Part 6

Once upon a time, oh, ages ago, of course, the weasel was not so full of craft, or so hateful and sly as he is in these days. Now he is about the worst dreaded of all the smaller creatures which wear either fur or feathers, shunned and hated by all his kindred, just because of his bad reputation. First, because of his cruel manner of dealing with his prey, for he just yearns to kill any young bird, or small stray animal which happens to cross his evil trail merely for the sake of the kill, and he does it so craftily that he will usually leave a mere pin-prick of a wound, perhaps, in his victim’s neck to show just how it died. But always before he leaves he’ll make sure to suck every drop of blood from its small body. That’s the way of the weasel tribe; you cannot beat them for their cruel, crafty manners, and they’ll trail their prey until it is completely exhausted, then fall upon it and kill it. The weasel always manages to save its own pelt, for in winter Nature changes its fur from brown to white, all excepting the tip of its tail, which remains dark. This aids the sly fellow to creep quite close to some unsuspecting little animal, because its white coat so blends with the snow its movements are not seen. There are weasels of many tribes; some of them are called pole cats. They belong to a race away back, when all weasels were sluggish, for in the old days weasels always slept soundly enough, just like all other animals.

And so it happened that away up north in the fur-bearing country, in a beautiful forest of giant spruces, which overhung a kind of a deer run, or trail, right between two ranges of wild mountain land, there lived altogether in peace and comfort a great many of the kindred of the wild. There the little black bear had her den and raised each year her little family, the brown hare thumped his signals against the great tree trunks unmolested and unafraid, the hedgehog grunted and grubbed in peace, and the red fox raised her cubs and they all gamboled together contentedly on a loamy side hill. Oh, they had great times there together, all living in harmony and unafraid, because they never encountered anything harmful in the forest, for man had not entered their spruce wood then.

On the edge of the mountain streams the gentle beavers came and raised their mud cabins, which the muskrat tribes came and studied and copied the best way they knew how, for ’tis a fact that long ago the beavers taught the muskrat all he knows about building his house. So there they lived beside the stream together; there were no snares set for them, no blue smoke ever lifted in clouds through the fragrant spruces, for there were no banging guns to frighten them. The only sounds you heard in the great forest in those days were made by innocent things: the gurgling of the little mountain brooks, the dropping of an acorn, the chatter of squirrels, or the crashing of bushes when the black bear and her cubs tore through the woods on her way to the pool to drink and wallow in the mud. Sometimes it was so still in the deep woods you could fairly hear the needles dropping down from ever so far above, down upon the mossy carpet where the deer herded. No doe or fawn had ever raised its head in alarm to see a rifle aimed between its gentle eyes those peaceful times.

First thing all the wild things knew, something strange had entered their peaceful forest. It began with arrows; the Indians were their first enemies. Gradually they learned to know about the strange whine of an arrow, and to fear the sight of a brown naked body, topped off by a crest of painted feathers. So some of them taking alarm wandered off into a wilder country, but most of them stayed behind, for you see they dearly loved their forest home.

Next thing that happened in the great North woods, the trappers arrived; they began snaring and trapping, and took away every little wild fur pelt they could get. Perhaps the beaver family fared the worst of all, because their fur coats would bring a fine price in market. But the greedy trappers did not stop at that; they soon got after the skunk family, the weasels, hares, anything which wore fur. They would cunningly set their snares close to a beaver village, and of course, in those days, the poor things were so trusting and innocent that they never suspected their danger; so of course they were not on the lookout, and all through the long winter they were trapped by hundreds.

By spring, which is the time when the beaver tribes get together and talk over their plans, because beavers usually increase so during winter, that in time some of them move out, and found other settlements, to make room, breaking up into colonies and each one going off. When the old king of the beavers called a council, he could hardly believe his eyes, for really there were so few of his tribe left that there were barely enough to found one good-sized settlement. About this time all the other little fur-bearing animals began to take stock; the skunks had been hunted out, and few remained; as for the weasel tribe, all that remained of a large colony was just the old king and queen of the tribe and one young kitten weasel.

Now this young one was as the very apple of their eyes, and had grown 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.

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

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.

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.