it was full of the moon at the seashore, and the young field corn close by was ripe; each pearly kernel almost bursting with its milky-sweet contents. what a time for a corn roast or frolic; so thought all the boys along that particular strip of beach, which shelved its way down from a dense forest of spruce and hemlock to the edge of the water.
there were others, the furry things, the four-footed people of the woods, who knew just as well as the boys what good times were to be had at that particular season, and they made their plans accordingly. the boys had visited the beach that same night, roasted their corn and oysters, and left long before. the shore was apparently quite deserted. the ebbing tide was stealing out softly, scraping and rasping upon the little round pebbles, sending little golden shells tinkling musically against each other, as the water lapped and filtered through them. overhead shone the great yellow moon, making a wide silvery path straight out across the water. one wondered where the road ended. back from the beach in the dark woods, plenty of life was now stirring, for the nocturnal prowlers were waking up, though the small windows of the scattered farmhouses were dark and still. above the noise of the ebb tide the katy-dids were heard contradicting each other tirelessly, hoarsely, "katy-did, katy-didn't." crickets shrilled in the long, coarse beach grass; a distant screech-owl set up an occasional shivery wail. then, from amid the thickets of scrub oak and barberry bushes, came another call—an unusual cry, not often heard, which began with a tremulous whimper, ceased, then went on; and was finally taken up and answered by another similar whimpering cry, and still another, from different parts of the woods. the first call had been given forth by an old hermit racoon, or a "little brother of the bear." he was something of a leader, and was sending out a summons for all his relatives to join him in a moonlight frolic.
the old hermit scrambled hastily down from his home tree, which happened to be the deserted nest of a great owl. plainly the old hermit would soon outgrow this borrowed home, for when sweet corn is in the milk, and the little salt wild oysters are plentiful down on the beach, then the racoon became so very fat that he could barely waddle. of course he felt obliged to fatten himself in late summer, for already he was making ready for his all-winter's sleep and his long, long season of fasting.
having reached the ground, the hermit sent out another call—the rallying cry of his tribe; for dearly the racoon loves to feast and frolic in company and was becoming impatient to start off. the only reason, i suspect, why the old hermit lived absolutely alone, at this time, was merely because there was absolutely not an inch of spare room for another racoon in the nest.
to his joy, his kindred had responded, and soon from out of the shadowy places stole one waddling form, then another, until finally five racoons were in the party. then with the hermit leading them, indian file, they all made their way leisurely to the distant corn field. in and out among the tall rows of nodding, whispering blades they stole, and standing upon their little black hind feet, they would reach up the corn stalk, and deftly pull down a plump ear with their forepaws, which they used as cleverly as hands. they never made the mistake of selecting blackened, mildewed ears; these and the shrivelled, dwarfed ears they tossed disdainfully aside, and my! what havoc those coons did make in the corn field that night! they would strip off the silky green husks and eat out only the full, milky kernels, smearing their black noses and paws liberally with the juice, which they would hasten to rinse off at the first water they found.
out popped the funny painted face of the badger.
out popped the funny painted face of the badger.
there were others in the field that night, but they never interfered with one another; there was plenty of corn for all. the woodchuck family also enjoyed sweet corn in the milk and, tempted by the moonlight, they had left their burrow to feast. off beyond, skirting the edges of the tall corn, skulked a swift, fleeting shadow—redbrush, the fox, bound for the chicken coops, or hoping to find a covey of quails or partridges sleeping in the edge of the wheat field. back in a little creek which bubbled in places, broadening out into still, deep haunts for trout and pickerel, the moonlight found its way. here and there you might discover the huts of the muskrats, mostly deserted, for the inhabitants were all abroad. you might see their brown heads above water, follow the wake of their silvery trails, and hear their playful squeaks as they chased each other from village to village. oh, there were squeaks a-plenty that night all through the deep clover and among the tall grain, while beneath roofs, fast asleep and dreaming, were the children.
for the most part the wild things appeared to live together in peace and harmony; occasionally bitter feelings were felt when the racoons thrust their black paws into a woodpecker's nest and robbed it of eggs. then, too, old mrs. diamond-back, the turtle, would deposit her eggs in a spot which she fondly imagined very secret, failing utterly to look up above, where, from a branch, the greenish inquisitive eyes of the hermit watched her every movement. taking it altogether, there was little to disturb their happy life then. times were going to change and very soon in an unexpected fashion.
clown-face, the badger, had been routed out of his distant home-nest on the far side of the mountain by an enemy. because he enjoyed roving, he took up the life of a tramp and made a trip to the seashore, for he dearly loved the little black mussels which he remembered having once found there. as it happened, badgers were not common in that section of the country; perhaps one of them had never happened to venture over upon that side of the mountain even, so none of the wild things had ever encountered this queer-looking fellow.
queer looking he certainly was, and the funniest thing about him was that the sly old fellow, who had often looked at himself in some still pool, knew exactly how odd he appeared to others. he had wit enough to use this knowledge for his own purposes. once seen, the clown face of the badger was not soon forgotten by other animals. he soon discovered that when a stranger appeared suddenly on the trail whom he did not care to meet, all he had to do usually was to stand still, and stare and stare at the intruder, who invariably would back out or side-step from the trail, leaving it clear to the badger; why, i will explain.
in the first place, the badger was just about as broad as he was long. his thick fur coat, which was flowing and parted in the middle of his back, nearly reaching the ground, looked for all the world as if he carried a goatskin rug across his back. his legs were short and he appeared not unlike a great, hairy caterpillar as he waddled along. but his fore feet carried two tremendously long hooked claws which, if cornered, he would use in fight, for his courage was very great. his head was broad and furry, with short ears. the strangest thing about the badger was his face, which was marked exactly like a funny clown. although his back was grey—one may still hear the saying, "grey as a badger"—his head and neck were of short, dark brown fur, while like a dash of white paint ran a mark of snowy fur from the bridge of his nose, back to the nape of his neck. on either cheek was another dash of white, reaching from the tops of his ears to the corners of his mouth. below this was marked out a little crescent of white, set off by a stripe of dark fur. altogether, the badger always appeared to be wearing a kind of painted disguise. no wonder then, when he stared straight at any animal who had never seen such a funny face, that it turned and ran in an opposite direction. such was the make-up of clown-face, the badger. even now he was making his way in the moonlight to new grounds, where he would be seen and feared. clown-face was in search of a deserted burrow into which he could crawl and rest, for he was tired. he soon came to the deserted home of the woodchuck family. into this he crept, taking care to crawl in and turn around, so as to leave his painted face right in the doorway; then he went to sleep.
after the hermit racoon and his friends had feasted upon sweet corn, they left the corn field and took a stroll down the beach. the tide was out. in among the wet pebbles scurried droves of little green crabs, while clinging to rocks were small, salt wild oysters, which racoons dearly love and which, for this reason, are sometimes called "coon oysters," so greedily do the racoons search for them. it was a funny sight to see the five fat racoons strolling along the beach by moonlight. when they came to a bunch of oysters, down they would plump and, taking the oyster in their hind feet, they would deftly crack it open against a stone and dabble it up and down in the water with their little black hands, washing it thoroughly. for the racoon, you know, from its habit of washing its food, is often called "lotor, the washer." there the little company of coons stayed until turn of tide, when they went back over the wet sand, treading upon their toes and leaving their almost human five-fingered little tracks all along the beach, as they went back to the forest again.
the first to reach home that night was the woodchuck family. they were quite ready for sleep, in the fine burrow which they had spent days in digging. the bushes rustled as they swished them aside, and the rustling they made awakened the badger who had been dozing in the entrance of the burrow. just as dame woodchuck came to her door, out popped the funny painted face of the badger right into her very eyes. it grunted at her fiercely and she hastily backed away with a cry of terror. never had the woodchucks seen anything like the badger. they waited for it to come out, but it stayed right in the burrow, so the old woodchuck made bold to go to the rear entrance, and squeezing her fat body flat she entered, only to be met by the awful clown-like face again. she hastily backed out. all night the badger remained in possession of the woodchuck's burrow and for days after, until finally they left it to him and began to dig a new burrow some distance away from the old one.
the next night all the wild kindred were again astir. the woodchucks had spent most of the day upon their new burrow. they still had to add chambers; it was at least a home, so off they went foraging with the others, for corn is not always in the milk and it is not always moonlight. that night the old hermit racoon had planned to go back into the forest to dig wake-robin roots. often, after a great feast, the coons enjoy a diet of these roots, perhaps eating them as a sort of medicine, because they are hot and as fiery as pepper, although, with all their biting, peppery taste, the coons devour them greedily. in indian file, off started the coons, and soon succeeded in finding a bed of the coveted wake-robin roots, which they began to tear up hastily.
clown-face, the badger, was also abroad, hunting field-mice or any young, tender creature which he might track. creeping through the matted jungles of undergrowth, he soon discovered the racoons digging up roots. thinking to have some fun at their expense and perhaps drive them away from something which he might eat, suddenly he stuck his painted clown-like face through a dark opening of the bushes and grunted at them. the old hermit himself spied the horrible face first, and so frightened was he that without pausing to finish the root in his black paws, he tore off through the bushes with all the others following him. the hermit did not stop running until he reached his home tree, for never had he seen or dreamed of such a face as that which had peered out at him from the woods.
in time clown-face, the badger, by using his wits managed to have things pretty much his own way there in the forest. he found where the young quails nested. he foraged in the unprotected huts of the muskrats and stole their young. he ate the turtles' eggs and made himself a great nuisance to all. the only living thing which clown-face, the badger, dreads now is the hedgehog, for, being almost as ugly and strange-appearing as the badger, it does not fear him or turn aside. so between the two is a bitter feud, because clown-face often ventures to devour the hedgehog's rations. some time i know there is going to be a terrific encounter between them in the woods, because the stupid-appearing hedgehog never troubles himself to get out of the badger's way, but lies down in his very path, quite unconcernedly. one day clown-face is going to get to the limit of his patience and rebel. then i wonder which one will come off the better, the badger or the hedgehog?
meantime, the wit of clown-face, the badger, serves him very well. he still roams over the forest trails and along the beach unmolested by the dwellers of the wild.
