ne
February afternoon, as the Porky was trundling himself deliberately over
the snow-crust, a fierce-looking animal with dark fur, bushy tail, and
pointed nose sprang at him from behind a tree and tried to catch him by
the throat, where the quills did not grow, and there was nothing but
soft, warm fur. The Porcupine knew just what to do in such a case, and
he promptly made himself into a prickly ball, very much as his mother
had done seven or eight months before, with his face down, and his
quills sticking out defiantly. But this time his scheme of defence did
not work as well as usual, for the sharp little nose dug into the snow
and wriggled its way closer and closer to where the jugular vein was
waiting to be tapped. That fisher must have understood his business, for
he had chosen the one and only way by which a porcupine may be
successfully attacked. For once in his life our friend was really
scared. Another inch, and the fisher would have won the game, but he was
in such a hurry that he grew careless and reckless, and did not notice
that he had wheeled half-way round, and that his hind-quarters were
alongside the Porcupine's. Now, sluggish and slow though a porky may be,
there is one of his members that is as quick as a steel trap, and that
is his tail. Something hit the fisher a whack on his flank, and he gave
a cry of pain and fury, and jumped back with half a dozen spears
sticking in his flesh. He must have quite lost his head during the next
few seconds, for before he knew it his face also had come within reach
of that terrible tail and its quick, vicious jerks. That ended the
battle, and he fled away across the snow, almost mad with the agony in
his nose, his eyes, his forehead, and his left flank. As for the Porky,
he made for the nearest tree as fast as he could go, hardly trusting in
his great deliverance. And I don't believe there is any sight in all the
Great Tahquamenon Swamp much funnier than a porky in a hurry--a porky
who has really made up his mind that he is in danger and must hustle for
dear life. He is the very personification of haste and a desire to go
somewhere quick, and he picks his feet up and puts them down again as
fast as ever he can; and yet, no matter how hard he works, his legs are
so short and his body so fat that he can't begin to travel as fast as he
wants to.

Another day the lynx tried it, and fared even worse than the fisher--not
the Canada lynx, with whom we are already somewhat