  Farmer Slown was plowing the corner of the field nearest Goose Creek. It was not far from the wood-pussies’ den, so the clank of the plow chains and the loud commands of “gid up,” “whoa there,” kept the skunk family from their usual morning sleep. Then, too, the black and white hound amused himself by sniffing about until he discovered the hiding place of Bun, the woods rabbit, whom he chased for a long time with much crashing of brush and excited baying. Bun led the stupid hound to all the most prickly briar patches and then hid in a hollow log. The hound was too big to follow him there and so, after growling and gnawing at the entrance until his mouth was sore, gave up the chase and slunk away to rest and lick his scratches. Then lunch time arrived and the Farmer unhooked the two horses from the plow and tied them to the fence, where they could munch corn he spread for them on some sacking. He then walked across the field to the farm yard to milk the goat and prepare his own meal. No sooner had he gone from sight than Jim Crow came flying from the woods for a look around. His sharp eyes at once saw the corn, but he said nothing and turned back to the woods to wait until the horses had moved away. At the same time however Red Squirrel, running about in the pines along the edge of the field, had also made a discovery of the corn. He looked all around to make sure he was the only one who had seen this food treasure, then sneaked to a nearby limb impatiently to watch for a chance to get a part of it. But Gray Squirrel too had noticed the grain, and so also had a keen nosed deer mouse and a meadow mouse who lived in a round nest of grass hidden in a tangle of weeds beside the very posts to which the horses were tethered. So also had some black birds and a pair of starlings, and a blue jay and almost countless other creatures always on the watch for food. Therefore when the afternoon plowing was over and the horses had been led back to the barn, birds began to arrive as if by magic to gather the scattered kernels. First appeared a mother quail with ten young ones not much larger than bumble bees following her as chicks follow a mother hen. She picked up a few of the smaller grains, then scurried away as big Jim Crow swooped down. He was followed by the starlings. Suddenly Red Squirrel sounded his rattle from the wood. Up flew Jim and the starlings in alarm only to see the little red fellow dash along the top of the fence, seize a big kernel and then rush back with it to a safe retreat. And so the feeding continued, with interruptions, until night came and only the mice and flying squirrels were left to hunt the very few kernels which remained. Although the horses had been careless with their feed, there had been no waste—the woods people had seen to that. And soon from the brush pile, slipped the mother wood pussy. She had heard sounds of the feasting and now caught the scent left by some of the little creatures. She walked forward sniffing. Suddenly, up a fence post close by, ran Flying Squirrel. Out of reach of the hungry wood pussy, he squeaked shrilly and scolded. But the mother skunk was paying no attention, she had caught the fresh scent of the meadow mouse which lived in the grass nest beside the post. The mouse had been eating a grain of corn when Flying Squirrel’s sudden alarm signal had sent her scurrying down her tunnel under the dead grass and leaves. Now, seeing no enemy, she was cautiously coming back to find the grain. Soon she was again gnawing away at it with a rasping noise which, slight as it was, caught the ear of the wood pussy and led her right to the spot. The next thing the busy mouse saw was a pointed black and white head and two black paws directly above her. Without wasting breath for even a squeak of fear, she dashed headlong into her tunnel. The wood pussy could not open the tunnel quickly enough with her paws to catch up and so the mouse escaped that time. The mouse had left in the nest her whole family of five young ones But the skunk was a better mouser than any cat. With her strong claws she dug along the tunnels and runways, chasing the mouse from place to place until at last she came to the nest of grass. Her nose told her that the mouse was inside. Now was her chance! Poking her sharp head into the round entrance to keep the mouse from bolting out and past her, she dug into the mass of woven grasses with her front paws. Soon out came a mass of soft lining material made of shredded bark and tender dry grass blades, but no fat mouse. The little creature had wisely made a back door with a special safety tunnel leading into the underground burrow of a mole. Down this she had dodged. Even the wood pussy could not follow her there. However the mouse, thinking only of saving herself had left in the nest her whole family of five young ones. Their eyes were still tight shut and their bodies hairless. If left undisturbed, however, they would soon have grown up and been running about like the mother making tunnels in the grass far and wide, to the disgust of Farmer Slown. So the wood pussy did the Farmer a good turn, though to her it was only a matter of easing her empty, aching stomach with a meal and providing food for her young ones. Next day the mother mouse began to build another snug nest in a different place, in which in less than three weeks she was raising another family. Under the wood pile, the young wood pussies were more lively than ever. It was four weeks since they were born, and their eyes were open; also their tender legs were growing strong enough to support their little furry bodies. The fat black one with the white stripes on his head and neck—the one who had had such a rough journey with the mother the night she tried to move the family to the woodchuck’s burrow, was still the largest. He lay now on his back as usual, apparently fast asleep. It did not seem to matter to him how many times the others climbed over him or stepped on his face. But with the first step of the mother in the entrance, he was on his feet and waddling towards her with hungry little mouth open. She liked the little fellow and rarely disappointed him. And it was he who a year later became known as “Striped Coat” from one end of Goose Creek to the other—yes, and even further, for fame travels fast in the woods. At five weeks of age he was like a little black ball of fur with a handle to it, which was his tail. His teeth were strong by that time and he often helped the others strip the feathers off some tough old blackbird or crow which the Farmer had shot in the field and left there, and which the mother had dragged under the brushpile for a feast. No matter how dead the bird, he would always pounce upon it as if it might escape, then pull and worry at its feathers and finally seize it by the head and try to drag it to a corner, away from the others. This always caused a big rumpus. The others would seize the bird and try to pull it in the other direction. All four tugging together on one end could drag Striped Coat all about the place, and they always did this. But while it was going on, Striped Coat was as busy as a bee chewing on the bird’s neck and swallowing just as much as he could get into his mouth at a time, until he was as solidly stuffed as a plum pudding. No wonder he slept soundly all day sprawled on his stomach, or with all four feet up in the air. Life under the brush pile was a happy one. |
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