VIII
THE LAST WOLF OF THE PACK
GRAY COAT, leader of the great Timber Wolf Pack, originally came from the wilds of Northern Canada, where the dense forests form safe shelter and cover for deer, bear, the red fox, and all the wild kindred who seek the silent places of the woods, far away from man. But one year lumbermen entered the forest with their whirring saws, and felling the tall pines, let in light into the dark places and uncovered their trails. The wolf pack was tracked and gradually thinned out and scattered, and Gray Coat, the big, brave leader of the pack, one day realized that he was just one solitary, lonely old wolf roaming the forests alone.
Gray Coat always seemed to lead a charmed sort of life, for no matter how skilfully traps were laid for him he never ventured into one of them, no matter how pressing his hunger might be. Often, nowadays, he would starve for days because he hated the whine of the lumbermen’s saws, and they had frightened away the young deer, so that no longer did they come in early morning and at dew-fall to water at the old pool. Already ferns grew rank and untrodden over the old deer trails, and although Gray Coat watched and prowled about their old haunts, he never caught sight of even one red coat or flashing white tail.
At last the sides of Gray Coat began to show hollowly, gaunt and thin, and his coat became rough and shabby, a starved, baffled look gleamed in his sullen, green eyes, and his long, usually fleet legs were weak from fasting and often played him strange tricks; for sometimes when he chased a cottontail, because he had become reduced to such small fare, instead of the coveted tidbit, his lean, cruel jaws clicked together upon emptiness; he had somehow just missed the rabbit. Then Gray Coat instinctively knew that something strange and unusual had happened to him.
One night, too weak and lonely and disheartened to even start off trailing game, he sat solitary and unhappy just in the edge of a pine slash and lifting up his voice he howled and howled at the moon which looked coldly down upon his misery. It is during the winter that the wolves herd together, traveling in packs, but in spring they separate and mate. But although Gray Coat longed for companionship, there seemed to be no mate for him, for all his kindred had been hunted away from the old haunts. Had Gray Coat only been human, he would have wept bitterly; as he was only a wolf, he just sat all hunched up together, his lean snout low between his haunches, only lifting up his head to send his long howl through the woods.
Then somewhere, after a little silence, a very welcome sound came through the moonlit woods, the long, familiar cry of a wolf.
“Ah-h-o-o-o-oo, Ah-h-o-o-o-oo,” it wailed through the long dusky corridors of the pines. And the next instant Gray Coat forgot all his troubles and, leaping to his feet, with all his strength he sent back a loud-quavering howl of command and pleading.
“Ah-h-o-o-o-oo!” To his joy, back came an answering cry, followed by a series of short, reassuring calls which sounded like sweetest music to poor, lonely Gray Coat. Each time the calls sounded a trifle nearer, and soon his sharp ears caught the swift sound of a “pat, pat, pat” upon the bedded pine-needles, and through the moonbeams came swiftly a welcome gray shadow. Gray Coat had found a mate. After they had nosed each other over, dog-fashion, and snarled together with snapping jaws, as is the wolf way of introduction, the two gray wolves, last of a great pack which had once roamed through the Canadian forests, trotted off together.
Silver Sides, the young wolf, was not starved looking or shabby of coat as her mate, and instinctively sensing his hunger, she led him to the remains of a deer carcass, and snarling together, they finished it. Then, with all his old, strong courage come back to him, Gray Coat took the lead, as he always had done, and together they ran on and on through the woods. For days and nights the pair traveled, just two fleet gray shadows, slipping through the silent places of the forest; skulking warily, they avoided the man scent, but always keeping together, for, by common consent, they were now making for a strange, new country and fresh hunting grounds.
But in one thing they had erred; instead of striking off farther north into the well-nigh impassable wild forests, where the lumbermen had not entered, and where they might have found plenty of game, and others of their kindred, they were traveling south, each day drawing nearer and nearer civilization, and, if they kept on, they would soon reach the Green Mountain country. Finally they came to the edge of a great swamp; its dense growth of dark balsams and spruces promised them a safe retreat, and surely, in such a wilderness, game would be plentiful once more, for not a trace of man could they detect. Little cottontail rabbits they saw in plenty, but, as time wore on, both the appetites of Gray Coat and his mate demanded wilder fare than mere rabbits. In vain they ranged together over the deer passes; the hunters had frightened away most of the wilder game. So, in desperation, the two wolves each day began to grow bolder and bolder, and even ventured down into the valleys beneath the mountains, forgetting their fear of man; soon they commenced to raid the farmers’ sheep pens, and dragged away young calves to their retreat in the swamp. Then, as they were unmolested, they actually crossed the traveled highways at night, and often sent their long, wailing yells through the forests, until the villagers began to wonder what it all meant, because the wolf cry had not been heard in that section for years and years.
One farmer finally lost so many sheep he sat up nights to watch. And one moonlight night he saw the pair, Gray Coat and Silver Sides, come skulking like shadows from behind the granary. Quickly the farmer blazed away with his old flint-lock rifle, but he had not killed, only wounded one of the wolves and it got away, leaving a bloody trail of footprints behind.
Gray Coat had been hit and so badly lamed in one leg that he just managed to crawl back to the swamp before sunrise, and seeking shelter among the friendly spruces he lay there helplessly licking his wound.
As soon as the farmer realized that wolves were actually prowling around nights, he immediately set to work to trap them. But no trap could he find that would hold a wolf, so he invented a great drop trap, using the strong door of the granary for a fall. He then baited the trap with tempting fresh meat and waited for the wolves to come again.
Down in the swamp Gray Coat, sullen and ugly because of his lame leg, saw Silver Sides go off alone in the moonlight, night after night. He tried to follow her, for pangs of hunger were gnawing him, but his leg remained far too lame and stiff to travel upon, and so with a snarl of baffled rage he watched his mate slip off through the dark pines. Finally one night Gray Coat watched and waited impatiently for her to return. Would she find game, and perhaps bring him back a bone, as she sometimes did? At the mere thought his hunger seemed every instant to become more and more pressing, and the fever of his wound made him mad with thirst. Finally he dragged himself to a water hole, down in between the swamp tussocks, and lapped and lapped the green, scum-covered water. Then crawling wearily back to his retreat beneath a sheltering spruce, he waited and longed for Silver Sides to come back to him. All that night and the next day Gray Coat waited, but in vain; she did not return to him. Again the moon rose over the dark mountains, and filtered down into the swamp, and then, much to his relief, he tried his lame leg and found it stronger and better, so that he managed to spring out and catch an unsuspecting rabbit. Making a hasty meal, for he was so hungry he couldn’t very well do anything else, he then struck off through the thick spruces, following eagerly the trail of his mate.
Once or twice, in his haste, he lost the scent, then he would run hither and thither with little baffled whines, his muzzle close to the ground as he made wide détours, circling ever wider and wider, round in a circle, until he struck the lost trail once more. It led him through devious ways down into the valley, straight to the farmer’s sheep pen. Skulking warily in and out among the buildings, Gray Coat soon struck a keener scent, which led him straight to the trap. Strangely enough, the trap was not set, and as Gray Coat came creeping nearer and nearer, he found the heavy door dropped down. Baffled by this, he began to scratch frantically, digging and tearing around and beneath the trap with his sharp nails at the heavy door, for he certainly thought, by the strong scent, that Silver Sides must be back of the door. He gave little, whimpering, reassuring whines to her as he dug, just to let her know he was there, but received no reply from her. At last when his nails were nearly worn down to the quick, he stopped his furious digging. He was completely baffled; because, if she were back of the dropped door, she would surely have answered him. Then, suddenly, his miserable green eyes chanced to light upon a tuft of familiar looking gray fur; he sniffed at it eagerly. Yes, it surely belonged to his mate. Gray Coat tossed about this bit of fur, playing with it as a kitten does a feather, but he gained no response from the tuft of fur. Next instant he began to act like a crazy creature, racing madly in and out between the barns, for he had all at once caught a fresh, new clue. Following the new scent, it led him out behind a great red barn, and there it ended, for nailed against the barn door his despairing eyes saw and recognized the well-known but empty pelt of Silver Sides, his mate. Its plumy gray brush waved softly back and forth over the red barn door as if sending him greeting.
Gray Coat stood upon his long hind legs and tried to reach it with his snout. In vain; he received no welcoming snap from the empty jaws of the familiar pelt. Then, sitting down upon his lean haunches, Gray Coat lifted his head and sent such a long, wailing cry of despair and loneliness through the night that the farmer awoke and, grabbing his gun, started to hunt for the wolf.
But Gray Coat, having gained no response from the limp pelt upon the barn door, had left the barn-yard before the farmer got there.
Back on a great bare hill he sat, overlooking the now hateful valley, and trying to reason out in wolf fashion what it all meant. Soon, however, he had made up his mind—a time for action had come to Gray Coat; and lifting his head once more to the moon, he gave one last long cry, because of his lost mate. Then swiftly, like a gray shadow, he leaped away—for he had a long road to travel, because this time his instinct headed him in the right way, straight for the North Lands, where he would strike old familiar trails, fresh hunting grounds, and his kindred.
IX
HOW UNK-WUNK THE PORCUPINE MET HIS MATCH
IN the thick cover of the spruces, down in a natural hollow, where it was dark and still, and the fragrant boughs swept the ground, forming a perfect little bower, or tent, lived a very interesting family, Father and Mother Porcupine and their three young ones. So very young were the little porcupines, or hedgehogs, as they are sometimes called, that they resembled neither cubs nor kittens, but at first sight looked not unlike homely young crows before the pin-feather age; for when the little hedgehog is born, he is strange looking enough, his quilly armor being covered with a transparent skin; and besides, he is totally deaf and blind, and very helpless.
It did not take long, however, for quills to poke through the skin covering, and then sight came to the small, piggy eyes, and the little ones began to look more like porcupines. One fine day the wanderlust seized Father Porcupine, and off he strolled into the deep woods, and was never seen again. He had deliberately deserted his little family beneath the green tent, which is not at all an uncommon occurrence in hedgehog circles.
The little ones were quite often left alone now to shift for themselves, for their mother also took to wandering, and so one night when she had been gone all day, upon her return she found two of them missing. In the early twilight a stealthy, sinuous stranger had entered her home; just two little protesting squeaks came from beneath the hedgehog tent, and when the weasel left, only Unk-Wunk, the largest of the little ones, was left.
“Unk-Wunk, Unk-Wunk,” grunted the lonely little hedgehog to his mother, as she peered in at him with her little dull eyes through the curtain of balsams, her cold manner showing no emotion whatever, for such is the nature of the hedgehog tribe that they rarely show much feeling over anything, no matter how tragic.
Now Unk-Wunk would never have escaped from the sharp teeth of the sly weasel had not his quills been longer and sharper than his unfortunate brothers. He had heard their terrified squeaks, and when the weasel made for him, he simply backed away, and for the first time in his life made use of his quill armor.
“Unk-Wunk, Unk-Wunk,” he grunted fiercely, while the weasel glared at him savagely with its hateful, little red eyes. The weasel thought to himself, no doubt, what a silly, helpless thing you are to grunt at me so boldly. Who’s afraid of your stupid “Unk-Wunk?” But the weasel soon found out his mistake, and backed out in haste from the hedgehog tent, his sly, pointed snout stuck full of cruel barbs, which it took him days to rub out, and taught him such a lesson that, ever after that, he never cared to cross the track of a hedgehog, and would frequently make a long détour whenever he chanced to spy one along the forest trails.
Unk-Wunk being of a particularly bold, independent nature, his mother soon left him, and went off to live with a colony of hedgehogs who had located their camp on a distant ledge. But somehow Unk-Wunk tarried in the old tent, for he loved the fragrant balsam scent, where overhead, when autumn came, the beech leaves turned golden yellow, and the brown nuts came rattling down in showers to his very door. Besides, just a short stroll away lay the marsh pools, threaded thick with succulent lily roots, considered, by the hedgehog tribe, the very daintiest eating to be had. All this lay close at hand, and as Unk-Wunk was naturally a lazy, indolent fellow, and did not care to hurry, or take unnecessarily long journeys, no wonder the place suited him.
Never, perhaps, had there been such an absolutely fearless hedgehog as young Unk-Wunk, because his first great success in driving off the sly old weasel had taught him the use of his quills, and made him unafraid of anything in the forest, whether it wore fur or feathers. He actually never bothered himself to get out of their very tracks, but would just stand looking very stupid indeed, and stare at them coldly with his little, dull eyes; if they presumed to come too near he would raise his armor and utter threatening grunts at them, so that usually they passed him by.
At twilight, when the old hoot owl, who nested above him in the beech tree, came out upon a limb and began to send out his weird call, and the hermit thrushes called to each other across the marsh-lands, then Unk-Wunk would lazily uncurl himself from an all day snooze, and leisurely stroll off through the silent places of the forest looking for a meal. When it began to grow frosty in the lowlands, and the nights were cooler, he covered longer distances in his raids, and even ventured into the lumber camps, gnawing his way through intervening boards of the shacks and sampling fat bacon, which he found so good that he would travel long distances to taste it. He stole eggs, too, and would manage one so deftly that he rarely spilled a drop of the golden contents, for he had a nice way of cracking a small place in the shell at the top, and inserting his tongue, or small paw, and never losing a morsel, leaving behind him just a pile of empty shells.
Strangely enough, the lumbermen’s yellow hound, when he heard the steady “gnaw, gnaw, gnaw” of Unk-Wunk’s sharp teeth through the shack flooring, would simply raise his head and utter little timorous, muffled whines under his breath, never offering to drive him away; if the truth were known the yellow dog was terribly afraid of Unk-Wunk. He would not hesitate to bay fiercely, chase a fox, coon, or even a bob cat, but once he had returned to camp with his jowls stuck full of Unk-Wunk’s terrible quills, and after that he played the coward whenever he saw a hedgehog.
When you studied Unk-Wunk carefully, you might think him a very stupid, dull-looking animal. But back of his ugly, half-witted skull lay an alert brain, what there was of it. He dearly loved to play a joke, and for sheer sport would roll himself up into a ball and lie stupidly in one of the well-worn trails of the wood people; unsuspectingly, they would creep nearer and nearer the queer looking bundle. Then Unk-Wunk’s dull eyes, peering out at them, perhaps, from beneath his hind leg, would sparkle with malice, and, like a flash, out would fly his tail, which held the very sharpest, most penetrating quills on his body. Then the curious one would usually go squeaking off on a jump, very much wiser than it had been before concerning the hedgehog family.
One autumn evening Unk-Wunk visited the marsh pool; his desire for a feast of lily roots, before the pool froze over, was keen upon him. To his dismay he found the pool already occupied by the blue heron family who were wading about upon their long, stilt-like legs for minnows or crawfish. Unk-Wunk realized well enough that he would be at the mercy of the herons’ long, sword-like beaks once he entered the water, so he just stood behind the shelter of a spruce bush and thought out a plan to get rid of the herons, and have the pool to himself.
Waddling clumsily back into the deep woods, Unk-Wunk found a bed of dry beech leaves, and then deliberately laying himself down among them, he rolled his spiky body back and forth among them until every quill held a leaf; he was completely coated over with dry leaves, so that even his head was concealed. Then he crept warily back toward the pool and suddenly uttering a loud “Unk-Wunk, Unk-Wunk,” he appeared right in plain view of the herons. Ordinarily the sight of a mere stupid hedgehog would never have stirred the wise herons, and they would simply have flown at him, flapping their great wings in his face, and sent him off. But as soon as they caught a glimpse of the strange appearing thing, all covered with leaves, and heard it actually cry out, with shrill, terrified screams they all spread their wings and flew off over the mountain, perfectly panic-stricken at the strange thing they had seen. It did not take the sly Unk-Wunk long to rid himself of the leaves, and plunge into the pool which he now had all to himself.
Now among the kindred of the wild Red-Brush, the Fox, is reckoned as the wisest of the wise. Still, in spite of his reputation for wisdom, he too had once been an easy mark for Unk-Wunk. In his travels Red-Brush was wont to seek his prey in all manner of curious places. He never failed to investigate hollow logs along the trail, for times without number he had run across an apparently vacant log, and discovered it to be occupied by a rabbit or some other easy prey.
Unk-Wunk had feasted well. A covey of partridges had strayed to his very door after beechnuts, and he had chanced to come home just in time to catch them. In vain did the brave little cock partridge drum at him, trying to mislead Unk-Wunk and turn his attention away from the mother partridge and her little brood, which scattered like fallen beech leaves in all directions. Unk-Wunk simply stood still and let the father Partridge bluster until he had become more emboldened by the seeming passivity of the hedgehog, which did not offer to molest him, and foolishly drew nearer, drumming in his very face, and so fell an easy prey to sly Unk-Wunk. After his feast all he desired was a safe, quiet spot to take a nap in. A hollow beech log lay conveniently at hand, and inside this Unk-Wunk crawled.
“Pat, pat, pat,” came Red-Brush the crafty one, swinging jauntily over the trail, even before Unk-Wunk had a chance to close his eyes. They had sighted the fox, however, long before he arrived at the log, and instantly Unk-Wunk changed his position inside the log. Turning about he took care to leave the mere tip of his tail showing from the entrance. Then, with his little dull eyes twinkling, grunting softly to himself over the cruel joke he would play upon sly Red-Brush, Unk-Wunk waited for him.
Red-Brush advanced very cautiously. Ah, surely something had moved inside the entrance of the log. Soon the inquisitive yellow eyes were close to the opening. A sudden swift slap, and Unk-Wunk had played his joke. He grunted derisively as the fox tore off back to his burrow with a snout full of terrible quills.
Everybody knows that in an actual trial of wits the fox might really outwit a hedgehog. Humiliated enough was Red-Brush at the mean joke which Unk-Wunk had played upon him, and made up his mind, fox fashion, that he would one day get even with him. At last he took to dodging the trail of Unk-Wunk, hoping to catch him napping, for he had conceived a plan. The longed-for opportunity came at last. Chancing to stroll to the pool, the fox concealed himself in a leafy thicket to wait for game, which often came to the pool, and peering out from behind the rushes whom should he see but Unk-Wunk grubbing for lily roots. The sly fellow finished his feast, and so gorged himself with his favorite delicacy that instead of going home he settled himself at the top of a hill, just above the pool, for a nap.
The golden eyes of Red-Brush never left him; he bided his time until the hedgehog was fast asleep, then stole softly to the top of the hill. Unk-Wunk lay curled there in a round ball, and Red-Brush, with a swift blow of his paw, started the ball rolling swiftly down-hill. Unk-Wunk would uncurl himself before he reached water, for this they always do; with a bound Red-Brush reached the pool ahead of the ball, and just as Unk-Wunk gave a swift twist of his body to uncurl, the jaws of Red-Brush snapped together with a click, finding the unprotected throat of the hedgehog, and Unk-Wunk, the cruel joker, had at last met his match.
X
THE GHOST OF THE WAINSCOT
A LITTLE wire cage stood in a certain shop-window, and in it were two white mice, the funniest little fellows, with snow-white fur coats and pink, trembly noses, having long, silky, white whiskers, and eyes like tiny red jewels. All the school children had a way of stopping on their way to and from school to visit the white mice. They would stand close to the great glass window, pressing their noses quite flat against the pane, as they watched with delight the funny capers of the white mice, Fluff and Muff, for thus the children had named them. Fluff was the larger mouse, and he would spend hours whirling about in the small wire wheel, going so swiftly at times that all the children could make out was just a round ball of white fur revolving in space.
The wheel had a way of creak, creak, creaking merrily whenever Fluff whirled very fast, and, to tell the truth, this creaking was not wholly unmusical; and it had such a queer effect upon Muff, who apparently had an ear for music, that she would instantly commence a giddy sort of dance, all by herself, whirling madly around to the strange accompaniment of the creaking wheel just so long as Fluff kept up the music. All day long the two white mice frolicked together, only nestling down for short naps in their white cotton wool bed when they were quite exhausted. All this was entertaining to the children, who never wearied watching their antics. But one morning when they stopped at the great window, as usual, there was no wire cage with white mice in its customary place between the glasses of pickled limes and lollipops; in fact, the mice were gone.
So one boy, somewhat braver than the rest, volunteered to go into the shop and find out what had become of their favorites; indeed, if the truth were known, this boy had been saving up his pennies for a week in hopes that he might finally have enough to buy the white mice. Just as soon as he entered the shop he knew something dreadful had happened, even before he asked the shopkeeper, for right upon the counter lay the wire cage, broken and bent, its door gone, and the whirling wheel wrenched from its socket. The man told him that the cat had done it; had been shut into the store over night by mistake. So the boy, feeling very sad, just bought lollipops for his money, instead of saving up any longer for the mice, and went to school.
Now this is actually what did happen the night before, only the shopkeeper knew nothing about it, of course. When the great wooden shutters had been put up for the night, and all lights put out in the shop, it became very dark and still; to be sure the tortoise-shell cat had skulked between the shopkeeper’s legs somehow, and slipped in slyly without his being aware of it. But, as it happened, she had not sneaked in for white mice; back of a certain barrel, over in the corner, she knew of a rat hole. That was what she had in mind all the time. She was not specially interested in white mice; she thought them freaks, at best.
So darker and darker grew the shop, and very silent, until finally a rasp, rasping sound came from behind the barrel. The cat crept stealthily across the floor on velvet-padded feet, and crouched expectantly. But the sly old rat did not come out just then; in fact he appeared to be moving something beneath the floor, dragging it noisily about. So the cat waited patiently; she meant to have the rat if she waited there all night.
“Pat, pat, pat,” sounded a scurry of footsteps; it was the rat. He was getting ready to come out of his hole, and pussy gathered herself together for a quick leap. Boldly the old rat came forth, just as he had done night after night for weeks. A swift flash, and the cat had landed upon his back. “Squeak, squeak,” shrilled the rat angrily, burying its sharp teeth in the cat’s nose, and causing her to loose her hold a second. Then, before she could recover herself, the old brown rat was off and away. She covered his retreat toward the barrel, but the rat flew in another direction, up over the high counters, with pussy after him. In and out among the jars of pickled limes, lollipops and gum-drops he doubled, the cat following, always managing to head him off when he made for the barrel. Over among the goldfish globes into the shop-window he scratched his way, and finally tried to hide behind a great glass jar. No use; the cat’s great, yellow eyes, blazing like automobile lamps, found him. Right over the cage of white mice leaped the rat in a perfect frenzy. Just then Fluff and Muff, almost frightened out of their wits at the dreadful commotion in their window, came out of their nest, and Fluff instantly began to whirl madly about in the creaking wheel, and pussy in her eagerness and haste mistook the moving wheel for the rat, and sprang with all her weight upon the wire cage, giving the old rat just the right chance to slip off to his retreat behind the barrel.
Topsy-turvy turned the wire cage; the wire door was wrenched off its hinges, and instead of the old brown rat which the cat expected to grab, she found herself with a little bit of a white mouse in her claws. What she did with Muff I am not quite certain; at any rate Fluff managed to escape, and off he tore across the shop floor, sliding in and out between boxes and barrels, half mad with fear, his little heart beating so when he paused that it shook his whole body. Finally he reached a green door; there was a little crack beneath the door, and Fluff decided to squeeze through. He came to a long dark passage next, then another door slightly ajar, and he entered the kitchen. The room was so large, silent and lonely that he was afraid; to his joy, he spied a little hole close beside the hearth and instantly slipped into it. To his surprise it was not so small as it had at first appeared to be, but it led in to a narrow, musty-smelling passage, which seemed to be very long, for he could not even see the end of it. The white mouse sat up on his little haunches, peering curiously about him, and even taking time to comb out his white silken whiskers, for strangely enough he felt very safe, somehow. The strange, musky odor was quite familiar to him; he sniffed at it with trembly pink nose. He recognized the trail of his kindred in that scent, and knew that the smooth runway had been worn by the travel of many pattering feet. Perhaps even Muff, his little mate, had passed over the trail.
Off scurried the white mouse at this delicious thought; he determined to follow the new trail to its very end. Suddenly a stranger, a little brown mouse, poked its head inquisitively out of a side track, took just one brief look at the white mouse, and instantly whisked out of sight. Fluff could hear her shrill squeaks of consternation and fear growing fainter and fainter as she hurried away. He stood stock-still waiting; perhaps she would return; but she never did. Instead, she went squeaking along the trail telling, in mouse language, no doubt, of the ghostly thing which she had met on her way to the kitchen larder.
This particular track, as it happened, was quite a favorite one and led for a long distance back of the wainscot. It had many turnings and secret passageways; even into the attic and down into the cellar it led. The rats often cantered over it at night with burdens of eggs or apples which they filched from the cellar; no wonder then the track was well-worn and smooth with the passing of so many pattering feet.
The white mouse, although he had never before seen a brown mouse, was anxious to make the acquaintance of the one he had met; perhaps she could show him the way to find Muff, whom he was beginning to miss terribly. So he boldly took the same road which the brown mouse had taken. He had not gone very far, however, before he heard a dragging sound ahead of him, and right in his path he saw a great gray rat dragging a large nubbin of corn. The white mouse stood stock-still, too frightened to run; he was so afraid of this monster. He trembled and shook so that his small teeth fairly chattered together. But he need not have been so very frightened, for the instant that old rat caught sight of the white thing crouching in its path it gave one long, terrified squeak, turning about in its tracks and scuttling madly off, even forgetting all about the corn nubbin in its haste to get away. Away from the ghost-like vision, the like of which it had never before encountered, in the wainscot passageway.
The white mouse gained courage at last, and being very hungry it ate the corn nubbin itself, daintily pulling off each grain of corn, and eating out just the heart of the kernel.
For days and weeks the white mouse roamed through the wainscot solitary and alone, shunned by every rat and mouse in the place, vainly traveling over the secret passageways, always hoping to turn some corner and meet Muff, his lost mate. How he longed for company, but he never could manage to get close enough to a brown mouse to become acquainted. One day he met a little company of very young mice; they halted and stared at him several seconds with their bright, bulging eyes. Fluff even ventured to give a pleading little squeak which meant to reassure them, but it was no use; evidently they too took him for a ghost, for like a flash they were off, and all he saw of them was five vanishing brown tails.
One day the white mouse chanced to discover quite a new runway which he hastened to explore. As he followed it the way seemed not quite so musky as the old trails, and soon he sniffed with delight a whiff of clear, outside air. The bright sunshine which met him as he poked his nose outside the hole almost blinded his little pink eyes, and the soft spring breeze ruffled his white fur coat, but Fluff enjoyed it. Peering warily about he leaped to a beam in the wood-shed, followed it until he had reached a knot-hole which led through the cow shed; from there he scuttled as fast as he could run, right into the old red barn, and diving deep into the hay he lay there hidden until he regained his courage and spent breath.
Now all through the fragrant hay run many secret passages, and as the white mouse entered one of them, ahead of him he saw a familiar figure; it was a mouse, and as she turned toward him, he caught a glimpse of white fur, and, strangely enough, the little mouse did not turn and flee away from him in terror, as the house mice had done. Fluff saw that she wore a coat of light brown fur, but that her breast was as white as his own fur coat, as were also her silken whiskers. At first he had thought it might be his lost mate, but as he came closer he saw that the stranger had large, bat-like ears, and bright, beady brown eyes; not pink ones, like his mate’s.
Oh, it was pleasant not to be shunned, to be taken for a ghost. The lonely white mouse drew a trifle nearer to the mouse with the white fur vest, until at last they had actually touched noses, which, in mouse circles, means they had become fast friends. The stranger happened to be a little field-mouse who had wintered in the haymow, and had only come back to the barn in search of a few soft wisps of corn silk to begin her new nest with, for she had begun to think of building one out in the corn-field, just as she did every summer, so as to be close at hand when the milky sweet corn was ripening, because very small baby mice are fond of sweet corn in the milk.
And so, just because the little field-mouse was very lonely, she took pity upon the solitary white mouse and let him help build the new nest. They carried corn-husks together, then lined it deftly with the soft silk, and before the corn had ripened and turned yellow, there were five wee mice in the nest, and three of them wore brown fur coats, with white vests, exactly like their mother’s, and the other two were pure white with pink eyes and noses. As for the cowardly rats and mice who still live behind the wainscot, and travel up and down its worn trails, day and night, they always peer ahead of them when they turn a sudden corner, exactly like a boy who is foolish enough to be afraid of the dark, because they always expect to meet the ghost which once haunted the wainscot, and drove them all nearly mad with fright.
XI
WHY THE WEASEL NEVER SLEEPS
IT is said by those who have a way of learning all the wood secrets and the intimate habits of the wild, that the owl always sleeps with both eyes wide open, the fox with but one eye closed, and that the sly old weasel, the very craftiest of all the wild kindred, never actually sleeps at all; hence we often hear the old saying, “You never can catch a weasel asleep.” From far up in the North country comes the tale of how this actually comes about; why the weasel is never caught napping.
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.