mossback was wide awake now, and he muttered something about
"another of those pesky porkies." He had killed the last one that came
around the house, and had wanted his wife to cook it for dinner and see
how it tasted, but she wouldn't. She said that the very sight of it was
enough for her, and more than enough; and that it was all she could do
to eat pork and potatoes after looking at it.

He turned over and tried to go to sleep again, but without success. That
steady "chew-chew-chew" was enough to keep a woodchuck awake, and at
last he got up and went to the door. The moonlight on the snow was
almost as bright as day, and there was the Porcupine, leaning against
the side of the barn, and busily rasping the wood from around the head
of a rusty nail. The mossback threw a stick of stove-wood at him, and
he lumbered clumsily away across the snow. But twenty minutes later he
was back again, and this time he marched straight into the open shed at
the back of the house, and began operations on a wash-tub, whose mingled
flavor of soap and humanity struck him as being very delicious. Again
the mossback appeared in the doorway, shivering a little in his
night-shirt.

The Porcupine was at the foot of the steps. He had stopped chewing when
the door opened, and now he lifted his forepaws and sat half-erect, his
yellow teeth showing between his parted lips, and his little eyes
staring at the lamp which the mossback carried. The quills slanted back
from all around his diminutive face, and even from between his
eyes--short at first, but growing longer toward his shoulders and back.
Long whitish bristles were mingled with them, and the mossback could not
help thinking of a little old, old man, with hair that was grizzly-gray,
and a face that was half-stupid and half-sad and wistful. He was not yet
two years of age, but I believe that a porcupine is born old. Some of
the Indians say that he is ashamed of his homely looks, and that that is
the reason why, by day, he walks so slowly, with hanging head and
downcast eyes; but at night, they say, when the friendly darkness hides
his ugliness, he lifts his head and runs like a dog. In spite of the
hour and the cheering influence of the wash-tub, our Porky seemed even
more low-spirited than usual. Perhaps the lamplight had suddenly
reminded him of his personal appearance. At any rate he looked so
lonesome and forlorn that the mossback felt a little thrill of pity for
him, and decided not to