  A furious thunder storm was sweeping down Goose Creek; hailstones nearly the size of marbles bounded from limb to limb or cut through the tender leaves on their way to earth. Such things sometimes happened in the last days of June, but rarely were they followed by a wind as cold as that which in the night swept through the pines around the barn of Farmer Slown. It whistled in the holes and cracks and made the wood pussies’ new home drafty and uncomfortable. So the mother very wisely went out in search of warmer covering for their nest and after digging into leaf piles and finding them disagreeably wet, turned her attention to hunting strips of bark on the dry sides of dead trees. This search brought her to Farmer Slown’s fence, the posts of which she carefully examined until, within the yard, very near the barn, she found just what she wanted. But it was not bark, it was the Farmer’s blue cotton night shirt which, following the storm, he had hung on the fence to dry and had forgotten to bring in with the rest of his wash. The mother reached up to feel it, then taking a firm hold with her teeth, pulled and swung it about until her weight brought it down on top of her. This surprised her mightily, and being entangled in its folds she nearly gave it a better musk bath than it had had on the eventful evening when the Farmer came out of his bed to the aid of his cowardly hound. With her under it the night shirt performed some strange antics; then suddenly it released her and fell in such a helpless heap that excited as she was she realized it was after all not a living enemy which had leaped upon her. Instantly calming down, she dragged it under the barn where some chewing and tearing on the part of the whole family soon made it into very good bedding, though Farmer Slown might not have thought so. Indeed, he was in one of his rages all the next day while hunting for it in vain from one end of his field to the other. But comfortable as the blue night shirt proved to be, the mother was not quite satisfied with her bed, and so on the following night went out in search of something else warm. She looked first to see if by any chance there might be another night shirt growing on the fence, but was very satisfied at finding instead two pairs of socks and an undershirt which the Farmer, still following his usual habit, had unwisely hung out on this makeshift clothesline. After supper he remembered the clothes and went out to bring them in, but, feel about as much as he liked, he could not find them, they were gone, absolutely and completely. Then he grew really peeved and, using some harsh language, commenced a ferocious march around the yard, armed with a lantern and a stick. At length, still completely mystified, he sat down on his doorstep to think the thing out. “Last night it was the night shirt,” he muttered. “Tonight it’s socks and an undershirt! What on earth can be doing all this dirty work? It can’t very well be the wind blowing them away. It couldn’t be an eagle; nor a tramp way out here; it can’t be the goat—no, the goat would do it all right, but she’s safely tied. Bugs couldn’t have eaten them. Pshaw! I can’t see what did take them, but one thing I am sure of and that is that they didn’t walk off by themselves!” With that he slapped a mosquito on his neck and went inside the house. A few minutes later, however, he strode out like one to whom has suddenly come a great idea. In his hand were two socks which he proceeded to nail to the fence with the feet hanging down as naturally as before. “Now, you spook you, get those if you can!” he said encouragingly. Returning then to the house he put out the lights and posted himself at an open window with shot gun at his elbow and a pocket full of spare cartridges. As he looked at the bait on the fence opposite he chuckled grimly and acknowledged himself very clever indeed. But if the weird creature, whatever it was, had earlier been eager for his clothes it certainly was so no longer. Hours passed and still the Farmer sat there with eye glued on the two socks hanging in the moonlight. Behind them the woods came in close and black, throwing long shadows which moved from time to time under the influence of the night wind. There was a gentle rustle of countless leaves, the hooting of distant owls, the call of Great Blue Heron and the patter of flying squirrels as they leaped onto his roof from the nearest tall tree. There was also the endless hum of the insect army, increased now and then by the rasping of a locust in a limb close by; but nothing of an unusual nature. Suddenly the Farmer rubbed his eyes and leaned forward, then rubbed them again; one sock was gone! Yes, there was no doubt about it! He had seen nothing, heard nothing strange, yet there in the moving black and white shadows hung only one lone sock. It seemed so impossible that he just sat there with mouth open. A few minutes later, however, he reached stealthily for his gun with a hand that trembled oddly. His eyes had a queer bulge and chills were running up his spine and into the roots of his stiff hair. The other sock was gone! Carefully closing the window, Farmer Slown tiptoed about the house, noiselessly barring doors and even propping things against them. For the first time in his life he had seen something uncanny, had felt that the great woods contained something more cunning, perhaps more powerful, than he. He shivered while listening suspiciously. And at this unfortunate moment, the black and white hound took the notion to feel lonely and to howl at the moon. It was the lonesomest, most woebegone sound imaginable. Perhaps it could not be said that the Farmer ran up the dark stairs, rather might it be said that he flew. Behind the locked door of his room he felt better, but still the weird loneliness of the dark woods came through from the window. With a jerk he pulled down the shade, then jumped into bed, clothes and all. If he felt shivery that night, at least the wood pussies did not. The mother was now entirely satisfied with their nest, for it was truly a wonderful one. She had found the last two socks somewhat harder to tear down than the others, but had managed to get them by pulling the ends through the fence one at a time and then straining back with all her strength until the wool stretched on the nail and gave way with such suddenness as to roll her over. This stretching and sudden jerk was what caused each sock to vanish through the fence so quickly that the Farmer could not see it go. The moving shadows did the rest. Into them the black wood pussy with her long white stripes fitted in as naturally as if a part of them. |
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