Lives of the Fur Folk

by Maud D. Haviland

Tunnelled ten yards into the hillside, up a narrow gallery to the right, and then down another, dug at right angles to avoid a rock proof against even a badger's claws, was the nursery; and here the cubs were born at the end of March. If Mother Badger had been wary before, she now increased her caution to an unheard-of degree. Even the distant shuffle of her mate's footsteps, as he went out to feed, was sufficient to rouse her to a rumbling growl. She herself never stirred outside the 'earth' until after midnight, and, even then, the 'wick-wick' of a wakeful throstle set her heart thudding.

It was the middle of April before Mother Badger took her cubs into the woods. She chose a starlit night—the badgers love the stars better than the moon—and led them to the burrow mouth. They crawled up the mound outside, and then flopped down to rest; for their longest journey hitherto had been across their nursery, and their short legs soon grew weary. Although the alternate tracts of their pied snouts were well defined, the black was washed over with chocolate colour; otherwise they were exact replicas of their parents.

Mother Badger did not dare to lead them far afield that night. As it was, once or twice she took alarm and hustled them underground. However, the cubs did not trouble about the limitations of their bounds. The sand at the burrow mouth was light and dry, and they delightedly thrust their paws into it and scattered it about, just as children at the seaside dabble their feet in the water. The biggest cub found a rabbit scrape, and, thrusting in his nose, dug lustily. Presently one of his sisters came pushing up and they fought viciously, rolling over and over to the bottom of the mound, with locked claws. This roused Mother Badger, who lay above the 'earth' with one eye on her cubs and the other upon the woods. She waddled down and cuffed them; then brought them back, and licked and fed them tenderly. Long before dawn she took them below ground again; even before Father Badger had returned home, grunting, to his solitary dormitory.

HOMEWARD BOUND

The next night, however, they went as far as the Hollow Field. Mother went first, and the cubs, their eyes fixed upon her shaggy, bumping quarters, followed her closely in single file. Her feet made no sound; but now and then one of the little ones, less used to tread where the least rustle aroused the whole woodside, snapped a twig. That was their first real hunting. Last night by the 'earth' had merely been play, but now they learned the science of smells, for a badger relies very greatly upon his nose. They learned that, as the night wore on, the scent grew stronger or fainter according to the dew-fall and the wind and the state of the ground, and to what different smells belonged. A strong taint blew aslant the hedge—that was fox. Mother Badger sampled it scientifically, and the cubs dutifully followed her example. The rabbit trails intersected one another in a labyrinth, but the badger has no dealings with grown rabbits, and they passed these by. Every tree and herb and bird and beast has its own particular odour, and, as there is no directory of scent in the woods but that which each of the Fur Folk compiles for himself, the little badgers had to learn each separately.

Thus, follow-my-leader-wise, they entered the Hollow Field, and Mother Badger sought a likely spot where the babies might receive a first lesson in beetle-hunting. She dug up the turf, and grunted for her family to turn over the scrapings. He who nosed deepest obtained the morsel—a dor-beetle, well-flavoured, and devoured with gusto with the condiment of Nature's providing.

Presently, the Mother Badger craned her long neck, and her little eyes twinkled. She had winded something else which would afford a very good object-lesson, besides supper, for the cubs. Each little one tiptoed up and sniffed in turn: it was an unknown smell, but good—decidedly good. 'Hunt it!' grunted Mother Badger, as plainly as grunt could speak. Listening, they heard needlets of sound, and the ghost of a rustle, as though some tiny thing thrust the grass-blades aside. The eldest cub went first. He located it, as he thought exactly, and snapped gingerly. He caught a mouthful of grass only, and the rest had no better fortune. Mother Badger saw that she must assist, or else her pupils would go supperless. She thrust in her snout, drew out a mouse, and dropped it before them. The cubs rushed in helter-skelter, and the eldest presently pushed his way out of the scrimmage with the rest of his brothers and sisters tugging and snatching at the mouse which dangled from his mouth. He tore it to pieces, growling, and the others kept at a safe distance, for he was the biggest and strongest of the litter. After this they turned down the field to the pool in the middle, and here Mother Badger showed them another game. On the bank the meadow-sweet grew rankly, and hearing the familiar 'plop-plop' of a frog in the dew-soaked herbage, she set the example of chasing it. The cubs grew eager, and hunted with little squeaks and snorts of excitement. Frog was better than mouse, for it could not run from them so silently. Now and then there was a splash as some amphibian, more lucky than his fellows, dived through the crowfoots into the pond. When this occurred the cubs were puzzled—water was a mystery to them—but another frog was soon afoot, and the chase began again.

Thus, night by night, they learned field-craft, and gradually grew to know the geography of the woods, with every pool and thicket and pathway.