Meph, the Pet Skunk (American Woodland Tales) Read online

  Meph felt like a stranger on strange land. Yet he still had the feeling that in a minute he would come to the dead cherry stub where the anthill stood, and everything would be right again. But he did not come to the cherry stub, nor the young elms, nor the raspberry patch where the pheasant had nested. He did not come to anything he remembered, not the deep wagon ruts, not the worn stones, not the eroded roots of the maple. Everything had been changed, and all was covered with freshly turned land. Here and there a stake was driven. He walked on and on to the top of the hill, down it and up another to the wood lot. He climbed over a huge sawdust pile at the edge of the woods and tramped among the trees. He smelled the air, it was laden with the odor of freshly sawed wood. The moonlight came through the trees with unusual brilliance. Meph had a sense of openness in the woods. The old trees that had completed their growth and the gnarled twisted culls had been felled and hauled away. This left room for the young oaks and wild cherry trees to shoot up into the sun. Beneath them an understory of spruce was planted. Near the edges of the woods, Meph brushed into the long needles of seedling white pines.

  Meph worked his way to the western line fence, and here he was reassured, for the great walnut still stood and all the avenues of the wildlife still remained beneath the poison ivy vines.

  He followed the trails back to the road, crossed the macadam surface, and continued down the far side of the farm to the creek. The creek wood lot had not been cut and Meph felt at home beneath the dense roof of leaves, digging for beetles in the rotted logs.

  Presently he heard footsteps in the night and looked up to see three of the young skunks of the fence row coming his way. Meph moved, and the approaching pattern of black and white stripes and spots flickered in the moonlit shadows. There was a moment of stillness, then the white-footed male strode out of the greenbrier. He ran toward Meph, snarling as he came; for Meph did not belong, he was different. He had been raised with man; he was big and sleek and he smelt of the acrid scent of human hands. The white-footed male wanted to attack him, to show his disdain for the odor of Meph and drive him from the wood lot. He circled him slowly, chorteling and hissing. His two sisters came from the darkness also to pick on this different one.

  Meph backed up as they came. “He had wanted to bounce forward and meet them, but he sensed their distrust and anger. The white-footed one ran boldly forward and made a sudden slash with his strong front claws. Meph rolled over in the fallen pin-oak leaves. He bounced back to his feet and stamped the ground in rage. He lunged at the white-footed one, then turned and lunged at the sisters. They scattered like mice. The white-footed one turned back twice, charged Meph with a growl but ran toward the stream when Meph paced straight toward him, hissing and growling. Meph stood alone pummeling the earth with the pads of his feet. The white-footed one and his sisters hurried back up the stream to their mother who was hunting with the other kit of her family. The family was a loosely held together group. Sometimes they wandered off alone, sometimes in pairs, at other times they met and would all den in the same burrow.

  Sycamore Will ran out the kitchen door and looked at the new fields. All the old fences were gone and in their places were stakes to mark the strips that curved with the hill. He looked a moment at the strange new face of the farm, smiled with pleasure, and hurried out to the barn to help with the milking chores. When they were done, he climbed up on the tractor with real excitement, for the winter wheat was to be sowed today and he would be the first to circle round and round in the new fields. He looked at the map of the farm that Mr. Crocket had given him and saw that the winter wheat was to be planted on the topmost circle. Other strips were marked for some of the strange new grasses—brome and orchard grasses and ladino clover. Mr. Crocket had said that they were excellent feed for the cattle.

  Sycamore gunned the throttle and spiraled up the new lane that twisted upward with the contours. It gave him a strange feeling not to see the old gutted lane with its washed-out ditches. It was as if he had really moved to a new farm.

  He rolled over the newly turned earth, remembering the fun he had had when the bulldozers had come to the farm to fill the lane and the five gullies that were so deep even his father could stand in them and be hidden. They had also scooped out a broad diversion ditch that spiraled to his left along the hill. It was built to collect the excess waters that would spill down the hills after heavy rains and carry them slowly over a mat of grass to the creek.

  Everything was so exciting these days. Sycamore had even forgotten his dreams of Arizona and his life as an outlaw hunted by the sheriff’s posse.

  He looked over toward the woods where the portable sawmill was sending up puffs of smoke from the gas engine. Mr. Crocket had said that the men were cutting the old trees leaving room for the young strong oaks and wild cherries to grow. This was forestry Mr. Crocket had said. The lumber was paying for the work of the bulldozer and still there was enough left over to build Mr. and Mrs. Crocket a house on the hill.

  Sycamore looked back at the seed drill and shouted like a sergeant: “You’ve got to learn to go in circles!”

  With the gentle September rains the winter wheat sprouted and now the pattern of Sycamore’s planting stood in bold green curves.

  October fifteenth was the opening day of hunting season. School was closed for the day and Sycamore was out of bed before sunrise. He dressed and ran across the yard, down the hill and out to the creek wood lot. He called as he kicked the bushes and stirred the leaves with a stick.

  “Here Meph, here Meph!” There was no answer. “Meph! Meph!”

  Meph was sleeping in the hollow log. He heard the boy’s voice and twitched in his sleep. Finally he opened his eyes and sniffed the warm air that had been heated by his body. Sycamore called once more, and Meph obediently rose and came out into the early morning air. He loved companionship, and although he was free to go where he pleased, Sycamore was still his denmate. He climbed over the mat of frostbitten honeysuckle and blinked at the boy. Sycamore Will scooped him up, jabbering and talking, his lower jaw moving up and down to form noises. Meph garbled and chuttered in return as he was carried along the creek, back to the old stone house. Here he was taken into the cellar and closed in the potato bin.

  “Today’s the first day of hunting,” Sycamore said, “and I think you’ll be safer here.” A gun cracked just outside the window, and Sycamore jumped. He put Meph down and ran up the steps two at a time.

  “No hunting here!” he shouted as he came up. Then he found himself face to face with Mr. Crocket.

  “Oh, was that you?”

  “I just killed a tin can. Do you want to go hunting, Sycamore? I thought we’d walk around the farm after breakfast and see if we could scare up some game.”

  “Sure, let’s.”

  After scrapple and eggs they started down the hill below the stone house to the bend of the creek and wandered up toward the iron bridge.

  “Not much cover for game around here, and very little food,” Mr. Crocket said as they walked. “The cattle have eaten it all back. I’ll bet you didn’t know cows could kill wild animals. They crop the grass too close, eat their shelter, the land erodes, and the animals move off or die.

  “We’ll put in a food patch here and fence it off from the cattle. Then we’ll plant a multiflora rose hedge around it.” He continued.

  “O.K.,” said Sycamore, “but what’s that?”

  “It’s a prickly, flowering hedge that makes a fence for the cattle, and food and cover for the wildlife. The red berries last all winter, and everything from birds to mice feed on them.”

  As they came to the slough Mr. Crocket said:

  “We’ll plant some wild rice along here. Maybe some wild ducks will stop over and feed.” They walked on through the cold morning, but found nothing, not even a rabbit.

  As they started back, Mr. Crocket stopped. Sycamore looked around, but saw nothing. The bright blue eyes of the man were focused on a far clump of toast-brown sedge. Sycamore followed his gaz
e. That was not the wind that stirred the grasses at their base; something was moving through them, slowly and deliberately. The shotgun went up to Mr. Crocket’s shoulder and Sycamore watched him anxiously. There was no report, however. Slowly the gun was lowered. A smile crossed the man’s face as he grinned sheepishly at Sycamore.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “A fox maybe?”

  “If you’ll just look above that thistle head you’ll see a very elegant bit of finery.”

  “Meph!” Sycamore shouted as he saw the bold plume swishing and waving over the top of the thistle. “He must have gotten out of the potato bin.”

  Meph was sniffing his way along their earlier trail, head down plume aloft. He walked along steadily as he tracked.

  “See if he finds us,” laughed Mr. Crocket. They stood still. Meph plodded along, swishing his fat haunches and pressing down dried grasses with his feet. He walked right past the silent figures then stopped a few feet beyond. Their scent was strong on the wind now, and blowing from behind. He turned as reliably as a weather vane in the wind and walked up to them.

  “He’s pretty cute,” laughed Mr. Crocket. “Are you going to keep him through the winter?”

  “I’d like to, but Pa’s not keen about it; and it will be hard to get him food during the winter.”

  “I believe he’d stay right here if we help him out a little bit. Let’s see what we can do.” They started on down the creek, Meph coming along behind, sniffing the grasses for the immobile grasshoppers and spiders, and hoping the big feet of the men would frighten a mouse or a shrew.

  “If he were to go off on his own, he would probably come down here along the stream.”

  “That’s right, he does.” said Sycamore.

  “Well, we need to give him a good snug den that will be warm and dry. We can cover this hollow log and block one end. That should do it. Throw some corn out here every day or so and he’ll be all right. If he doesn’t eat it, other game will. Chances are mice will find it too and he can eat the mice.”

  They wandered back up the hill, across the circular fields to the north wood lot. One mouse scooted before them but that was all the game to be found.

  Meph followed behind them until they crossed the road and went to the back of the farm. Then he left them and went over to the vegetable garden, dug around for the larvae of the Japanese beetle, then retired to his keg on the porch. He licked and licked his fur, aware of a new glisten in the blackness. With the cold weather and shortened days, his lustrous guard hairs had grown in. He combed them with pride. That night he wandered off to his creek wood lot, looking for signs of the skunks of the fence row. They had moved across the creek and were roaming wide in search of food.

  The white-footed one had moved up to Toy’s barn and there he competed with the cats for the mice. His winter fur was also coming in, but it was not slick and smooth like Meph’s. It was tufted and rough, and he spent much of his time scratching the fleas and mange that lived with him. He dug a den under the west end of the barn, deep enough to go below the frost line. The cats resented him, but respected him. They would bound to the beams and stable doors when he came out and gaze at him through their yellow eyes, registering no emotions. The white-footed one would bully them and threaten them with lifted tail as he searched the barn, carefully avoiding the hoofs of the cows. The cows would bellow and stomp in their stanchions when he came among them. Even they, though so long domesticated, knew the power of the skunk.

  THE POND

  THE MORE SYCAMORE WILL saw of Mr. Crocket, the more he became attached to him, for he was forever whisking over the farm, planting new trees here and sowing new seeds there. He seemed to love the land more than anyone Sycamore had ever met, and he was always doing things that were fun. He came up from the city almost every week end, and usually brought his wife who would come to enjoy the new kitchen sink with his mother, or sit under the apple tree knitting and watching the changing farm. Sycamore’s mother was happier these days, too, for the work had been made lighter for her by the many new electrical gadgets that had been installed. But Pa, Pa seemed silent again. He tried to read the bulletins that Mr. Crocket brought to him from the Department of Agriculture; he tried to understand what was happening to the land, but it was too different from his way of farming and he was not convinced it would work. When Mr. Crocket came in to talk over new plans, Seed became silent, resentful. The night before they blew the ditch, he turned to Molly and said: “Mr. Crocket’s going to make the marsh a pond. I can graze the cattle there in summer. It isn’t real good feed, but it’s feed. What good is a pond? Some things he does, I just don’t follow. Too much book learning and not enough common sense, I’d say.”

  Sycamore was stunned to hear his father say this.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll keep this up,” Seed added.

  “Oh, Pa, you wouldn’t leave?”

  “I just might do that. He has yanked out the lane, so you gotta wind around the hill and use more gas. He’s put in those crazy corkscrew fields; and he doesn’t want to plant much corn—says it’s hard on the land. Well, corn prices are good now. Is this a farm or a college campus?”

  “But, Pa, Mr. Crocket said …”

  “Mr. Crocket this, and Mr. Crocket that. Every time he comes you spend hours and hours with him. I’ve had to do the milking all alone for three week ends now. I want it stopped. He didn’t hire you!” Seed banged his fist on the table. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Pa. But I can help him blow off the dynamite to drain the marsh tomorrow, can’t I?”

  “No, I need help with the corn in the back field.”

  “Oh, Seed,” said Molly, “the boy’s looked forward to this for months.”

  “Sure, play, play, play. No son of mine is going to learn to farm from books like a playboy. I’m gonna quit before he does.” He put down his fork and stormed out the door.

  Sycamore looked startled and hurt. He watched his father go and he grew hot and sick and angry.

  “I can’t do anything. No matter what I do it’s wrong.” He frowned at his mother who was calmly looking at him.

  “Well, Sycamore, the mason jar is still there.” Sycamore Will’s face relaxed and he smiled slowly.

  “But, oh, Ma, I’ve gotta help blow that ditch tomorrow.”

  Mr. Crocket arrived early, jumped out of his car and knocked at the kitchen door. The Lites were eating breakfast.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a good day to ditch the swamp,” he said with buoyance in his voice. He sensed a tense silence among the people at the table. He was about to leave, not caring to intrude upon their problems, when Mrs. Crocket came in behind him. She greeted them happily, noted the still faces before her and put her finger on the trouble.

  “Oh, Mr. Lites, are you going to help with the dynamiting?” Seed looked up from his plate of eggs.

  “No. Sycamore and I have to bring in the corn. We have to work.”

  “Well, in that case I don’t see why everyone doesn’t first blow the trench and then take in the corn.” Seed dropped his head and said nothing. Sycamore jumped from his chair and ran over to him.

  “Gee, Pa, that would be great. Don’t you want to see the ditch go? Then with three of us we could get the corn in fast.” Seed still did not answer. He did want to see the ditch go. Finally he nodded and said:

  “First we gotta do the milking chores.”

  Mr. Crocket went to the car, got out a case of dynamite and carried it down to the swamp. Sycamore finished milking and joined him. He carried the big six-foot crowbar Mr. Crocket had told him to bring. They followed the seepage of the spring across the swamp until it met the creek. They laid out a straight line from the springs to the stream and about every eighteen inches Sycamore plunged the crowbar into the ground, and worked it around gently. After he had made a hole Mr. Crocket dropped a stick of dynamite into it. He seated it securely and gently with a broomstick handle squared off on the end. Slowly they worked down the li
ne. The farther they went, the more careful Mr. Crocket became. Finally they had almost two hundred sticks in the ground. Mr. Crocket walked gingerly back up the hill and got an electric cap. This he very carefully embedded in the last stick of dynamite. He hooked up the wires from the cap to a roll of insulated wire that he ran up the hill to a battery.

  “That’s really hot land,” Mr. Crocket said to Sycamore. “Now, let’s be sure that everything is clear and wait for the right gust of wind before we set it off. Go tell your mother and Mrs. Crocket that it is going off pretty soon, so they’ll be prepared; and you and your father watch out for falling stones and clay.”

  Sycamore listened excitedly, then ran to the house to warn the women. He ran all the way back.

  “There are no cows around, are there?”

  “They’re all in the rear field,” said Seed who was watching the charged ground eagerly, really happy not to be missing the fun.

  “I’ll check along the creek,” said Sycamore. Across the swamp Meph heard Sycamore’s excited cries and shouts.

  “Danger, danger! Everybody stay clear!” He ran along the edge of the water to see if any fishermen were near. Meph heard his footsteps, came out of his log and ran after him. But Sycamore’s long legs were not to be matched. Meph galloped behind him for several yards, then slowed down to a walk. The autumn woodland floor was filled with new and good things, big smelly walnuts and slippery acorns. He became interested in these and soon Sycamore was far down the creek. Occasionally he would pick up the boy’s scent and gallop forward again. Presently he turned to cross the swamp for the odor of Sycamore and the man hung heavily on the grasses and ground.

  He came to a hole dug as smooth and straight as those dug by the crayfish, but there was no smell of the animal within it. There was some aroma of Sycamore about it, yet it was faint compared to the intense pungent scent that came from deep in the hole. Meph dug a moment, then picked out the odor of the boy clinging to the golden sedges and bounced on. He came to another hole. He sniffed, ran forward, and came to another hole. He began to dig furiously, running his short front feet into the holes as far as he was able. But the odors did not smell of food and he left them. The row of holes intrigued him. They led in a straight line across the swamp like the footsteps of some great fox. Meph moved down the line sniffing and digging as he progressed.