“I hain’t come to borry yer gun, Mr. Barron, but to ax yer advice.”

Mrs. Gammit’s rare appearances were always abrupt, like her speech; and it was without surprise––though he had not seen her for a month or more––that Joe Barron turned to greet her.

“It’s at yer sarvice, jest as the gun would be ef ye wanted it, Mrs. Gammit––an’ welcome! But come in an’ set down an’ git cooled off a mite. ’Tain’t no place to talk, out here in the bilin’ sun.”

Mrs. Gammit seated herself on the end of the bench, just inside the kitchen door, twitched off her limp, pink cotton sunbonnet, and wiped her flushed face with the sleeve of her calico waist. Quite unsubdued by the heat and moisture of the noonday sun, under which she had tramped nine miles through the forest, her short, stiff, grey hair stood up in irregular tufts above her weather-beaten forehead. Her host, sitting sidewise on the edge of the table so that he could swing one leg freely and 220 spit cleanly through the open window, bit off a contemplative quid of “blackjack” tobacco, and waited for her to unfold the problems that troubled her.

Mrs. Gammit’s rugged features were modelled to fit an expression of vigorous, if not belligerent, self-confidence. She knew her capabilities, well-tried in some sixty odd years of unprotected spinsterhood. Merit alone, not matrimony, it was, that had crowned this unsullied spinsterhood with the honorary title of “Mrs.” Her massive and energetic nose was usually carried somewhat high, in a not unjustifiable scorn of such foolish circumstance as might seek to thwart her will.

But to-day these strenuous features found themselves surprised by an expression of doubt, of bewilderment, almost one might say of humility. At her little clearing in the heart of the great wilderness things had been happening which, to her amazement, she could not understand. Hitherto she had found an explanation, clear at least to herself, for everything that befell her in these silent backwoods which other folks seemed to find so absurdly mysterious. Armed with her self-confidence she had been able, hitherto, to deal with every situation that had challenged her, and in a manner quite satisfactory to herself, however the eternal verities may have smiled at it. But now, at last, she was finding herself baffled. 221

Joe Barron waited with the patience of the backwoodsman and the Indian, to whom, as to Nature herself, time seems no object, though they always somehow manage to be on time. Mrs. Gammit continued to fan her hot face with her sunbonnet, and to ponder her problems, while the lines deepened between her eyes. A big black and yellow wasp buzzed angrily against the window-pane, bewildered because it could not get through the transparent barrier. A little grey hen, with large, drooping comb vividly scarlet, hopped on to the doorsill, eyed Mrs. Gammit with surprise and disapprobation, and ran away to warn the rest of the flock that there was a woman round the place. That, as they all knew by inheritance from the “shooings” which their forefathers had suffered, meant that they would no longer be allowed in the kitchen to pick up crumbs.

At last Mrs. Gammit spoke––but with difficulty, for it came hard to her to ask advice of any one.

“I sp’ose now, mebbe, Mr. Barron, you know more about the woods critters’n what I do?” she inquired, hopefully but doubtfully.

The woodsman lifted his eyebrows in some surprise at the question.

“Well, now, if I don’t I’d oughter,” said he, “seein’ as how I’ve kinder lived round amongst ’em all my life. If I know anything, it’s the backwoods an’ all what pertains to that same!” 222

“Yes, you’d oughter know more about them than I do!” assented Mrs. Gammit, with a touch of severity which seemed to add “and see that you do!” Then she shut her mouth firmly and fell to fanning herself again, her thoughts apparently far away.

“I hope ’tain’t no serious trouble ye’re in!” ventured her host presently, with the amiable intention of helping her to deliver her soul of its burden.

But, manlike, he struck the wrong note.

“Do you suppose,” snapped Mrs. Gammit, “I’d be traipsin’ over here nine mile thro’ the hot woods to ax yer advice, Mr. Barron, if ’twarn’t serious?” And she began to regret that she had come. Men never did understand anything, anyway.

At this sudden acerbity the woodsman stroked his chin with his hand, to hide the ghost of a smile which flickered over his lean mouth.

“Jest like a woman, to git riled over nawthin’!” he thought. “Sounds kinder nice an’ homey, too!” But aloud, being always patient with the sex, he said coaxingly––

“Then it’s right proud I am that ye should come to me about it, Mrs. Gammit. I reckon I kin help you out, mebbe. What’s wrong?”

With a burst of relief Mrs. Gammit declared her sorrow.

“It’s the aigs,” said she, passionately. “Fer 223 nigh on to a month, now, I’ve been alosin’ of ’em as fast as the hens kin git ’em laid. An’ all I kin do, I cain’t find out what’s atakin’ ’em.”

Having reached the point of asking advice, an expression of pathetic hopefulness came into her weather-beaten face. Under quite other conditions it might almost have been possible for Mrs. Gammit to learn to lean on a man, if he were careful not to disagree with her.

“Oh! Aigs!” said the woodsman, relaxing slightly the tension of his sympathy. “Well, now, let’s try an’ git right to the root of the trouble. Air ye plumb sure, in the first place, that the hens is really layin’ them aigs what ye don’t git?”

Mrs. Gammit stiffened.

“Do I look like an eejut?” she demanded.

“Not one leetle mite, you don’t!” assented her host, promptly and cordially.

“I was beginning to think mebbe I did!” persisted the injured lady.

“Everybody knows,” protested the woodsman, “as how what you don’t know, Mrs. Gammit, ain’t hardly wuth knowin’.”

“O’ course, that’s puttin’ it a leetle too strong, Mr. Barron,” she answered, much mollified. “But I do reckon as how I’ve got some horse sense. Well, I thought as how them ’ere hens might ’ave stopped layin’ on the suddint; so I up an’ watched ’em. 224 Land’s sakes, but they was alayin’ fine. Whenever I kin take time to stan’ right by an’ watch ’em lay, I git all the aigs I know what to do with. But when I don’t watch ’em, clost––nary an aig. Ye ain’t agoin’ to persuade me a hen kin jest quit layin’ when she’s a mind ter, waitin’ tell ye pass her the compliment o’ holdin’ out yer hand fer the aig!”

“There’s lots o’ hens that pervarted they’ll turn round an’ eat their own aigs!” suggested the woodsman, spitting thoughtfully through the open window. The cat, coiled in the sun on a log outside, sprang up angrily, glared with green eyes at the offending window, and scurried away to cleanse her defiled coat.

“Them’s not my poultry!” said Mrs. Gammit with decision. “I thought o’ that, too. An’ I watched ’em on the sly. But they hain’t a one of ’em got no sech onnateral tricks. When they’re through layin’, they jest hop off an’ run away acacklin’, as they should.” And she shook her head heavily, as one almost despairing of enlightenment. “No, ef ye ain’t got no more idees to suggest than that, I might as well be goin’.”

“Oh, I was jest kinder clearin’ out the underbrush, so’s to git a square good look at the situation,” explained Barron. “Now, I kin till ye somethin’ about it. Firstly, it’s a weasel, bein’ so sly, an’ quick, an’ audashus! Ten to one, it’s a weasel; an’ ye’ve got to trap it. Secondly, if ’tain’t a weasel, 225 it’s a fox, an’ a mighty cute fox, as ye’re goin’ to have some trouble in aketchin’. An’ thirdly––an’ lastly––if ’tain’t neither weasel nor fox, it’s jest bound to be an extra cunnin’ skunk, what’s takin’ the trouble to be keerful. Generally speakin’, skunks ain’t keerful, because they don’t have to be, nobody wantin’ much to fool with ’em. But onc’t in a while ye’ll come across’t one that’s as sly as a weasel.”

“Oh, ’tain’t none o’ them!” said Mrs. Gammit, in a tone which conveyed a poor opinion of her host’s sagacity and woodcraft. “I’ve suspicioned the weasels, an’ the foxes, an’ the woodchucks, but hain’t found a sign o’ any one of ’em round the place. An’ as fer skunks––well, I reckon, I’ve got a nose on my face.” And to emphasize the fact, she sniffed scornfully.

“To be sure! An’ a fine, handsome nose it is, Mrs. Gammit!” replied the woodsman, diplomatically. “But what you don’t appear to know about skunks is that when they’re up to mischief is jest the time when you don’t smell ’em. Ye got to bear that in mind!”

Mrs. Gammit looked at him with suspicion.

“Be that reelly so?” demanded she, sternly.

“True’s gospel!” answered Barron. “A skunk ain’t got no smell unless he’s a mind to.”

“Well,” said she, “I guess it ain’t no skunk, anyhow. 226 I kind o’ feel it in my bones ’tain’t no skunk, smell or no smell.”

The woodsman looked puzzled. He had not imagined her capable of such unreasoning obstinacy. He began to wonder if he had overrated her intelligence.

“Then I give it up, Mrs. Gammit,” said he, with an air of having lost all interest in the problem.

But that did not suit his visitor at all. Her manner became more conciliatory. Leaning forward, with an almost coaxing look on her face, she murmured––

“I’ve had an idee as how it might be––mind, I don’t say it is, but jest it might be–––” and she paused dramatically.

“Might be what?” inquired Barron, with reviving interest.

“Porkypines!” propounded Mrs. Gammit, with a sudden smile of triumph.

Joe Barron neither spoke nor smiled. But in his silence there was something that made Mrs. Gammit uneasy.

“Why not porkypines?” she demanded, her face once more growing severe.

“It might be porkypines as took them aigs o’ yourn, Mrs. Gammit, an’ it might be bumbly-bees!” responded Barron. “But ’tain’t likely!”

Mrs. Gammit snorted at the sarcasm.

“Mebbe,” she sneered, “ye kin tell me why 227 it’s so impossible it could be porkypines. I seen a big porkypine back o’ the barn, only yestiddy. An’ that’s more’n kin be said o’ yer weasels, an’ foxes, an’ skunks, what ye’re so sure about, Mr. Barron.”

“A porkypine ain’t necessarily after aigs jest because he’s back of a barn,” said the woodsman. “An’ anyways, a porkypine don’t eat aigs. He hain’t got the right kind o’ teeth fer them kind o’ vittles. He’s got to have something he kin gnaw on, somethin’ substantial an’ solid––the which he prefers a young branch o’ good tough spruce, though it do make his meat kinder strong. No, Mrs. Gammit, it ain’t no porkypine what’s stealin’ yer aigs, take my word fer it. An’ the more I think o’ it the surer I be that it’s a weasel. When a weasel learns to suck aigs, he gits powerful cute. Ye’ll have to be right smart, I’m telling ye, to trap him.”

During this argument of Barron’s his obstinate and offended listener had become quite convinced of the justice of her own conclusions. The sarcasm had settled it. She knew, now, that she had been right all along in her suspicion of the porcupines. And with this certainty her indignation suddenly disappeared. It is such a comfort to be certain. So now, instead of flinging his ignorance in his face, she pretended to be convinced––remembering that she needed his advice as to how to trap the presumptuous porcupine.

“Well, Mr. Barron,” said she, with the air of one 228 who would take defeat gracefully, “supposin’ ye’re right––an’ ye’d oughter know––how would ye go about ketchin’ them weasels?”

Pleased at this sudden return to sweet reasonableness, the woodsman once more grew interested.

“I reckon we kin fix that!” said he, confidently and cordially. “I’ll give ye three of my little mink traps. There’s holes, I reckon, under the back an’ sides o’ the shed, or barn, or wherever it is that the hens have their nests?”

“Nat’rally!” responded Mrs. Gammit. “The thieves ain’t agoin’ to come in by the front doors, right under my nose, be they?”

“Of course,” assented the woodsman. “Well, you jest set them ’ere traps in three o’ them holes, well under the sills an’ out o’ the way. Don’t go fer to bait’em, mind, or Mr. Weasel’ll git to suspicionin’ somethin’, right off. Jest sprinkle bits of straw, an’ hayseed, an’ sech rubbish over ’em, so it all looks no ways out o’ the ordinary. You do this right, Mrs. Gammit; an’ first thing ye know ye’ll have yer thief. I’ll git the traps right now, an’ show ye how to set ’em.”

And as Mrs. Gammit walked away with the three steel traps under her arm, she muttered to herself––

“Yes, Joe Barron, an’ I’ll show ye the thief. An’ he’ll have quills on him, sech as no weasel ain’t never had on him, I reckon.”

On her return, Mrs. Gammit was greeted by the 229 sound of high excitement among the poultry. They were all cackling wildly, and craning their necks to stare into the shed as if they had just seen a ghost there. Mrs. Gammit ran in to discover what all the fuss was about. The place was empty; but a smashed egg lay just outside one of the nests, and a generous tuft of fresh feathers showed her that there had been a tussle of some kind. Indignant but curious, Mrs. Gammit picked up the feathers, and examined them with discriminating eyes to see which hen had suffered the loss.

“Lands sakes!” she exclaimed presently, “ef ’tain’t the old rooster! He’s made a fight fer that ’ere aig! Lucky he didn’t git stuck full o’ quills!”

Then, for perhaps the hundredth time, she ran fiercely and noisily behind the barn, in the hope of surprising the enemy. Of course she surprised nothing which Nature had endowed with even the merest apology for eyes and ears; and a cat-bird in the choke-cherry bushes squawked at her derisively. Stealth was one of the things which Mrs. Gammit did not easily achieve. Staring defiantly about her, her eyes fell upon a dark, bunchy creature in the top of an old hemlock at the other side of the fence. Seemingly quite indifferent to her vehement existence, and engrossed in its own affairs, it was crawling out upon a high branch and gnawing, in a casual way, at the young twigs as it went.

“Ah, ha! What did I tell ye? I knowed all 230 along as how it was a porkypine!” exclaimed Mrs. Gammit, triumphantly, as if Joe Barron could hear her across eight miles of woods. Then, as she eyed the imperturbable animal on the limb above her, her face flushed with quick rage, and snatching up a stone about the size of her fist she hurled it at him with all her strength.

In a calmer moment she would never have done this––not because it was rude, but because she had a conviction, based on her own experience, that a stone would hit anything rather than what it was aimed at. And in the present instance she found no reason to change her views on the subject. The stone did not hit the porcupine. It did not, even for one moment, distract his attention from the hemlock twigs. Instead of that, it struck a low branch, on the other side of the tree, and bounced back briskly upon Mrs. Gammit’s toes.

With a hoarse squeak of surprise and pain the good lady jumped backwards, and hopped for some seconds on one foot while she gripped the other with both hands. It was a sharp and disconcerting blow. As the pain subsided a concentrated fury took its place. The porcupine was now staring down at her, in mild wonder at her inexplicable gyrations. She glared up at him, and the tufts of grey hair about her sunbonnet seemed to rise and stand rigid.

“Ye think ye’re smart!” she muttered through her set teeth. “But I’ll fix ye fer that! Jest you 231 wait!” And turning on her heel she stalked back to the house. The big, brown teapot was on the back of the stove, where it had stood since breakfast, with a brew rust-red and bitter-strong enough to tan a moose-hide. Not until she had reheated it and consumed five cups, sweetened with molasses, did she recover any measure of self-complacency.

That same evening, when the last of the sunset was fading in pale violet over the stump pasture and her two cow-bells were tonk-tonking softly along the edge of the dim alder swamp, Mrs. Gammit stealthily placed the traps according to the woodsman’s directions. Between the massive logs which formed the foundations of the barn and shed, there were openings numerous enough, and some of them spacious enough, almost, to admit a bear––a very small, emaciated bear. Selecting three of these, which somehow seemed to her fancy particularly adapted to catch a porcupine’s taste, she set the traps, tied them, and covered them lightly with fine rubbish so that, as she murmured to herself when all was done, “everythin’ looked as nat’ral as nawthin’.” Then, when her evening chores were finished, she betook herself to her slumbers, in calm confidence that in the morning she would find one or more porcupines in the trap.

Having a clear conscience and a fine appetite, in spite of the potency of her tea Mrs. Gammit slept soundly. Nevertheless, along toward dawn, in that 232 hour when dream and fact confuse themselves, her nightcapped ears became aware of a strange sound in the yard. She snorted impatiently and sat up in bed. Could some beneficent creature of the night be out there sawing wood for her? It sounded like it. But she rejected the idea at once. Rubbing her eyes with both fists, she crept to the window and looked out.

There was a round moon in the sky, shining over the roof of the barn, and the yard was full of a white, witchy radiance. In the middle of it crouched two big porcupines, gnawing assiduously at a small wooden tub. The noise of their busy teeth on the hard wood rang loud upon the stillness, and a low tonk-a-tonk of cow-bells came from the pasture as the cows lifted their heads to listen.

The tub was a perfectly good tub, and Mrs. Gammit was indignant at seeing it eaten. It had contained salt herrings; and she intended, after getting the flavour of fish scoured out of it, to use it for packing her winter’s butter. She did not know that it was for the sake of its salty flavour that the porcupines were gnawing at it, but leaped to the conclusion that their sole object was to annoy and persecute herself.

“Shoo! Shoo!” she cried, snatching off her nightcap and flapping it at them frantically. But the animals were too busy to even look up at her. The only sign they gave of having heard her was to raise 233 their quills straight on end so that their size apparently doubled itself all at once.

Mrs. Gammit felt herself wronged. As she turned and ran downstairs she muttered, “First it’s me aigs––an’ now it’s me little tub––an’ Lordy knows what it’s goin’ to be next!” Then her dauntless spirit flamed up again, and she snapped, “But there ain’t agoin’ to be no next!” and cast her eyes about her for the broom.

Of course, at this moment, when it was most needed, that usually exemplary article was not where it ought to have been––standing beside the dresser. Having no time to look for it, Mrs. Gammit snatched up the potato-masher, and rushed forth into the moonlight with a gurgling yell, resolved to save the tub.

She was a formidable figure as she charged down the yard, and at ordinary times the porcupines might have given way. But when a porcupine has found something it really likes to eat, its courage is superb. These two porcupines found the herring-tub delicious beyond anything they had ever tasted. Reluctantly they stopped gnawing for a moment, and turned their little twinkling eyes upon Mrs. Gammit in sullen defiance.

Now this was by no means what she had expected, and the ferocity of her attack slackened. Had it been a lynx, or even a bear, her courage would probably not have failed her. Had it been a man, a 234 desperado with knife in hand and murder in his eyes, she would have flown upon him in contemptuous fury. But porcupines were different. They were mysterious to her. She believed firmly that they could shoot their quills, like arrows, to a distance of ten feet. She had a swift vision of herself stuck full of quills, like a pincushion. At a distance of eleven feet she stopped abruptly, and hurled the potato-masher with a deadly energy which carried it clean over the barn. Then the porcupines resumed their feasting, while she stared at them helplessly. Two large tears of rage brimmed her eyes, and rolled down her battered cheeks; and backing off a few paces she sat down upon the saw-horse to consider the situation.

But never would Mrs. Gammit have been what she was had she been capable of acknowledging defeat. In a very few moments her resourceful wits reasserted themselves.

“Queer!” she mused. “One don’t never kinder seem to hit what one aims at! But one always hits somethin’! Leastways, I do! If I jest fling enough things, an’ keep on aflingin’, I might hit a porkypine jest as well as anything else. There ain’t nawthin’ onnateral about a porkypine, to keep one from hitt’n’ him, I reckon.”

The wood-pile was close by; and the wood, which she had sawed and split for the kitchen stove, was of just the handy size. She was careful, now, not to 235 take aim, but imagined herself anxious to establish a new wood-pile, in haste, just about where that sound of insolent gnawing was disturbing the night. In a moment a shower of sizable firewood was dropping all about the herring-tub.

The effect was instantaneous. The gnawing stopped, and the porcupines glanced about uneasily. A stick fell plump upon the bottom of the tub, staving it in. The porcupines backed away and eyed it with grieved suspicion. Another stick struck it on the side, so that it bounced like a jumping, live thing, and hit one of the porcupines sharply, rolling him over on his back. Instantly his valiant quills went down quite flat; and as he wriggled to his feet with a squeak of alarm, he looked all at once little and lean and dark, like a wet hen. Mrs. Gammit smiled grimly.

“Ye ain’t feelin’ quite so sassy now, be ye?” she muttered; and the sticks flew the faster from her energetic hands. Not many of them, to be sure, went at all in the direction she wished, but enough were dropping about the herring-tub to make the porcupines remember that they had business elsewhere. The one that had been struck had no longer any regard for his dignity, but made himself as small as possible and scurried off like a scared rat. The other, unvanquished but indignant, withdrew slowly, with every quill on end. The sticks fell all about him; but Mrs. Gammit, in the excitement of her triumph, 236 was now forgetting herself so far as to take aim, therefore never a missile touched him. And presently, without haste, he disappeared behind the barn.

With something almost like admiration Mrs. Gammit eyed his departure.

“Well, seein’ as I hain’t scairt ye much,” she muttered dryly, “mebbe ye’ll obleege me by coming back an’ gittin’ into my trap. But ye ain’t agoin’ to hev no more o’ my good herrin’-tub, ye ain’t.” And she strode down the yard to get the tub. It was no longer a good tub, for the porcupines had gnawed two big holes in the sides, and Mrs. Gammit’s own missiles had broken in the bottom. But she obstinately bore the poor relics into the kitchen. Firewood they might become, but not food for the enemy.

No more that night was the good woman’s sleep disturbed, and she slept later than usual. As she was getting up, conscience-stricken at the sound of the cows in the pasture lowing to be milked, she heard a squawking and fluttering under the barn, and rushed out half dressed to see what was the matter. She had no doubt that one of the audacious porcupines had got himself into a trap.

But no, it was neither porcupine, fox, nor weasel. To her consternation, it was her old red top-knot hen, which now lay flat upon the trap, with outstretched wings, exhausted by its convulsive floppings. 237 She picked it up, loosed the deadly grip upon its leg, and slammed the offending trap across the barn with such violence that it bounced up and fell into the swill-barrel. Her feelings thus a little relieved, she examined Red Top-knot’s leg with care. It was hopelessly shattered and mangled.

“Ye cain’t never scratch with that ag’in, ye cain’t!” muttered Mrs. Gammit, compassionately. “Poor dear, ther ain’t nawthin’ fer it but to make vittles of ye now! Too bad! Too bad! Ye was always sech a fine layer an’ a right smart setter!” And carrying the victim to the block on which she was wont to split kindling wood, she gently but firmly chopped her head off.

Half an hour later, as Mrs. Gammit returned from the pasture with a brimming pail of milk, again she heard a commotion under the barn. But she would not hurry, lest she should spill the milk. “Whatever it be, it’ll be there when I git there!” she muttered philosophically; and kept on to the cool cellar with her milk. But as soon as she had deposited the pail she turned and fairly ran in her eagerness. The speckled hen was cackling vain-gloriously; and as Mrs. Gammit passed the row of nests in the shed she saw a white egg shining. But she did not stop to secure it.

As she entered the barn, a little yellowish brown animal, with a sharp, triangular nose and savage eyes like drops of fire, ran at her with such fury that 238 for an instant she drew back. Then, with a roar of indignation at its audacity, she rushed forward and kicked at it. The kick struck empty air; but the substantial dimensions of the foot seemed to daunt the daring little beast, and it slipped away like a darting flame beneath the sill of the barn. The next moment, as she stooped to look at the nearest of the two traps, another slim yellow creature, larger than the first, leaped up, with a vicious cry, and almost reached her face. But, fortunately for her, it was held fast by both hind legs in the trap, and fell back impotent.

Startled and enraged, Mrs. Gammit kicked at it, where it lay darting and twisting like a snake. Naturally, she missed it; but it did not miss her. With unerring aim it caught the toe of her heavy cowhide shoe, and fixed its teeth in the tough leather. Utterly taken by surprise, Mrs. Gammit tried to jump backwards. But instead of that, she fell flat on her back, with a yell. Her sturdy heels flew up in the air, while her petticoats flopped back in her face, bewildering her. The weasel, however, had maintained his dogged grip upon the toe of her shoe; so something had to give. That something was the cord which anchored the trap. It broke under the sudden strain. Trap and weasel together went flying over Mrs. Gammit’s prostrate head. They brought up with a stupefying slam against the wall of the pig-pen, making the pig squeal apprehensively. 239

Disconcerted and mortified, Mrs. Gammit scrambled to her feet, shook her petticoats into shape, and glanced about to see if the wilderness in general had observed her indiscretion. Apparently, nothing had noticed it. Then, with an air of relief, she glanced down at her vicious little antagonist. The weasel lay stunned, apparently dead. But she was not going to trust appearances. Picking trap and victim up together, on the end of a pitchfork, she carried them out and dropped them into the barrel of rain water at the corner of the house. Half-revived by the shock, the yellow body wriggled for a moment or two at the bottom of the barrel. As she watched it, a doubt passed through Mrs. Gammit’s mind. Could Joe Barron have been right? Was it weasels, after all, that were taking her eggs? But she dismissed the idea at once. Joe Barron didn’t know everything! And there, indisputably, were the porcupines, bothering her all the time, with unheard-of impudence. Weasels, indeed!

“’Twa’n’t you I was after,” she muttered obstinately, apostrophizing the now motionless form in the rain-barrel. “It was them dratted porkypines, as comes after my aigs. But ye’re a bad lot, too, an’ I’m right glad to have got ye where ye won’t be up to no mischief.”

All athrill with excitement, Mrs. Gammit hurried through her morning’s chores, and allowed herself no 240 breakfast except half a dozen violent cups of tea “with sweetenin’.” Then, satisfied that the weasel in the rain-barrel was by this time securely and permanently dead, she fished it out, and reset the trap in its place under the barn. The other trap she discovered in the swill-barrel, after a long search. Relieved to find it unbroken, she cleaned it carefully and put it away to be returned, in due time, to its owner. She would not set it again––and, indeed, she would have liked to smash it to bits, as a sacrifice to the memory of poor Red Top-knot.

“I hain’t got no manner o’ use fer a porkypine trap what’ll go out o’ its way to ketch hens,” she grumbled.

The silent summer forenoon, after this, wore away without event. Mrs. Gammit, working in her garden behind the house, with the hot, sweet scent of the flowering buckwheat-field in her nostrils and the drowsy hum of bees in her ears, would throw down her hoe about once in every half-hour and run into the barn to look hopefully at the traps. But nothing came to disturb them. Neither did anything come to disturb the hens, who attended so well to business that at noon Mrs. Gammit had seven fresh eggs to carry in. When night came, and neither weasels nor porcupines had given any further sign of their existence, Mrs. Gammit was puzzled. She was one of those impetuous women who expect everything to happen all at once. When milking 241 was over, and her solitary, congenial supper, she sat down on the kitchen doorstep and considered the situation very carefully.

What she had set herself out to do, after the interview with Joe Barron, was to catch a porcupine in one of his traps, and thus, according to her peculiar method of reasoning, convince the confident woodsman that porcupines did eat eggs! As for the episode of the weasel, she resolved that she would not say anything to him about it, lest he should twist it into a confirmation of his own views. As for those seven eggs, so happily spared to her, she argued that the capture of the weasel, with all its attendant excitement, had served as a warning to the porcupines and put them on their guard. Well, she would give them something else to think about. She was now all impatience, and felt unwilling to await the developments of the morrow, which, after all, might refuse to develop! With a sudden resolution she arose, fetched the gnawed and battered remains of the herring-tub from their concealment behind the kitchen door, and propped them up against the side of the house, directly beneath her bedroom window.

At first her purpose in this was not quite clear to herself. But the memory of her triumph of the previous night was tingling in her veins, and she only knew she wanted to lure the porcupines back, that she might do something to them. And first, 242 being a woman, that something occurred to her in connexion with hot water. How conclusive it would be to wait till the porcupines were absorbed in their consumption of the herring-tub, and then pour scalding water down upon them. After all, it was more important that she should vanquish her enemies than prove to a mere man that they really were her enemies. What did she care, anyway, what that Joe Barron thought? Then, once more, a doubt assailed her. What if he were right? Not that she would admit it, for one moment. But just supposing! Was she going to pour hot water on those porcupines, and scald all the bristles off their backs, if they really didn’t come after her eggs? Mrs. Gammit was essentially just and kind-hearted, and she came to the conclusion that the scheme might be too cruel.

“Ef it be you uns as takes the aigs,” she murmured thoughtfully, “a kittle o’ bilin’ water to yer backs ain’t none too bad fer ye! But ef it be only my old herrin’-tub ye’re after, then bilin’ water’s too ha’sh!”

In the end, the weapon she decided upon was the big tin pepper-pot, well loaded.

Through the twilight, while the yard was all in shadow, Mrs. Gammit sat patient and motionless beside her open window. The moon rose, seeming to climb with effort out of the tangle of far-off treetops. The faint, rhythmic breathing of the wilderness, 243 which, to the sensitive ear, never ceases even in the most profound calm, took on the night change, the whisper of mystery, the furtive suggestion of menace which the daylight lacks. Sitting there in ambush, Mrs. Gammit felt it all, and her eager face grew still and pale and solemn like a statue’s. The moonlight crept down the roofs of the barn and shed and house, then down the walls, till only the ground was in shadow. And at last, through this lower stratum of obscurity, Mrs. Gammit saw two squat, sturdy shapes approaching leisurely from behind the barn.

She held her breath. Yes, it was undoubtedly the porcupines. Undaunted by the memory of their previous discomfiture, they came straight across the yard, and up to the house, and fell at once to their feasting on the herring-tub. The noise of their enthusiastic gnawing echoed strangely across the attentive air.

Very gently, with almost imperceptible motion, Mrs. Gammit slid her right hand, armed with the pepper-pot, over the edge of the window-sill. The porcupines, enraptured with the flavour of the herring-tub, never looked up. Mrs. Gammit was just about to turn the pepper-pot over, when she saw a third dim shape approaching, and stayed her hand. It was bigger than a porcupine. She kept very still, breathing noiselessly through parted lips. Then the moonlight reached the ground, the shadows 244 vanished, and she saw a big wildcat stealing up to find out what the porcupines were eating.

Seeing the feasters so confident and noisy, yet undisturbed, the usually cautious wildcat seemed to think there could be no danger near. Had Mrs. Gammit stirred a muscle, he would have marked her; but in her movelessness her head and hand passed for some harmless natural phenomenon. The wildcat crept softly up, and as he drew near, the porcupines raised their quills threateningly, till nothing could be seen of their bodies but their blunt snouts still busy on the herring-tub. At a distance of about six feet the big cat stopped, and crouched, glaring with wide, pale eyes, and sniffing eagerly. Mrs. Gammit was amazed that the porcupines did not at once discharge a volley at him and fill him full of quills for his intrusion.

The wildcat knew too much about porcupines to dream of attacking them. It was what they were eating that interested him. They seemed to enjoy it so much. He crept a few inches nearer, and caught a whiff of the herring-tub. Yes, it was certainly fish. A true cat, he doted on fish, even salt fish. He made another cautious advance, hoping that the porcupines might retire discreetly. But instead of that they merely stopped gnawing, put their noses between their forelegs, squatted flat, and presented an unbroken array of needle points to his dangerous approach. 245

The big cat stopped, quite baffled, his little short tail, not more than three inches long, twitching with anger. He could not see that the tub was empty; but he could smell it, and he drew in his breath with noisy sniffling. It filled him with rage to be so baffled; for he knew it would be fatal to go any nearer, and so expose himself to a deadly slap from the armed tails of the porcupines.

Just what he would have attempted, however, in his eagerness, will never be known. For at this point, Mrs. Gammit’s impatience overcame her curiosity. With a gentle motion of her wrist she turned the pepper-pot over, and softly shook it. The eyes of the wildcat were fixed upon that wonderful, unattainable herring-tub, and he saw nothing else. But Mrs. Gammit in the vivid moonlight saw a fine cloud of pepper sinking downwards slowly on the moveless air.

Suddenly the wildcat pawed at his nose, drew back, and grew rigid with what seemed an effort to restrain some deep emotion. The next moment he gave vent to a loud, convulsive sneeze, and began to spit savagely. He appeared to be not only very angry, but surprised as well. When he fell to clawing frantically at his eyes and nose with both paws, Mrs. Gammit almost strangled with the effort to keep from laughing. But she held herself in, and continued to shake down the pungent shower. A moment more, and the wildcat, after an explosion 246 of sneezes which almost made him stand on his head, gave utterance to a yowl of consternation, and turned to flee. As he bounded across the yard he evidently did not see just where he was going, for he ran head first into the wheelbarrow, which straightway upset and kicked him. For an instant he clawed at it wildly, mistaking it for a living assailant. Then he recovered his wits a little, and scurried away across the pasture, sneezing and spitting as he went.

Meanwhile the porcupines, with their noses to the ground and their eyes covered, had been escaping the insidious attack of the pepper. But at last it reached them. Mrs. Gammit saw a curious shiver pass over the array of quills.

Now it was contrary to all the most rigid laws of the porcupine kind to uncoil themselves in the face of danger. At the same time, it was impossible to sneeze in so constrained an attitude. Their effort was heroic, but self-control at last gave way. As it were with a snap, one of the globes of quills straightened itself out, and sneezed and sneezed and sneezed. Then the other went through the same spasmodic process, while Mrs. Gammit, leaning halfway out of the window, squealed and choked with delight. But the porcupines were obstinate, and would not run away. Very slowly they turned and retired down the yard, halting every few feet to sneeze. With tears streaming down her cheeks Mrs. Gammit 247 watched their retreat, till suddenly some of the vagrant pepper was wafted back to her own nostrils, and she herself was shaken with a mighty sneeze. This checked her mirth on the instant. Her face grew grave, and drawing back with a mortified air she slammed the window down.

“Might ’a’ knowed I’d be aketchin’ cold,” she muttered, “settin’ in a draught this time o’ night.”

Not until she had thoroughly mastered the tickling in her nostrils did she glance forth again. Then the porcupines were gone, and not even an echo of their far-off sneezes reached her ears.

In the days that followed, neither weasel, wildcat, nor porcupine came to Mrs. Gammit’s clearing, and the daily harvest of strictly fresh eggs was unfailing. At the end of a week, the good lady felt justified in returning the traps to Joe Barron, and letting him know how mistaken he had been.

“There, Mr. Barron,” said she, handing him the three traps, “I’m obleeged to you, an’ there’s yer traps. But there’s one of ’em ain’t no good.”

“Which one be it?” asked the woodsman as he took them.

“I’ve marked it with a bit of string,” replied Mrs. Gammit.

“What’s the matter with it? I don’t see nawthin’ wrong with it!” said Barron, examining it critically.

“Tain’t no good! You take my word fer it! 248 That’s all I’ve got to say!” persisted Mrs. Gammit.

“Oh, well, seem’ as it’s you sez so, Mrs. Gammit, that’s enough,” agreed the woodsman, civilly. “But the other is all right, eh? What did they ketch?”

“Well, they ketched a big weasel!” said Mrs. Gammit, eyeing him with challenge.

A broad smile went over Barron’s face.

“I knowed it,” he exclaimed. “I knowed as how it was a weasel.”

“An’ I knowed as how ye’d say jest them very words,” retorted Mrs. Gammit. “But ye don’t know everythin’, Joe Barron. It wa’n’t no weasel as was takin’ them there aigs!”

“What were it then?” demanded the woodsman, incredulously.

“It was two big porkypines an’ a monstrous big wildcat,” answered Mrs. Gammit in triumph.

“Did ye ketch ’em at it?” asked the woodsman, with a faint note of sarcasm in his voice. But the sarcasm glanced off Mrs. Gammit’s armour. She regarded the question as a quite legitimate one.

“No, I kain’t say as I did, exackly,” she replied. “But they come anosin’ round, an’ to teach ’em a lesson to keep ther noses out o’ other people’s hens’ nests I shook a little pepper over ’em. I tell ye, they took to the woods, asneezin’ that bad I thought ye might ’a’ heard ’em all the way over here. Ye’d ’ave bust yerself laffin’, ef ye could ’a’ seed 249 ’em rootin’. An’ since then, Mr. Barron, I git all the aigs I want. Don’t ye talk to me o’ weasels––the skinny little rats. They ain’t wuth noticin’, no more’n a chipmunk.”