e middle of it
crouched two big porcupines, gnawing assiduously at a small wooden
tub. The noise of their busy teeth on the hard wood rang loud upon the
stillness, and a low _tonk-a-tonk_ of cow-bells came from the pasture
as the cows lifted their heads to listen.

The tub was a perfectly good tub, and Mrs. Gammit was indignant at
seeing it eaten. It had contained salt herrings; and she intended,
after getting the flavour of fish scoured out of it, to use it for
packing her winter's butter. She did not know that it was for the sake
of its salty flavour that the porcupines were gnawing at it, but
leaped to the conclusion that their sole object was to annoy and
persecute herself.

"Shoo! Shoo!" she cried, snatching off her nightcap and flapping it at
them frantically. But the animals were too busy to even look up at
her. The only sign they gave of having heard her was to raise their
quills straight on end so that their size apparently doubled itself
all at once.

Mrs. Gammit felt herself wronged. As she turned and ran downstairs she
muttered, "First it's me aigs--an' now it's me little tub--an' Lordy
knows what it's goin' to be next!" Then her dauntless spirit flamed up
again, and she snapped, "But there ain't agoin' to be no next!" and
cast her eyes about her for the broom.

Of course, at this moment, when it was most needed, that usually
exemplary article was not where it ought to have been--standing beside
the dresser. Having no time to look for it, Mrs. Gammit snatched up
the potato-masher, and rushed forth into the moonlight with a gurgling
yell, resolved to save the tub.

She was a formidable figure as she charged down the yard, and at
ordinary times the porcupines might have given way. But when a
porcupine has found something it really likes to eat, its courage is
superb. These two porcupines found the herring-tub delicious beyond
anything they had ever tasted. Reluctantly they stopped gnawing for a
moment, and turned their little twinkling eyes upon Mrs. Gammit in
sullen defiance.

Now this was by no means what she had expected, and the ferocity of
her attack slackened. Had it been a lynx, or even a bear, her courage
would probably not have failed her. Had it been a man, a desperado
with knife in hand and murder in his eyes, she would have flown upon
him in contemptuous fury. But porcupines were different. They were
mysterious to her. She believed firmly that they could shoot their
quills, like arrows, to