It was full of the moon at the seashore, and the young field corn close by was ripe; each pearly kernel almost bursting with its milky-sweet contents. What a time for a corn roast or frolic; so thought all the boys along that particular strip of beach, which shelved its way down from a dense forest of spruce and hemlock to the edge of the water.  
There were others, the furry things, the four-footed people of the woods, who knew just as well as the boys what good times were to be had at that particular season, and they made their plans accordingly. The boys had visited the beach that same night, roasted their corn and oysters, and left long before. The shore was apparently quite deserted. The ebbing tide was stealing out softly, scraping and rasping upon the little round pebbles, sending little golden shells tinkling musically against each other, as the water lapped and filtered through them. Overhead shone the great yellow moon, making a wide silvery path straight out across the water. One wondered where the road ended. Back from the beach in the dark woods, plenty of life was now stirring, for the nocturnal prowlers were waking up, though the small windows of the scattered farmhouses were dark and still. Above the noise of the ebb tide the katy-dids were heard contradicting each other tirelessly, hoarsely, "katy-did, katy-didn't." Crickets shrilled in the long, coarse beach grass; a distant screech-owl set up an occasional shivery wail. Then, from amid the thickets of scrub oak and barberry bushes, came another call—an unusual cry, not often heard, which began with a tremulous whimper, ceased, then went on; and was finally taken up and answered by another similar whimpering cry, and still another, from different parts of the woods. The first call had been given forth by an old hermit racoon, or a "little brother of the bear." He was something of a leader, and was sending out a summons for all his relatives to join him in a moonlight frolic.
 
The old hermit scrambled hastily down from his home tree, which happened to be the deserted nest of a great owl. Plainly the old hermit would soon outgrow this borrowed home, for when sweet corn is in the milk, and the little salt wild oysters are plentiful down on the beach, then the racoon became so very fat that he could barely waddle. Of course he felt obliged to fatten himself in late summer, for already he was making ready for his all-winter's sleep and his long, long season of fasting.
 
Having reached the ground, the hermit sent out another call—the rallying cry of his tribe; for dearly the racoon loves to feast and frolic in company and was becoming impatient to start off. The only reason, I suspect, why the old hermit lived absolutely alone, at this time, was merely because there was absolutely not an inch of spare room for another racoon in the nest.
 
To his joy, his kindred had responded, and soon from out of the shadowy places stole one waddling form, then another, until finally five racoons were in the party. Then with the hermit leading them, Indian file, they all made their way leisurely to the distant corn field. In and out among the tall rows of nodding, whispering blades they stole, and standing upon their little black hind feet, they would reach up the corn stalk, and deftly pull down a plump ear with their forepaws, which they used as cleverly as hands. They never made the mistake of selecting blackened, mildewed ears; these and the shrivelled, dwarfed ears they tossed disdainfully aside, and my! what havoc those coons did make in the corn field that night! They would strip off the silky green husks and eat out only the full, milky kernels, smearing their black noses and paws liberally with the juice, which they would hasten to rinse off at the first water they found.
 
 OUT POPPED THE FUNNY PAINTED FACE OF THE BADGER. 
OUT POPPED THE FUNNY PAINTED FACE OF THE BADGER.
There were others in the field that night, but they never interfered with one another; there was plenty of corn for all. The woodchuck family also enjoyed sweet corn in the milk and, tempted by the moonlight, they had left their burrow to feast. Off beyond, skirting the edges of the tall corn, skulked a swift, fleeting shadow—Redbrush, the fox, bound for the chicken coops, or hoping to find a covey of quails or partridges sleeping in the edge of the wheat field. Back in a little creek which bubbled in places, broadening out into still, deep haunts for trout and pickerel, the moonlight found its way. Here and there you might discover the huts of the muskrats, mostly deserted, for the inhabitants were all abroad. You might see their brown heads above water, follow the wake of their silvery trails, and hear their playful squeaks as they chased each other from village to village. Oh, there were squeaks a-plenty that night all through the deep clover and among the tall grain, while beneath roofs, fast asleep and dreaming, were the children.
 
For the most part the wild things appeared to live together in peace and harmony; occasionally bitter feelings were felt when the racoons thrust their black paws into a woodpecker's nest and robbed it of eggs. Then, too, old Mrs. Diamond-back, the turtle, would deposit her eggs in a spot which she fondly imagined very secret, failing utterly to look up above, where, from a branch, the greenish inquisitive eyes of the hermit watched her every movement. Taking it altogether, there was little to disturb their happy life then. Times were going to change and very soon in an unexpected fashion.
 
Clown-face, the badger, had been routed out of his distant home-nest on the far side of the mountain by an enemy. Because he enjoyed roving, he took up the life of a tramp and made a trip to the seashore, for he dearly loved the little black mussels which he remembered having once found there. As it happened, badgers were not common in that section of the country; perhaps one of them had never happened to venture over upon that side of the mountain even, so none of the wild things had ever encountered this queer-looking fellow.
 
Queer looking he certainly was, and the funniest thing about him was that the sly old fellow, who had often looked at himself in some still pool, knew exactly how odd he appeared to others. He had wit enough to use this knowledge for his own purposes. Once seen, the clown face of the badger was not soon forgotten by other animals. He soon discovered that when a stranger appeared suddenly on the trail whom he did not care to meet, all he had to do usually was to stand still, and stare and stare at the............