brown--had an undiscriminating appetite for moles and shrews alike. It
was of no concern to him that the flesh of the shrew was rank and tough;
for his sense of taste was, to say the least of it, rudimentary, and to
digestion so invincible as his, tough and tender were all one. He had
learned, of course, that shrews were averse to being swallowed, and that
they both could and would put up a stiff fight against such
consummation. But he had never yet captured one in such a position that
he could not get his coils around and crush it. What he expected to find
in the burrow which he entered so confidently was a satisfying meal,
followed by a long, safe sleep to companion digestion.
As he trailed along the winding of the tunnel, his motion made a faint,
dry, whispering sound. This delicate sound, together with his peculiar,
sickly, elusive scent, travelled just before him, and reached the
doorway of the little chamber where the shrew was sleeping. The sleeper
awoke,--wide awake all at once, as it behoves the wild kindreds to be.
Instantly, too, he understood the whole peril, and that it was even now
upon him. There was no time for flight. To do him justice, it was not
flight he thought of, but fight. His little heart swelled with rage at
this invasion of his rest. Experienced fighter that he was, he fully
understood the advantages of his situation. As the head of the invader
stole past his doorway, he sprang, and sank his long, punishing teeth
deep into the back of the snake's neck.
With this hold the advantage was all his, so long as he could maintain
it; and he hung to the grip like a bulldog, biting deeper and deeper
every minute. Fettered completely by the narrowness of the tunnel,
unable to lash or coil or strike, the snake could only writhe impotently
and struggle to drag his adversary farther down the burrow toward some
roomier spot where his own tactics would have a chance. But the shrew
was not to be dislodged from his point of vantage. He clung to his
doorway no less doggedly than he clung to his hold; and all the while
his deadly teeth were biting deeper in. At last, they found the
backbone,--and bit it through. With a quiver the writhing of the big
snake stopped.
Victor though he was, the shrew was slow to accept conviction of his
victory over so mighty an antagonist. Though all resistance had ceased,
he kept on gnawing and worrying, till he had succeeded in completely
severing the head from the trunk. Then, feeling that his triumph was
secured, he turned back into his chamber and curled up again to resume
his rudely interrupted siesta.
Having thus effectually established his lordship of the burrows, this
small champion might have reasonably expected to enjoy an undisturbed
and unanxious slumber. But Fate is pitilessly whimsical in its dealings
with the wild kindreds. It chanced at this time that a red fox came
trotting down along the pasture fence. He seemed to have a very vague
idea of where he was going or what he wanted to do. Presently he took it
into his head that he wanted to cross the pasture, so he forsook the
fence and started off over the grass; and as luck would have it, his
keen, investigating nose sniffed the sod just at the point whereunder
the sleeping shrew lay hidden. The turf that formed the little fighter's
ceiling was not more than half an inch in thickness.
The smell that came up through the grass-roots was strong, and not
particularly savoury. But the red fox was not overparticular just then.
He would have chosen rabbit or partridge had Mother Nature consulted
his wishes more minutely. But as it was he saw no reason to turn up his
sharp nose at shrew. After a few hasty but discreet sniffings, which
enabled him to locate the careless slumberer, he pounced upon the exact
spot and fell to clawing the sod ferociously. His long nails and
powerful fore paws tore off the thin covering of turf in less time than
it takes to tell of it, and the next instant the shrew was hurled out
into the sunlight, dazzled and half stunned. Almost before he touched
the grass a pair of narrow jaws snapped him up. Without a moment's delay
the fox turned and trotted off up the pasture with his prey, toward his
den on the other side of the hill; and as the discriminating sunlight
peered down into the uncovered tunnel, in a few minutes flies came to
investigate, and many industrious beetles. The body of the dead snake
was soon a centre of teeming, hungry, busy life, toiling to remove all
traces of what had happened. For Nature, though she works out almost all
her ends by tragedy, is ceaselessly attentive to conceal the red marks
of her violence.
The Ringwaak Buck
Down through the leafy tangle the sunlight fell in little irregular
splotches, flecking the ruddy-brown floor of a thicket on the southward
slope of Ringwaak. In the very heart of the thicket, curled close and
with its soft, fine muzzle resting flat on its upgathered hind legs, lay
a young fawn.
The ground, covered with a deep, elastic carpet of dead spruce and
hemlock needles, was much the same colour as the little animal's coat.
The latter, however, was diversified with spots of a lighter hue, which
matched marvellously with the scattered splotches of sunlight--so
marvellously, indeed, that only an eye that was initiated, as well as
discriminating, could tell the patches of shine from the patches of
colour or distinguish the outlines of the fawn's figure against the
blending background. There was neither sound nor movement in the
thicket. A tiny greenish-yellow worm, which had let itself down from a
branch on a yard or more of delicate filament, hung motionless and
crinkled, seeming to have forgotten the purpose of its descent. Not a
breath of wind disturbed the clear, balsamy fragrance of the shadowed
air, and the fawn appeared to sleep, though its great liquid eyes were
wide open.
During the brief absence of its mild-eyed mother the little animal was
accustomed to maintaining this voiceless and unwavering stillness,
which, combined with its colouring, made its most effective concealment.
Enemies, hungry and savage, were all about it, searching coverts and
pursuing trails. But the eyes of the hunting beasts seem to be less keen
than we are wont to imagine them--certainly less keen than the eyes of
skilled woodsmen--and an unwinking stillness may deceive the craftiest
of them. Whether because its mother had taught it to be thus motionless,
or because it was coerced by instincts inherited from ten thousand
cautious ancestors, the fawn obeyed so absolutely that even its long,
sensitive ears were not permitted to twitch. Its great eyes kept staring
out in vague apprehension at the wide, shadowy, unknown world.
Suddenly into the limpid deeps of the little watcher's eyes came a flash
of fear, like a sharp contraction in the back of the pupils. A
stealthy-footed, moon-faced, fierce-eyed beast came soundlessly to the
edge of the thicket and glared in searchingly. The fawn knew in some dim
way that this was a deadly danger that confronted him. But he never
winked or moved an anxious ear. He hardly dared to breathe. It was
almost as if a hand of ice had clutched him and held him still beyond
even the possibility of a tremor. For perhaps a full minute the huge
lynx stood there half crouching, with one big, padded fore paw upheld,
piercing the gloom with his implacable stare. He could discern nothing,
however, except spaces of reddish-brown shadow, scored with the slim,
perpendicular trunks of saplings, and spattered thicket with spots of
infiltering sunlight. But the fawn, though in full view, was perfectly
concealed--for he had that gift of fern-seed which, as the old romancers
feign, makes its possessor invisible. No wandering puff of wind came by
to tell the lynx's nose that his eyes were playing him false. At last
the uplifted fore paw came softly to the ground and he crept off like a
terrible gray shadow. For two or three seconds the fawn's sides moved
violently. Then he was once more as still as a stone.
It chanced that on this particular occasion the mother doe was long
away. The fawn got very hungry, as well as lonely, which strained his
patience to the utmost. Nevertheless, he remained obedient to the law
which shielded him, while the forest, which seems so empty, but is in
reality so populous, sent its furtive kindreds past his hiding-place.
From time to time a dainty, bead-eyed wood-mouse scurried by; or a
brooding partridge, unwilling to be long absent from her eggs, ran
hither and thither to peck her hasty meal; or a red squirrel, with
fluffy tail afloat, would dart swiftly and silently over the ground,
dash up a tree, and from the top chatter shrill defiance to the perils
which had lain wait for him below. All these things the fawn's wide eyes
observed, unconsciously laying the foundations for that wisdom of the
woods upon which his success in the merciless game of life would depend.
Once a large red fox, wary, but self-confident, trotted quietly across
one end of the thicket, within ten feet of the fawn's nose; and once
more that inward spasm which meant fear contracted the depths of the
little watcher's eyes. But the fox was sniffing with his narrow,
inquisitive snout at the places where the partridge hen had scratched,
and he never saw the fawn.
With all its advantages, however, this invisibility had certain defects
of its own. About five minutes after the fox had gone there came a
swishing of branches, a pounding of soft feet, a mysterious sound of
haste and terror, at the back of the thicket where the fawn could not
see. He did not dare to lift his head and look, but waited, quivering
with apprehension. The next moment a furry bulk landed plump upon his
flank, to bounce off again with a squeal of terror. In an uncontrollable
panic the fawn bounded to his feet, and stood trembling, while a large
hare, elongated to a straight line in the desperation of his flight,
shot crashing through the screen of branches and disappeared. As the
fawn shrank away from this incomprehensible apparition--which, as far as
he knew, might return at any instant and thump him again--a thin,
snarling, peculiarly malignant cry made him turn his head, and as he did
so a small, dark-furred beast, the hare's pursuer, sprang upon him
furiously and bore him down. For the first time he experienced the pang
of physical anguish, as fierce teeth, small, but sharp, tore at the
tender hide of his neck, feeling the way to his throat. He lay
helplessly kicking under this onslaught, and bleated piteously for his
mother.
[Illustration: "TURN HIS NARROW, SNARLING FACE TO SEE WHAT THREATENED."]
At that same moment, and just in time, the mother arrived. Her eyes,
usually so gentle, were aflame with rage. Before the fisher--for such
the daring little assailant was--could do more than turn his narrow,
snarling face to see what threatened, and while yet the first sweet
trickle of blood was in his throat, a knife-edged hoof came down upon
his back, smashing the spine. He squirmed aside and made one futile
effort to drag himself away. A second later he was pounded and trampled
into a shapeless mass.
The fisher being small and his fangs not very long, the fawn's wounds
were not serious. He picked himself up and crowded close against his
mother's flank. Tenderly the doe licked him over as he nursed, and then,
when his slim legs had stopped trembling she led him away to another
hiding-place.
This experience so jarred the little animal's nerves that for a week or
more his mother could not leave him alone, but had to snatch such
pasturage as she could get near his hiding-place. His confidence in the
tactics of invisibility had been so shaken that whenever his mother
tried to leave him he would jump up and run after her. The patient old
doe got thin under these conditions; but by the time her little one had
recovered his nerves he was strong enough to follow her to her favoured
feeding-grounds, and thereafter her problems grew daily less difficult.
The summer passed with comparatively little event, and by autumn, when
his mother began to develop other instincts, and occasionally, in the
companionship of a tall, wide-antlered buck, seemed to forget him
altogether, he was a very sturdy, self-reliant youngster, in many ways
equipped to take care of himself. Ignored by the tall buck, whom he eyed
with vague disfavour, he still hung about his mother, pasturing with her
usually, and always sleeping near her in the thickets. But his first
summer had supplied him with the most important elements of that
knowledge which a red deer's life in the wilderness of the north
demands.
The courses of the varied knowledge which the wild creatures must carry
in their brains in order to survive in the struggle would seem to be
threefold. The first, and most important, source is doubtless inherited
instinct, which supplies the constant quantity, so to speak, or the
knowledge common to all the individuals of a species. The second appears
to be experience, which teaches varying lore, according to variation in
circumstance and surrounding. In the amount of such knowledge which they
possess the individuals of a species will be found to differ widely.
But, after instinct and experience have accounted for everything that
can reasonably be credited to them, there remains a considerable and
well authenticated residuum of instances where wild creatures have
displayed a knowledge which neither instinct nor experience could well
furnish them with. In such cases observation and inference seem to agree
in ascribing the knowledge to parental teaching.
Among the lessons learned that summer by the little red buck one of the
most vital was how to keep out of the way of the bears. All the forests
about Ringwaak Hill abounded in bears; for the slopes of Ringwaak were
rich in blueberries, and bears and blueberries go together when the
wishes of the bears are at all considered. But the season of blueberries
is short, and before the blueberries are ready there are few things more
delicious to a bear's taste than a fawn or a moose calf. The bear,
however, is not a very pertinacious trailer, nor does he excel in
running long distances at top speed. When it is young moose or deer he
is wanting, his way is to lie hidden behind some brush-screened stump or
boulder till the victim comes by, then dart out a huge paw and settle
the matter at one stroke. Such might well have been the fate of the
little red buck that summer but that he learned to look with wary eye on
every ambush that might hide a bear. To all these perilous places he
gave wide berth, sometimes avoiding them altogether and sometimes
circling about at safe distances till he could get the wind of them and
find out whether they held a menace or not.
Another important truth borne in upon him that first summer was that
man, the most to be dreaded of all creatures, was, notwithstanding,
capable of being most useful to the deer people. To the west of Ringwaak
lay a line of scattered settlements and lonely upland farms. Along the
edge of the forest were open fields, where the men had roots and grains
which the deer found very good to eat. Often the little red buck and his
mother would break into one of these fields and feast riotously on the
succulent crops. But at the first glimpse, smell, or sound of man, or
of the noisy dogs who served man and dwelt with him, they would be off
like swift shadows to their remotest retreats. The wise old doe knew a
lot about man; and so, however it came about, the little red buck had a
lot of useful information upon the same subject. At the same time,
through some inexplicable caprice of his mother's, he acquired a
dangerous habit that was in no way consistent with his prudent attitude
toward man. The old doe had a whimsical liking for cows, and would
sometimes lead her fawn into one of the remoter back-lot cow-pastures to
feed among the cattle. She neither permitted nor offered any
familiarities whatever to these heavy, alien beasts, but for some reason
she liked to be among them. The little red buck, therefore, although he
knew the cattle were associated with man and cared for by him, got into
the way of visiting the cow-pastures occasionally and feeding on the
sweet, close-cropped grasses. Fortunately, he learned from the first
that milking-time was a time when the pastures were to be avoided.
Yet another lesson the little buck learned that fall one day when he and
his mother were crossing the road near the settlement. Two of the
village dogs--mongrels neither very keen of nose nor very resolute of
temper--caught sight of them, and gave chase with noisy cry. Away
through the woods went doe and fawn together, bounding lightly, at a
pace that soon left their pursuers far behind. For these pursuers the
old doe had no very great respect--at a pinch, indeed, she would have
faced them and fought them with her nimble fore hoofs, and she did not
want to tire the fawn unnecessarily. When the yelping of the dogs grew
faint in the distance she wheeled around a half-circle of perhaps fifty
feet in diameter, ran back a little way, and lay down with the fawn
beside her to watch the trail. By the time they were both thoroughly
rested the dogs came panting by, noses to the ground. As soon as they
were well past the two fugitives jumped up and made off again at full
speed in another direction. After one repetition of this familiar
manoeuvre the dogs gave up the game in disgust. The little red buck had
learned a handy trick, but he had learned, at the same time, to take
dogs too lightly.
That winter the doe and fawn, with another doe, were in a manner taken
in charge by the tall, wide-antlered buck, who, when the snow began to
get deep, selected a sunny slope where groves of thick spruce were
interspersed with clumps of young poplar and birch. Hither he led his
little herd, and here he established his winter quarters, treading out
paths from grove to grove and from thicket to thicket, so that even when
the snow lay from four to five feet deep the herd could move about
freely from one feeding-place to another. The memory of all this fixed
itself securely in the recesses of the little buck's brain, to serve him
in good stead in later winters.
When at last the snow vanished and the hillside brooks ran full and
loud, and spring, with her cool colours and fresh scents, was in full
possession of Ringwaak, the little herd scattered. The old doe stole off
by herself one day when he was not noticing, and the yearling found
himself left solitary. For a few days he was lonely and spent much of
his time looking for his mother. Then, being of self-reliant disposition
and very large and vigorous for his age, and well endowed with the joy
of life, he forgot his loss and became pleasantly absorbed in the
wilderness world of Ringwaak, with its elations, and satisfactions, and
breathless adventures, and thrilling escapes. That autumn he grew
pugnacious, and get more than one thrashing from full-grown bucks whom
he was so foolhardy as to offend. But his defeats were the best kind of
instruction, and he was growing both in strength and stature beyond the
ordinary custom of his kind. By the time another winter and another
summer had gone over him he was ready to wipe out all past humiliations.
When he stopped to drink at the glassy pool which lies in a granite
pocket half-way up the western slope of Ringwaak he saw a reflection of
the most redoubtable buck on all that range, and when the other bucks
responded to his challenge they one after another met defeat. That
winter, when he established his yard and trod out his range of paths
among the birch and poplar thickets, he had three does and two fawns
under his leadership.
During the next two years he became famous throughout the settlements.
Every one had heard of the big buck who was so bold about showing
himself when no one was ready for him, but so crafty in eluding the
hunters. He was seen from time to time in the pastures with the cattle,
but never when there was a gun within reach. On many a field of earing
grain he stamped the broad defiance of his ravages, till for miles about
every backwoods sportsman began to dream of winning those noble
antlers.
[Illustration: "WHEN HE STOPPED TO DRINK AT THE GLASSY POOL."]
The last farm of the settlement toward the northwest, where the road
leads off over wooded dips and rises to the valley of the turbulent
Ottanoonsis, belonged to an old bachelor farmer named Ramsay. This farm
the red buck seemed to have selected for his special and distinguished
attention. He loved Ramsay's bean-fields and his corn-patch. He loved
his long, sea-green turnip rows. He loved even the little garden before
the kitchen window, where he easily learned to like cabbages and
cucumbers and tried vainly to acquire a taste for onions and
peppergrass. The visits to the garden were invariably paid when Ramsay
was away at the crossroads store or during the dark hours of those
particular nights when Ramsay slept soundest. The gaunt old farmer vowed
vengeance, and kept his long-barrelled duck gun loaded with buckshot,
and wasted many days lying in wait for the marauder or following his
trail through the tumbled, sweet-smelling autumn woods of Ringwaak. At
last, however, though his desire for vengeance had by no means
slackened, the grim old farmer woodsman began to take a certain pride in
his adversary's prowess, along with a certain jealous apprehension lest
those daring antlers should fall a trophy to some other gun than his.
When the buck would perpetrate some particularly audacious depredation
on the corn or cabbages, Ramsay's first burst of wrath would be
succeeded by something akin to respectful appreciation. He would pull
his scraggy and grizzled chin with his gnarled fingers contemplatively,
and a twinkle of understanding humour would supplant the anger in his
shrewd, blue, woods-wise eyes as he stood surveying the damage. Such an
antagonist was worth while, and Ramsay registered a vow that that fine
hide should keep him warm in winter, those illustrious antlers adorn no
other walls but his.
But there were many others who had similar views as to the destiny of
the great Ringwaak buck, whose fame by the opening of his fourth season
had spread far beyond the limits of the Ringwaak settlements. Late in
the fourth autumn a couple of new settlers on the lower river decided to
make a trip up to Ringwaak and try their luck. They had heard of the big
buck's craft in foiling the trailers, of his almost inspired sagacity in
avoiding ambuscade. But they were prepared to play an entirely new card
against him. They brought with them two splendid dogs of mixed Scotch
deerhound and collie blood who were not only fierce but intelligent,
not only tireless but swift.
When these two long-legged, long-jawed, iron gray dogs were loosed upon
his trail the big buck chanced to be watching them from the heart of a
thicket on a knoll less than one hundred yards away. At least, as the
crow flies, it was about that distance, but by the windings of the trail
it was fully a mile. It was with equanimity, therefore, that the buck
gazed down upon these two strange arrivals, till he perceived by their
actions that it was his own trail they were following. Then a spark of
anger came into his great liquid eyes, and he stamped his sharp hoofs,
as if he would like to wait and give battle. But these were antagonists
too formidable for even so hardy a fighter as he; so he decided to get
away in good time. He was only half in earnest about it, however, for
after all, big as they were, these were only dogs, and dogs were easy to
elude. He amused himself with three or four mighty leaps, first in one
direction, then in another, to give his pursuers something to puzzle
over. Then he went bounding lightly away along the skirts of the
mountains, northwestward, toward the more familiar and favoured section
of his range. When he came to a brook he would run a little way up or
down the channel before resuming his flight. And at last, when his
velvet sides were beginning to heave from so much exercise, he made his
accustomed loop in the trail and lay down, well satisfied to wait for
the pursuers to go by.