather, caught by a puff of wind, fluttered in the grass: young
Reynard, boldest of an early family in the "earth," had stolen a fowl
from a neighbouring farmyard near the river, and had carried it--not
slung over his shoulders, as fanciful writers declare, but with its tail
almost touching the soil--into the thicket beyond the wood. Rabbits had
wandered in the undergrowth; and, near a large warren, the stale,
peculiar odour of a stoat that had evidently prowled at dusk lingered on
the dewy soil. The signs of blackbirds and pigeons among the loose
leaf-mould were also faint; as soon as night had fallen, the birds had
flown to roost in the branches overhead. The short, coughing bark of an
old fox came from the edge of the wood; and then for some time all was
quiet, till the musical cry of an otter sounded low and clear from the
river beneath the steep.
These familiar voices of the wilderness caused the badger no anxiety;
they told her of freedom from danger; they were to her assuring signals
from the watchers of the night. But the howl of a dog in a distant
farmstead, and the bleat of a restless sheep in the pasture on the far
side of the hill, told her a different story; they reminded her, as the
smell of the fowl had done, that man, arch-enemy of the woodland people,
might in any capricious moment threaten her existence, seeking to
destroy her even while by day she slumbered in her chamber under the
roots of the forest trees.
She crossed the gap, where the river-path joined the down-stream
boundary of the wood, then, with awkward, shambling stride, climbed the
steep pasture, and for a few moments paused to watch and listen in the
deep shadows of the hedge on the brow of the slope. A rabbit, that had
lain out all night in her "seat" beneath the briars, rushed quickly from
the undergrowth, and fled for safety to a burrow in the middle of the
field. A small, dim form appeared for a moment by a wattled opening
between the pasture and the cornfield above, then, with a rustle of dry
leaves, vanished on the further side--a polecat was returning to her
home in a pile of stones that occupied a hollow on the edge of the wood.
Day was slowly breaking. A cool wind, blowing straight from the
direction of a homestead indistinctly outlined against the dawn, stirred
the leaves in the ditch, and brought to the badger's nostrils the
pungent scent of burning wood--the milkmaid was already at work
preparing a frugal breakfast in the kitchen of a lonely farm. Fearing
that with the day the birds would mock her as she passed, and thus
reveal her whereabouts to some inquisitive foe, the badger sought the
loneliest pathway through the wood, and returned, silently but hastily,
to her home.
II.
HOME DISCIPLINE.
During the mother badger's absence from home, an unlooked-for
event--almost the exact repetition of an incident in the training of
Vulp, the young fox--had happened in the education of her cubs. Her
mate, hunting in an upland fallow, had been surprised by a poacher, and,
long before daybreak, had discreetly returned to the "set." The success
he had met with had enabled him to feed to repletion, so he was not
tempted by the dead rabbit carried home by the mother and left in the
chamber. Fearing to leave his hiding place, he wisely determined to
devote the time at his disposal, before settling to sleep, to his
children's instruction. With a grunt like that of the mother when she
greeted her offspring, he at once aroused the slumbering youngsters,
and then, heedless of their attentions, as, mistaking him for the dam,
they pressed at his side, he laid hold of the rabbit and dragged it into
a far corner. Full of curiosity, the cubs followed, but with well
assumed anger he drove them away. As if in keen anticipation of a feast,
he tore the dead animal into small pieces which he placed together on
the floor of the chamber. This task complete, he retired to his
accustomed resting place, and listened while the cubs, overcoming their
timidity, ventured nearer and nearer to the dismembered rabbit, till,
suddenly smelling the fresh blood, they gave way to inborn passion, and
buried their teeth in the lifeless flesh. An inevitable quarrel ensued;
Brock and his companions could not agree on the choice of tit-bits, and
a medley of discordant grunts and squeals seemed to fill the chamber,
though now and again it partly subsided, as two or three of the cubs,
having fixed on the same portion of the rabbit, tugged and strained for
its possession--so intent on the struggle that they dared not waste
their breath in useless wrangling.
The old badger, satisfied that his progeny gave excellent promise of
pluck and strength, was almost dropping off contentedly to sleep, when
one of the excited combatants, retreating from the fray, backed
unceremoniously, and awoke him with an accidental blow on the ribs. This
was more than the crusty sire could endure, and he administered such
prompt and indiscriminate chastisement to the youngsters, that, in a
subdued frame of mind, they forgot their differences, forgot also the
toothsome remnants of their feast, and nestled together in bed, desiring
much that their patient dam would come to console them for the ill-usage
just received.
On returning to the "set," the mother badger stayed for a few minutes at
the edge of the mound before the main entrance, and, rearing herself on
her hind-legs, rubbed her cheek against a tree-trunk, and sniffed the
air for the scent of a lurking enemy. Then, satisfied that all was safe,
she entered the deep chamber, and was greeted by the little creatures
that for an hour had expectantly awaited her arrival. Unusually
boisterous in their welcome, they instantly disregarded the presence of
their sire; and such, already, was the magic effect of the meal of raw
flesh on their tempers, that, with an eagerness hitherto unknown, they
followed every movement of their dam, till, submitting to their
importunities, she lay beside them, and fed and fondled them to sleep.
Almost nightly, she brought something new with which to tempt their
appetites--young bank-voles dug from their burrows on the margin of the
wood, weakling pigeons dropped from late nests among the leafy boughs,
snakes, and lizards, and, chiefly, suckling rabbits unearthed from the
shallow holes which the does had "stopped" with soil thrown back into
the entrance when they left to feed amid the clover.
Though young rabbits, in breeding "stops" barely a foot below the level
of the ground, were never safe from the badger's attack, a flourishing
colony dwelt within the precincts of the "set." Early in spring, when
the badgers were preparing for their expected family, a doe rabbit,
attracted by the great commotion caused by their efforts to remove the
big heap of soil thrown up at the entrance to their dwelling, hopped
quietly out of the fern, and sat for a long time watching from between
the bushes the occasional showers of loam which indicated the progress
of the work. Judged by the standard of a rabbit, Bunny was a fairly
clever little creature, and the plans she formed as she hid in the
undergrowth seemed to show that she possessed unusual forethought. She
waited and watched for several nights, till the badgers had ceased to
labour, and the mound before the "set" remained apparently untouched.
Then, one evening, after she had seen the badgers go off together into
the heart of the wood, she entered, and moved along the gallery, pausing
here and there to touch the walls with her sensitive muzzle. Coming to a
place where a stone was slightly loosened, she began to dig a shaft
almost at right angles to the roomy gallery, and for a time continued
her work undisturbed; but an hour or so before dawn she retired to sleep
in a thicket, some distance beyond the plain, wide trail marking the
badger's movements to and from the nearest fields.
The badgers, on returning home, were sorely puzzled at the change that
had taken place during their absence. To all appearance, a trick had
been played on them, for, whereas their house had been left neat and
tidy at dusk, there was now a pile of earth obstructing the main
passage. However, they accepted the situation philosophically, and
completed the rabbit's work by clearing the gallery and adding to the
heap beyond the entrance.
Night after night, the wily rabbit watched for the badgers' departure,
carried on her work, and gave them a fresh task for the early morning,
till a short but winding burrow, some depth below the level of the
ground, formed an antechamber where the little family to which she
presently gave birth was reared in safety.
Though the badgers, aware that the shallow "stops" in the woods were
more easily unearthed than this deeper burrow near the mouth of the
"set," did not seek to disturb their neighbours, the mother rabbit,
directly her family grew old enough to leave the nest, became
increasingly vigilant, and, when about to lead them to or from their
dwelling, was ever careful to be satisfied that all was quiet in the
chambers and the galleries below. Generally she ventured abroad before
the badgers awoke from the day's sleep, came back during their absence,
and once more stole out to feed when they had returned and were resting
in their snuggery. The danger that lurked in her surroundings supplied a
special excitement to life, and she never heard without fear the ominous
sounds that vibrated clearly through every crack and cranny when the
badgers occasionally arose from their couch, stretched their cramped
limbs, shook their rough grey coats, and grunted with satisfaction at
the feeling of health and strength which nearly all wild animals delight
occasionally to express.
The forest trees had donned their verdure; the tall bracken had lifted
its fronds so far above the grass that the mother rabbit no longer found
them a convenient screen through which to peer at the strange antics of
the old badgers as they came from their lair and sat in the twilight on
the mound by the entrance of their home; and the rill in the dingle,
which, during winter and early spring, leaped, a clear, rushing torrent,
on its way to the river below the steep, had dwindled to a few drops of
water, collected in tiny pools among the stones, or trickling
reluctantly down the dank, green water-weed. The young badger family
had grown so strong and high-spirited that their dam, weakened by
motherhood, and at a loss to restrain their increasing desire for
outdoor air and exercise, determined to wean them, and to teach them
many lessons, concerning the ways of the woodland people, which she had
learned long ago from her parents, or, more recently, from her own
experiences as a creature of the dark, mysterious night.
Brock, in particular, was the source of considerable anxiety to her. He
was the leader in every scene of noisy festivity; she was repeatedly
forced to punish him for following her at dusk to the mound outside the
upper gallery, and for disobedience when she condescended to take part
in a midnight romp in the underground nursery. He tormented the other
members of the family by awakening them from sleep when he desired to
play, also by appropriating, till his appetite was fully appeased, all
the food his dam brought home from her hunting expeditions, and, again,
by picking quarrels over such a trifling matter as the choice of a place
when he and his little companions wished to rest.
Nature's children are wilful and selfish; and in their struggle for
existence they live, if independent of their parents, only so long as
they can take care of themselves. Among adult animals, however,
selfishness seems to become inoperative in the care they take of their
offspring. But though the mother badger was unselfish towards her little
ones, she spared no effort to instruct them in the ways of selfishness.
The night of Brock's first visit to the woods was warm and unclouded.
For an hour after sunset, he played about the gallery by the door, while
his mother, a vigilant sentinel, remained motionless and unseen in the
darkness behind. Now and again, he heard the rabbits moving in the
burrow, but they, aware of his presence, stayed discreetly out of view.
Under his mother's guidance, or even if his playmates had been bold
enough to accompany him, he would at once have been ready to explore the
furthest corner of the rabbit-hole. But the old badger was too big, and
the youngsters were too timid, to go with him into the mysterious
antechamber; so, after repeated attempts to explore the passage as far
as the bend, and finding to his discomfort that there the space became
narrower, he gave up the idea of prying on the doings of his neighbours,
and contented himself with droll, clumsy antics, such as those by which
wild children often seek to convince indulgent parents that they are
eager and fearless.
As the darkness deepened, the dog-badger, after hunting near the
outskirts of the wood, returned to the "set." His manner indicated that
he was the bearer of an important message. He touched his mate on the
shoulder; then, as she responded to his greeting, he thrust his head
forward so that she could scent a drop of blood clinging to his lip;
and, while she sniffed enquiringly along the fringe of his muzzle, he
seemed to be assuring her that his message was of the utmost
consequence. As soon as she understood his meaning, he vanished into the
gallery, and for a few moments was evidently busy. Faint squeals and
grunts, which gradually became louder and louder, proceeded from the
central chamber, and, again, from the inner passages; and presently the
big badger appeared in sight, driving his family before him, and
threatening them with direst punishment if they attempted to double past
him and thus regain their dark retreat.
Wholly unable to appreciate the real position of affairs, Brock,
perplexed and frightened, found himself hiding among the ferns and
brambles outside the "set," while the sire, standing in full view on the
mound, and grunting loudly, forbade the return of his evicted family.
Unexpectedly, too, the mother badger, when the little ones looked to her
for sympathy in their extraordinary treatment, took the part of the
crusty old sire, and snapped and snarled directly they attempted to move
back towards the mound. Utterly bewildered and much in fear, since their
dam, hitherto the object of implicit trust, had suddenly deserted their
cause, the young badgers crouched together under the bushes, and watched
distrustfully each movement of their parents. The sire stuck to his post
on the mound, and, with hoarse grunts, varied occasionally by thin,
piping squeals that did not seem in the least to accord with his
wrathful demeanour, continued to keep them at a distance.
Soon the dam moved slowly away, climbed the track towards the top of the
wood, and then called to the cubs as they sat peering after her into the
darkness. Released from discipline, and eagerly responsive to her cry,
they lurched after her, and followed closely as she led them further and
still further from home. Presently, the dog-badger overtook his family.
His manner, as well as the dam's, had changed; and though great caution
was exercised as they journeyed along paths well trodden, and free from
twigs that might snap, or leaves that might rustle, and though silence
was the order of the march, the little family--proud parents and shy,
inquisitive children--seemed as happy as the summer night was calm. The
distant sound of a prowling creature, heard at times from the margin of
the wood, caused not the slightest alarm to the cubs: the intense
nervousness always apparent in young foxes was not evinced by the little
badgers.
In comparison with the fox-cubs, they were not easily frightened; they
already gave promise of the presence of mind which, later, was often
displayed when they were threatened by powerful foes. Brock,
nevertheless, betrayed astonishment when a dusky form bolted through the
whinberry bushes close by; and several moments passed before he was
able, by his undeveloped methods of reasoning, to connect the scent of
the flying creature with that of the rabbits often carried home by his
mother, and, therefore, with something good for food.