Meph, the Pet Skunk (American Woodland Tales)

by Jean Craighead George

  “I didn’t squeal on them either. I don’t know any of them but Sam. And Sam’s O.K.”

  The sheriff thought it all over.

  “Well, we’ll question the other boys again. But your friend Sam isn’t as nice to you as you are to him.”

  “I don’t care, what are they going to do to him?”

  “Well, this is the first offense. He’ll get off lightly. But we may have to put him under custody.” Sycamore looked at Mr. Crocket.

  “Is he a good worker, Sycamore?”

  “Yes, but he’s like I was before you came. He doesn’t like farming.”

  The sheriff rose to go.

  “We’ll question the other boys again, Sycamore. I guess we won’t need you right now. I think you told me the truth. Too bad you didn’t hit that boy harder. It might have saved him.”

  “Could I go with you, sheriff?” Mr. Crocket asked. “I’d like to talk to Sam Toy. We can use another hand here.” Then he turned to Sycamore.

  “And by the way, young man; you can listen to your father, too. He’s right about a lot of things, you know. New experiments aren’t always the best way to do things. Often as not they are wrong, but it is the only way we learn things. We also need the long years of experience your father has had. You might take some lessons from him, too.” He smiled at Sycamore and went out the door with the sheriff.

  Seed stood motionless watching them go. He couldn’t believe what he had heard. He did amount to something then. He wasn’t always wrong, always behind times. Mrs. Crocket spoke.

  “Sometimes it takes my husband a long time to say what he feels. He might have saved you a lot of unhappiness if he had spoken sooner; but that’s a man for you. Can’t tell a person what a good job he’s done.”

  Seed looked at her and smiled happily from deep, deep down within him.

  “I guess I’m just an old dirt farmer,” he laughed.

  Sycamore was glad to see his father smile again. He looked at him shyly as Seed walked toward him.

  “Sycamore, I’m glad you poked that boy.” Seed was grinning and Sycamore knew he believed him. He let down his defense and laughed.

  “I showed him what milking a cow will do to your fist.” They both chuckled, embarrassed at first, and then, at last, with real feeling.

  “I’m sorry I doubted you, son,” Seed said.

  “Sure, Pa. After all, it didn’t look very good for me for a while, and I’ve not been perfect.”

  At dusk Meph came out of his den. The stream wood lot had not been grazed all spring and it was dense with wild flowers and cover plants that Mr. Crocket had sowed for the wildlife. Already there was a difference. The rabbits were moving back and more song birds were nesting in the shelters. There was ample food for the mice too, and they were gradually increasing, and Meph was part of nature’s scheme to keep them from becoming too many. It was not much trouble to leave his den and track down a mouse or two without wandering far. Around him he could hear the song sparrows who were nesting in the low grasses and the bluebirds and wrens singing near the hollow nest logs that had been put out for them.

  Meph, like Sycamore, enjoyed the pond. He found much to occupy him on his evening prowls along its quiet rim. Tadpoles, frogs, and mice were active there. A female muskrat also had found the pond and its cattail and arrowhead roots. Sometimes Meph found cut bits of these plants the muskrat had lost, and munched on them. The muskrat dug tunnels into the dam. She began her tunnels underwater in the pond and worked through the base of the dam and then up above the water line. This gave her a hidden den where she could bear her young and escape enemies.

  Meph heard Sycamore at the other end of the pond. He looked up but did not come toward him, for he had plenty of food and there was much to do. Sycamore was searching the water for signs of fish. Earlier in the week a fisheries man had dumped bluegill sunfish, and largemouthed black bass into the water. The fish had darted off into their new home. At first they had schooled near the end of the pond where they had been planted. Then gradually they explored the bottom, its holes, its rocks, and vegetation. As they became familiar with the pond they spread out through it. The bass took the holes where the bulldozer had bitten deep, and the bluegills the shallower spots where the sunlight came through the clear water. The fisheries man had looked the pond over and was pleased with it, for the water was just the right depth, the level steady, and the food plentiful. He left his fish to grow and thrive.

  Meanwhile the muskrat dug on. The dam had settled during the winter, but still was not packed enough to stop her. She was making a travelway through the dam to the cattail stand in the slough between the pond and the creek. She stopped her work when she heard Meph digging for a set of snapping turtle eggs. She backed away and swam to another tunnel.

  Meph found the reptile eggs, devoured them, and walked along the dam. The toads were singing melodiously in a grassy portion of the pond, and the air smelled of green growing things. He wandered over the dam for some time, then crossed through the slough to the stream.

  The muskrat went back to her digging. She clawed and dug, seeking weak spots in the dam.

  Up at the house Mr. Crocket had come back from Carlisle to find a delayed supper table set with two extra places. Molly was excited, for she saw that things would work out. It would not be all smooth and perfect. There would be no miracle to make the land lush and abundant overnight, but it would work because now at last they all understood each other. She had prepared one of the chickens with loving care while Mrs. Crocket had baked an apple pie.

  At the table everyone waited to hear what had happened in the D.A.’s office in Carlisle. Mr. Crocket unfolded his napkin on his lap and began:

  “Well, Sycamore, when Sam Toy heard that you were on his side, he told everything, and his story was just like yours. The authorities won’t even need to have you come in. Sam said that he would like to work here during the summer. I had sort of planned on tearing down some of the buildings around the house and moving them across the road with the barn to make a more workable unit.”

  Down at the pond, Meph crawled into his log den, and the muskrat worked at her tunnel far into the night.

  THE DIGGER

  THE POND WAS WARMED by the summer sun and the water was rich with aquatic life. The bluegills fed on the plankton and grew rapidly. The bass ate the bluegills and added inches to their length. The pond became part of the land. Turtles made their homes there, frogs poked their eyes above the surface and waited for the May flies to dip too low. The great blue heron stalked its edges, and a kingfisher caught the bluegills as they came to the surface to feed.

  Zibethica, the muskrat, completed her route through the dam. She used it to go to and from the cattail swamp. In a dry pocket in the dike, she gave birth to four young. She fed on the cattails and rushes in the swamp and the pond lilies that sheltered the bass. Ondatra, her mate, also had tunnels and dens in the dam. In the evening he would swim back and forth across the pond busily storing food.

  Meph still used the hollow log in the wood lot, for it was cool beneath the summer canopy. He lived entirely on his own now but often wandered up to the house when the people were out on the lawn after dinner, for he still enjoyed their company. Later, he would return to the creek wood lot.

  Sam and Sycamore worked hard all summer. Big and exciting things were happening. They jimmied the tool shed on rollers and moved it across the road to the back of the barn. They put up electric fences that curved along the strips. They built nest boxes and log dens to put in the wood lots and checked them every day to find out who used them. Mr. Crocket would bring up young trees for them to plant, and often he would ask Sycamore and Sam to spend an afternoon fishing to see how big the fish were.

  Other young boys came to help with the numerous fascinating projects that were going on. The first cutting of hay yielded better than two tons per acre, and then their fathers came to look at the strange fields with their double yields.

  The grasses in the strips grew
high and green. The cattle ate away at the clovers of the pastures, but still their hocks were buried in the lush growth. They couldn’t eat fast enough to keep down the vigorous plants. Seed was amazed and pleased. He began to like the new farming. His cattle were producing more milk and his milk checks grew bigger and bigger. Everytime a heavy rain storm hit the valley, Seed would go out to watch the land. It held. The mat of grasses on the strips and the level fields below absorbed most of the rain. The rest trickled down the diversion ditch as clear as spring water. Not a bit of soil washed across the road and down into the creek. It was truly a wonder not to see the inches of yellow mud deep on the road when the storm had passed.

  Sycamore and his father grew closer. Often at night they would read some bulletin to each other and talk about applying the idea to their farm. Sometimes Seed knew it couldn’t work on this particular land, and other times he just didn’t know. When that was the case they waited to talk it over with Mr. Crocket. If he agreed, they’d try it. Mr. Crocket always liked to try new things. Failures didn’t disturb him. They only meant try something else.

  One day Sycamore noticed that the pond level was gradually dropping. He tried to figure out why, so he could tell Mr. Crocket. In the evening after the milking chores were done, he went to the pond with corn to feed the mallard ducklings that the old red hen had hatched. They came sailing toward him from across the pond, and gobbled the food he brought.

  There were many things to watch at the pond—the turtles, the snakes, the red-winged blackbirds nesting in the clumps of cattails—but they did not explain the falling water level. Then one night Sycamore heard a stir along the eastern dike and saw Meph digging vigorously in the side of the dam.

  Meph was working hard trying to dig out a mole that had just tunneled through the wet loam. Sycamore saw the dirt piling up behind Meph and grew worried. Meph: was he the one? Was he digging holes in the dam? Was he letting out the water? He didn’t want to look further, for if it was true he would have to tell. Mr. Crocket had spent too much money on the dam to let Meph ruin it. He tried to forget what he had seen and went back to the house.

  The next day when he thought it over, he was sure that he had been wrong, that Meph had only been nosing around in the grasses.

  Mr. Crocket finally noticed that the pond was dropping and he grew concerned.

  “We’ll have to do something about it, Sycamore,” he said. “All the fish will die. See if you can find what’s doing it.”

  That night Sycamore Will lay awake in his bed and watched the moon reflected in the water of the pond. He felt ashamed of himself for not having told Mr. Crocket immediately, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. If Meph was the one he might have to be killed.

  For another week, he tried to find other reasons for the water dropping. He watched the dam closely, but he learned nothing new. Occasionally he saw something swim across the water, but regularly he saw Meph digging away at the bank. Sycamore knew his wild friend loved the quiet water and the life around it as much as he himself did. But maybe he could encourage him to leave.

  At sundown he waited at the pond. Meph left his log and Sycamore called to him. Meph was glad to see his friend, and romped over to him. Sycamore picked him up and stroked his fur and rubbed his head. Finally as he put him down he said:

  “Look, Meph, you mustn’t dig holes in the dam. You follow me and I’ll show you a new place to hunt.” He led the skunk to some corn he had put along the creek. He was pleased when Meph began to eat it. He took two mice that he had trapped in the barn and put them down for Meph. Then he turned quietly and stole away leaving Meph behind. When he got back to the pond, he felt better. Maybe Meph would find a new den down the stream.

  Fortunately, the next time Mr. Crocket came he was busy planting white pines in the back wood lot and did not have time to go down to the pond. As he was leaving to return to the city he put his arm around Sycamore and said:

  “Well, how’s the detective? Did you find any reason for the pond dropping?”

  “I checked the springs, and they may be a little weak.”

  “Hmm. I don’t think so. We’ll look it over next week end. We’ve lost almost two feet of water.”

  Sycamore walked slowly into the house. The next time Mr. Crocket came he would tell him, unless Meph stayed down the stream and the pond rose. A week would give Meph time to find a new home. That night Sycamore buried his head in his pillow and ached deep in his heart, for he loved his wild friend.

  He waked the next morning with a jerk. His father was shaking him and pointing out his window.

  “Look! Look, at all the white birds!” Sycamore ran to see. There standing on their long legs in the now shallow pond were a flock of American egrets.

  “Gee, they’re catching the fish!” Sycamore cried.

  “Yep, the water’s so low they can wade right in and get them. Look at them catch them!” Sycamore stared with lost hope, for he knew this was the end. He must get rid of Meph or the fish would all be gone.

  Late that afternoon he walked slowly down to the creek. He had his father’s shotgun under his arm and he was stepping along, head down. He saw the bees humming around the purple iron weed. A humming bird flew to the cardinal flower and hung on swift invisible wings as she drank the nectar. At the edge of the pond a frog felt Sycamore’s footsteps and plopped into the low water. The boy watched him breast stroke to the bottom. A moment later he floated to the surface where his nose and eyes stuck through the pond scum.

  The long-legged egrets stood at the far end of the pond, their slender necks erect. Swiftly they speared for fish, and Sycamore bit his lips as he saw them bring the shining bluegills into the sun. They watched Sycamore walk slowly along the dike. As he came closer they rose from the water, dragging their great legs behind them. They gained altitude rapidly and perched high in the branches of a nearby oak.

  Sycamore went on looking for Meph. Perhaps he would not be here; perhaps he had given up the banks of the pond for the new feeding ground. Sycamore forced one leg ahead of the other as he scanned the brim of the pond.

  Meph heard the egrets cry as he lay in his log half awake. He rolled onto his back and clawed the roof of the log. The chips fell on his stomach and he bit at them. Presently he sensed a disturbance along the brink of the pond and he nosed his way to the den entrance. He tasted the air; but the wind was blowing down the creek and it told him nothing of the step, step, step on the earthen dam.

  Meph left his den and ambled down the trail that led to the creek. He drank long from the water then took the avenue under the hemlock toward the pond. He sniffed and dug as he moved along slowly. He climbed up the embankment and looked over the pond waters. The circles created by the dripping feet of the egrets had run their course and the surface was calm. He sniffed Sycamore’s footsteps and their acrid scent that lay strong on the crushed clover blossoms. He started down the familiar trail, lazily investigating the bee on the early golden rod. Sycamore was some distance ahead of him. He ran a few steps to catch up, then rummaged down the embankment after a cutworm.

  Sycamore was approaching the far end of the pond. Here the irises and the rushes grew thick. He glanced at them hastily, afraid Meph might be hunting among them. Then his heart stood still and his hands poured sweat, for there was a jerky movement at the base of the reeds. He knew it must be the little black and white skunk.

  Anxiously he pulled the fibrous stalks apart with the barrel of the gun. There, pushing and shoving, trying to get a footing in the dense jungle was a great snapping turtle. Here was one who really took the fish. He would make soup out of this enemy of the pond. The reptile gave him a chance to put off his search a little longer. He thrust the barrel of the gun against the tough ugly head. The creature hissed and squirmed.

  Meph finished the cutworm and climbed back up the bank. He followed the trodden path along the dam. At first he ran a few steps toward Sycamore, but slowed down to a walk as the many smells from the summer earth attracted hi
s attention. He stopped to paw the decaying leaves, the seeds blown from the dandelions, and the silver trail of the snail.

  Sycamore made several attempts to grab the thrashing, powerful tail of the turtle. Finally he got a good grip on it, released the gun barrel from the head, and picked it up. It twisted and buckled and wriggled as he held it. Gradually, the writhing tail slipped in his fingers. The thick head with the powerful jaws swung toward his wrist. He dropped the creature. Quickly he aimed the shotgun at its head.

  Meph heard the thrashing shell beat against the cattail stems. He was close behind Sycamore, only some four feet separating them. The great body thumped against the ground and Meph threw up his tail. He smelled the dead fish odor of the old denizen and heard the great jaw snap together. He aimed.

  Sycamore pulled the trigger. He was knocked backwards by the blast. The ground splattered up in front of him, and at the same time, he was drenched in a burning spray. His eyes watered and stung, his mouth felt oily and tasted bitter. What a shot that was, he thought as he rubbed his eyes to see what had happened. The cattails and the turtle swam in a haze of hot tears.

  He realized what had happened. He began to laugh. He laughed and laughed. Here he was out to get Meph and Meph got him. It was the first time Meph had ever sprayed him, but it was a good job. A blast from a shotgun at close range was enough to make even the best of skunks fire.

  Sycamore must have sat in the cattail jungle for three or four minutes before he could see. When at last his eyes cleared, he saw the black and white plume regally waving above the reeds as Meph retreated hastily to the wood lot. Sycamore took a deep breath. The odor wasn’t so bad. It was very sweet, but he concluded he’d rather smell like Meph than the fishy snapper that now lay dead at his feet. He picked it up and started back toward the house.

  “Ma!” he called from the back porch. “I don’t suppose you’ll want to see me, but you might like a snapper for soup.”