Part 6

The babies always ran and snatched for a piece. Then each trotted off alone to eat it. When they were not hungry they played with the food. They nibbled the bits, first tossing them into the air and then springing to catch them. They could not use their fore-paws so freely as animals like the cat. They growled and shook the mice to and fro in their mouths. Sometimes they snatched from one another and snapped and snarled crossly. Once the smallest fox had a fight. Every time he flew at his brother the other whisked his bushy tail in front of his face, and all the little one got was a mouthful of fur.

By and by the young foxes were taken out to learn to hunt for themselves. There was ever so much to learn because every different animal must be hunted in a different way. The main lesson was to keep their eyes open and their ears alert and their noses keen for smelling. They must be quick to jump and wise at all sorts of tricks.

They learned to catch chickens by hiding near the place where the flock was feeding. When a chicken strayed near enough quick as a flash out jumped the fox and caught it by the neck. They chased rabbits and pounced on busy squirrels. They hunted meadow-mice in the grass, and stole silently upon careless woodchucks.

The smallest baby caught a chipmunk in almost the same way as he had caught the grasshopper. He saw the little brown animal feeding near its hole. Very slowly and carefully the fox began to walk up to it. Every few moments the chipmunk sat up and looked around. When he did this the fox stood still, and so the chipmunk did not notice him. As soon as the chipmunk dropped down on all four feet and began to nibble again, the young hunter crept several steps closer. He held his tail pointing out straight behind. At last, with a rush and a jump, the fox had the chipmunk between his teeth.

All summer long there was plenty to eat in the woods. The five young foxes grew as strong and tall as their parents. They left the old home and scattered to dig new dens here and there in the woods and fields. They all knew how to take care of themselves.

Even as babies they had learned to hold still as a stone at any strange sound. If they heard it again they ran to the den as fast as they could scamper. More than once while they lay blinking comfortably in the sunlight they saw the old father fox spring up with his ears pricked forward and his eyes gleaming. With his tail erect, his fore-feet planted in front, and his hind-feet on the spring, he listened to the sound that had startled him. Perhaps it was the bark of a dog or the scream of a blue jay over a newcomer in the woods. It was always safer for grown foxes to run from an enemy than to try to fight, for they were swift-footed creatures.

Once the smallest fox was really chased by a dog. The dog smelled his trail near a flock of chickens. He ran on with his nose to the ground till he saw the fox sitting under a tree with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. At the sound of the bark the fox looked back. Then off and away he ran lightly over the hills and through the fields. His fluffy tail floated in the wind.

Now and then the fox stopped to listen to the baying of the dog far behind him. Two or three times he whirled around, chasing his tail and capering. He knew that he could run the faster. He picked his way from stone to stone across a brook because he did not like to wet his feet. Then he ran up a tree that had fallen in a slant. He jumped from the end far over to a dead log and scampered across a rocky field. From the top of a hill he looked back and watched the dog trying to find the scent over the brook and around the slanting tree. When he was tired he hid in a hole.

When autumn came the young foxes gathered on many a frosty night for a romp before going to their hunting. They galloped to and fro, jumping over one another and springing from log to log. It was almost the same as if they were puppies again, frisking before the old burrow. They wrestled and rolled and whirled around after their tails. Then away to their silent hunting!

When the snow fell and the cold winds blew life was harder for the foxes. Through the day generally they slept in their dens, with their tails curled over their noses and fore-paws. Out they crept at sundown to hunt for a rabbit or unwary squirrel, to trap a partridge, or snatch a squeaking mouse at the edge of a stone.

Many a night some young fox went home hungry. Often he lay in the snow hour after hour till his legs were stiff, while he waited for a rabbit that stayed safe in its hole. More than once he made a dive into the snow after a partridge, only to see the bird flutter up before his very nose and fly into a tree. Very likely, as he sat looking hungrily up to the branches, he wished that he could climb trees. Undoubtedly the partridges and the squirrels did not wish any such thing.

Before spring came at last the foxes were hungry enough to eat anything. Indeed one day in early March, while the smallest one was roaming through the woods, he happened to spy a garter-snake coiled on a rock in the sunshine. He jumped for it and gulped it down in a hurry. The next day he caught a turtle and a frog. The frog was so stiff and sluggish from its winter’s sleep that it could not hop at all.

By that time it seemed that spring was really at hand. As the foxes never ate grass or leaves they did not care about the fresh green plants and buds through the woods. Nevertheless they knew very well that rabbits liked roots, and squirrels nibbled twigs, and field-mice were hungry for the sprouting seeds. When these small animals came out to eat, the foxes could hunt them more easily than in winter.

Once more the soft winds blew among the branches and the leaves flickered in the sunlight. The birds were singing overhead in the tree-tops. And here and there in the hidden thickets new broods of little red foxes were frisking together at the mouths of the burrows.

X

THE WOLF

“THE FIERCEST ONE”

THE FIERCEST ONE

THE old mother wolf came home from her hunting, licking her black lips. Her four woolly babies scrambled out of the den among the rocks, and ran to meet her. They wagged their little tails, and barked joyous baby barks. They rubbed against her legs, and reached up their little faces to kiss her on her cool nose.

After smelling them all over the old wolf lay down beside them in the den to give them their dinner. The strongest little wolf was getting tired of milk. When he had nursed for a few minutes he began to play, climbing up his mother’s shaggy back and rolling down again, with his legs waving in the air.

Soon he pricked up his ears at the sound of a footstep outside the den. Then he sniffed the air. Sure enough! It was the father wolf coming in with something furry in his mouth. The cubs ran to smell it. Somehow the smell made the strongest little fellow feel so hungry that he tried to bite it with his new sharp teeth. He snapped and snarled when the old wolves dragged it away from him.

Very likely this reminded the parents that they must now teach the young ones to eat meat. So on the next evening they left the babies safe asleep in the den and trotted away together. They looked like two fierce dogs, with shaggy gray and black hair, pointed ears, and bushy tails. Their yellow eyes were set more slanting than the eyes of dogs.

They caught a rabbit by taking turns in chasing it till it was tired out. Then they trotted home. At the mouth of the den the mother gave a low call. There was a rustle of woolly bodies over the leaves and grasses of the nest back in the dark. And out tumbled the cubs, wriggling with joy. The father wolf, with his big teeth glittering behind his whiskered lips, tore the rabbit into pieces, and showed the young ones how to eat. Each snapped at his piece, and ran to one side alone to gnaw and pull it into bits small enough to swallow. They did not chew their food, because like other flesh-eating animals, except bears, they did not have any grinding teeth.

After the strongest baby had finished his piece he tried with a rush and a snap and a snarl to snatch from another little fellow. But the other cub held on tight with his little jaws. Then, growling and rolling his yellow eyes to watch his greedy brother, he dug a hole with his nose in one corner and buried the rest of his piece. He did this without being taught at all. Every wolf that ever lived knew enough to bury his food when he did not want to eat any more.

After their dinner the mother led the babies down the valley to lap water from the brook. It was dark by this time. Stars were twinkling in the sky. The shadowy trees swayed to and fro in the night wind. One little cub sat down on his haunches, pointed his nose at the sky, and howled. The little ones trotted here and there, smelling every stick and stone. The scream of a far-away panther on the mountain made the old wolf growl and bristle the hairs on her back. She hurried back to the den and sent the cubs in to sleep, while she stole off to hunt for her own supper.

In the morning the little wolves crept out to play about in the sunshine. They rolled and tumbled and wrestled in much the same way as the young foxes. Like the foxes the wolves belonged to the dog family of flesh-eaters. The little wolves were stronger and larger and fiercer than the little foxes. They did not have such bushy tails.

One young wolf found bits of the rabbit’s fur. He tossed and worried them, and gnawed so hard that the fur flew in his throat and nose and made him sneeze. Another saw a butterfly, and went plunging after it on his unsteady little legs. He jumped up at it, and opened his mouth to snap at it. He did not try to slap at it, as a little panther might have done, for he could not use his fore-paws like hands so easily as animals of the cat family.

All summer long there was plenty to eat. The deer in the mountains were fattening on the green grass. They could not fight very well then, because their new antlers were too soft. There were flocks of sheep on the plain. The old parent wolves prowled about every night, and often hunted in the daytime. It kept them busy enough to supply the four hungry cubs.

The two hunted together. Sometimes one hid beside a deer trail, while the other chased the deer nearer and nearer. When the deer passed the spot where the first wolf was hiding he sprang out and caught it from behind. Sometimes they took turns in chasing a deer till it was tired out. The deer could run the faster, but it always lost time by looking around to see how near the wolf was getting. Once in a while one escaped by running into the middle of a patch of cacti. The wolves could not follow there without getting their feet full of thorns. But the deer’s tough hoofs protected its feet.

Later in the summer the young wolves were taken out to learn to hunt with their parents. Their legs were so long that they were good runners, though they could not climb or spring very well. The nails on their toes were short and blunt from walking, for they could not be drawn back and so kept sharp, like the claws of animals belonging to the cat family.

The cubs wore thick coats with soft under-fur beneath the coarse shaggy hair. Their yellow eyes were keen, and their sensitive noses were quick to catch every smell of the wilderness. Their jaws were strong for snapping, and their many teeth were sharp for biting and tearing. They could scent the wind and howl when a storm was coming.

About sunset, one summer day, the little wolves followed the old ones away from the den. Down the canyon they trotted silently, winding in and out among the rocks like gray shadows. Far up the mountain-side a flock of wild sheep went leaping away in terror at sight of the wolves.

On the plain below rabbits scurried off, bounding from hillock to hillock. Prairie-dogs dived, squeaking, into their holes. A fox looked around in fright, and dodged into a clump of underbrush. A small herd of buffaloes, on their way to the river, ran close together and stood with their horns outward, while the wolves skulked past.

Perhaps, just at first, it seemed strange to the cubs to see all other animals afraid of their parents. At home the two shaggy old wolves were gentle and warm and soft toward the little ones. They fed them and watched over them and taught them all they knew. The babies whimpered when the old wolves left them alone in the den; and they barked and frisked with joy to see them come home again.

Out here on the plain it was different. The sight or smell of a wolf sent all the timid wild creatures flying in a scramble and hurry-skurry to get safely out of the way. The sound of the hungry howling made them tremble with fear, for they knew what it meant. It meant something shaggy and gray, with gleaming eyes, galloping swiftly nearer and nearer. It meant the glitter of long teeth behind grim black lips. It meant a spring and a snarl and tearing pain, and then a crunching of bones.

The first lesson that the young wolves learned was to take the trail and run it to earth. The father wolf showed them how to do it. He led them over the plain toward a cluster of trees along the river. He lifted his nose and snuffed the air. He smelled something in the wind that was blowing toward him from the woods. It was not the smell of trees or grass or flowers or birds or squirrels. It was the smell of deer.

The four cubs followed the old one as he galloped under the trees. They saw him stop and go sniffing here and there with his nose to the ground. Yes, he could smell the place where the slender hoofs had been pressing the grass a few minutes before. He ran on, with his nose to the ground. The others galloped after him, their heads low, their tongues hanging out, their tails held straight behind.

Once the father wolf howled. The young ones looked up for an instant. There, far away in the dusky woods, the deer were bounding lightly over the dead logs. They turned their pretty heads now and then to look back, till they vanished from sight. The wolves kept on for a few miles, learning to pick up the scent on the run. Then they found a half-eaten buffalo in a hollow, and stopped there for supper.

Through the late summer and early fall the young wolves hunted with their parents. During the day they stayed up in the mountains and slept in sheltered places. Sometimes they were scattered miles apart. At nightfall they called to one another with piercing howls, till they finally gathered about the old father wolf. Then they all set out to hunt together.

Sometimes they moved single file, stepping in one another’s tracks. They swam across the river and stole noiselessly through the woods. The timid sheep were easiest to kill because they could not fight. When they found a calf or sick old buffalo one sprang at his head while the others attacked from behind and bit his hind-legs. If the wolves went too near a herd the old buffaloes tried to hook them. Once a cub started to catch a young elk, but he was chased away by the old mother elk. They butted at him with their heads and struck at him with their sharp hoofs, while he ran with his tail tucked under him.

Autumn was pleasant enough with its bright days and frosty nights. The busy little creatures of the woods were gathering in their winter stores. Buffaloes and deer were fat from their summer’s feeding, and could not always run fast to get out of the way when chased by the wolves. Plump rabbits and prairie-hens were everywhere for the catching. Many a night the cruel wolves killed more than they could eat.

But soon winter came with its shortening days and gray storms lowering above the horizon. Snow fell, and icy winds blew across the frozen land. The deer and elk and antelope gathered in sheltered valleys. The wolves wandered down from the mountains, and roamed far and wide, hunting for food.

So long as the fresh snow lay soft and powdery in the gullies they could not run fast enough to catch anything, but when the snow packed hard, and an icy crust formed over the drifts, their spreading feet did not sink in deeply. Then they could go out and hunt the elk and the deer, whose small hoofs cut through the crust at every bound.

The young wolves felt hungry all the time. Sometimes, when a blinding storm shut them into their den among the rocks, they went without eating day after day. The fine snow sifted down upon their glossy winter coats as they lay close together, snuggling their cold noses into one another’s fur. Many a night they dreamed of eating, and snapped and swallowed greedily in their short, uneasy sleep. Once, in nosing about hungrily, the strongest little wolf happened to find a bone that he had hidden and forgotten weeks before. With a spring and a snarl he crunched it between his white teeth and gulped it down in a hurry.

One winter evening the four cubs, with their parents and five or six others, were following a herd of buffaloes. On galloped the buffaloes over the frozen plain. Behind and around them the dark forms of the wolves seemed to rise from the bushes and follow noiselessly. There was not a sound of a snap or a snarl. Now on this side, now on that, now lost in the shadows, the wolves galloped tirelessly on and on.

Here and there two eyes gleamed in the dim circle of a head, or bared white teeth glittered for an instant. Then again lost in the dusk, without the patter of a footfall on the snow, they edged nearer and nearer. Finally there was a sound of snarling and yelping. The wolves were fighting together over a dead buffalo. They ate him, and then broke away over the plain at a full jump, howling as they went.

Winter was over at last. The wolves were thin and fiercer than ever. Their grim black lips were always ready to curl back over their teeth at the smell of food. They felt such a dreadful gnawing emptiness inside that they were frantic to eat anything. When they began to grow weaker and weaker from hunger the welcome spring brought them new life.

Now in the time of pleasant weather and the plentiful food it was no longer necessary for the pack of wolves to hunt together. They were strong enough to look out for themselves. So the wolves scattered to make their summer homes in the loneliest spots among the mountains.

The weeks passed by, and soon there was many a new family of woolly little cubs frisking about the rocky dens. The fathers and mothers watched them lovingly. The black lips seemed almost smiling and the fierce eyes grew soft. They were gentle and happy there together, though so cruel and hateful to all the world outside.

XI

THE MOLE

“THE ONE THAT DIGS THE BEST”

THE ONE THAT DIGS THE BEST

DEEP down in their dark room underground the five mole babies lay fast asleep on a soft bed of leaves and grasses. The bed was not much bigger than a robin’s nest. The little moles cuddled together, with their pointed pink snouts resting on one another’s satiny bodies. Their little hind-feet sprawled behind them, and their big flat hands, with the pink palms turned outward, were spread close to their necks.

Presently the fattest little mole opened his black specks of eyes, though they were not of much use down there in the dark. He wriggled his pointed snout as he sniffed the air. The faintest of breezes floated toward him through one of the round openings in the wall. It was a breeze caused by something running toward the nursery. Tiny feet came galloping nearer and nearer. There was a light rustle of fur brushing along the tunnel. It was the mother mole hurrying back from her hunting.

All the little moles jumped wide awake in an instant when their sensitive bodies felt the quiver around them. It seemed to them that the earth shook under the mother’s pattering feet. Of course they were not afraid, because they knew from the smell who was coming. And then, just as soon as they smelled the worm that she was carrying in her mouth, they began to tumble over one another to snatch at it.

The greedy young ones shoved and pushed and fought as if they were starving. They pulled at the worm with their claws, and snipped off bits with their sharp teeth. Even after it was all eaten they went nosing around in the dark and squeaked for more. The fattest little fellow crawled so far into one of the tunnels that he almost slipped into the tiny well which the parent moles had dug when they made this underground home.

The poor old mother lay down to rest for a few minutes. It seemed as if she did not have time to eat or sleep since the babies had cut their teeth and learned to eat worms. They were always hungry. As for herself, though the old father helped her hunt she was really growing thinner every day. The young moles were six weeks old now, and it was time that they learned to hunt for themselves.

The babies were eager enough to learn to dig and hunt. They were tired of staying in that dark nursery, even if it was so comfortable, with its domed roof and soft, dry bed. Perhaps they wished to poke their heads above ground just once and find out what the world was like. They did not know the difference between day and night yet, for where they lived it was always dark.

When at last the five young ones started out to learn to dig they followed the mother in single file along the main tunnel. This main tunnel was long and straight. Its walls were pressed smooth by the bodies of the old moles in their many journeys to and fro. Branching off in every direction from the main road there were side tracks zigzagging and curving hither and thither. These side tracks had been dug by the parents when they were chasing worms or hunting for grubs and beetles.

The babies scampered on to the end of the main tunnel. There the ground happened to be soft enough for their little claws. They crowded against one another, and squeaked and twitched their short tails impatiently. Their pink snouts were already bending and twisting in eagerness to be a-digging.

The fattest little fellow was in such a hurry to begin that he did not wait to be told. He nosed along the wall till he found a good place to start. Then planting his small hind-feet down flat, to brace himself, he set his tough snout against the dirt and pushed as hard as he could. At the same time he dug his claws into the wall and shovelled away with both his big broad hands.

There they went—the five babies—digging five little tunnels in five different directions. The dirt flew thick and fast as they shovelled it out and tossed it aside. But the specks of eyes were safely hidden under the fur, and the invisible ears and nostrils were kept closely covered too. When the dirt clung to their satiny gray fur they shook it off clean with a quick shrug of the skin. The hairs of the fur grew straight out, and so it made no difference whether it was rubbed one way or another. It was never bristly or rough.

It must have been fun to go scrambling through earth almost as birds fly through air or fishes swim through water. The moles had such tough snouts and strong arms and powerful hands that they could burrow better than any of the other mammals.