Copyrighted, 1913,
By W. A. Wilde Company
All rights reserved
——
Wild Dwellers of Forest, Marsh and Lake

In loving memory of
My Mother,
Emma Caroline Field

I
THE THREE BEARS OF PORCUPINE RIDGE

“WOOF, woof, woof,” called the little black mother bear gruffly, turning over a rotten log with her snout and uncovering a fine ant’s nest.

“Woof, woof,” answered back the two round black balls of animated fur—the cubs, as they scrambled eagerly and clumsily over the log, and began to feed greedily upon their mother’s find.

The little black mother bear and her two cubs lived in a cozy den just below Porcupine Ridge, which happened to be far up on the side of Cushman Mountain. They were a happy little family, the three bears, and every day the two cubs grew more ball-like and lovable to their patient mother, who always managed to lead them to the very best feeding places. Through the dense, dark spruce forests, far down into the swamps below she took them, where they fed happily upon young frogs or crawfish, and the juicy sprouts of the skunk cabbages. Occasionally she would show them the way across the burnt swale, where the wild raspberries grew luscious and red.

The three bears nearly always slept inside their den the greater part of the day, but as soon as the hermit thrush began to sing her sleepy lullaby song, and the old gray hoot owl, who lived in a giant sycamore tree just below the Ridge, “who-oo, oo’d,” then Mrs. Bear would nudge the two sleeping cubs with her snout, and cuff them about with her great paws playfully, until they were wide awake. Then off they would all three start in the moonlight to make a night of it in the forest. And they never thought of coming back to the den again until morning, when they had usually satisfied their pressing hunger.

Oh, life on Porcupine Ridge was peaceful and happy enough for the old mother bear and her two roly-poly cubs, and they were very contented with life until one eventful day something happened which changed everything, and this was how it came about.

One night, when it was “dark o’ the moon,” Mrs. Bear discovered a great patch of ripe raspberries in the edge of the swamp, and so while the two cubs were busy feeding upon the luscious berries, she suddenly became possessed with a keen desire for an adventure. So plunging deep into the swamp, she was soon across its treacherous quagmires, on through the dense spruce bush, and soon came out upon the far side of the swamp. She headed for the sheep pasture at first, but soon lost all desire for fresh lamb, for just then her keen nose had scented something far more desirable and delicious. It was honey.

On and on scrambled Mrs. Bear through the sheep pasture, utterly forgetting the cubs; past the rail fence she waddled, where sat the old gobbler turkey and his ten timorous wives, fast asleep, but uttering little, flurried peepings even in their dreams. But Mrs. Bear passed them carelessly by, and hurried on, with little eager “woof, woof’s,” until she had come to the farmer’s home lot, and then she knew she had found that for which she searched, for suddenly she came upon five beehives. With her snout she soon managed to upset one hive, and then coat, snout and paws were soon smeared thickly with the sticky honey. Mrs. Bear might have wished the cubs were there, but if she did she was enjoying herself far too keenly to trouble about them then.

She soon finished one hive of honey and then turned over another, but as by this time she began to feel that she had had plenty for a while, just out of pure mischief, with her snout and paws, she simply tipped over the other hives. Suddenly Mrs. Bear discovered that a few angry bees had awakened and were clinging tightly to her thick fur, whereupon she immediately started off for the swamp at a quick, shambling trot, for well she remembered a certain deep, muddy water-hole, and making straight for the spot, she was soon rolling and wallowing contentedly about, trying to rid herself of the troublesome bees, and the sticky honey. It was here that the cubs joined their mother, who grunted and “woof, woofed,” and as soon as the long yellow rays of approaching dawn began to shoot up from the other side of the mountain, the three bears scrambled back to their den on the Ridge, and were soon fast asleep.

Of course the farmer found his overturned beehives, the next morning, and angry enough he was, I can tell you.

“Ugh, a bear did this,” he grumbled, as he examined closely the great, wide footprints which Mrs. Bear had left all over the ground. By following the bear tracks the farmer soon knew just what ground the old bear had covered. He even traced her to the mud wallow where she had rid herself of the bees and honey. Then the farmer sat about concocting a scheme to catch Mrs. Bear, for well he knew she would return again after more honey. But if there is one thing in all the world which a bear enjoys eating more than honey, it is a great hunk of crumbly maple sugar, for bears have a wonderfully keen sweet tooth. The farmer climbed up Mount Cushman, and when he had reached a spot in the very heart of the spruce woods, which happened to be about a mile below Porcupine Ridge, he went to work and set a trap for Mrs. Bear, and this is how he went about it.

First he hollowed out a kind of den near a deep spring, around which grew quantities of jack-in-the-pulpit plants, for the bears dearly love to browse upon the tender shoots of these plants. Then in the hollow he placed the bear trap, made of strong steel. After setting the trap he covered it craftily over with a layer of loose twigs, upon which he put, last of all, a great piece of soft, springy moss. Back of the trap he laid the bait temptingly, which happened to be a dead woodchuck. So that when Mrs. Bear should step upon the moss tussock covering the steel trap, she would instantly spring it.

Then the farmer went home and waited, visiting the trap daily, to see if Mrs. Bear had been there. Of course she had visited the place, for there the farmer found bear tracks, but who cares for a dead woodchuck when the blackberries are ripe, the frogs young and tender, and there is even honey, if one cares to go a journey for it.

At last the farmer was almost in despair, thinking old Mrs. Bear never would be caught, and he knew when food grew scarce in winter time his turkeys and young lambs would no longer be safe from Mrs. Bear. So finally he thought out a new plan. And that very night when Mrs. Bear and the two cubs halted at the spring on their way down from the Ridge, to munch jack-in-the-pulpit sprouts, Mrs. Bear paused and stuck her black snout inquisitively inside the farmer’s den, and what do you suppose met her astonished eyes? Right over back of the moss tussock which concealed the trap, instead of the dead woodchuck was a great, brown hunk of hard maple sugar. Mrs. Bear would travel far for honey, but she completely lost her head when she scented maple sugar, so she planted one great, padded foot in the center of the moss tussock, then, before she knew it, something stung and gripped like fire into her great fore-paw, and with a sudden howl of surprise and rage, she backed out of the den, trying with all her might to shake off the cruel, biting thing which hurt her foot so wretchedly.

Meantime, the cubs sat up in amazement among the tall ferns, and looking at their mother’s sad plight, howled and whined in sympathy.

Quite mad by this time with her agony and rage, not knowing what she was about, Mrs. Bear bolted, with the trap still clinging to her foot. Cutting a great, wide path in her flight through the underbrush on she ran. Up and down the mountain she tore, all night long, with the cruel trap ever biting deeper and deeper into her foot at every turn.

“Bang, bang,” went the farmer’s gun, and the cubs hearing the loud noise, terrified out of their small wits, scurried off and lost themselves in the shadows of the great woods, while their poor mother, with a scream of baffled rage and pain dropped crashing into the underbrush.

But the bear happened to be simply stunned by the shot, and so the farmer and his boys took stout ropes and tied her four feet together and slipping a stout pole between them, in this fashion they carried her down the mountain, and then chained her to a tree near the barn. For the farmer and his boys were very proud of their live bear, and proposed to exhibit their treasure to all the neighbors.

Oh, how miserable and unhappy the poor, little black bear mother was, tied fast to the tree, while boys and men poked at her and prodded her with sharp sticks, just for the sake of hearing her fierce, angry growls. Sometimes, when too hard pressed, she would even climb into the tree, to get away from her tormentors, but in vain; the chain was too short for her to get very far away from them all, so she just howled and howled.

“I shall have to put an end to that old bear; she’s too noisy,” remarked the farmer that night, as he went to bed.

The moon came up that night over Cushman Mountain, big and yellow, and afar off among the thick, dark spruces, even above the singing of the frogs, Mrs. Bear’s little round, alert ears had caught the sound of an occasional, helpless whimpering cry, which seemed to her strangely familiar. It was the two motherless little cubs crying, hunting everywhere for their mother. Slowly but surely they were tracking her and even now they were coming down the mountain slope, and very soon the mother bear, straining her little red eyes, caught sight of the two little round shambling forms of the cubs, stealing from behind the barn.

The next thing they were all rubbing noses and “woof, woofing” together happily, while their mother fondled them eagerly, cuffing them playfully about with her free paw, almost forgetting about her smarting wounds, so delighted was she to have the cubs with her once more.

But time was flying fast; already had the old hoot owl come back from his night’s wanderings, and gone to sleep in his hole in the sycamore tree. Pale yellow rays had begun to take the place of the moon which had set; dawn was on the way, and the bears realized that they must get away.

Fiercely tugging at the cruel chain Mrs. Bear began to worry it, giving mighty tugs and wrenches, while the two cubs whimpered a chorus of encouragement. Finally something gave way, and trailing a long length of chain behind her, old Mrs. Bear and the two cubs made straight across Balsam Swamp, and then scrambled and clawed their way up the side of Cushman Mountain, and not an instant too soon, for by this time the sun had come up, and day had dawned.

Then the little black bear and her cubs crawled into their den under Porcupine Ridge, and the tall, wild sweet ferns, the clematis and nettles fell over their door, and you never would have suspected that the bear family were safe at home again, and had no fears whatever for anything, for they had all gone fast asleep.

II
RING NECK, LEADER OF THE FLYING WEDGE

HIGH above the clouds, in the vast spaces of the heavens, the wedge-like flock of wild geese traveled. Unless your ear was very keen, you could barely catch the sound of their steady honking cry, far down below upon earthland, nor could you distinguish the faint outline of the wedge, unless there should happen to be a rift in the thick cloud curtain above which they flew.

All through the night they had journeyed, and for many long days and nights before, and the flock were becoming very wing weary; still, in spite of this, they never swerved from their course, and kept up their rhythmic, plaintive “honk, honk-honk, honk,” as they flew. The call was necessary; it encouraged the weaklings of the flock, and kept the wedge together in unbroken line, for should one of the trailers fall far behind, he would quickly be swallowed up in the thick mists away up there in the trackless sky.

Alone, ahead of the flock, flew Ring Neck, the mighty old leader of the flying wedge. For years he had led the migrating flock; wide and strong were his great black wings, never swerving or faltering in their flight, while his loud, strident “honk, honk” sent back courage to the flock which trailed behind him. He it was who gave the first signal for migrating, telling them when it was time to leave the sheltered wildness of the southern lagoon, where they had wintered, with its deep coverts and long, trailing mosses, and start north.

Each year his kindred trustingly followed where he led them, thousands of long, weary miles. Usually the flock flew all night. If the moon chanced to be bright, you might see from earth the shadowy forms of the geese and flocks of migrating birds pass swiftly across the surface of the moon.

Just behind Ring Neck flew the next most important bird of the flock, Black Crest, a young gander who in time would probably fall into line as chosen leader of the flock, in case the old king should drop out. In fact, even now Ring Neck had often to fight for his high position, for each year Black Crest grew more and more jealous of the leadership, and but for the terrific beatings which the old leader gave him, from time to time, to teach him his place, the younger goose would certainly have been leader. But Ring Neck had no idea of giving way to this younger bird, no, not until his eyes grew too dim to pierce the mists, or his great wings too feeble to lead the flock.

“Honk, honk, honk,” called Ring Neck steadily and clearly, slowing down his steady wing movement a trifle and floating. Then, at a signal, the whole flock began to drop very gently to earth, following their leader; down, down they fell. Now they were below the heavy white cloud masses, but still far above the morning mists. Ring Neck was leading them to feeding grounds and water. Finally, with swift wings he plunged straight through the mist curtain, and there right beneath the wedge gleamed a beautiful lake, spread out in the sunrise like a great silvery mirror. The flock were tired out, and glad enough that their leader had decided to rest. He seldom failed in his calculations, and could always locate water, no matter how high he might be flying, and always when he gave the signal to descend, they sighted the welcome pond.

“Honk, honk; come on, follow me,” called Ring Neck reassuringly, plunging eagerly straight for the lake. Then, all of a sudden he slowed down, swerving a trifle, and uttering a warning cry to the flock to hold back.

Now what Ring Neck had seen with his sharp eyes was that, close among a thicket of reeds and cat-tails, he had sighted a strange flock of geese. Slowly fanning the air with his great wings, keeping himself afloat, and holding back the flock, Ring Neck swerved toward the strangers. There were six of them, all of equal size, and his keen old eyes flashed down upon them with curiosity and jealousy as he watched them floating calmly about upon the water. Never had he encountered such strange geese before; stiffly they floated, rocking gently upon the water, but the strange part of it all was, they neither dipped nor flirted their wings, or moved their rigid heads about as all his own wild kindred always did when they struck water. No, these strange geese simply held their heads in a stiff, fixed position. Were they swimming, resting, or feeding, or simply keeping still, biding their time, insolently waiting for Ring Neck to lead his weary flock to water, and then perhaps fall upon them, tired out as they were, and drive them afar?

Now Ring Neck was old and stubborn, and very brave, so he made up his mind not to give in to the strangers, but as he wanted the coveted lake for his own flock, he determined to drive them off.

Uttering a loud, strident scream of rage, he swooped like an arrow down toward the strangers; with wildly whirling wings he beat the air, trying to frighten them to rise from the water.

“Bang, bang, bang” snapped out the duck-hunter’s gun, for he had been cleverly concealed, not very far away from his wooden decoy ducks, only Ring Neck had been so taken by the decoys that he had not seen him. As the gun spoke, down fluttered old Ring Neck the leader, and before the smoke and dropping feathers cleared, the gun pealed out and three of the flock fell into the water, and the hunter soon had them in his bag. But not so Ring Neck, for the shot had merely disabled one wing, so that he lay spread out, flapping helplessly upon the water, trying vainly to rise in air; no use, and soon with snapping beak, and strong, wild thrusts of his black feet he was fighting off the hunter, but it was no use; he was finally made a prisoner.

“Well, old fellow,” commented the hunter to himself, “I’ve shortened your proud career for a while, I reckon; you’re a mighty fine specimen of a goose; leader of the flock, I expect,” and he examined, admiringly, Ring Neck’s glossy head, and the changeable feathers of his neck, circled about with its silver ring, gradually trying to calm his wild struggles, as he smoothed his beautiful plumage.

Then the hunter made up his mind not to kill Ring Neck, for he had another, better plan. He resolved to train the wild goose as a decoy, and put him in among the wooden birds.

“Perhaps, who knows,” remarked the hunter, “you will be able to call down the rest of your flock if they come back this way next fall. I’ll try you and see.”

So Ring Neck was spared, and then began his training as a decoy. Just so long as the wild geese continued to fly north, each morning, very early, Ring Neck was thrust into a bag and taken, with the hideous wooden decoys, to the lake. He soon learned to hate and despise the clumsy, imitation birds, and at first tried to rise and fly away from them, but his wing was not strong enough to sustain him, and so he always fell back weakly among them, where he would peck and jostle them about angrily; but as the wooden things never showed fight he soon tired of them and let them alone. Diving and feeding, floating naturally and contentedly upon the lake among the stupid decoys, he it was who heard the first faint “honk, honk” of a coming flock of geese; then he would become wildly excited and send back a loud answering cry, fluttering his wings and tolling the strange birds down to their doom. Not that Ring Neck wished the hunter to shoot them, which he always did if they came near enough. But somehow Ring Neck always hoped that the flock might be his own; perhaps he even hoped to warn them away. At any rate Ring Neck soon became a very valuable decoy to the hunter, who grew very fond of him.

As soon as the wild geese ceased to fly over, the hunter left the lake, for the season was over, nor would it open again until autumn, when the birds flew back south, stopping at the lake upon their journey to rest. So Ring Neck became a decoy no longer, but was allowed his freedom about the lodge. Strangely enough, he had lost all his wild desire to fly northward and join the flock, even though the association with the decoys had been galling. With each week his lame wing grew stronger, however, and finally his old, wild nature stirred within him, and he flew off alone.

Ring Neck became strangely lonely, for it was hard for the old leader to be without the companionship of the flock. After floating and feeding out on the lake all day, at night he would beat down the coarse grass with his strong webbed feet, and crouching low he would tuck his broad beak beneath his wing and try to sleep and forget his loneliness. But often he was disturbed, for a crafty fox or some enemy, a wild night prowler, would thrust aside the reeds, and then with whirring, frightened thrashings, and terrified squawks, Ring Neck would fly to the water for safety. At daybreak he would feed near the banks, plunging down deep into the mud and ooze at the bottom, searching among the snake-like lily roots and water weeds for fresh clams, crawfish and in the shallows for shoals of little silvery minnows.

One morning he rose to the surface of the water, flirting his great burnished wings, and sending showers of pattering drops over the lily pads, and suddenly stretching out his glittering neck he uttered a loud, hoarse call, full of pleading and loneliness—a cry of longing for his kindred. Then from a little hidden inlet, to his joy and surprise, came back a meek, answering reply—“honk, honk, honk.”

With swift, steady strokes Ring Neck followed the call, and there he found her—a beautiful green-headed duck, one of his own flock. She had dropped out of the flying wedge, weeks before, and had not had courage to join them again; perhaps she had even been wounded by the hunter and had not been able to fly. At any rate she was very lonely, and soon Ring Neck made his presence known, and after consulting together, they built a beautiful nest, high and dry upon a little reedy island right in the middle of the lake, and there they raised ten young geese.

There were few lonely moments now for Ring Neck and his mate, for the young birds had to be taught to forage for food, and most important of all, as soon as their wing feathers grew, they must learn to fly, and strengthen their wings for long flights, for Ring Neck knew that before the lake filmed over with its first ice, the flock must be far away in the southern lagoon, where no frost or cold could reach them.

All summer long the old birds trained the young geese for their long journey, and then when the frost began to touch the tips of the tallest trees, down in the lowlands, and to nip the little fox grapes, the migrating instinct came to Ring Neck and his mate. Another bear came to Ring Neck; perhaps when the flocks began to move southward, the hunter would come back and once, as if to remind him, he heard the crack of the terrible rifle, off in the woods, and saw the thin trail of smoke, which he knew. That day he flew back almost panic-stricken to the island, and with his mate and family nestled hidden together in the thick tangles of water weeds all that night.

Early the next morning, before the mists had lifted from the bosom of the lake, they all took to the water to feed. But somehow, Ring Neck was overcome with his restless instinct of migrating, so that he failed to feed with the others. He would float about, nervously, ruffling his feathers, and flapping the water with his strong wings, uttering little short, wild calls to his mate, until at last she became as excited as he. Then, suddenly, afar off, from somewhere beyond the blue hills, Ring Neck detected a faint, strangely familiar sound.

“Honk, honk, honk-honk,” it sounded, every instant coming plainly nearer and nearer, until Ring Neck, almost wild with expectation and excitement, would make little sudden flights above the water, screaming and darting back to his mate again and again. Plainly he was trying to urge her to join him in long flight. She flew with him a short distance, then back to the water, uttering little, reassuring quacks, then Ring Neck joined her, and they urged the little ones to follow them. All the time the great, wild flock were coming nearer and nearer, and soon they were hovering right over the lake.

Ring Neck rose from the water, giving a strange, unusual cry, then from far above floated back a ringing, answering challenge; he had been answered, and recognized. It was his old, lost flock, and at their head flew Black Crest, his enemy, their new leader.

Winging with great, wide, swift circles Ring Neck soon caught up with the wedge, then followed a whirling, flashing of wings, far up there in space; a handful of feathers floated down, and when Black Crest, whipped and beaten as he had never been before, dropped back into second place as usual, Ring Neck, their old proud leader, took his position again at the head of the flying wedge. Swerving low, almost to the bosom of the lake, he led the flock downward, calling all the time in loud, commanding voice for his family to join him. Back came the answering calls of his faithful mate, as she and the young geese rose from the water in a body, and took their places, falling into the tail-end of the wedge, as the great wild flock, headed by Ring Neck, went “honk, honking” away to the southern lagoon for the winter.

III
THE REVOLT OF TIMOTHY

A LITTLE gray mouse, who lived in the wainscot, poked its nose cautiously out of a crack beneath the hearth, intending to snatch a morsel of food from Timothy’s plate, which always stood there, heaped with dainties, but the next instant the little mouse had changed its mind, for there sat Timothy himself right upon the hearth in front of the fire guarding his plate. So, with bright, bead-like eyes, trembling nose and whiskers, the mouse, taking courage, just stared at Timothy, monarch of the kitchen.

Such a majestic air had Timothy as he sat there in his own place, which none presumed to usurp; his silvery gray paws tucked neatly beneath his warm furry breast, his big, yellow eyes just mere slits of sleepiness. Timothy saw the gray mouse quite plainly, but he never felt hungry enough to bother much about chasing mice, and, just to show his supremacy, Timothy merely opened one eye and stared insolently at the mouse, uttering little muffled, rumbling growls deep down inside, which so terrified the foolish little mouse that he immediately scuttled off behind the wainscoting, squeaking as he ran.

After his nap Timothy lazily stretched first one gray velvet foot, then another, strolled indolently to his plate, turning over the food, carefully selecting choice bits, nosing out that which he scorned upon the clean hearth, for Timothy was a spoiled cat, and he allowed no one to interfere. Everybody waited upon him, moving their chairs even, for he was monarch of the hearth.

After his lunch, selfish Timothy took a stroll. Ah, if he only had suspected, everything would soon be changed for him in the kitchen, for even now the dearest little stray dog, with soft coat of white and tan spots, had been received into the family while Timothy was out. Upon his return he soon saw the little spotted dog occupying his place, and eating from his own tin plate.

Fiercely indignant at the sight, Timothy arched his gray back until the fur stood up in ridges, as he spat vindictively at the stranger, while his big yellow eyes glared with such sullen hate that the little spotted dog shook with fear. Still he did not offer to fight, or give back to Timothy his place on the hearth, and actually ate up everything upon the tin plate, while Timothy had to stand and look on, with deep, angry growls of jealous rage. Timothy felt sure if he stood there long enough he would be able to frighten away the dog, so he took up his position upon the opposite side of the hearth, and just glared and glared.

But the little dog was brave and did not go away, and soon Timothy decided to vent his displeasure upon the whole family by leaving the house altogether. Of course they would be so anxious to get him back they would surely send the spotted dog away, and then he, Timothy, would return to the hearth. So Timothy went away. Vainly they searched for him, even setting out his tin plate each day filled with chicken bones to tempt him back. But Timothy resolved to punish them all, and the pampered fellow had actually taken to the woods, for his heart was so filled with bitter hate and jealousy that he simply would not return to the kitchen. Now the woods where Timothy wandered alone were wild and lonely, and in them were fierce “Bob Cats,” ugly lynx with sharp, tufted ears, who snarled and fought at night, and many others whom Timothy had never met. The first night in the forest he crouched beneath a clump of spruces. Soon a hedgehog came grunting along, and when Timothy spat at the hedgehog it simply turned its back upon him. “My, you’re a sad coward. I’ll teach you a lesson,” said Timothy; then he began to cuff at the hedgehog and worry him. The next thing Timothy did was to climb a tree as fast as he could, for the hedgehog had turned upon him and driven his nose full of sharp spines. Most of the night he spent miserably trying to free himself from the sharp hedgehog needles. Next morning he was hungry. In a certain tree he found a bird’s nest, with three scrawny young birds, so he had just put forth a paw to select one for his breakfast, when down upon his back lighted the mother hawk, and drove Timothy off into the forest.

That night, faint with hunger, Timothy climbed a tall sycamore tree and tucking his paws beneath him tried to sleep. But he kept longing for the cozy, peaceful hearth which he had left, as chilly winds swept through the woods and moaned through the sycamore, making its brown, withered leaves flap and clatter in a lonely fashion, quite different to the customary cheery singing of the copper kettle upon the hearth. A family of hoot owls awoke in their nest in the sycamore. Soon they discovered poor Timothy, and began to peck at him viciously, hooting at him, and glaring at him with great, fierce eyes, so that Timothy hastily scratched his way down from the tree. Soon something soft and white came fluttering down from the sky, and little flakes of cold snow began to settle upon Timothy’s gray coat, while the wind began to howl, and the storm to break. Where could he go? Poor, miserable Timothy! The snow lay white upon the ground, and Timothy took long flying leaps to escape it. Occasionally he would pause to lift and flirt his feet, for he hated to get them wet; besides, they ached with the cold. A thought struck him; he would go back to the house and see if the spotted dog was still there; so he crept to the kitchen window and peered in, and by the light of the fire he saw that his place was still occupied by the little dog. So off again crept miserable Timothy to the great cold lonely barn. He slept upon the hay, where the cold snow sifted down upon him, and the wind whined and howled over his head all night. For days Timothy stayed there; he managed to catch a few stray mice after a long chase, but soon his sides grew thin, his soft gray fur shabby and coarse and dark, while his eyes were furtive and sullen. But Timothy’s proud, jealous spirit was nearly broken, and one night he decided to go back to the hearth. So he stole into the kitchen after everybody was asleep, and then a wonderful thing happened.

The little spotted dog stood up and welcomed him, wagging his tail so hard that his whole body shook, and he actually greeted poor Timothy with a bark of joy. Then lonely Timothy, pining for sympathy, ventured a trifle closer to the hearth, and the little dog sidled over to meet him, and actually began to lap Timothy’s rough fur tenderly, whereupon Timothy, to show that he bore no further ill will, sidled and rubbed himself gently against the tan and white spotted coat of the gentle little dog. Then Timothy and his friend ate together from the tin plate, sat down upon the hearth, and Timothy began a whirring, buzzing song of contentment which might be heard even above the singing of the copper kettle, as he washed and scrubbed his neglected fur coat, making a complete and fresh toilet suitable for the kitchen.

The next morning when the farmer’s wife came into the kitchen such a sight met her eyes; Timothy had come back, and slept upon the hearth nestled quite closely to the little spotted dog, and they remained fast friends forever after.

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—holy, holy.
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, holy, holy.
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.

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.