the
less, and he did that which he did.

From thence we find our hedgehog, still wandering devious, but with
always a direction, just as an ant has, heading his way down-ditch to a
farm, and all the way he ate--beetles mostly, but with slugs and worms
thrown in.

Now, those of the wild-folk who approach the farm, even by night, do so
with their life in their paws, and most of them know it. Far, far
safer would it be to remain in wood or field-hedge, gorse-patch or
growing crop. Yet they go, like the adventurers of old.

First of all, if he approached by ditch, before getting to the farm
proper, the hedgehog knew that he must pass the entrenchments of the
rat-folk, and that alone was enough to put off many, for the rat-folk
are no longer strictly wild, and, wild or tame, are hated with that
cordiality that only fear can impose. I don't know that our hedgehog
was given to fearing anything very much. He came of a brave race, and
one cursed, moreover, with a vile, quick temper, more than likely to
squash in its incipient stage any fear that might threaten to exist;
but he did most emphatically detest rats, except to eat them--a
compliment which the rats would have returned, if they had got a chance.

As a matter of fact, it is unlikely that Prickles--for such was the
name of our hedgehog--would have gone that risky way, traveled so
unhealthily far, left his more or less--mostly less--safe home wood at
all, had it not been that it is sometimes with hedgehogs as it is with
men--in the warm seasons--their fancy turns to thoughts of love.
Prickles's fancy had so turned, not lightly, for he was of an ancient
and antediluvian race, heavy in thought, but certainly to love. And
love, I want you to realize, in the wild, or anywhere else, for the
matter of that, is the very devil. "Unite and multiply; there is no
other law or aim than love," one great savant despairingly assorts is
Nature's cry, and adds that she mutters to herself under her breath,
"and exist afterwards if you can. That is no concern of mine."

To be precise, Prickles, who did more business with his nose than all
the rest of his organs put together, was following a love-trail. A
lady hedgehog, a flapper undoubtedly, and beautiful--all loves are
beautiful in imagination--had passed that way. Why _that_ unhealthful
way, Heaven knew; but, allowing for the capriciousness of the sex, and
mad because in love, Prickles followed, slowly, deliberately, heavily,