IV
THE LITTLE RED DOE OF DEER PASS
AS soon as winter really set in in the North country and the snow began to drift upon the mountains and deepen in the passes, the little Red Doe and her mate sought safe sanctuary with the herd, in the thick cover of Balsam Swamp, where the balsams and spruces grew dense, and there they herded together in their winter “yard,” hidden away among the evergreen thickets where they fed all winter upon the mosses and lichens of the swamp. The herd would tread down the snow as it fell, and feed around the swamp in a circle, and when they had nibbled close all the moss and undergrowth, toward spring they would reach up and feed upon the tender budding shoots of soft maple and spruce and barks which grew overhead. While merciless blizzards raged all through the long winter, there they remained, for the deer always seek shelter in such a “yard,” seldom venturing out, unless they are pressed by hunger, and the snow crusts are strong enough to bear their weight without breaking through, for the slender leg of a deer is easily snapped.
It had been a long, bitter winter for the herd in Balsam Swamp, and there were so many of them to feed there that by spring the food supply where they had foraged had become so scant that only the older, taller deer of the herd could reach high and pull down the tender saplings. Thus it happened, as is frequently the case through winter, that many of the young, tender deer died from sheer starvation, because they did not care to leave the “yard” and were not tall enough to reach high for food.
They were all very glad, at last, when the first signs of spring appeared, and the bluebirds arrived, and the wild geese, coming back from the southland, went trailing over, “honk, honking” through the mists, high over the mountains, in the early morning. Winter was broken at last, and the little Red Doe and her mate came out into the open forest. The mate, a fine young buck, with strong, pronged antlers, with which he fought many a battle for her, led the way, glad to be out in the freedom of the mountain passes once more, after their long retreat. Their sides and flanks were lean from long fasting and privation, but soon they were feeding upon the short, sprouting herbage of the valleys. The maples were in bud; food was plentiful enough now, and all the herd scattered, glad to be free.
All summer long the Red Doe and her mate ranged together, care-free, through the mountains, climbing high up to the summit of Mount Cushman, gazing across upon other mountain ridges, where the tall pointed spruces stood out like sentinels against the sky-line. Going down at night into the deep solitude of the valleys, where the deep, purple night shadows fall early, into the woodsy smell of balsam and spruce, which becomes doubly fragrant after dew-fall. Here are the deer passes, where they rest at night in safety.
They were never molested in their travels, and should a fox or lynx cross their trail, the mate would bravely charge upon it with his strong horns, and send it slinking away into the shadows. And so the pair became bolder and tamer, and upon moonlight nights they would come close to the farmer’s dwelling; into the orchards to feed upon the early apples, and even find the gardens, where they did shocking work among the pea vines and young, tender, sweet corn. Almost every evening, just at twilight, you might see them steal forth from the spruce woods, cross the road together, and if they met a farmer, they would halt curiously to stare after him, heads held erect, gazing after him with great, gentle, inquisitive eyes, alert and wondering. Then, suddenly, like a flash, having satisfied their curiosity, they were off—over the stone fence together they bounded, and the next instant you caught just a fleeting glimpse of their short, white tails, held high, like a flag, vanishing, flashing in and out among the dark spruces.
They had one favorite resting place in Deer Pass, where the thick pines grew close together in a certain deep hollow, through which a brook bubbled musically. Here, deep down among the plumy, green ferns the Red Doe and her mate often stayed at night. Sometimes, in the early morning, if you chanced to pass that way, you might even catch a glimpse of two beautiful heads upon slender necks raised above the ferns, and if you did not come too close to their retreat, they would not offer to move.
Midsummer came, and then there were three deep hollows among the sweet-scented ferns in their retreat, and a little spotted fawn followed the pair. Beautiful was the little creature, with soft, reddish-brown coat mottled with white spots, which looked like snowflakes, and such great, appealing, innocent eyes. The Red Doe and her mate were so fond of the fawn that they never permitted it out of their sight. Those were very happy days now in the deer family. But a change was in store for them of which they knew nothing.
In the month of October comes the hunter’s moon, and then the deer law is raised, up in that Northern country where the Red Doe lives; and the hunters are allowed to shoot the males for ten days, but must not molest or shoot the does or their fawns.
So when the maple leaves were red upon the sides of the mountains and the wild geese began to head for the south again, and the partridges to drum in the hedges, then came the hunters. The little Red Doe and her mate, and the fawn, had, by this time, become quite fearless of man, and almost tame, for nothing ever molested them; so, with no suspicion of their great danger, they camped in the old spot at night, for near at hand were sweet, frost-bitten apples, and besides, the fawn was not yet old enough to follow over long trails through stiff mountain climbs. So one morning they slept late in their old resting place, and the hoar-frost lay in little jeweled crystals, powdering their red coats as well as the ferns about them. Deep down, hidden together, they herded, and so they failed to see the hunter who came creeping stealthily toward their retreat, dodging warily from spruce to spruce. With gun in hand he stole, ever creeping nearer and nearer to their camping-place. Was it the cracking of a twig at last, or did the buck catch the man scent? Instantly he jumped to his feet, antlers held high and straight, waiting to give the signal of warning to his mate.
Too late. A loud report, a puff of smoke, and he fell, even as he gazed. In a second, the little Red Doe was off; off and away, the little dappled fawn following after as best it might. But alas, when the fawn reached a section of barb wire fence, it leaped too short, and fell back entangled in the wire. Meantime, the Red Doe, terrified and frantic, forgetting in her great panic even the fawn, bounded on and on, seeking safety in the deep forest.
When the hunter had secured his prize, the carcass of the buck deer, he began to follow the trail of the Red Doe, and soon stumbled upon the little helpless fawn. The little innocent thing knew no fear, and allowed the hunter to disentangle it from the wire. Then, thinking what a fine pet the little fawn would make for his children, the man carried the little creature home. After a time it became quite tame and used to the children, and so they built a small pen especially for it, close to the great barn.
Lonely and alone, after this, wandered the little Red Doe; all through fall she roamed, quite solitary, over mountains and through the passes, avoiding all the herd; she would mate with none of them. One moonlight night she strayed into the vicinity of a large barn seeking corn-stalks, and there, to her great joy, she discovered the lost fawn in its pen.
It was an easy matter, with her long, slim legs, for the doe to leap the fence, and soon the lonely mother doe was rubbing noses and fondly lapping the dappled coat of her lost baby. Again and again did the doe leap back and forth over the high board fence of the pen, vainly urging the fawn to follow her. But it was no use; the fence was far too high; the little fawn could not leap it, and so the mother doe had to go away.
But night after night the patient Red Doe came back into the pen with the fawn, bounding away with the first peep of day. Away, into the safety of the deep spruce woods, for she was no longer tame; she knew the terrifying fear of man, at last.
Soon winter shut down again, and the deep snow fell, and the visits of the little mother doe to her fawn became less and less frequent. And finally the fawn was taken into the warm barn, and she saw it no more. Then, the last time the doe failed to find her fawn, hungry and cold, in the midst of a great swirling snow-storm, she turned away, traveling wearily back over the old Deer Pass, over the trail to Balsam Swamp for shelter.
That year the herd was large in the swamp, where they circled round and round, feeding upon anything which offered itself as food, only trying to keep from starving until winter should break up again. By early spring everything within reach had been nibbled bare, as usual; then the stronger ones of the herd ventured out into the forests. The little Red Doe had lived through the winter, but she had fared badly, for she no longer had her mate to reach up, with his tall, antlered head, and pull down tender branches for her to nibble. She was very thin and weak as she dragged herself out of the “yard,” aimlessly wandering, loitering, separated from the herd.
Night came on, and she heard the spring chorus of the “peepers,” as they awoke, down in the bogs. Other night sounds came creeping through the great, silent places, and finally, close at hand, a sudden, wild, snarling yell echoed through the mountains. It was the cry of a hungry old lynx evidently out trailing game. The Red Doe was instantly alert. Was the lynx, an old enemy of the herd, trailing her? Then, before she knew where it came from, the lynx had sprung from an overhanging birch, and leaped upon her flank, burying its cruel teeth in her tender flesh.
A swift bound. The doe managed to shake off the clinging lynx, who was old and weak from lack of food. And before the lynx could gather itself together for another spring, she was off. Fleet as the wind she flew but she could never keep up the pace for long, for she had not the strength now; besides, the lynx had wounded her badly. But with wonderful courage she bounded on and on, leaping boulders and rough places, until she struck at last the old, familiar trail which led to the old camping place in Deer Pass. There she sank down at last, between the thick spruces, into a nest of brown, dried bracken and young fern shoots. Weak and spent she lay and rested the next day. By night she hoped to be strong enough to travel once more, for she must seek food.
Small and slim over Mount Cushman arose the crescent moon that night, and pale little stars twinkled overhead, but the Red Doe was too weak to journey on. Then, in and out of the shadows, among the pointed spruces, stole a slim, red figure on long, slender legs, its small head held erect, its soft eyes expectant and alert. And the Red Doe heard; she knew instinctively to whom those small, cleft hoofs, bounding so lightly to her over the mosses, belonged.
The Red Doe raised her slim neck with an effort, and peered over the tall brakes, and then out of the shadows, with little, eager bounds of joy, came her fawn. At last he had grown tall enough to leap the hateful pen, and all the subdued wildness of his nature had come back again with the return of spring, and guided by its instinct, the fawn had sought and found the old camp and his mother.
There they stayed together in their fern bed until morning, and comforted and rested, almost well of her wounds, the doe was able to travel once more. And so, just as the hermit thrush and bluebird started their morning chorus, the Red Doe and her fawn bounded off together, seeking new pastures in the secret places of the forest.
V
DAME WOODCHUCK AND THE RED MONSTER
DAME Woodchuck woke up early one Candlemas Day from her long, all winter’s sleep. She stretched her cramped claws drowsily, then waddled to the entrance of her burrow, and scratched and poked away the dry leaves, with which she had banked up her door in the fall to keep out Jack Frost. Then, with the tip of her snout and round black ears outside the hole, she sniffed in a deep breath of the keen, frosty air. It was still cold, very, but the sun shone and the next minute she had cocked her head one side to listen, for she had heard a bluebird’s note.
“Po-quer-ee, po-quer-ee. Spring is here; what cheer!” he piped.
Surely if the bluebirds had arrived, then the Dame must be stirring; but, unwilling to trust the actual announcement of spring entirely to the bluebird, she resolved to find out in her own way if spring had actually arrived. So out she crawled, and mounting the great flat stone over her home, she sat bolt upright, her little black feet held tight to her breast, then took a long, anxious look, first over one furry shoulder, then the other. The Dame looked for her shadow; if she failed to see it beside her, then she would know that spring had come, for always, in this way, do the woodchuck family predict the first arrival of spring. But if she should actually see her shadow over her shoulder, then she knew that the snow was bound to blow into her burrow just exactly as far as the sun’s shadow shone in, and that there was going to be six weeks more of winter weather. And then, in spite of the bluebirds’ call, she would have gone right back to sleep again.
But this time the Dame failed to see her shadow over her shoulder, which made her so happy that she gave a little sharp bark for sheer joy, and rushed inside the burrow to wake up the woodchuck Twins, and tell them the good news that spring had really come for good. Out came the Twins, yawning and stretching themselves, and when they were thoroughly awake, they all had a grand frolic.
Dame Woodchuck and the Twins had lived in their home in the middle of the clover field, beneath a great rock, for years. It was such a fine, safe spot for a woodchuck’s burrow; you would never suspect where the door was. You wondered too how the Dame, who was very fat, ever managed to squeeze herself into such a narrow crack beneath the flat rock. But somehow she did, and like a flash, too, if she saw danger approaching. Beneath the great rock ran quite wonderful passageways, which led into many secret chambers; so the woodchuck family were never crowded for spare rooms, for year after year they had worked beneath the ground improving their home, digging with their little sharp claws and teeth. And best of all, where you never would expect it, was a secret passageway; down deep, then up over a stone, then to the right, then through a network of roots it led, and the first thing you knew you were right out-of-doors. This was the back door of the Dame’s burrow.
And so if the farmer’s yellow dog should take it into his head to stop off in the pasture and try to dig into the woodchuck’s home, when he was quite busy digging at one door, why, they could all easily have escaped by the rear entrance.
Wild and beautiful was the country where Dame Woodchuck and her family lived. Clover, pink and sweet, covered the whole field, and not too far away the farmer had planted his beans. Beans and honey sweet clover the woodchucks cared for more than almost anything else in life. About sunset they would all crawl out, sitting up together, all three of them in a row, upon the flat rock at first, looking with contentment forth over the clover field; then, suddenly, perhaps the Dame would playfully cuff one of the Twins, and over he would roll into the deep clover, and then a regular frolic would begin, as they nibbled among the pink blossoms.
Close by in the edge of the woods a Hermit Thrush would often come at twilight, and sing his bedtime song, for the thrushes always sing themselves to sleep at night. And Dame Woodchuck, when she heard the first note of the thrush, would sit bolt upright, and listen critically while he sang his song, for it was very sweet and beautiful, and this is the way it went:
Oh—spheral, spheral.
Oh—clear up, clear up.”
And each time the thrush sang his “Oh” he would sing it a bit higher, beginning first upon a low note. Then far off, hidden in the dark bushes upon the nest, the mother thrush would send back a long, deep “O-h.”
This little song of praise which the thrush sang every night meant a great deal to Dame Woodchuck, for she knew when the thrush came to the edge of the clearing and sang, then there could be no dangers lurking about, because the Hermit Thrush is so shy he would never sing his lullaby so near the pasture when there chanced to be a spy at hand. So you see what a safe spot the Dame had selected, and also many others, who lived in the edge of the woods close by, the gray rabbit, and the chipmunks.
Now far across the clover field in the distance might be seen a long, dusty highway, which ran up over the hill, and from the top of the rock the Dame and Twins used to watch the farmer’s teams as they crept slowly over the hill. They were curious about them, but then they never left the road, so of course there could be nothing to fear from them.
But one day instead of the slow-going farmer’s wagon, quite a different looking thing came tearing madly over the long road. The Dame and the Twins were almost paralyzed with fear when they saw it, and sat up straight and watched it with bulging eyes and chattering teeth. It had great yellow eyes, which blazed in the sun; its body was bright red, and when it came just opposite the clover field it gave a loud “honk, honk,” and then the woodchuck family waited to see no more, but bolted straight for their door and inside, as quickly as possible, so that actually the Dame, in her mad haste, managed to scrape off quite a patch of deep brown fur from her back.
Very shortly after this, when the woodchuck family were taking a moonlight stroll to the bean field, the same monster came rushing madly over the road with its yellow eyes agleam, almost the size of the moon. At which awful sight the Dame and the Twins gave up their bean feast and tore home as fast as they could, going in by the back door.
In time, all the little wild dwellers of the forest near by came to know about the great red monster with its yellow eyes, its awful screech, and the odor of its fetid breath, which poisoned all the balsam, woodsy scents of the forest, and made them cough. What awful thing had come into their forest home and disturbed their quiet, peaceful homes? Even the Hermit Thrush no longer dared come to the edge of the clearing to sing her lullaby at twilight.
One morning, before the woodchuck family were astir, they heard a great commotion over their heads.
“Click, click, click, rattle, rattle,” it sounded. And the Dame poked her nose out of the hole cautiously, and looked and stared in dismay at the sight before her scared eyes. A great red monster was being dragged over the clover field by the farmer’s horses; the creature had sharp, cruel teeth, a long, shining row of them, and they bit and bit through the tall clover, so that it fell all over the field and lay flat. In a panic the Dame rushed to tell the Twins, and there they all stayed, deep down inside the burrow all day long, while the red monster rattled and bit its way through the clover over their heads. At night all was still, and the woodchucks, gaining courage, crawled forth into the field because they were very hungry. But what a sight met their gaze! The monster was no longer there, and the clover was no longer there; the field was quite bare.
So the Dame and the Twins held counsel that night, and stealing forth, they left their old home, and traveled far beneath the moon. Over swamps, and through unknown forests they went, until they finally reached a wild, lonely place beneath a mountain. Then they all set to work with a will and dug out a new burrow for themselves. To their joy they discovered that many of their neighbors had followed them, the gray rabbit, and the chipmunk family. And the very next evening as Dame Woodchuck came out to seek her supper, right overhead in a thick pine came the Hermit Thrush.
O-h, spheral, spheral.
O-h, clear up, clear up,”
sang the thrush joyfully, for he was no longer afraid; all the little wild things of the forest had sought safety, far away from monsters, in the deep wildness of the woods. And there the Dame and the Twins lived together happily for many years.
VI
TRACKED BY A CATAMOUNT
TOM and Fred Kinney were driving back from the little mountain village, where they had been sent from the lumber station, up in the “Slash” on Mount Horrid, to buy supplies for the camp. They took this trip every week, their father, overseer of the camp, trusting them to drive Ted and Tot, the mule team, down the mountain alone.
Mount Horrid, rightly named, is a wild spot, and the mountain roads leading up to the camp are steep and rough. One drives over this trail for about fourteen miles, then arrives at a plateau, and just above, on the ridge, are the lumbermen’s shacks.
Darkness comes very early in these northern mountain regions, for the sun sets beyond the taller mountain crags at a little after four in the afternoon and it is twilight almost before one is aware of it. Suddenly the sides of the mountains take on a deeper purple hue, then in the dense forests of balsam and spruce the shadows grow black and blacker, and already night has come down in the valleys between the ridges.
The night bade fair to be very dark and early, but the boys were not afraid, for the two small mules knew the road well without guidance. They let the lines fall slack across their rough coats, while they munched sweet crackers, and talked together about the best places to set their new muskrat traps, which they had purchased in the village.
The mules crawled leisurely up the steep road, stopping, as they usually did, at a steep pitch to get breath, then plodding on again. All of a sudden, without warning, they began to act very strangely, rearing and plunging about in the strangest fashion, and snorting with fear.
“Say, they act funny, don’t they? Wonder what scared ’em,” remarked Tom, clutching the reins which had almost slipped from his grasp.
“Gee,” replied Fred, “do you know it’s gettin’ awful dark; wish we were back in camp. We ought to have started back sooner, not stayed to see that ball game,” he grumbled. For, to tell the truth, Fred Kinney was the more timid and cowardly of the two.
“Oh, don’t be a fraid-cat, Fred. It wasn’t anything much that scared the mules; perhaps a fox or even a porcupine crossed the road ahead of ’em, that’s all,” commented Tom, easily. “Look, it’s going to be moonlight the rest of the way. Who’s afraid? I ain’t. Have another cracker.”
The mules steadied down to their usual gait once more, and the boys shortly forgot their fears and were soon chatting away about their snares once again.
But if they had only known, and could have peered through a thick fringe of spruces, right on the very edge of a long, rocky ledge, just above the mountain road, crouched a great, tawny, supple, fur-clad cat; the very largest catamount, or, as it is sometimes called, the American panther, which had ever been seen in those parts. The catamount had started out to forage as soon as the first, long purple shadows began to climb the mountains. He was a magnificent specimen of the cat family, a male, and back in his dark den, which he had made beneath an almost inaccessible ledge of rocks, high up in the wildest part of the mountain, he had left a fierce, tawny mate and three kitten cubs.
The catamount was gaunt and half-starved looking, but he was also a good provider for his family, and when his mate stayed with the small cubs he carried her food; but his nature was so fierce and ugly that, whenever he chanced to bring home a supply of food to the den, he and his mate always had a fierce, snarling battle over the choicest morsels, and their savage howls and yells at such times were so fearful that all the other smaller wild things of the forest slunk back timidly into their homes, lest they encounter the dreaded catamount in one of his fits of rage.
Now, had there simply been one small boy on foot, or a deer, perhaps, walking up through that dusky mountain road, the catamount would in all probability, driven by his intense hunger and a desire to feed his young, surely sprung upon him. But somehow the sight of the sturdy little mule team and the two figures in the wagon disconcerted him, so that he merely stretched himself out over the ledge and peered curiously at them as they drove beneath him. It was this of course which had frightened the mules; they had caught the wild, strong scent of the catamount in passing.
The great tawny wildcat lashed its tail impatiently, and licked its lean chops hungrily, at the mere thought of what had escaped him; and then from sheer ill-temper and disappointment, because it had not been a deer, or something he could manage, he raised his angry, yellow eyes to the rising moon and gave a wild, blood-curdling yell of rage, a yell which cannot be described in mere words. It rose and rose, echoing through the dense forests of spruce, to be repeated back again from the other side of the dark mountain, ending in a horrid, whimpering wail, which reached the ears of the boys, and sent a chill to their very marrow; at the same time the mules broke into a wild, shambling canter, never stopping for steep pitches even, but keeping up the wild gait until they had reached the plateau, and finally the camp.
“Say, it was an awful yell. Didn’t you folks hear it?” questioned the boys breathlessly, as they rushed pell-mell into camp, full of their story.
“And the mules were scared stiff, too, so they just put for camp on a dead run. Say, father, it must have been something pretty bad to yell like that and scare the mules so.”
“Catamount,” spoke up old Uncle Peter Kinney from the chimney corner, where he was patching a pair of moccasins. “Pair of ’em over Deer Pass way. Heard about ’em last week; guess they got hungry an’ came over the Ridge after deer. Good thing you boys was in the team, I guess. Pesky varmints, catamounts; used to be pretty considerable plenty up North here when I was a boy; but lumberin’ scared ’em off some, I guess. Good bounty on ’em, an’ good money in a pelt, too, if it’s right, son.”
“Well, father, one thing; now there’s catamounts round here, you’ve got to let me take the rifle into the woods when I want to,” spoke Tom. “Why, if we only get the catamount, then I guess I could buy a rifle; couldn’t I, Uncle Peter?”
“Guess ye could, son; but, first of all, sight your catamount,” he chuckled.
Winter passed away, and gradually the boys forgot their sudden terror of the catamount, although farmers down in the valley reported that a pair of them had visited their barn-yards during winter and carried off sheep and even small calves, but had always got away; so plainly the catamounts were still lurking in the mountains.
One day Tom and Fred went off on the other side of the mountain to hunt for rabbits. The old yellow hound accompanied them, for although lame and decrepit, he was still keen after the scent of rabbits. A certain dense thicket of spruces on the edge of a plateau was the destination of the boys, because there the rabbits were always plentiful, the thick undergrowth forming a splendid cover. Although it was now early spring, snow still covered the ground, and the boys saw plenty of fresh fox and rabbit tracks. Tom shouldered the coveted rifle, proud in the assurance that he could handle it as expertly, almost, as his father. The boys examined the different tracks with keen interest, noting mink, deer, and the trail of other familiar wild things, for which they were always upon the lookout, being well up in wood lore.
“What’s that track, Tom?” asked Fred, curiously, pointing to a light, skipping track in the snow.
“Deer. Say, can’t you tell a deer’s track, Fred? Oh, look! Somethin’s been chasing that deer. See those deep, round holes right behind? The deer was running hard, too; he was being chased, all right, and knew it, too. Wonder what it was. I don’t seem to know those deep, round tracks.”
“Say, s’pose it was a bear, Tom?”
“Nope. Too far apart. Whatever it was, it wasn’t shuffling along stirring up the snow in long tracks, like a bear does. It took great, long leaps. Look there,” and Tom pointed to the strange tracks in the snow.
“Say, Tom, perhaps it was a catamount,” announced Fred, suddenly.
“Why, I never thought about a catamount; perhaps it was,” and then Tom clutched the gun a trifle closer at the mere thought of that awful, wild yell, which he had never forgotten.
It was growing late in the afternoon when the boys bagged their last brown cottontail rabbit, but Tom had scared up a covey of partridges, and eager to bag a few, the boys pressed back again, following the tracks of their old trail back through the spruces.
“Say, Fred, did you notice our old tracks back there in the spruces where we branched off?” asked Tom, suddenly. “Well, look here. Here they are again; and say, that thing, whatever it is, is following us now. See its tracks right here again. Say, Fred, we’re being tracked, and I believe by a catamount,” exclaimed Tom, excitedly.
“What’ll we do now, Tom Kinney? Look, it’s almost past sunset now,” and Fred pointed with slightly shaky hand at the yellow glow of the sunset and the fast darkening mountainsides. Soon darkness would be down upon them, and they could not possibly go back over the Ridge and into camp before dark. Already they had tarried too long, and they knew it. For, as if scenting an approaching peril, the yellow hound suddenly lifted his muzzle and gave a long, dismal bay while his yellow hide arose in deep ridges upon his back.
“Tell you what let’s do,” suggested Tom. “We won’t try for camp; we’ll strike for Uncle Peter’s old, abandoned shack. It’s straight around the ledge here. We shan’t be long reaching it; we can make it before dark. I guess we don’t want to be out on the mountain to-night with a catamount or two loose, and chasing us. Why, he might jump down on us any minute from a ledge. Canada Joe said he saw one jump off a terrible steep ledge once and land on a deer’s back, and he says they never miss anything they jump for, either.”
Accordingly the boys made tracks for the shack as fast as they could travel. And sure enough, the catamount was not very far behind them, but was surely tracking them. Stealthily following their trail without showing itself, creeping warily in and out between the dark spruces, never losing its sight of them, the soft “pad, pad, pad” of its round feet muffled by the snow, its hateful yellow eyes gleaming and watchful, pausing when the boys halted, and loping on after them as soon as they started again.
The boys did not relish a whole night in Uncle Peter’s old shack very much, but they knew that their folks would not worry about them greatly for frequently, when they were off hunting, they stopped off in some abandoned lumber camp, when they had gone too great a distance to reach the home camp. Ordinarily it would be a lark, but now they were slightly uncomfortable about encountering a catamount, perhaps a pair of them. But as soon as they reached the shack their spirits rose again, for the shelter of a roof, be it ever so humble, lends courage. To be sure the old shack lacked a door, for some one had long ago used it for firewood. The boys gathered quantities of pine brush, and soon had a great fire snapping up the rude stone chimney of the shack, which lighted it from top to bottom. They dressed and broiled their partridges, and ate their dry bread with hearty, healthy appetites, forgetting, for the time, all about catamounts.
But had they only known—straight out through the dense black cover of the spruce bush even now lurked and waited the great tawny cat, peering, peering, with its glowering eyes, right into the shack, simply biding its time, apparently, but growing every minute more desperately hungry and impatient to make an attack.
The boys tumbled into their balsam bunks and were almost asleep, while their fire dwindled and burned down low. Then suddenly the hound gave a little warning whine, and slunk back into the rear of the shack, his tail between his legs. Instantly the boys were wide awake, and just then came that fearful, blood-curdling cry, the yell of the catamount, and at the same time its dark, shadowy form bounded past the entrance of the shack, right outside the doorway. The catamount was now not a dozen paces off. It had tracked them to the old shanty.
“It’s the catamount; I saw him. Look, look, Tom! There he goes again,” whimpered Fred, suddenly stricken with terror.
“You keep still, Fred. Pile on brush on the fire, quick; that’s what we got to do. It’ll help scare him away. They’re awful afraid of fire,” and desperately the two boys worked, piling everything inflammable upon the dying fire until it blazed high again. Meantime the catamount, startled at first by the sudden glare, withdrew, but soon emboldened by its hunger back it came, ever nearer and nearer to the doorway; finally crouching just at the threshold, it made ready to spring.
With quick presence of mind Tom snatched up a great, glowing, resinous firebrand and hurled it with straight, sure aim at the catamount. It struck him squarely between the shoulders and scorched there, for he turned and bit savagely at the firebrand, snarling with pain.
All this time, between whiles, Tom had been fumbling with his gun and found, to his dismay, that he had but two shots left. He loaded, with desperate haste, not telling Fred of his lack of ammunition, but bidding him to keep firing the brands at the catamount.
“Now, Fred, I’m ready for him. You take a big firebrand in your hand, and then in case I miss him, let him have it straight between the eyes,” directed Tom, and crouching low, with
rifle ready, the boys waited for the catamount to come within range of the door.
Vicious with its burns and hunger, they had not long to wait for the appearance of the catamount; crawling, crouching low, cat-like it came, until it reached the door-sill of the shanty; then gathering itself, it made ready to spring into the room.
That very instant Tom fired. Straight between the gleaming, yellow eyes he aimed, and then, with a muffled howl of surprise and pain, the great, tawny beast leaped high in air, his bound broken; with a snuffling, snarling cry of pain he sank down, clawing and spitting. Tom had surely hit and wounded him.
“Look, look, Tom! See; he isn’t dead yet. Quick, hurry and give him another shot. He’s getting ready to jump again,” shouted Fred. Sure enough, the catamount, now mad with pain from its shattered jaw, crouched for a fresh spring.
“Bang,” went the rifle, Tom’s last shot. And when the smoke cleared there lay the catamount, quite dead. Tom was thankful enough, as you can well imagine, for what would have happened if that last shot had not taken effect? For no boy can handle a catamount when it is fierce and desperate.
The two boys were far too excited to sleep again that night; besides, what if its mate should be hanging around somewhere! So they skinned the dead catamount, and the next morning, as soon as the first yellow rays of the rising sun touched the top of Mount Horrid, Fred loaded with the rabbits, and Tom with the rifle over one shoulder and the tawny hide of the catamount draped proudly over the other, tramped back over the Ridge to the home camp, displaying to admiring eyes the largest catamount pelt ever seen on the mountain.
VII
THE CALL OF THE MOOSE
THROUGHOUT the dense forests of the great Northland the call of the moose is heard late in April, when the herd leave their winter quarters or “yard” to strike forth with their families into the broader, more open country.
Monsall, the old King Moose of the spruce wood, had once more taken his proper place as leader of his own family. All through the month of March he had been quite content with his lot, and as timorous and helpless as any cow moose in the herd. This was simply because it was the season of shedding; his great branching horns were gone, and the newly sprouting ones were still in their “velvet” stage, so that they would have been of no possible service to Monsall in battle.
But now his horns were gradually hardening, and with the return of his shorn strength all the bold, domineering nature of the King had returned to him, and he was glad.
“Ugh-ugh-waugh, o-o,” he called to his mate loudly and commandingly, and with his heavy antlers held proud and high he shambled triumphantly away. Blazing a wide, clear trail as he traveled through the thick bush, he led his timorous mate afar in the direction of new feeding grounds where beech and moose-wood bark were green and plentiful, and the forest pools full of water.
The call of the moose once heard, is seldom forgotten. It begins with a series of hoarse grunts or groans and winds up with a roar which booms and echoes through the most secret places of the forest, striking terror to the timid. Monsall, the King, was huge and ungainly. His great, powerful body would easily weigh over a thousand pounds, and his now towering antlers, when grown, would measure fully five or six feet from tip to tip. His coarse coat of brownish hair was now shabby, but he wore a fine, bristling mane of black hair, and a flowing beard of the same depended from his chin, which served to make his huge head appear twice its length. Fierce and bold was the King, keen in his likes and dislikes, but usually rather gentle with his mate in his fierce way, and he would do battle for her until he fell rather than own up beaten.
The pair went crashing onward, making their way toward the distant waterways and marshes. Long before you heard the crashing of the underbrush you knew, if you were experienced in wood-lore, that moose were on the trail, because the moose when it travels has a way of striking its hoofs together with a sharp, clicking sound like the striking of castanets, and the sharp sound heralds their coming. But for all the moose is himself noisy, he is perhaps the very keenest one in the forest to detect the approach of an intruder, for he readily takes alarm at the mere cracking of a twig.
Seeking a deep pool where lily-pads had already begun to spread upon the water, the pair took to the pool and plunged their great, velvety muzzles deep down into its muddy depths, dragging forth great mouthfuls of the water plants and their roots, and browsing contentedly together for hours. After the scant fare of the abandoned “yard” how good the luscious, succulent fare tasted to them.
Thus for weeks Monsall and his mate journeyed, until one day the cow moose deliberately deserted him, and hunt as he might, so cleverly had she concealed herself, he could not find her. She did not leave the hidden, mossy covert for days, for any length of time, and when she did, it was simply because, nearly wild from the stings of the black fly, which now swarmed in the woods, she sought water where she might stand to rid herself of her tormentors.
She hoped to find some near-by pool, but in vain; all the shallow, near at hand waterways were dried out, and she traveled long before she found a deep pool. She was very nervous and anxious to get back to the secret covert, for she had left behind her a baby moose. Wise was the cow to hide the little one from its fierce parent, Monsall. For so fiercely selfish or jealous does the male moose become, that sometimes for sheer ugliness he will trample out the life of a very young moose.
When the mother moose came to the pool at last, she gave a long grunt or sigh of relief and sank deep down beneath the grateful water, leaving just the tip of her muzzle and furry ears above the surface. The black flies, which had stung her until she was nearly mad, left her burning flesh and arose in a scum upon the water. So relieved and full of content was the mother moose that she almost forgot about the little furry fellow whom she had left back there in the secret covert. And so it chanced that a lumberman and his boy, who had been following a forest trail, came upon the covert and found the little moose. Lonely, and no doubt wanting its mother, it had stolen out into the forest upon its long awkward legs, and stood exactly on the trail when the man spied it.
Thus it happened that when the mother moose came shambling hastily back to her baby, uttering little rumbling calls deep down inside, just to let it know she was on the way back to it, she found the secret covert quite empty. For weeks she crashed wildly through the forest, calling it vainly; only her own lonely bellow echoed back to her straining ears, while afar off, in quite another direction, in the distant lumber camp the boy was learning to love the little moose, and had built it a rough shelter and yard not far from the lumbermen’s shacks, lest it stray away, and he lose his pet.
In early autumn the mother finally gave up her fruitless search for the calf. Soon the herding time would be at hand, snows would fly, and then each family would seek the “yard” once more, and herd there through the winter. Overcome now with sudden loneliness—for already the hills were red with autumn tints; very soon after, up in the North Country, the first snow flies—the mother moose began to long for companionship, and so she began to haunt the old moose trails once more, and often send out her long-drawn, pleading call for her lost mate.
“Ugh-ugh-waugh, o-o-o” she bellowed, racing through the dark aisles of the tall spruces, whose far-away tops seemed to touch the blue sky.
One day, when she had almost given up her search, a loud, booming challenge, an answer to her call, came from a long distance away. Even then Monsall, the old King, was on his way to her and she was glad.
Now when the King Moose hears the pleading call of his lost mate, and makes up his mind that he will join her, should anything interfere with his plans, or hinder him in his travels to her, he is instantly on the war-path, and a most dangerous, terrifying foe for any one to meet. So when the old King Moose had raised his great antlered head, and after listening patiently, thought he had located the call of his mate, he was soon on his way to join her. Again came to him her welcoming call, oh, miles across the country, through forest and over mountain; but in spite of the long distance, Monsall had recognized her call, and he was coming.
Just as he had drawn in his breath to send out a mighty answering call, even before the echoes of his mate’s cry had fairly died out from afar off, in quite another direction, came the unmistakable answer of a rival moose. Instantly the old King was angry and alert. What rival was trying to call his mate away from him? Whirling indignantly about in his tracks, his great antlers thrown well back upon his black, bristling mane, Monsall charged madly off in the direction of the rival call.
Time after time his mate wailed forth her call to him, and each time a reply came from the rival moose. The great lumbering hulk of the King tore wildly through the forest, felling saplings, and racing over giant tree trunks with no effort whatever, so wild with jealousy and full of rage was he, and at every new call of the strange moose his anger increased. His small eyes gleamed redly, and his heavy breath rushed like steam from an engine through his great distended nostrils, while his heavy jaws crashed together like the fall of a woodman’s axe, as he ran blindly on.
Hours he ran; he would find and settle with this stranger who still sent his hateful bellow from afar, this rival who dared signal his own mate. His great antlers were now so terribly strong that he feared no other moose in the forest. Gradually he drew nearer the rival’s hiding-place, or haunts; for the bellow was nearer and nearer. It was night when the King Moose reached the end of the trail, which led him into the lumber camps; but he had no fear of man now, so keen was he after revenge, and to lock antlers with his rival; only, somehow, that rival’s bellow did not sound as loud or as challenging as his own. Surely his foe would be an easy one to rout.
The lumbermen had long ago gone to sleep in their shacks; they retire early, for their work begins at sunrise, and so the camp-fires smoldered, and it seemed like a deserted village, as Monsall halted right outside the slash or clearing, and stood stock-still to get his bearings, trying to gain sight of his rival. But no proud, antlered form rushed forth to do battle with Monsall. All was still; even the boy had been asleep for hours. He had given his pet moose its supper inside the yard, where he always fed it, had stroked and fondled its long furry ears, and the little moose had rubbed its clumsy, velvety muzzle affectionately over the boy’s body, and allowed him to fit a rough sort of harness over its body; for the boy was planning to train the young moose to carry him upon its back. The creature had now become so tame that it readily followed the boy all about camp, and was a great pet.
So wrapped in sleep was the camp they paid no attention whatever to the strange noises and calls of the young moose through the night. In fact they had become quite accustomed to his rather queer attempts to bellow, so were not disturbed by the sound. For hours the young moose had been restless, sending out call after call from his yard, each call becoming more sustained and carrying wider as the young moose gained experience with his new gift.
So, while the fires burned low and red, into the camp came a great, shambling, hulking black figure; it left the fringe of protecting spruce bush somewhat warily; its great nostrils puffed across the smoldering fires, and sent the floating ashes whirling. Then it began to circle about the camp, drawing steadily nearer and nearer the moose pen.
“Ugh-ugh, waugh, oo,” called the young moose, not very loudly or clearly, and as the sound came to Monsall he stood a second, then charged with raised antlers for the yard. Again the call, and this time the old King strained his great ears, perhaps catching a familiar note in the little moose call. Somehow it seemed to him not to be the loud, insolent bellow which he had followed and longed to do battle with its owner the moment he met. Then a strange thing occurred; instead of replying in his usual savage roar when he met an enemy, Monsall dropped his antlers gently and gave a gentle, unexpected low, which rumbled kindly, deep down inside his giant hulk, and meant only peace and reassurance to the little moose.
Then, through the darkness a great antlered head lifted itself over the high board enclosure where the young moose stood, timidly waiting he knew not what. Two velvety muzzles met over the barrier, the old King found and recognized one of his kindred; his own stray calf.
The lumbermen still slept on, and so they failed to hear the disturbance in camp and the crash which followed when the sharp, impatient hoofs of the King Moose tore down the board prison which separated him from his lost one, and gave it freedom—the freedom of the woods.
The old King and the little furry moose stood hesitatingly close to the dying camp-fires, Monsall to get his lost bearings, the little one waiting. Just then from far off came another long, pleading call, the mother moose calling again for her mate. Then the old moose lifted his antlers proudly, and a great and mighty challenge echoed through the camp and rang its way far over the pine trees to his mate. The great shambling figure of Monsall the moose took the trail once more, while close behind, right through the way which the old King blazed for him, followed the little one; they had heard and were following the call of the moose back into the forest.