Children of the Wild Part 18

"Run like sixty!" responded Uncle Andy, still more promptly.

"But a skunk's so little!" persisted the Babe. "Will he bite?"

"Bite!" retorted Uncle Andy scornfully. "He doesn't have to. It appears to me you don't know skunks very well!"

"Huh!" said the Babe. "I've smelt 'em. But _smells_ can't hurt anybody."

"With your notions of skunks," answered Uncle Andy, "you're going to get yourself into a heap of trouble one of these days. I'd better tell you about what happened once when a small young skunk, out walking all by himself in the dewy twilight, happened to meet a large young bear."

Now, the Babe had a great respect for bears.

"Huh!" said he scornfully. "What could _he_ do to a bear?"

"The little skunk's name," said Uncle Andy, paying no heed to the interruption, "was Stripes Terror-Tail. He was a pretty fellow, black and glossy, with two clear white stripes down his back on each side of his backbone. His tail was long and bushy, and carried high in a graceful curve; and he was about the size of a half-grown kitten.

"Generally he went hunting with the rest of his family, for the Terror-Tails are affectionate and fond of each other's companionship.

But each one does just as he likes, in his easy way; so on this particular evening little Stripes had strolled off by himself over the dewy hillocks, catching fat crickets in the dim twilight, and hoping every minute that he might find a ground sparrow's nest under some bush."

"Did he rob birds' nests?" asked the Babe, remembering that this, for boys, was one of the deadly sins.

"He certainly did!" said Uncle Andy, who didn't like to be interrupted.

"That is, when he had a chance. Well, as luck would have it, a young bear was out nosing around the hillocks that evening, amusing himself with the fat crickets. He wasn't very hungry, being chock full of the first blueberries.

"He would sit back on his haunches, like a tremendous, overgrown black puppy, with his head tilted to one side, his ears c.o.c.ked shrewdly, and a twinkle in his little dark eyes; and with one furry forepaw he would pat a thick bunch of gra.s.s till the frightened crickets came scurrying out to see what was the matter. Then he would almost fall over himself trying to scoop them all up at once--and while he was chewing those he'd caught he'd look as disappointed as anything over those that got away.

"Well, when he got tired of crickets he thought he'd look for a bird's nest. He came to a wide, flat, spreading juniper bush, just the kind that might have a bird's nest under it; and as he nosed around it he came face to face with little Stripes. You see, they were both after the same thing, and both had the same idea about the best place to look for it.

"Now, that young bear's education had been terribly neglected. He didn't know any more about skunks than you do. So he thought, maybe the soft little black-and-white thing with the fluffy tail carried so airily might be just as good to eat as birds' eggs--besides being more filling, of course.

"He would have grabbed little Stripes right off, had the latter tried to run away. But as Stripes showed no sign of any such intention, the bear hesitated. After all, there didn't seem to be any great hurry!

He put out a big paw to slap the stranger, but changed his mind and drew it back again, the stranger seemed so unconcerned. It was decidedly queer, he thought to himself, that a little sc.r.a.p of a creature like that should be taking things so easy when he was around.

He began to feel insulted.

"As for Stripes, nothing was farther from his mind than running away from the big black creature that had suddenly appeared in front of him.

It was not for a plump, leisurely little skunk to be taking violent exercise on a hot night. Yet he didn't want to walk right over the bear--not at all. And he had no intention of making things disagreeable for the clumsy-looking stranger."

"Huh, what could _he_ do to _him_?" interrupted the Babe again. He had the greatest faith in bears.

"_Will_ you wait!" groaned Uncle Andy. "But first let me explain to you the peculiar weapon with which Stripes, and all the Terror-Tail family, do their fighting when they have to fight--which they are quite too polite to do unnecessarily. Some distance below his bushy, graceful tail, sunken between the strong muscles of his thighs, Stripes had a shallow pit, or sac, of extraordinarily tough skin containing a curious gland which secreted an oil of terrible power.

"The strong muscles surrounding this sac kept the mouth of it always so tightly closed that not an atom could get out to soil the little owner's clean, dainty fur, or cause the slightest smell. In fact, Stripes was altogether one of the cleanest and daintiest and most gentlemanly of all the wild creatures. But when he _had_ to, he could contract those muscles around the oil sac with such violence that the deadly oil--blinding and suffocating--would be shot forth to a distance of several feet, right into the face of the enemy. And _that_, let me tell you, was never good for the enemy!"

"Why?" demanded the Babe.

But Uncle Andy only eyed him scornfully. "When Stripes, quite civilly, looked at the bear, and then proceeded to smell around under the juniper bush for that bird's nest, which didn't seem to be there, the bear was much puzzled. He put out his paw again--and again drew it back.

"Then he said 'Wah!' quite loud and sharp, to see if that would frighten the imperturbable stranger. But Stripes didn't seem to mind noises like that. His bright, intelligent eyes were on the bear all the time, you know, though he seemed to be so busy hunting for that bird's nest.

"'Pooh!' said the bear to himself, 'he's just plain idiot, that's what's the matter with him. I'll eat him, anyway!' and he bounced forward, with paw uplifted, intending to gather Stripes as he would a fat cricket."

Here Uncle Andy was so inconsiderate as to pause and relight his pipe.

The Babe clutched his arm.

"Well," he went on presently, "just at this moment Stripes made as if he was going to run away, after all. He whisked round and jumped about two feet, and his fine tail flew up over his back, and in that very instant the bear thought the whole side of the hill had struck him in the face.

"He stopped with a b.u.mp, his nose went straight up in the air, and he squalled: 'Wah-ah! Wah--' But in the middle of these remarks he choked and strangled and started pawing wildly at his nose, trying to get his breath.

"His eyes were shut tight, and that deadly oil clung like glue. His paws couldn't begin to get it off, and so he fell to rooting his nose in the turf like a pig, and plowing the gra.s.s with his whole face, fairly standing on his head in his efforts, all the time coughing and gurgling as if he was having a fit.

"His behavior, in fact, was perfectly ridiculous; but there was no one there to laugh at it but Stripes, and he was too polite. He just strolled on quietly to another bush, and kept looking for that bird's nest.

"At last the bear, what with pawing and rooting, managed to get his breath and open his eyes. He wallowed a bit more, and then sat up, his nose full of dirt, and moss and gra.s.s hanging all over his face. He was a sight, I tell you! And how he did dislike himself!

"As he sat there, thinking how he'd ever get away from himself, he caught sight of Stripes, strolling off quietly over the brown hillocks.

Sitting back on his haunches, he blinked at the little, leisurely black-and-white figure.

"'And to think I was going to eat _that_!' he said to himself sadly."

CHAPTER XV

DAGGER BILL AND THE WATER BABIES

"What's that?" demanded the Babe nervously, as a peal of wild, crazy laughter rang out over the surface of the lake.

"Why, don't you know what _that_ is yet?" Said Uncle Andy with a superior air. "That's old Dagger Bill, the big black-and-white loon.

Sounds as if he was terribly amused, doesn't he? But he's only calling to his big black-and-white mate, or the two little Dagger Bills they hatched out in the spring."

"What does _he_ do?" asked the Babe.

"I don't _know_ much about that fellow," answered Uncle Andy. "Now you see him, and now you don't. Mostly you don't; and, when you do, as likely as not it's only his snaky black head, with its sharp dagger of a bill, stuck up out of the water to keep track of you. He's _most_ unsociable. If anyone tells you he knows all about a loon, you wink to yourself and pretend you are not listening. But I'll tell you who _do_ know something about old Dagger Bill--the Water Babies.

"Who're the Water Babies?" demanded the Babe.

"Why don't you know _that_? The little muskrats, of course, that live in the warm, dry, dark nest under the dome of their mud house, out in the water--the house with its doors so far under water that no one can get into it without diving and swimming."

"It must be cozy and awfully safe," said the Babe, who began to want a place like that himself.

"Yes, _fine_!" agreed Uncle Andy. "And safe from everything but the mink; and if _he_ came in by one door, there was always another door open for them to get out by, so quick that the mink could never see their tails.

"Old Dagger Bill, of course, could never get into the house of the Water Babies, for all his wonderful swimming and diving, because he was so big--as big as a goose. But, as a rule, he wouldn't want to bother the Water Babies. Fish were much more to Dagger Bill's taste than young muskrat; and he could swim so fast under water that few fish ever escaped him, once he got after them.

"This summer, however, things were different at Long Pond. Hitherto it had fairly swarmed with fish--lake trout, suckers, chub, red fins, and so on. But that spring some scoundrel had dynamited the waters for the sake of the big lake trout. Few fish had survived the outrage. And even so clever a fisherman as Dagger Bill would have gone hungry most of the time had he not been clever enough to vary his bill of fare.

"'If we can't have all the bread we want,' he said to the family, 'we must try to get along on cake!'"

"Dagger Bill _might_ get _bread_ from some camp," interrupted the Babe thoughtfully, being a matter-of-fact child. "But _what_ could he know about _cake_, Uncle Andy?"