One fine day the Mother uncurled herself and sat up in the nest to sniff the air. The young ones awoke one by one, and sniffed too, that is, all except Striped Coat whose four black paws still pointed at the sky as he lay on his back sleeping off the effects of his last stuffing. There was a smell of smoke. Farmer Slown, true to his threat, was burning the brush piles.
Soon the smoke drifted past in masses, driven by a brisk breeze blowing towards Goose Creek. There was a crackling and snapping noise, with now and then a roar when the flames leaped high. Even the sun lost its brilliancy and could only glow dully like a red hot ball in the smoke.
The mother wood pussy walked about uneasily, looking out at the smoke from each peep hole in the brush pile. Some of the woods folk were running by in a stupid panicky way, looking this way and that, and often turning back when they should have gone only forward. Bun, the woods rabbit, actually came into the den and crouched there a moment before rushing on. Possum, his long mouth open and dripping saliva, shuffled in a moment later. Ignoring the skunks he curled up on a log and watched in sour silence.
Mice and little sharp nosed shrews were hopping about like big grasshoppers with apparently no idea of the right direction. At first the Farmer had chased these with his rake. Now, however, the smoke was too thick, the fire had spread far beyond his control and was threatening to sweep the whole wood. The Farmer’s one idea was to stop the flames before they reached his buildings. He worked frantically, digging and raking, stamping and beating until the fire in a great wave had swept with the wind all the way to Goose Creek and there had been checked by the water.
Meanwhile its fiery breath reached one brush pile after another, licking them up and sweeping on. The mother wood pussy waited as long as she dared, then panicky from the roar, the stifling smoke and the heat, she seized one of the young ones and tried to carry it out. It was heavy and slippery, she lost her hold and blinded by the smoke could not find it. Returning she seized first one, then another and then in her excitement tried to carry two out together. This failed. But her efforts and fear aroused the young ones, they understood that they had to flee from their home. So when the mother was forced by the smoke to move out, the young ones trooped after her on their own legs, making a long line of black and white stripes as each followed the tail of the one ahead.
Last of all came the smallest and in front of him came Striped Coat with every hair of his body on end and his tail straight up in the danger signal. Through the smoke they wandered towards the field, then along the fence, away from the path of the roaring flames.
It was a queer little company. Each stumbling along as best he could, bristling up whenever strange objects like roots or stumps loomed suddenly out of the smoke, sneezing and choking when the tricky wind blew the fire towards them. Well it was that each had showy white stripes which those behind could plainly see and follow, just as men in the dark follow a lantern. For in that way the mother was able to lead them the whole length of the fence and then around the corner to the edge of Farmer Slown’s barn where, as if she had been aiming for it all the time, the mother found the hole under the floor and slipped in. After her solemnly trooped the little ones.
And it was a strange thing that between them and the fire, their enemy, the Farmer, was working for all he was worth to save his home and at the same time to do what would also save their lives. He did not know that a skunk family was under his precious barn, but he had found out for himself that a fire in the woods was a terribly dangerous thing.
When, thanks to the help of Goose Creek, the Farmer had put out the last flame, he was nearly exhausted and in much worse condition than most of the little woods folk he had tried to destroy. To be sure many of them were homeless, but they could find or make new homes. Indeed, when that night the mother wood pussy slipped from under the barn and wandered across the field to the stretch of burned woods beyond, she found the mice already in new holes along the edge of the field and Possum carrying, in a bundle held by his tail, a lot of straw for a new bed he was making in a hollow oak.
Where the brush piles had stood, and beyond, all the way to the creek, every living thing was blackened and dying. Trees thirty feet high were scorched. The ground was almost bare. Many years would go by before the forest could cover the ugly scars.
Wandering about in an uncertain, awed way were several meat eaters besides the wood pussy. Gray Fox and his mate were slipping from shadow to shadow examining everything, a mother coon and her three young ones passed along the edge of the creek, and overhead Screech Owl and several of his kind were talking it all over in gentle crooning voices.
The wood pussy could find no trace of her old home, the brush pile. It was gone. So after a little while she left the gloomy place.
Near the field she picked up a small toad and a yellow and brown garter snake, both killed by the fire. These and a number of wild strawberries were food enough, and she was too tired to hunt more. Back then to Farmer Slown’s barn she wandered. It was not quite the kind of a place she would have selected for a den, but there seemed no other to which to take the young ones. Stealthily she circled the farm yard and slipped into the hole. It was smelly and damp and cold under the barn floor, but what she thought of most was whether it was safe. Several times she looked out and wandered about uneasily, each time returning to the young ones to lick and mother them. They seemed utterly tired out; so she began gathering together leaves for a bed in the farthest corner; she had decided to stay.
Several times she looked out and wandered about uneasily
Several times she looked out and wandered about uneasily
Farmer Slown owned six chickens. One of them was a white pullet which, having not yet made a nest, spent much time in going about hunting a good place and in telling the others about her difficulties. The morning after the skunk family took up residence under the barn she was still wandering around cackling and complaining.
“Cawk cawk cawk caw-w-w-w-k,” she muttered as she strolled around the corner of the barn. Striped Coat, lying as usual on his back, turned over quickly and looked about. “Cawk cawk cawk caw-w-w-w-k,” again muttered the pullet. The little skunk slipped away from the others and peeped out of the hole at the strange white bird strolling about so close to him.
He was fascinated. Often he had seen and eaten crows, but here was a white one which his little nose told him would be especially good eating. Whenever the pullet passed the hole, he moved to the side where he could get the best view, but peeped so timidly that she did not see him.
Suddenly she got the idea that in some litter under the edge of the barn, would be a good place for her nest. She looked about, scratched around a little and then settled down to form the nest around her in a comfortable fit. Striped Coat never took his eyes off this white “crow,” and when with a joyful cackle the pullet sprang up and raced to the other fowls to announce that she had laid an egg, Striped Coat’s excitement knew no bounds. Forgetting all natural caution he galloped out to have a look at the nest.
Sure enough, the white crow had forgotten something when she left so hurriedly. He pounced on the egg, tried to kill it and finding it a very strange hard object, sat down in the nest to study out how it could be eaten. But the egg was too large for his small mouth and he was still rolling it about when the mother came out to see what he was up to.
With one bite she took the shell off one end, then sucked the contents. Striped Coat, the discoverer, hustled around her eagerly, but got only the drippings and what was left on the edges of the shell. Nevertheless the mother’s respect for him increased. He was, in her mind, already a successful hunter. So when that night she came out for her own regular hunt she let Striped Coat come too.
It was dark and damp, just the weather beloved by the night prowlers. The smell of the flowering shrubs and of countless things in the woods, lay heavy in the air. The little skunk, trailing after his mother’s guiding white stripes, picked his way as fast as he could behind her, but without missing a look at anything especially interesting along the way. When she stopped to sniff at a mouse burrow or to dig under a stump for a sleeping lizard, or to examine an ant nest for young ones and eggs, he was always where he would miss nothing of the fun.
He tried this once too often however, for the mother finally discovered the underground nest of a swarm of yellow jackets and began to dig it up in spite of the great consternation of the inhabitants. They tumbled out in masses and stung everything in sight including Striped Coat whose hair was not yet long enough to protect him all over his body. He rushed about and rolled but was so fat that the stinging could not hurt him badly.
Although the yellow jackets had not yet made a very big nest, what paper combs there were seemed almost choked with the amount of young brood they carried—tasty morsels for an insect loving animal like a wood pussy, and well worth a little digging and an occasional sting where the full grown little fighters were able to get under the fur.
After that feast the mother seemed content to let Striped Coat do a little hunting for himself while she moved about slowly, occasionally finding a berry, or an unwary beetle on the surface of the ground. And Striped Coat made good use of his opportunity, in tasting many kinds of plants and roots and in learning where the night crawling earth worms could be found and caught before they pulled their long bodies back into their burrows.
All too soon, the mother grew uneasy about the coming of day and started back. Striped Coat followed but this time found difficulty in keeping up; there were no stops now, the mother thought only of getting back to the barn. So the little skunk, work his short legs as he would, kept dropping behind. Added to this strain was the presence of a big bird, Great Horned Owl, who flew silently from tree to tree, at a little distance from them but always nearly abreast of their course. There was something so stealthy about his watchful waiting that Striped Coat grew afraid.
On and on went the mother with the galloping motion used so much by the skunks, and Striped Coat still toddled along and kept her in sight while also watching the big owl. Then some bushes loomed ahead and the little skunk found himself suddenly alone. A shadow seemed to pass over him; he dodged into the bushes like a flash and escaped the talons of Great Horned Owl by a mere inch. Indeed, where he had been a moment before, now stood the big bird, its eyes glaring, wings ready for another dash and strike.
Striped Coat cowered back against what seemed a solid wall of stems, and the owl noting his fear, started into the bushes after him; but suddenly things changed; with a stamp of his foot the little fellow sidled forward, every hair on end, his tail straight over his back. The owl hesitated; he was facing more of a proposition than he had bargained for. The little skunk looked young and defenseless, but it acted very grown up. The owl knew what an old wood pussy could do.
Where he had been a moment before, now stood the big bird, its eyes glaring, wings ready for another dash and strike
Where he had been a moment before, now stood the big bird, its eyes glaring, wings ready for another dash and strike
Snapping his hooked beak, the big bird backed away and with a final glare, took wing as silently as he had come. A minute later his “Hu hu, huua hu,” sounded nearby as he called to locate his mate, then further, and finally so far away it was like a faint echo in the distance. Then Striped Coat came out and continued his journey, and it might have been noticed that now he walked along with a kind of self confident dignity, every hair still on end. More than ever he looked like a little fur ball, but not the kind with which it is safe to play.
Sniffing along his mother’s trail, he very quickly came in sight of the hole under the barn, but before going in he took a look at the nest of his friend the white crow, then, all puffed up, with furry tail still proudly held up like a flag, he marched in to join the others.
A furious thunder storm was sweeping down Goose Creek; hailstones nearly the size of marbles bounded from limb to limb or cut through the tender leaves on their way to earth. Such things sometimes happened in the last days of June, but rarely were they followed by a wind as cold as that which in the night swept through the pines around the barn of Farmer Slown. It whistled in the holes and cracks and made the wood pussies’ new home drafty and uncomfortable.
So the mother very wisely went out in search of warmer covering for their nest and after digging into leaf piles and finding them disagreeably wet, turned her attention to hunting strips of bark on the dry sides of dead trees. This search brought her to Farmer Slown’s fence, the posts of which she carefully examined until, within the yard, very near the barn, she found just what she wanted. But it was not bark, it was the Farmer’s blue cotton night shirt which, following the storm, he had hung on the fence to dry and had forgotten to bring in with the rest of his wash.
The mother reached up to feel it, then taking a firm hold with her teeth, pulled and swung it about until her weight brought it down on top of her. This surprised her mightily, and being entangled in its folds she nearly gave it a better musk bath than it had had on the eventful evening when the Farmer came out of his bed to the aid of his cowardly hound. With her under it the night shirt performed some strange antics; then suddenly it released her and fell in such a helpless heap that excited as she was she realized it was after all not a living enemy which had leaped upon her. Instantly calming down, she dragged it under the barn where some chewing and tearing on the part of the whole family soon made it into very good bedding, though Farmer Slown might not have thought so. Indeed, he was in one of his rages all the next day while hunting for it in vain from one end of his field to the other.
But comfortable as the blue night shirt proved to be, the mother was not quite satisfied with her bed, and so on the following night went out in search of something else warm. She looked first to see if by any chance there might be another night shirt growing on the fence, but was very satisfied at finding instead two pairs of socks and an undershirt which the Farmer, still following his usual habit, had unwisely hung out on this makeshift clothesline.
After supper he remembered the clothes and went out to bring them in, but, feel about as much as he liked, he could not find them, they were gone, absolutely and completely. Then he grew really peeved and, using some harsh language, commenced a ferocious march around the yard, armed with a lantern and a stick. At length, still completely mystified, he sat down on his doorstep to think the thing out.
“Last night it was the night shirt,” he muttered. “Tonight it’s socks and an undershirt! What on earth can be doing all this dirty work? It can’t very well be the wind blowing them away. It couldn’t be an eagle; nor a tramp way out here; it can’t be the goat—no, the goat would do it all right, but she’s safely tied. Bugs couldn’t have eaten them. Pshaw! I can’t see what did take them, but one thing I am sure of and that is that they didn’t walk off by themselves!” With that he slapped a mosquito on his neck and went inside the house.
A few minutes later, however, he strode out like one to whom has suddenly come a great idea. In his hand were two socks which he proceeded to nail to the fence with the feet hanging down as naturally as before.
“Now, you spook you, get those if you can!” he said encouragingly. Returning then to the house he put out the lights and posted himself at an open window with shot gun at his elbow and a pocket full of spare cartridges. As he looked at the bait on the fence opposite he chuckled grimly and acknowledged himself very clever indeed.
But if the weird creature, whatever it was, had earlier been eager for his clothes it certainly was so no longer. Hours passed and still the Farmer sat there with eye glued on the two socks hanging in the moonlight. Behind them the woods came in close and black, throwing long shadows which moved from time to time under the influence of the night wind. There was a gentle rustle of countless leaves, the hooting of distant owls, the call of Great Blue Heron and the patter of flying squirrels as they leaped onto his roof from the nearest tall tree. There was also the endless hum of the insect army, increased now and then by the rasping of a locust in a limb close by; but nothing of an unusual nature.
Suddenly the Farmer rubbed his eyes and leaned forward, then rubbed them again; one sock was gone! Yes, there was no doubt about it! He had seen nothing, heard nothing strange, yet there in the moving black and white shadows hung only one lone sock. It seemed so impossible that he just sat there with mouth open.
A few minutes later, however, he reached stealthily for his gun with a hand that trembled oddly. His eyes had a queer bulge and chills were running up his spine and into the roots of his stiff hair. The other sock was gone!
Carefully closing the window, Farmer Slown tiptoed about the house, noiselessly barring doors and even propping things against them. For the first time in his life he had seen something uncanny, had felt that the great woods contained something more cunning, perhaps more powerful, than he. He shivered while listening suspiciously. And at this unfortunate moment, the black and white hound took the notion to feel lonely and to howl at the moon. It was the lonesomest, most woebegone sound imaginable. Perhaps it could not be said that the Farmer ran up the dark stairs, rather might it be said that he flew. Behind the locked door of his room he felt better, but still the weird loneliness of the dark woods came through from the window. With a jerk he pulled down the shade, then jumped into bed, clothes and all.
If he felt shivery that night, at least the wood pussies did not. The mother was now entirely satisfied with their nest, for it was truly a wonderful one. She had found the last two socks somewhat harder to tear down than the others, but had managed to get them by pulling the ends through the fence one at a time and then straining back with all her strength until the wool stretched on the nail and gave way with such suddenness as to roll her over. This stretching and sudden jerk was what caused each sock to vanish through the fence so quickly that the Farmer could not see it go. The moving shadows did the rest. Into them the black wood pussy with her long white stripes fitted in as naturally as if a part of them.
Farmer Slown arose early, milked the goat with nervous speed, breakfasted on one less egg than usual and started for the village in his flat-bottomed boat. His principal errand there was the buying of two huge steel traps guaranteed to hold anything up to a grizzly bear in size. These two traps having long been on exhibit in a hardware store window as curiosities to draw a crowd and to help advertise the store’s wares, their purchase by the Farmer very naturally aroused the curiosity of the shopkeeper and of several village loungers who happened to be witnesses of the sale.
Questions soon drew from the Farmer enough details of the strange doings on Goose Creek to make a very good story. He was buying the huge traps to catch some uncanny creature which visited his farm at night and carried off whole clothes lines. That was enough for the village gossips. They enlarged the story at each telling until it became a regular fairy tale, with the villain a creature nearly as high as the trees, marching about in the woods terrorizing the inhabitants.
So sure did the gossips become of the truth of the story, that they even made Farmer Slown wonder whether it might not be true. He stayed all day in the village repeating his version of it to all the newcomers and so thoroughly enjoying being a hero that he let his own imagination work a little to make the story better. He even described the dreadful creature as he thought it ought to look. Needless to say it did not resemble a little wood pussy.
One of those who took great interest in the affair was the Editor of the little local paper. He saw a great opportunity and made the most of it in a special afternoon edition with the story under black headlines and illustrated with sketches of a creature as large as a house and resembling a cross between a camel and an elephant.
The little paper circulated far and wide and was quoted by papers elsewhere until the story in its exaggerated form, was being discussed in the biggest cities. The general conclusion seemed to be that someone had gone loony or else that a prehistoric mammal had been hiding in the Pine Barrens all these years and had now suddenly been discovered.
In a week Goose Creek was a famous place. Newspapers sent photographers there who poled up and down the stream taking pictures of places wild enough to be the den of the monster and of any holes in the mud which might be taken for its foot prints. And Farmer Slown was still the great hero whom everyone had to visit and listen to and sympathize with.
He approached with caution
He approached with caution
Meanwhile the wood pussies, cause of all the excitement, could not understand what had happened to make the place so noisy and unsafe for them. There were strange people and strange dogs in the woods, there were shouts and gunshots and new odors. The mother, always nervous, hunted for a new den and finally moved the family to a deserted woodchuck burrow under a holly tree in the middle of the burned section of the wood, not very far from where the brush pile had once stood.
But Striped Coat did not like the change. The other young ones were quarrelsome and the new quarters were crowded. Also he missed his white crow. So after one day in the burrow he made a trip all by himself back to the barn, looking more than ever like a fur ball as, all fluffed up with excitement, he marched along the field.
Nor had his white crow disappointed him. He approached with caution and in her nest found a fine egg, with a shell thin enough for him to crack. Its luscious contents were both food and drink. Afterwards he wandered under the barn and remodelled the bed to suit his own needs. The remains of the blue night shirt he draped around the top, the socks he stuffed underneath. By morning he was curled up in the middle of the comfortable mass, fast asleep.
That day a city cousin of the Farmer, a Mrs. Simpkins, arrived by boat to get first hand details of the strange affairs which had so suddenly made the family famous. She brought as companion her son, an overgrown boy named Oswald who, having read a good many books, thought himself pretty smart, and perhaps he was. At any rate, while his mother was talking to the Farmer in the parlor, Oswald nosed about the farm.
He managed to escape disaster, except for one bee sting and a good butting from the goat, until by mere chance he wandered back of the barn and caught sight of the hole leading underneath it. Here was mystery! In true detective fashion he examined the opening and found two large hairs, one black the other white.
“A cat!” said the bright Oswald. “Maybe it has kittens under here. I’ll have a look.” Getting down on his stomach he wormed his way under the barn until, his eyes becoming used to the darkness, he could see all about. Everything was bare except in one corner. Oswald elbowed his way in that direction. Yes, he had certainly found the kittens, for here was a bed for them, all nicely made with rags!
“Pussy, pussy,” called Oswald. He did not want to surprise an angry cat. “Pussy, pussy.” And then to his joy there stood up in the middle of the nest not a big mother cat but a fluffy black kitten with white stripes on its head and neck.
Oswald’s heart gave a thump of delight. Here was just the pet for him. He would catch it and take it home. Of course his cousin the Farmer wouldn’t mind, since it was he who had found it. But he must not let it get away! Craftily advancing an arm under cover of many “pussy, pussies,” he felt the right moment had come. Around went his hand in a sudden wild grab.
“Yow-w-w-w-w!” howled Oswald as the little “kitten” gave him a musk bath precisely where it would do the most good—“Yow-w-w-w-w!”
He could not see and he could not breathe, so he made up for it in yells which even reached his mother in the Farmer’s parlor. She had just been telling her cousin what a wonderful boy her Oswald was.
“Yes,” she went on, “he isn’t like other boys at all. He is never idle, he is always finding out things for himself or doing something splendid! Ah! What’s that! I think I hear him calling. He always does that when he’s found something wonderful!”
So Mrs. Simpkins and the Farmer went out of the house to see what Oswald had found. They heard him all right, but they could not find him.
“Yow-w-w-w-w!” howled Oswald more wild with fury because his fond Mamma had not at once come to his rescue. “Yow-w-w-w-w!!!”
“Sounds as if he were under the barn!” exclaimed the Farmer at last. He walked around to the back and there found a foot sticking out of the hole. Dodging a kick, he seized the foot and began to pull, Mrs. Simpkins, now much alarmed, pulling also until between them they nearly pulled Oswald in two.
“We’ve got him!” gurgled Mrs. Simpkins as more body appeared and the sound of the yells grew louder. “Oh, what an awful smell!”
“I say so, too!” agreed the Farmer heartily. “Let’s poke him back.”
But just then the whole of Oswald came out and his mother clasped him to her in utter disregard of consequences.
“My son,” cried Mrs. Simpkins tragically, “what has happened!”
“A kitty!” cried Oswald, “a little black kitty with a white striped coat.” Then, seeing the Farmer’s convulsed face, his tears drowned all else.
“Well, well, it’s all right,” crooned his mother, “but what’s that you’ve got in your hand?” The Farmer looked too and all at once his face grew very red. Tightly clutched in Oswald’s hand was all that was left of the blue night shirt.
A few hours later Mrs. Simpkins, waiting with her son for a train at the village station, was being interviewed by an appreciative reporter.
“Yes,” she was saying. “It was all my Oswald. He isn’t like other boys. He is always finding out things for himself. He went under the barn all alone and discovered the lost clothes. Isn’t he wonderful?”
The reporter’s eye swept appraisingly over the blushing Oswald.
“Well, yes,” he admitted reluctantly, “he certainly is; but, doesn’t he smell awful!”
Farmer Slown was sitting on his doorstep reading another special edition of the village paper. Opposite him stood a stranger watching with amusement the changing expression on the Farmer’s red face.
“That’s the line I referred to,” he interrupted the other man. “See, right here!” He pointed to a paragraph. The Farmer began to read it aloud.
“And so,” he read, “the great monster of the woods, the prehistoric mammal, turned out to be nothing more than a little skunk. The boy who made the discovery described it as jet black all over except for white stripes on its head and neck. Could a more ridiculous ending possibly be—”
“That’s enough,” said the man, “did you notice it said jet black except for white on its head and neck? Well I’ve come to buy that skunk. What do you want for him alive?”
“But he got away, vanished before we came back from the house after scrubbing the boy.”
“That’s all the better; might have got hurt otherwise, eh? He will stay around here somewhere. Now what I want you to do is to set some traps until you catch him. I’ve brought the traps. They’re made like boxes, plenty of room inside. What do you say?”
“Catch a live skunk!” the Farmer exclaimed suspiciously. “Not I, do it yourself.” Then the thought came to him that perhaps the man really would be fool enough to pay money for a skunk. “How much will you give for him,” he asked.
“Twenty-five dollars,” was the prompt reply. The Farmer could scarcely conceal a gasp of surprise. Why, his goat wasn’t worth that much! His eyes narrowed;
“Not enough,” he answered craftily.
“Thirty-five, then.”
“Not enough,” croaked the Farmer again experimentally. The man regarded him doubtfully.
“Well,” he said at length, “fifty is my limit. But he’s got to be unhurt and well, do you understand?” The Farmer stood up.
“All right,” he agreed, “I’ll catch him for you. Let’s see your traps. I’ve had two of mine set for several nights but haven’t caught anything.”
“What do you use for bait?”
“Socks,” grunted the Farmer shamefacedly. “He seemed to like them.” The man held back a smile, gave some instructions and then turned to his boat for the trip back to the village. He owned a farm on which he raised skunks in pens much as a poultryman raised chickens except that it was the fur of the skunks which was marketable. The more black fur there was on a skin, the more valuable it was, therefore an almost entirely black skunk like Striped Coat was worth a good sum to the farm.
While Striped Coat was thus being sold alive, he was safely sleeping with his family in the holly tree burrow to which he had run after discovery by the boy. A less sensible skunk might have remained and been killed but Striped Coat was not one of that kind.
It was on the third night after this, that he and the others came across the first of Farmer Slown’s new traps. The family had just come from Goose Creek, for now that it was time for them to take care of themselves in the world, the mother’s milk had failed them and they needed water as well as food.
Wandering along a path made by old Muskrat in his search for grass roots, they caught the scent of a freshly killed chicken and found that it came from a long box which had an opening at one end. The mother, nervous as usual, looked at this with such suspicion that the others held back too, although much interested in the smell of this kind of food.
They kept wandering around the box sniffing, until all at once the runt of the family, a pretty black and white little fellow, could resist it no longer and slipped in. They crowded about the entrance when—bang—down came a board with a clatter, nearly smashing a nose or two and completely shutting the entrance.
Those on the outside sprang back, but the runt was caught and could only add to their alarm by frantic scratching on the hard wood inside. That was lesson enough for Striped Coat; he knew now that a box with a hole was something dangerous even if it contained good food.
In that way the family lost the runt. Soon afterwards quarreling divided the remainder, the mother and Striped Coat staying together and still living in the holly tree burrow. Sometimes they all met at night in their hunting, but these meetings grew less frequent until Striped Coat and the mother seemed to have the woods around Farmer Slown’s entirely to themselves.
It was to be sure the time of plenty. Every rain brought out many kinds of edible toadstools in the woods, blackberries hung heavily from their stems, grasshoppers and crickets had grown big and fat, white grubs swarmed under the grass roots around the Farmer’s field. Also there were great green tomato worms, turtles, frogs, toads and little snakes, nests of yellow jackets, bees and other insects. Mice too were plentiful and unwary.
So Striped Coat grew amazingly just as did all the other young woods folk. At first he grew long and lanky, with short patchy fur and spindly tail, in much the same way as a young hawk before it acquires its full plumage; later he filled out, his fur becoming thick and glossy. By the end of August he was as large as his mother and still growing. He was wise enough not to be lured into the Farmer’s traps and, like his mother he now had the right of way over the other woods animals, being indeed treated with all the dignity of a full grown skunk.
In much the same way as a young hawk before it acquires its full plumage
In much the same way as a young hawk before it acquires its full plumage
More men than the Farmer were after him however, for the news had spread that he was worth fifty dollars, and that sum, walking around as it were, loose and unclaimed in the woods, was a decided lure to everyone. Ever since the great mystery of Farmer Slown’s lost clothes had been cleared up by the boy’s description of Striped Coat, he had become a marked individual, spoken of, oddly enough, as Striped Coat, the black skunk. Whenever the word skunk was mentioned, people soon switched the conversation to him.
The question to be solved was, where did he have his den. With that discovered, the matter of trapping or digging him out would be a simple one. The old trappers of the neighborhood said little but waited patiently for the coming of late autumn, when the leaves would no longer be on the bushes. And every day brought this danger time just that much nearer.
It was in September that Striped Coat made an important discovery; travelling further up Goose Creek than usual, he came across a log cabin, not the kind ordinarily built by summer visitors on a good stream for canoeing, but one which seemed a part of the woods itself.
Instead of being wary about approaching it, Striped Coat found it actually luring him. Coming closer, he found at one end an open door leading into a room lighted only by the dull glow from an open fire-place in front of which stood cozy chairs and a table, objects which to him seemed to offer good cover under which to hide if necessary.
For some moments he stood on the threshold, lured by the smell of food and by the interesting look of the place, but undecided whether it was safe to venture where man had evidently recently been. Finally, encouraged by the absolute quiet, he stepped in, warily, but without any fear, for real fear such as many animals showed, was something which he did not seem ever to have. Wandering silently about the room, his nostrils dulled by the smoke, he came directly in front of a man lolling comfortably in one of the chairs. The effect was almost electrical. The man’s eyes grew suddenly round and bulging and he turned a complete backward somersault, landing on his feet and then diving through the open window.
“Help!” he yelled when outside. “Mr. Henry, come quick!”
Striped Coat, who had fluffed up in readiness for anything, moved for the door, just as another man sprang in and slammed it behind him. The man stood absolutely motionless with his back against the door looking at Striped Coat who had stopped with tail over his back and every hair on end waiting for the slightest further move of this new enemy. It was a critical moment. The man won; Striped Coat would not attack, his weapon was for defense, and the man did not move even a finger.
So Striped Coat sidled to the other end of the room to find another outlet. He did not hurry, he was on his dignity and knew he was being watched. Looking up at the open window, which was out of his reach, he was just in time to see the top of the first man’s head duck out of sight. Mike had come back to watch, but knew a skunk when he saw one and was taking no chances.
There was no other opening. Striped Coat was trapped at last.
Mr. Henry, the man at the door moved quietly to a chair and sat down.
“Mike,” he called, “did you ever see a skunk like that? It’s the black one they’re all after. Isn’t he a daisy!” The top of Mike’s head and one eye appeared warily over the window sill.
“He’s all of that,” he answered, “the biggest, prettiest skunk I ever saw! And he nearly had me, too!” Mr. Henry laughed, then picked a piece of fish from one of the plates on the table, and laid it on the floor in front of him. Soon Striped Coat in circling the room again, came across this and ate it just to show he was not afraid. When he came around again, he found another piece in the same place and ate that. It was good fish! Every time he came to that spot he found a piece, laid there by Mr. Henry, whom he presently began to watch with more interest than he would show an enemy. When this man moved at all, it was so slowly that Striped Coat could not take offense.
Presently the man stood up, very quietly moved to the corner of the room and pulled a huge wood box the distance of a foot from the wall; behind this, in the corner, he spread some clothes and an armful of cotton waste. Striped Coat could go in and out of this cozy nest from either side of the box; it therefore had none of the looks of a trap. After a little while he tried it, then tried it again and finally settled down for a rest in this new bed.
“Well, I never!” came from the awe-struck Mike. Mr. Henry then arranged some bedding on one of the sofas and suggested that Mike also prepare for a sleep; but that worthy preferred the boat. The last thing was to place some more fish and a bowl of water on the floor and to open the door leading out to the woods; after that Mr. Henry went comfortably to sleep on the couch.
Striped Coat, too, actually took a nap, the warmth being pleasant and the stillness reassuring. Before the glow of the fire had entirely died, however, he walked out and looked all around the room; finding the door open he moved out, then returned and ate the fish; soon afterwards he was again in the woods but with no unfriendly feeling towards the Henry cabin. Near the Creek he came across a likely den under a stump, and being loggy with all the food he had eaten, slipped in there for the day.
This proved a serious blunder, for a picnic party came up the creek in canoes and chose that precise spot for luncheon. One of the men sat on the stump and amused himself by poking sticks into the hollow underneath it, finding to his surprise that something inside resented this and replied with distinctly audible stamps of its feet. Proudly announcing this discovery, he poked more thoroughly while the others stood about and excitedly encouraged him.
Suddenly there was a scuffle and out sprang Striped Coat, at the same time giving the young man the full benefit of the musk bath. Amid the confusion of shrieks from the women and yells from the men he slipped into the bushes and ran as he had never run before. After him came a yelling crowd, gathering up sticks and trying to head him off.