The remains of a large camp-fire smouldered, right in the heart of a forest of giant spruces far up in the North country. It had smouldered there sullenly all through a long, summer day, being left by the campers to die of its own accord. By this time they were far away, striking a new trail through the woods.
Night was coming on now. Down in the still, dark places, stealthy sounds, rustlings, and padded footsteps might be heard along wild trails, for with the coming of darkness the prowlers, who forage best at night, were beginning to stir abroad. Certain dark, shambling figures—one, two, three—came shuffling across a streak of moonlit forest. It was Moween, the little black mother bear and her two cubs. They had come down from their mountain den to hunt in the deep forest lowlands and swamps. Redbrush, the old fox, hit the trail in hot haste; he had scented wonderful game, perhaps a covey of plump, sleeping partridges. Impatiently he made a sudden, wide detour, even crossing a brook and wetting his feet, which he disliked, just to avoid meeting a cross old lynx whom he despised. Two cottontails, also scenting both fox and lynx, leaped high over the tops of the rank brakes and bounded off in another direction with long leaps, halting to lie flat, trembling and panting, staying there concealed until the dreaded ones had gone on. It happened that what the cottontails had imagined to be a lynx or Redbrush, the fox, was only Unk-Wunk, the porcupine, grubbing unconcernedly over the trail, grunting to himself monotonously his "unk-wunk, unk-wunk," rattling his quills softly as he crept leisurely in and out among the tall ferns, fearing neither man nor beast.
Occasionally he would halt to root, pig fashion, beneath some rotten log for grubs or wake-robin roots, for which he had a great desire. Then again he would stop, and standing upon his hind legs he would reach up and strip off the bark from some young, tender sapling with his sharp teeth. Not very far behind Unk-Wunk followed another porcupine, his mate. She was somewhat smaller in size and less aggressive and also, if possible, just a trifle more stupid-looking and droll than he. In fact, she would actually pass right by some really choice morsel which she wished keenly, just because it happened to be a little outside the range of her small, dull piggy eyes. So, often Unk-Wunk would stop to nose out food for her, for she usually depended upon him to locate the meals for both of them, and he seldom failed her.
To-night Unk-Wunk was very keen upon a new trail, but you would never have suspected it from his manner, because he never hurried. Still, if you knew him very well indeed, you might detect that his gait was rather more confident than usual, that in spite of his devious turnings aside, he always returned again to the same trail. All day the two porcupines had slept well in the round, deeply hollowed-out hole of a spruce tree, and between naps Unk-Wunk had watched with growing interest a thin, blue spiral of smoke as it filtered and wavered through the tops of the tall spruces far above. Upon several occasions the porcupine had seen similar trails of mysterious blue smoke, and whenever, out of sheer curiosity, he had followed the smoke to its lair, always had he been repaid for his long journey, because smoke usually meant a camp, and campers recklessly threw away much food, more especially bones, bacon rinds, and even, pieces of mouldy pork or ham.
So Unk-Wunk, the wise one, lifted his blunt muzzle from time to time and sniffed deeply of the faint, delicious odours which sudden winds blew in whiffs from the far-off camp. As soon as it commenced to grow dusky down below, Unk-Wunk grunted to his mate to follow, and together they started off upon their raids.
Naturally selfish of nature and secretive is the porcupine, and when an inquisitive intruder ventured to cross Unk-Wunk's trail, he would hold his own ground, never stirring from his tracks, but, standing sullenly in the path, force everything to turn out for him. Or, should they presume to show courage enough to face him, he would simply drop right down in his tracks, roll himself into the well-known prickly ball, and let them come on. This they usually decided not to do in the end, for most wanderers along the trails were not deceived; well they knew that out of his small, dull-appearing eyes Unk-Wunk was craftily watching their every movement, waiting for them to come near enough to him to slap them with his barb-laden tail.
Thus Unk-Wunk and his mate grubbed along, not too hurriedly, which would have been a mistake, for some other watcher might have its curiosity aroused and follow them, and they would perhaps be compelled to share their find with another. Finally following devious trails, the porcupines reached the deserted camp. Unk-Wunk was glad there was no one there, because once, when he had gnawed very loudly, a sleeping man had been awakened and fired a gun at him.
Wandering in and out among the blackened embers groped Unk-Wunk, grunting impatiently while nosing over a pile of empty tins cans. But soon, to his joy, he discovered a bone which he rasped and rasped, pushing away his mate when she presumed to touch it. Next, oh, joy, he found a long bacon rind. He actually fought with his mate for this, forcing her to go back to a greasy board which he had been gnawing.
Things began to look more promising and Unk-Wunk and his mate were so busy with their foraging, they utterly failed to hear the soft, velvet, padded footsteps of another, who had been following their trail from the first. They failed also to catch the gleam of a pair of blazing, yellow eyes which peered out at them maliciously from behind the blackened background of a stump, watching, watching their every movement. It was a large tawny wildcat. For some time the cat watched the porcupines, lashing its tail softly against the pliant ferns; each instant the tail seemed to switch a trifle more impatiently; the wildcat was making ready for an attack. Finally, unable to endure their grunts of joy an instant longer, for the cat was gaunt with hunger, it crouched low, then shot right into the very centre of the camp. Spitting, snarling, yelling its horrid wails, which echoed through the woods, it charged upon the porcupines. Regardless of Unk-Wunk's raised, quilly armour it flew straight at him, tussling, scuffling, spitting and snarling, eager to take away the bone.
SPITTING, SNARLING, YELLING ... IT CHARGED UPON THE PORCUPINES.
SPITTING, SNARLING, YELLING ... IT CHARGED UPON THE PORCUPINES.
"Slap." The tail of the porcupine, laden with its most deadly quills, landed right between the blazing, yellow eyes of the wildcat, almost blinding it. Then a terrific battle took place; the whirling wildcat, mad with pain, tore about in a wide circle, scattering blackened firebrands in all directions. It looked, for a time, as if a small cyclone had struck the camp. All the while the cat kept up its uncanny screams which struck sudden terror to many a small wild thing along the trails, sending them cowering back into their dens and hidden coverts. Under the whirling rain of ashes and embers, wise Unk-Wunk and his mate managed to sneak off into the woods unobserved. And at last the wildcat, angry and defeated, slunk away, rubbing its snout, trying to rid itself of the awful quills, spitting and scolding as it went.
But the really tragic part of all this was what followed. Back in the deserted camp had lain one sullen, smouldering firebrand. It might have died out of its own accord in time had it not been disturbed. But the wild scuffle between the wildcat and the porcupine had revived it, tossing it right into a bed of dry leaves and sun-baked ferns.
Out upon the hills the summer drought had been hard; the pastures lay brown and scorched by the hot sun, while in the woods the underbrush was tinder dry. So the fire took courage, kindled, snapped and crackled, then burst into bright flames and started on its travels. Up the tall stems of giant spruces it ran, leaping across from one feathery top into the next. Behind, it left blackened trunks; and below, beds of glowing embers, while all in an instant the forest trails became fairly alive with multitudes of wild things, frenzied animals, great and small, all trying to get away from the raging flames. Wildcats, timid cottontails, the black bear and her cubs, they all travelled together hurrying, hurrying on ahead of the fire. Wild deer left their runs, and, forgetting their lifelong terror of enemies, leaped off and away. Ahead, far in advance, tore one great, brave buck deer, trying to lead his mate and her fawn to safety. The bear shambled close behind, howling as she ran, snapping back at a biting firebrand which scorched her back. Great snakes cut through the fern jungles like black whips, rushing on ahead of the scorching breath of the destroying flames.
Back of the larger, stronger ones travelled the less fleet of foot, the more timid of the wild things. Among these were the porcupines, Unk-Wunk and his mate. Most of them were headed for Balsam Swamp, for there, instinctively, they knew they would find water, because deep in the swamp lay Black Pond, a never-failing water hole, which had its source in many a mountain stream. If they only could get to the water then they would be safe.
Never in all his lifetime had Unk-Wunk travelled so fast, and they were even then far behind the others; surely they would be caught by the fire. Already, in spite of their protecting quills, the porcupines began to feel the scorching breath of the flames close behind them. Old Unk-Wunk was almost spent and deliberately halted right in his tracks. His usually half-shut eyes were strained with anxiety; besides they smarted and stung from the smoke. He was almost tempted to lie right down and give up the awful chase, to defy the cruel thing which was even now scorching and blistering his tired feet. His mate, always following his example, would, of course, do exactly as he did; in fact, she would have followed him straight back into the flames.
But no, Unk-Wunk was not ready to give up. Instead, grunting, scrambling, hastening as fast as he was able, the porcupine suddenly and deliberately left the trail; it looked almost as if he were going straight into the track of the fire. He managed to reach a certain flat, shelving ledge, which was just ahead of the fire. Then rolling himself into a round ball, he lay down upon the high ledge and rolled right off into space, landing some distance down below upon another ridge of rock. In between the rocky ledges he crept, where the moisture trickled constantly down from above, making it cold and wet; right close to the great rocky ridge he lay and waited. The next instant down tumbled another round, quilly ball from the ledge above. It was his mate; the faithful thing had followed Unk-Wunk, just as he knew she would do. There in the cool, moist-laden rock they clung tight together and went fast asleep, too weary and scorched and terror-stricken to move; and the great fire raged around them, but when it came to the ridge, it leaped right over the spot where they lay, and they were safe.
Most of the more fortunate fleet-footed wild animals managed to reach Balsam Swamp. There the great snowy owl finally settled, and makes her nest there each year. The eagles built their nest above upon a ledge, and the heron tribe located close by. But Moween, the little black bear and her cubs, went back to the forest and made her den right beneath the ridge where Unk-Wunk and his mate found safety, so that the porcupines and the bears have ever since been near neighbours.
The spot has for many years been known as Porcupine Ridge. Almost any time, if you stray that way, and care for a stiff climb, you can pick up quantities of loose quills near the spot, and sometimes you may even run across a quilly ball lying right on top of the ledge, or catch one of the numerous porcupine family picking its way leisurely among the rocks. So now you can fully understand why this particular spot has always been called Porcupine Ridge, because it was really settled by none other than old Unk-Wunk and his mate at the time of the great forest fire.