“A porkypine ain’t necessarily after aigs jest because he’s back of a barn,” said the woodsman. “An’ anyways, a porkypine don’t eat aigs. He hain’t got the right kind o’ teeth fer them kind o’ vittles. He’s got to have something he kin gnaw on, somethin’ substantial an’ solid––the which he prefers a young branch o’ good tough spruce, though it do make his meat kinder strong. No, Mrs. Gammit, it ain’t no porkypine what’s stealin’ yer aigs, take my word fer it. An’ the more I think o’ it the surer I be that it’s a weasel. When a weasel learns to suck aigs, he gits powerful cute. Ye’ll have to be right smart, I’m telling ye, to trap him.”
During this argument of Barron’s his obstinate and offended listener had become quite convinced of the justice of her own conclusions. The sarcasm had settled it. She knew, now, that she had been right all along in her suspicion of the porcupines. And with this certainty her indignation suddenly disappeared. It is such a comfort to be certain. So now, instead of flinging his ignorance in his face, she pretended to be convinced––remembering that she needed his advice as to how to trap the presumptuous porcupine.
“Well, Mr. Barron,” said she, with the air of one 228 who would take defeat gracefully, “supposin’ ye’re right––an’ ye’d oughter know––how would ye go about ketchin’ them weasels?”
Pleased at this sudden return to sweet reasonableness, the woodsman once more grew interested.
“I reckon we kin fix that!” said he, confidently and cordially. “I’ll give ye three of my little mink traps. There’s holes, I reckon, under the back an’ sides o’ the shed, or barn, or wherever it is that the hens have their nests?”
“Nat’rally!” responded Mrs. Gammit. “The thieves ain’t agoin’ to come in by the front doors, right under my nose, be they?”
“Of course,” assented the woodsman. “Well, you jest set them ’ere traps in three o’ them holes, well under the sills an’ out o’ the way. Don’t go fer to bait’em, mind, or Mr. Weasel’ll git to suspicionin’ somethin’, right off. Jest sprinkle bits of straw, an’ hayseed, an’ sech rubbish over ’em, so it all looks no ways out o’ the ordinary. You do this right, Mrs. Gammit; an’ first thing ye know ye’ll have yer thief. I’ll git the traps right now, an’ show ye how to set ’em.”
And as Mrs. Gammit walked away with the three steel traps under her arm, she muttered to herself––
“Yes, Joe Barron, an’ I’ll show ye the thief. An’ he’ll have quills on him, sech as no weasel ain’t never had on him, I reckon.”
On her return, Mrs. Gammit was greeted by the 229 sound of high excitement among the poultry. They were all cackling wildly, and craning their necks to stare into the shed as if they had just seen a ghost there. Mrs. Gammit ran in to discover what all the fuss was about. The place was empty; but a smashed egg lay just outside one of the nests, and a generous tuft of fresh feathers showed her that there had been a tussle of some kind. Indignant but curious, Mrs. Gammit picked up the feathers, and examined them with discriminating eyes to see which hen had suffered the loss.