The Three Bears of Porcupine Ridge

by Jean M. Thompson

With twitching tail and whiskers, cat-like, the fisher began to creep stealthily toward his prey, flattening his lithe body and keeping out of sight as he crept nearer and nearer the innocent cubs. A swift dart, and he shot straight through the air and launched himself upon one of the cubs, while the other one sat up in amazement and began to whimper like a frightened child. Soon Nemox was busy with tooth and nail over the limp carcass of the cub, when suddenly his keen ear caught the sound of a stealthy pad, pad, pad; so light a footstep it was that no one but Nemox could have heard it. Instantly, fearing the return of the mother bear, Nemox left the wounded cub, for he had no notion of letting Moween, the angry mother, catch him at his cruel work, as well Nemox knew that with one blow of her great paw, armed with its lance-like claws, she could strike him to earth. He realized he would be no match for her unless he chanced to catch her napping.

So the fisher drew off, watching his chances from a safe distance, for, if the truth were known, Nemox was, in some respects, unless cornered, cowardly. He slunk into the shadow of a dark ledge, where his dark fur blended so well with the gloom that he remained completely concealed. He realized that he had taken himself off just in time, for the next instant the tall brakes were thrust aside; but instead of the mother bear making her appearance, who should peer out but Eelemos, the fox. Very cautiously the fox came forth from the bushes, and peered out in rather surprised fashion upon the scene before him; the badly wounded cub, and the other one, who still whimpered and whined helplessly, crying for its mother. Now the fox chanced to be very hungry, and the sight of the wounded cub tempted him. So he crept warily forward, his yellow eyes all agleam, and so intent was the fox upon the coming feast that he paid no attention to the other cub’s little whine of joy and recognition as a great, black, furry bulk fairly tore its way through the thick jungle. Mad with rage and fear Moween’s little red eyes flashed with anger as she caught sight of the fox and her wounded cub, and with one great bound she was upon him, growling terribly, and then, before the fox could even defend himself, the mother bear had laid him low, and soon all that remained of the proud, sly fox was just a battered red pelt, and a bedraggled, limp brush. Then Moween went back to attend to the little wounded cub, uttering low whines of distress, and lapping it tenderly, trying to revive it.

All this time, Nemox, the fisher, was peering out at her from a crack in the ledge, and he had seen the awful fate of Eelemos, the fox, and was very thankful he had got away from the den just in time. Now the fisher had not chanced to select the best spot for his hiding-place, for back inside of the ledge was the home of Unk-Wunk, the hedgehog, who had been asleep inside all the time, curled up in a round ball, until, finally, Nemox had so crowded him that he became impatient and suddenly unrolling himself, just to teach the intruder better manners, he gave him a smart slap across his sneaky pointed snout with his dreadful quilly tail. Nemox was so taken by surprise that, stifling his angry snarls so the mother bear might not hear him, he sneaked back home to the pine forest, his snout full of sharp quills, and spent most of the night spitting crossly and trying to pull them out of his burning flesh.

Next morning, bright and early, Nemox started off hunting once more. He climbed many trees looking for game, but in vain; he even found no partridges roosting down in lower branches, as usual, for already they had left their nightly haunts. At last Nemox reached the foot of a giant hackmatack tree, and right in the top of its branches he spied a great loose bundle of leaves and twigs.

“Ah,” thought Nemox, “the hawks have a young family up there, or possibly there are eggs in the nest; so much the better,” for Nemox loved eggs almost more than a young hawk. Very hungry was Nemox by this time, so he began to climb the tree. At last he reached a limb where he could peer into the nest. He was thankful that the old hawks were away, for there were eggs in the nest. Nemox knew he must hasten, for a brooding hawk is never long away from her eggs. Flattening himself close to the limb Nemox crawled to it, and had just sampled one egg, when with a sudden, wild rush of whirling wings, the mother hawk landed right upon his back, digging her sharp talons into his quivering flesh, as he snarled and spit and tore in her grasp. Finally, with a swift twist of his agile body, Nemox managed to reach the throat of the hawk, and in spite of the beating wings, which nearly thrashed the breath from his body, Nemox clung and clung to the hawk’s throat, until they both fell to earth. And then Nemox had his first decent meal in days, and afterward he climbed up to the nest and finished off the eggs, which he did not forget.

Now high above the nest of the hawk, and over toward the lake, stood a lonely hemlock tree, its limbs broken off by storm after storm. Upon the summit of this tree Quoskh, the great blue heron, came year after year to build her nest and raise her brood. From her high nest, where she sat brooding the young herons, now just out of their pin-feather age, the mother heron could plainly look down upon her neighbor the hawk, and saw all the terrible tragedy which took place. She saw the dark, slim body of Nemox, the robber of the marshes, as he battled with the mother hawk, and then the end of it all. Quoskh, the heron, was afraid for her own young, so much so that for a long while afterward she dreaded to leave them alone long enough to fly off after food. Soon, however, they became large enough to fly to the lake with her, and she was glad. But Quoskh never forgot about the hateful fisher, and always hoped that some day she might get the best of him.

Right in the heart of the marsh-land lay Black Lake. Spread out like a sheet of molten lead it lay, its lonely waters walled about by thick jungles of sedge and cattails; a desolate spot, seldom visited by man, but known and haunted by all the kindred of the wild. You might trace their well-worn trails through the swamp on all sides. Here came Moween, the black bear, and her one cub, for the other she had lost. The sharp teeth of Nemox had done their work. On the edge of the lake Unk-Wunk, the porcupine, loved to loaf, digging out lily roots, and toward night, when shadows crept over the water, Nemox, the fisher, would sneak down, hoping to trap some little wild thing.

One day about twilight, when the little herons were half-grown, a large colony of herons came to the lake. It was approaching time for their annual colonizing plans, and they always meet and talk it over. Down they flocked in droves, on wide azure wings, calling to each other their lonely salute, “Quoskh, quoskh.” And after standing on the pebbly shore solemnly upon one foot, for a while, at a signal they all began to dance a most fantastic sort of a dance, which is called “the heron dance.” Many were the curious eyes watching the strange dance of the herons. Among them was Nemox, the fisher, who almost forgot to hide himself, so taken up in watching the herons was he. However, as he watched them a sudden, fascinating odor came to his nostrils, and he forgot everything else—it was catnip.

Soon he reached the bed of catnip, all silvery green leaves, sparkling with dew. He nibbled and ate, until finally, overcome completely by the fascinating odor, he simply lay down and rolled about, purring like a cat for sheer delight. He felt dreamy and care-free. But just as he was enjoying himself supremely, down floated the wide wings of Quoskh, the great blue heron, and with two stabs of her sword-like beak she had blinded Nemox, and with her wings beaten the breath completely out of his body.

Then, triumphantly, the heron spread her great blue wings and flew off into the twilight, calling “quoskh, quoskh, quoskh” to her mate across the silence of the marshes.