Part 2

"Not perhaps before the gun began to be used," replied the eagle, "but my memory goes back to times when there was very little shooting indeed. The moors were all undrained, the forests were sheep farms for the most part, and the deer were not preserved. The Highland boys used to load their old guns with slugs and black powder pushed in with a ramrod, and would wait at the springs for the deer, and if they shot one would salt it for winter eating. Then the lairds were poor men, and shared their deer with the poachers. I was a young bird in those days, though I shall never be old. The eagle renews his youth, and I expect to record a hundred years. Now I must be off, here comes my mate."

The mother bird was a black speck in the distance, but her mate's loving eye could find her out, and he sailed away to meet her as she came heavily towards the nest, a young pig in her claws. She found a farmhouse, and dropped on to the pig-sty, where mother sow had presented her owners with a litter of seven. Six had managed to get within cover, the seventh, a weakly little animal, had paid the penalty, and was already pork. The farmer's wife had seen the outrage, but her husband and sons were working on another part of the land and could not be reached. So the eaglets had a splendid meal of sucking-pig, and there was enough for the parents too.

In a few weeks the down on the eaglets' bodies had turned to feathers, and they were completely fledged, handsome birds, like their parents in all respects save that they had a white ring on the tail feathers. One morning after they had learned to fly and were beginning to enjoy the exercise, the Golden Eagle addressed them seriously.

He and his mate had just come from the farmhouse where they had surprised a couple of hens.

"Look here, my children," he said as he plucked one dead fowl with wonderful rapidity, "eat well to-day, for from to-morrow you will have yourselves to look after." His children eyed him curiously, so did the Red Fox who sat solemnly outside his lair. "I mean it," continued the Golden Eagle seriously. "You will hunt for yourselves after to-day, and if you come poaching on the hunting-grounds of your mother and myself there will be trouble and you will be in the midst of it. Down to now we have raised and fed you, your wants have been our worry, but now that time is up, and after to-day you are no more to us than if you didn't exist. We don't want to see you again, and if you are wise you will take care that we don't." And on the following morning the young eaglets departed, flew some way together, and then chose their respective kingdoms.

They did not thrive, and of the three only one reached maturity. The first lighted on a stoat in a ditch and could not strike it with the sharp talons before the angry little beast had jumped at its throat and bitten through the external jugular vein. Another, not heeding his parents' warnings, set out for the farm whence the sucking-pig had come and was shot. But the parent birds remained together in their eyrie and knew no trouble save when storms were brewing. They could see storms rising out of the Atlantic, and when one was on the way to their beloved hills they would grow nervous and restless and fill the air with their screams.

August came round and the Golden Eagle's joy of life knew no bounds. Never had the moors been so full of delicious red grouse, never before in all his long life had he fed so well.

One afternoon he sat on a rock at the head of a wild corrie. Below him went the stalker and his master, two hundred yards away and quite invisible.

"A fine day, Donald," said the sportsman; "my best achievement since I came to the Highlands." To be sure he was only a Sassenach, but he had shot a grouse, and caught a salmon in the morning, and an hour ago, after a long stalk, he had grassed a ten-pointer that was on its way to the lodge strapped to a pony's back.

"Best kill that de'il yonder," grumbled Donald, taking a huge pinch of snuff preparatory to launching into a long account of the Golden Eagle's misdeeds.

Some unaccountable impulse brought the eagle to his wings. Ignorant of his danger, he floated lazily down the valley until the barrel of a mannlicher rifle gleaming from below caught his quick eye. He seemed to see right into it. As though conscious of imminent danger, he screamed defiance and rose higher with loud flapping of his heavy wings. The rifle cracked....

"How terribly the Mother Eagle has been screaming," said the Red Fox to himself as he made cautious way down the hill that night. "Thank goodness she has gone to sleep at last. My nerves were giving out."

THE BADGER

Even the residents hardly knew the part of the forest that the badger called his own, the tourists and callers from the nearest seaside town had never seen it. From June to September there were visitors in plenty; they came along the white dusty roads in coaches, carriages and motor-cars; they walked, or rode on bicycles, held picnics in the shadow of beech and oak trees, and often left assortments of glass bottles and paper to mark the spot they had delighted to honour. Sometimes on his nightly rounds Brock would pass one of these places, and would make haste to get away from the neighbourhood, for his scent was exceedingly keen, and he knew the number of the visitors as certainly as though he had been out during the daytime. The fear of man had come to him quite naturally, it was part of his life to dread and avoid this relentless enemy, just as it was his rule to range the woods by night and to retire to his earth when the sun came out of the east heralded by the pageant of the morning twilight.

He had few friends; only the brown owl sometimes paused in her work to pass the time of night, or the fox, whose earth was close at hand amid the thick-growing gorse, would hold a little converse after a good hunting expedition that had closed before dawn woke the rest of the woodland. Then in the moment when sleepy birds were trying their earliest notes and wondering why those strange visitors the cuckoo and nightingale would sing all the night through, when the wood-pigeons were tumbling heavily from their perches, and the shy kingfisher was standing by the edge of his home in the bank of the stream, the brown owl would seek his hollow tree, and badger and fox would seek their homes. The badger's abode was quite palatial. Just where the gorse ended and the trees asserted themselves again, the soil was very light, and there were patches of broom and bushes of pink thorn and hazel. Clear of the roots, the first passage began, with a rather steep slope to a well-cleared chamber in which the badger slept. Beyond this apartment there was an upward slope from which two or three tracks branched to the right, and at the end of the slope was another chamber used as a storeroom only a few feet below ground. To the right of this was another dip that went to the open air, or offered a road by yet another gallery to a point just above the sleeping-chamber. In times of stress the grandparents and more remote ancestors of the badger had been accustomed to use the chamber that was nearest the second entrance, for they could then hear the lightest human footfall. But in the old bad days even this precaution had availed them nothing. Dogs and tongs had been employed by their pursuers, and they had been butchered to give idle folk a few hours' amusement.

When the badger had found the earth in the autumn following his birth, he did not know that it should have been the home of his house. He had wandered across miles of country when his family broke up. His parents had separated, his two sisters had chosen their own road, and the earth in which he was born remained in the sole possession of his father. Once he had assured himself that he would enjoy undisputed occupation, the badger explored and renovated all the tunnelled passages, stopped up all entrances save one by raising sandy mounds with his feet, and prepared to enjoy a solitary existence. Thoughtful, sober and introspective he had no desire for companionship just then.

"I had as fine a family of cubs as you could wish to see," said father fox, when they had known one another for a few weeks, "but the hunt drew the gorse and two of them were killed. The others have gone away, so has my vixen, and if the hunt comes again I'll go too."

The badger stirred uneasily, and traversed all his passages again to make sure that every possible precautions had been taken. Though he had stopped the bolt holes, it was only by way of hiding them from prying eyes; a few minutes' work would suffice him to open them again in time of need. Even when he went out at night he would cover his point of exit in the most careful fashion, using hind and fore-feet with equal ease. Only when the hole was screened would he set out in search of what the wood might yield. Sometimes he would go down to the marshy ground by the river and take toll of frogs and insects, he would even stray into the nearest orchards and eat the fallen apples, pears and plums. Failing these he would root up plants and fungi and carry away what he did not want, for storing; but whether he ate in the wildest part of the wood or comparatively near the haunts of man the enemy, he never forgot the need for guarding against surprise. Like Agag of old he walked delicately, and his hearing, like that of the wild boar, was only suspended when his jaws were actually working. So he would pause with a mouthful of food, or stop half-way in the work of grubbing up a root to scent the breeze, though the forest held no foe within its ample boundaries.

In the early autumn, after his arrival, the young badger cleared away the bed of dry fern and grasses in the sleeping-chamber. His methods were peculiar, for he collected what he could in his forepaws and then shuffled out of the earth backwards. Many journeys were necessary to accomplish this task which was pursued by night, after a meal had been taken; and when the work was ended, he moved to certain parts of the wood where he had torn up ferns and grasses which were now dry. He took these to the sleeping-chamber in the awkward fashion already described, and though much was lost in transit he had a warm and pleasant bed at last. Feeling at his ease he ranged the woods in search of wounded game, making many a hearty meal off fur and feather that should have been retrieved. Later on, the wind and the rain entered the wood together and removed all traces that marked the badger's journey to and fro, while the badger, finding his bed warm and his house free from draughts, set up a barrier by the entrance and went to sleep. Like the porcupine and squirrel he refused to face the severe weather, though it is more than likely that he responded to warm spells and came out on certain winter nights in search of roots, or the wasp-nests that were in the river bank. But his capacity for sleep robbed winter of half its terrors and kept him in good condition. The food stores supported him if he woke in time of snow, the troubles that proved fatal to so much of the woodland's life never reached him, and when he resumed his normal activity in March he was no worse for the protracted rest.

The new life that stirred the forest could not rouse him to any great ecstasy. The season did no more than endow him with a funny little grunt and an unwonted measure of playfulness. He loved to stand on his hind-legs and sharpen his fore-paws against the rough oak tree-trunks, and in April evenings he would sometimes be astir before his usual time, generally after light showers of rain. He often went lumbering through the wood with a curious swaying movement, and sometimes walking backward as though by way of expressing his playful humour. There was great joy in the uncouth body, but he had none to share it with him. Even the fox found a vixen; their loving cries resounded through the woods as they hunted together by night, and in the heart of the earth there were four little cubs that would sometimes come to the edge of the gorse and play with the rabbits.

Brock was now to be ranked among the adults; he had shed his four premolar teeth, and from tip of tail to tip of nose must have been very nearly three feet long. He stood about a foot high and the rough skin lay loosely on his body. His jaws were uncommonly strong--no other animal of equal size could boast such a pair--and no dog that had not been trained to bait badgers could have attacked him with impunity. For the present, however, he had no enemies to face, and his lines were cast in pleasant places, among the birds' nests that were scattered in profusion through the wood. Where the nests were built low the badger would not be denied--the eggs of partridge, thrush, blackbird and wild pheasant supplied him with many a meal, and sometimes he was quick enough to add the parent bird to his meal. The animal that could rob wild bees of their honey had nothing to fear from birds, and even the stoats, weasels and snakes that pursued birds' nests would not wait to argue their claims with Brock. He soon learned that some birds deprived of one clutch will even lay another, and was delighted to observe their industry, and profit by it in due season. At the same time it must be remarked that he did very little real harm. His neighbour the fox was pursuing an active campaign against all the outlying poultry-yards with so much success that he could afford to leave the rabbits in peace; the badger did no more than help to reduce the overwhelming number of common birds. Since game preserving had been practised on the estates that joined the wood, ceaseless war had been waged against hawks, falcons and other birds; ignorant keepers had dealt with the kestrel and the owl as severely as with the carrion crow, and the tendency of birds like blackbirds and thrushes was to justify Mr. Malthus by increasing beyond the capacity of the food supply. In helping to counteract this tendency the badger was doing good work; it was better for the eggs to be eaten than for the young birds to be born and starved.

Summer waned, and at the time when the stags in Highland forests were seeking the hinds, Brock found the trail of one of his own species and felt the pangs of love. He grunted and yelped as though the spring had come again, and followed the track of the loved one for miles, night after night. Perhaps the unknown, whose scent would have been equally keen, knew that she was pursued and assumed the virtue of shyness; perhaps she was really shy. In either case she was hard to find, and on many a morning the badger was forced to beat a very hurried retreat to his home, hungry, footsore and disappointed, compelled to draw upon his winter stores of roots and grasses for a meal. At last he found his love. She had stayed to hunt for frogs in the river bed, and in rather grudging fashion accepted his attentions. Between wooing and winning a great gulf was fixed, but after nights of pleasant companionship, the well-beloved one agreed to become Mrs. Brock. Had there been other males in the neighbourhood, a fight for supremacy might have been necessary, but the nearest badgers were many miles away and this pair had the district to themselves. Until the storms came they roamed the woods together, finding in addition to roots and berries, wounded game and an occasional nest of wasps or wild bees, which they would root out and eat as it stood, comb, honey, insects and grubs. With the first break up of the weather each retired to its home. She lived across the river but swimming presented no difficulty to either.

When the winter waned, and the first warm dry days called the woodland to renewed life, the badger was early astir. Once again his bed was scattered to the winds, and a fresh one was made in the fashion already described; once again he tested the entrance and exits and made what effort he could to obliterate his own tracks. Then he swam across the river and, returning with his lady-love, conducted her to her new home where she was quite happy. For awhile they travelled together, then he walked alone, and in his clumsy fashion brought some fresh roots and bulbs down to the warm earth where three blind baby badgers shared the fern leaf couch with his mate. They were quite blind and helpless, but while they were awake their mother was with them, and while they slept she foraged for herself. As long as he was in the neighbourhood of the earth her lord would hunt with her, but when he wished to go far afield he went alone, she would not travel a long way from her little ones.

Later, Brock would lead the baby badgers on their first rambles, in the days when they were learning to look after themselves. He showed them how and where food must be sought, warned them of the sound and scents that portended danger, and taught them their share of forest lore. This was his duty now that their mother had gone back to her own quarters across the river and the little ones must face the world alone. With the coming of autumn he sought his mate once more, but she had gone, and for all his efforts he never found her again. But, ranging a part of the wood to which he had never penetrated before, he met a badger philosopher, an old fellow who had seen six or seven summers and grown grey with accumulated wisdom.

This philosopher, whose search for a mate had been equally unavailing, declared that the contemplative life was best of all, remarked that the old badger run he tenanted was not far removed from an unoccupied earth and suggested that they should hunt together. The younger one accepted the suggestion, and started making a bed in the new earth without delay.

It was about this time that he was called upon to give battle. Without knowing it he had moved into a district that was favoured by one or two daring poachers. Stray pheasants from a neighbouring estate were tempted into open spaces by judicious display of raisins, hares and rabbits were plentiful, and the main road was less than a mile away. One poacher had a valuable lurcher that would start off into the wood at a given signal and never return without a rabbit. Coming down a glade at top speed in hot pursuit of a hare the lurcher saw the badger, and forgetful of his safer quarry turned to the attack. It was quite a short contest. To be sure, the dog secured a good grip, but he had forgotten or never known the extraordinary elasticity of the badger's skin. He only realised it when the animal he had attacked so unceremoniously had fastened on his throat with a grip nothing could relax. In little more time than is required to set the statement down the lurcher lay dead and terribly mangled by the badger whose terror had given place to rage.

All in vain the poacher called and called, until the coming of the morning light warned him to make his way home and return, without the impedimenta of his calling, to go through the wood in the guise of a peaceful pedestrian. To one whose knowledge of woodcraft was so complete it was no hard task to find the spot where the lurcher lay, and a very brief examination of the shattered head indicated clearly enough the author of the deed. Only the badger's merciless jaws could have bitten through the lurcher's skull as though it had been a wooden match-box.

The poacher was a dull fellow, an idle loafer who knew the county gaol intimately, ill-treated his wife and gave long hours to the ale-house. And yet for all his unprepossessing ways he was not without some measure of affection, and it had been given to the dead lurcher. Never Arab loved his well-tried horse better than this wastrel loved his dog--it had possessed an intelligence that was almost human, and had been the one living thing that loved him without change of mood. In the silence of the wood the poacher cried like a little child, hid his friend under the ferns until he could return and bury him, and then turned on the badger's track.

Men who have been long brought up in the woodland and learned all the tricks of the poacher's trade are hard to baffle. As the poacher moved along all his gifts so long latent, stimulated by grief and rage, he became for the time one with the wood and its denizens. He heard the ceaseless under-song, and could analyse it as the skilled critic of music can analyse the component parts of a symphony; almost instinctively he knew the shy fearful birds that were peeping at him through many a screen of leaves, the grass snake and adder that were gliding away from him. In those hours of wrath and exaltation his eyes were opened; without haste on the one hand or delay on the other he found the badger's earth, never losing for long the track of the five toes and the sharp nails.

Down in the darkness where his bed was strewn, Brock realised the coming of his enemy; the horror of man so long dormant in him was revived. He stood up noiselessly and heard the unseen feet move deliberately in search of the entrance to the earth. Against this man who, in clear-headed hours, could read Nature's stories as though they were set in printed page before him, a badger must fight hard for life. It would be a contest of wits.

The footsteps passed; the hidden animal heard the slow and regular decline; the normal sounds of the woodland were resumed. By night, he thought, he would creep away and leave the place, he would go back to his old haunts below the river where there was safety. The afternoon turned towards sunset, and then Brock, who was in a passage close to the ground, heard the tramp, tramp that had startled him in the morning. The man was coming back, was moving from one part of the ground to the other, sounding the entrance and the bolt holes. Already he seemed to know them all. What was he doing?

Presently the dull thud of a spade was heard by the mouth of the run, and the purpose of the poacher was clear. He had blocked each entrance and was going to dig until he had found the destroyer of his companion. Had he stayed till the following day the quarry would have passed. He knew this well enough so he had brought gun and food, trenching-spade, lantern and tobacco, and was about to dig down foot by foot to the badger's lair.

Quite undismayed now that the risk of invasion had yielded to certainty, the hunted animal prepared to defend himself. At the foot of the first slope he started to pile the loose earth using his hind-feet as readily as the others, and before the poacher was half-way down the barrier was strong enough to have kept a dog at bay. But the man was depending upon his own exertions, he had no dog, and when his spade encountered the defence it was speedily broken down.

By this time the badger had retreated past his bedroom into one of the deepest passages, the one that commanded a double route. He had already gone to two of the exits that were intended for emergency, but the human taint was strong at each, and he feared to let the issue of the contest depend upon a chance flight. Perhaps it was as well, for the strongly pegged netting that was ranged round each hole must have given him a pause that would have sufficed the poacher.