“Here, mother,” said Clinton, “what am I to do with them? Wouldn’t some of those large ones be good to eat?”
“They may be good enough, for all I know; but I should not like to eat anything that was killed in that way,” replied his mother. “Besides, they are hardly fat enough to eat well. You had better bury them in the garden; I don’t think they are good for anything else.”
“I will do it right away, then,” said Clinton; and he and Whistler procured shovels, and began to dig the holes.
“I should like to see a skunk,” said Whistler; “do they show themselves around here very often?”
“Yes, I see them occasionally,” replied Clinton. “One moonlight evening, last spring, I had been away, and when I came home, I saw one sitting on our door-step; but he walked off as soon as he heard me, and I didn’t think it best to follow him.”
“They are nasty-looking things, I suppose,” said Whistler.
“Why, no; there is nothing very bad-looking about them,” replied Clinton. “Their fur is brown, with white stripes, and if it wasn’t for their odor, they would be hunted for their skins. People sometimes eat skunks when they can’t get anything else, and they say the meat is very well flavored.”
“What kind of a trap is it you are going to borrow?” inquired Whistler; “will it kill the animal, or only make a prisoner of him?”
“It is a steel trap, such as they catch wolves with,” replied Clinton. “It catches the creature by the leg, and he can’t get away, unless he leaves his leg behind.”
“Perhaps you will catch a wolf,” suggested Whistler.