I

A HIGHLY SEASONED WELCOME

LATE one May day when the magic of approaching evening was spreading over the north country, there was regal ceremony afoot in our forest Sanctuary. Even a stranger to the region would have discerned as much had he looked or listened to the fuss and flurry which were taking place. The very air seemed to quiver with beauty and merriment. The sun was already in the afternoon sky, high lighting mountainous clouds which hung immobile at the horizon. And all the far-flung beauty of the heavens lived again in the mirrored lake.
     An old crow hurried across the brilliant sky. Maybe to some his cry would have sounded like the familiar caw, caw, caw; but to us who stood under spell of the moment, it seemed he said, “Awake! Awake! All you children of the forest, the party has begun.” A belted kingfisher, perched on a barren bough, caught the spirit of the moment and playfully dived into the shallow water at the shore, uttering his raucous laughter as he rose on wing again.
     It was all wonderful to see! Graceful birches and sturdy oaks primped in the gathering evening light, proudly displaying their tresses of new-born leaves.

Tiny star flowers and dainty violets strutted and posed their prettiest on the woodland carpet. Pine trees stood still and straight to add dignity to the scene. Juneberry blossoms flung their white beauty against the flaming color of the sky.

     “Awake! Awake! They have returned—the party has begun!” cawed the old crow, and the sky became dotted with many of his kind echoing his call.
     Surely something of importance and great joy was happening! An olive-backed thrush wove his song into the stillness. High in the brilliant heavens an eagle circled in effortless flight, gaining for himself a superior view of the festivities. An enormous old heron

glided into a little bay and settled among the reeds, steadied himself on one stiltlike leg, and stood as if he had suddenly turned to stone.  A chipmunk raced to a vantage point on an old stump, and a red squirrel perched on the limb of a wild cherry tree, chattering loudly as if by his voice he could rivet the wilderness together.
     Giny and I stood at the shore of this little forest lake looking upon this elaborate ceremony.  Giny is Mrs. Sam Campbell. In her heart glows a love for the living and growing things of nature.  Our canoe, loaded with luggage, floated where wavelets broke against the shore. Now we were ready to begin the last leg of our journey back to the Sanctuary--our home.
     “The woods people need not have done all this just because we were coming home,” said Giny, referring to the carnival loveliness about us.  "It is nice of them, but something simpler would have been sufficient--just to tell us we are welcome.”
     But the wild world only became more beautiful, and laughed at her call for moderation.  Nature deals in extravagance. Sunset hues deepened to old gold, a soft breeze strummed on harps of pine trees, while linnets, white-throated sparrows, and grosbeaks sang into the still loveliness.
     Then into the scene came the clown, the joker, like the court fool of olden days.  A loon flew low over the water like a winged arrow, uttering his half-hysterical

cries and laughter. Without reducing his speed in the least, he dived directly into the lake, disappearing completely. Up he came now, skimming across the surface and beating the water with his wings, his cries more weird than ever. Alternately he flew, dived, swam in craziest manner, shrieking, calling, laughing wildly. His voice echoed along the lake shores. He answered the echo and the echo answered him until the region fairly vibrated with his voice.
     We laughed. This was a royal welcome indeed, and this bit of clowning by the loon added zest to it.
     And now as we put out from shore in our canoe, gliding silently over what seemed to be a lake of gold, we knew well there were more events of surprise and delight to come. Our canoe trail would lead us from this lake, whose shores we had reached by a narrow woods road, through a charming channel into another lake where no road had yet touched. In this second lake nestled a little tree-covered island, and upon it stood a cabin that was tiny too. This was the aim and end of our journey.
     Our hearts were beating hard when we rounded the last point of land and the island came to view. It, too had been prettied up by nature for our homecoming. The sun was a great red ball at the western horizon. It peered through the pine trees as if it were stealing one last look before retiring. Our clowning loon shot through the sky overhead, screaming in wild happiness.

     “He’s just telling them all we have arrived,” affirmed Giny. “Certainly makes us feel important, doesn’t it?”
     How we hoped that his calls would tell many that we had arrived. Those wooded shores about us were the homes of some very precious forest people!
     “There is a deer!” exclaimed Giny, pointing to the shadowed depths of a little bay. “Could it be Bobette?”
     It could be Bobette, though we could not know for sure. This was where Bobette had lived when we knew her and petted her as a fawn. The woods back of the bay were sacred to us, too, for in them had lived Inky the porcupine. Inky, the old rascal porky, who had given us so many lessons, and so many problems, during the time we raised him and turned him loose in the forest. Inky of the sharp teeth, Inky of the many quills, Inky with a sense of humor that had made him an expert and adorable pest. Would he still be there and would he know us?
     “And there is that high ridge of maple trees where we always thought Rack and Ruin lived,” exclaimed Giny excitedly, pointing to some distant groves. Yes, Rack and Ruin our friendly raccoons had lived somewhere in that region. Would they still be there, and would they know us? Would Sausage our woodchuck come back to be our friend again? Only the hours and days to come could give us our answers.
     But now we were approaching our island, and our eyes, ears and thoughts strained with anticipation.

     “Oh, I wonder!—I wonder if Salt and Pepper are there!" whispered Giny hesitantly, as if she feared she might get the wrong answer. “What a climax it would be to all this wonderful welcome if we see them again!"
     “I predict you will see plenty of them before the season is over—maybe too much!" I replied, and my words were much truer than I realized.
     Six months before we had left Salt and Pepper, two young porcupines then half a year of age, on our island. From the time they were three weeks old they had been our pets. Our experience with Inky had given us an appetite for porky companionship. Inky alone had taught us many things of the character of his kind. We had found him intelligent and devoted to us. But we had learned nothing of the ways of porcupines with one another. Hence when forest rangers offered us two baby porcupines orphaned by a forest tragedy, we eagerly accepted them. Through that summer we had played with them, worked with them, watched them until they were as deeply imbedded in our hearts as Inky was. Then when winter work called us, we had to leave them behind to their own very capable devices.
     But now it seemed that this might have occurred long ago, so many things had happened. Bobby, the grand lad who had been so much a part of life at the Sanctuary, had answered the call of his country, and with typical character and courage, was flying with the air force. Giny and I had traveled thousands of miles

in public service, and met thousands of people. But the memory of those two porcupines and their friendly devotion was still vivid with us. And that day as we returned home, we wondered about these two creatures more than all the others. Would they be there on the island where we had last seen them? Would they know us? Would we still have the somewhat painful pleasure of bites from their sharp teeth and pricks from their needle-like quills?
     We had not long to wait for our answer. The island was now about one hundred yards ahead of us.  We scanned the shores carefully, and strained our eyes looking at the tops of trees where our odd little pets had lived. Giny could not resist the urge to call.
     “Salt and Pepper!” Her voice carried far in the silence. “Salt and Pepper—are you there?”
     We stopped paddling and listened. It seemed that everything else stopped and listened, too. The whole forest was suddenly silent.
     Across the waters came the unmistakable call of a porcupine, emanating from the trees on our island. Then a second porcupine voice joined the first, and the two continued in ever-increasing excitement. How well we knew those voices, and the meaning of their tones! Those were the happy notes of our porky pets the way they talked when they saw us on a trail, or took favorite food from our hands, or met us at our doorway in early morning. It was the kind of call they used to

awaken us in the middle of the night (when we would rather have been allowed to sleep), the call that made us leave our dinner table to feed or play with those pestersome but precious porcupine pets.
     Yes, Salt and Pepper were there on the island waiting for us! They had met the many problems of the winter, proved their independence of our help, and yet had not forgotten us. And the miracle of it was that they had remembered our voices! In no other way could they have identified us that evening of our return. It was not possible that they could have seen us so far away. Nor could they have caught our scent, as there was no breeze to carry it to them. Only the call Giny had made gave them news of our coming. But they knew her voice, and associated with it the many happy events of our months together—events which must have been as enjoyable for them as for us.
     Needless to say, we increased our pace. Our paddle set the image of the sky to rocking, and the canoe bow cut through the reflection of the sunset. Constantly the porcupines called to us, their voices conveying excitement in ever-rising pitch. They became still more excited as we called back in their language—and let it be said we can talk pretty good Porcupinese!
     When we reached the island and guided the canoe into the shore-line sands, Salt and Pepper were at the water’s edge to meet us. They could not wait for us to land. With uncontrolled enthusiasm they climbed over

the bow of the canoe, over the luggage—and all over us!
     What a welcome it was! We were smothered and monopolized with porcupine caresses. Gone, for a time, were all poetic thoughts, wasted all the beauty of that forest festival! All we could see were those excited, animated bundles of quills and hair climbing up our arms, on our shoulders, and all over our heads. All we could feel were those strong porcupine claws gripping and scratching our necks and faces, while chisel-like teeth nibbled at our heads and ears. Grunty talk of the jubilant porcupines was mingled with our own futile objections and requests for moderation. It was all in wondrous good fellowship no doubt—but we would have preferred that our little friends like us not quite so much all at one time.
     That habit of chewing on our heads was the one thing we had hoped they had forgotten—but they hadn’t. It was their favorite occupation, and our pet peeve. Up on our shoulders they would climb, grunting in most happy manner, and there sit as if they had received the extreme blessing of creation—nibbling our scalps. And really, that wasn’t very complimentary to us, as they are naturally bark eaters. No doubt they were seeking the salt on our skin. But whatever the purpose, they persisted in their head chewing, whether we liked it or not.
     How those little rascals had grown! When at last we

were able to get out of the canoe and put them on the ground, we were simply amazed at their size. True, they were not full grown yet, as a porcupine does not reach maturity for about three years, but they had. changed greatly from the immature little walking pin-cushions we had left on the island six months before.
     But we had more to do at that moment than stand and stare at a couple of porcupines. Darkness was creeping through the forest, and we had yet to establish ourselves in our cabin.
     “All right, you fellows,” I said to them, with an assumed authority which I alone felt. “Out of the way now! We must move in this baggage, build fires, get dinner, and do a lot of things more important than playing around with you.”
     But they had no notion of getting out of the way. In fact, they embarked upon a campaign designed to interfere with everything we wanted to do. Everywhere I wanted to step, there was a porcupine. Every suitcase or duffle bag I reached for had a porcupine on it. Every time I stooped over, one or both of them climbed up on my back. And I was picking up and putting down porcupines, chasing them away from cameras, typewriters, brief cases and other damageable articles, stumbling over them or dancing around to keep from stepping on them, until I wished every one of their twelve thousand quills was turned around and sticking in them.

     It is one of life’s richest joys to return to a woodland cabin after an absence. The comfort, security, rest and freedom that is represented in such a little woodland home is carried in our hearts as a memory and a promise. Now we had returned. The promises and plans of months were fulfilled. We were on our cabin doorstep once more.
     Again, it was like the atmosphere of a well-planned surprise party. We turned the key in the lock, and stood back while the door swung open slowly. It seemed that a thousand voices of memories cried “Surprise!” There was our fireplace, which had given us so many happy hours and now openly promised as many more. There was the kitchen which, viewed with a northwoods appetite, produced miracles in meals. There were our shelves of books holding out to us measureless information, inspiration and rich thought. And there was that quiet which was such a contrast to the nervous, noisy, hurrying world we had left behind.
     But Salt and Pepper did not permit our meditation to go far. As we stood on the doorstep for this brief moment enjoying the sensation of our return, they suddenly dashed by our feet and into the house. They were grunting wildly their delight at finding the door open to them. It never had been before! Maybe these human beings had learned something while they were away. For in times past we had been quite careful to keep them out of our cabin. Their home was the woods,

and we did not want to create in them a taste for the unnecessary comforts our way of living might offer them. We had had sufficient experience in raising Inky in a cabin. Not an article of furniture had escaped his autograph—carved by his sharp teeth. Hence, Salt and Pepper had been taught to regard the trees, or the space beneath the cabin, as their dwelling places.
     But that door had constituted a challenge to them. Time and again it had been shut (perhaps rudely) in their faces. It had been the place where we had disappeared when they wanted to follow us. It was the place where they stood and called, generally with success, when they wanted tasty bites of food. There was something mysterious about it. Maybe it led into another world, or to a porcupine heaven—who could know? Hence, when they found it open, it seemed to be some grand opportunity that might only knock once!
     Into the door they went, not even hesitating to take a bite at the suitcases which sat close at hand. And after them we went, knowing from experience what porcupine teeth can do in a very few minutes. But they were not going to be taken easily. Outside they would have stopped immediately, always anxious for us to take them in our arms. Not so in the cabin! We reached for them and they dodged under articles of furniture. We pleaded with them, but they did not respond. We threatened them, and they cared not. Under chairs, over rugs, in and out of corners, behind doors and cup-

boards the race went, Giny and I the pursuers, they the pursued. Giny and I were much in earnest, but the porcupines were having a wonderful time. We left the door open, hoping they would go out, but they wouldn’t go near it. We offered them cookies, but they wouldn’t take a bite. Instead the little rascals ran excitedly over or under everything, biting left and right, until they finished exhausted in one corner breathing heavily, while Giny and I were in another corner in the same condition.
     At last, with tact, strategy and a measure of good luck, Giny caught Pepper and carried the grunting and biting animal out of doors. Salt saw the fate of his comrade and retreated under a low bed, where he estab­

lished himself defensively, nose tucked between his front feet, quills bristling, tail lashing back and fort menacingly.
     Now I am sure getting a porcupine out from under a low bed must be one of life’s most intricate problems. I would like to counsel with one of our military strategists on the matter sometime to see if he could suggest an effective approach. Salt was thoroughly conscious of his advantageous position. He knew I could come at him from only one direction, and in that direction he pointed his tail and all of his thousands of quills. And he loved the contest. He would not permit himself to be ignored. Sensing the hopelessness of a direct attack, I tried letting him alone for a while, thinking he might come out. Instead, he began chewing on the bed, and slivers from its finely finished wood began dropping on the floor. This brought me into action again, much to his delight. He was playing, I knew, but my task could not have been more difficult if he had been in deadly earnest. I reached for him, and got several quills in my hand for my trouble. I tried to move him with my foot, but he simply climbed on it and began chewing my shoe. I started to push him out with a broom, but he screamed so loudly that I gave that up. Apparently this was against the rules of this little game he had invented, and which I had to play whether I liked it or not.
     Giny began preparing dinner, while I continued

with my perplexing problem. If I left Salt for a moment, slivers started coming out of the bed again. Using my best porcupine talk, I coaxed him. He talked right back in his happiest grunts, but not a step did he move. With sudden inspiration I moved the bed—but he moved right along with it. I became desperate. There seemed to be only one way to remove that porky without calling out the militia, and I realized what that was. Without further hesitation I tore the bed apart. Dust covers, mattress, springs, slats, railings, I snatched from over him, until Salt, surprised and a bit resentful, stood in the midst of the floor fully exposed, his protective covering absolutely gone. He did not know what had happened or where to run. Seizing upon his moment of bewilderment, I picked him up and carried him outdoors in spite of his screaming, scratching and biting. I put him on the ground and made a run for the door. So did he. I had never seen a porcupine move so fast before. But I beat him, and slammed the door against his sensitive and obtrusive nose. Pepper joined him and the two of them sat in consultation, telling us plainly what they thought of our lack of hospitality.

     Giny and I were tired, very tired, as we sat at dinner.
     “Well, anyway,” I suggested, “this was a mighty nice welcome the north woods gave us."

     "Yes," agreed Giny, with a sigh, "but just a little bit overseasoned—too much Salt and Pepper."
     "Yes, I know," I said laughing.  "But we know we like them, pestiferous as they are.  No doubt they will have plenty of tricks to use on us in the morning."
     But Salt and Pepper had no notion of waiting until morning!

FOR WEEKS we had been looking forward with joy to the rest that would be ours when we arrived at our Sanctuary. We knew well the quiet and peace which awaited us. In noisy cities where sound sleep was almost impossible, we would comfort ourselves with the thought of our north-woods home. There we would be free from the excitement and pressure of city life. There we would doze away to the lullaby of the wind in the pines. There we would know a dreamless sleep in a seamless silence.
     And that first night of our return, we set about to collect this promised sleep. We were right tired by the time the most necessary things had been done that first evening. We went to bed, and were just entering the pearly gates of our dreamland paradise, when there came a sound so penetrating it seemed to bore right into our thoughts.
     C-r-u-n-c-h! C-r-u-n-c-h! C-r-u-n-c-h!
     Salt was chewing at the front doorsill, methodically, persistently, in a way that seemed to promise that though it might take a long time, he would heroically persist until he had chewed the house down. I beat the

floor vigorously with my boot. There was profound silence for a moment, and then
     C-r-u-n-c-h! C-r-u-n-c-h! C-r-u-n-c-h!
     Pepper was chewing at the back doorsill at about the same pace and persistence Salt had initiated, as if she would eat her way along until she met him at about the middle of the cabin. Again my boot came into service, and after the floor had received another good beating there was quiet. For a moment we thought we had triumphed, and we had started seeking that elusive sleep again, when came—
     D-o-u-b-l-e  c-r-u-n-c-h!  D-o-u-b-l-e  c-r-u-n-c-h!  D-o-u-b-l-e  c-r-u-n-c-h!
     Salt and Pepper were chewing a duet on their respective doorsills! Now the annoyance of a porky’s chewing is not measured entirely by the sound. There is a threat to his nibbling that denies one any possible comfort while it is going on. Those sharp amber-colored teeth of his can cut through anything that is not made of metal. It always seems that he is working on the last quarter inch of the foundation of the cabin itself, and any bite may be the final one that produces a complete collapse. If the crunch, crunch, crunch were not associated with a porcupine, if it were being sung by a phonograph, likely we could ignore it, or bury our heads beneath a pillow and forget it. But because of the calamity this gnawing promises, we find ourselves propped up on our elbows, listening to

it, hoping each of its gripping notes will be the last, and knowing full well that it won’t be.
     I gave the floor several more good beatings with my boot, and thereby gained some moments of silence. But then again would come that C-r-u-n-c-h, c-r-u-n c-h, and d-o-u-b-l-e  c-r-u-n-c-h. There was nothing to do but get up. Certainly, that is what Salt and Pepper were working for. They didn’t care a thing about those doorsills. The sills had been there all winter, and they had not given them a nip. But they knew that inside those doors were their newly returned human friends. They knew they had been without our companionship long enough. And probably they knew that their gnawing sooner or later would get them the attention they wanted.
     Grudgingly I went out to play with them for a while. They romped with me, climbed over me and chewed at the back of my head. It was a lovely night—moon and stars shining—and I might have forgiven them at any other time. But now we wanted that promised sleep, that rest to which we had been looking forward.
     Then an idea came to me. There had been arranged for these porcupines just one place where they could go under the house. It was not a large opening, and I could easily block it. Giving them one final tussle, I gathered them up, and before they could form any possible objections I had tucked them under the house,

and placed a log at the opening. Now! There they could stay until morning, and let doorsills alone—also let us have some sleep.
     Again we had tiptoed almost to dreamland, the peace and silence of the forest was ours at last—when——
     C-r-u-n-c-h! C-r-u-n-c-h! C-r-u-n-c-h!
     Yes, and d-o-u-b-l-e  c-r-u-n-c-h,  d-o-u-b-l-e  c-r-u-n-c-h, too!
     Right under our beds they had started chewing on the floor joist! It was a hundredfold more intimate and threatening than the nibbling of the doorsills had been, and they interspersed the crunching with occasional conversation and calls! There were violent beatings on the floors with boots and other articles—but these gained only momentary relief. Before the new spasm had subsided I was outside again, kneeling at the opening which led under the house, having hurriedly removed the log I had placed there, literally begging Salt and Pepper to come on out and play with me—but to let the house alone.
     The moon had traveled far in its course across the heavens and daylight was rather close at hand before the two pesky porcupines developed a hunger for some wild cherry twigs, and climbed into a tree near the cabin. We wearily went to gather the remaining fragments of our coveted sleep.
     The next day came all too quickly, and with it much to be done. Salt and Pepper didn’t care, though. They

slept through most of the sunlight hours anyway, that they might be bright and fresh for their work on the doorsills and floor joist in nights to come.

     When the excitement of the first several days had passed at the Sanctuary, we found time to look around a bit. The forest world was sparkling with spring.

berry trees and bushes was to their liking. Whatever brought them, brought us happiness too.
     Eagerly we watched them as they moved in. Some were old friends, some new friends; all were welcome. We saw the purple finch select the crotch of a white bitch tree as a homesite, and we knew then that our mornings and evenings would be saturated with one of the sweetest songs of the wild wood. We saw the song sparrow eying with satisfaction a low balsam tree near the water’s edge, and we knew that soon his bouncing happy song would adorn the solitude. The trim little white-throated sparrow found a hollow stump to his liking. Everything already lovely in the wildwood would be made lovelier by his plaintive, sweet: “Poor John Pea-bo-dy, Pea-bo-dy, Pea-bo-dy.” Phoebe returned again to a favorite spot under the eaves of our boathouse, where she had nested for three years. An oriole chose the delicate drooping limbs of a yellow birch as the building site of her remarkable woven house. A warbling vireo moved into a wild cherry tree. An oven bird selected the grasses on a little hillside in which to build that funny little nest that looks like a Dutch oven. Tree swallows moved into hollows in dead trees in a near-by swamp; red-winged blackbirds nested in tangled swamp shrubbery near them; martins entered the home prepared for them at the tip of another small island, while the inevitable robins were

everywhere. Certainly we were not going to want for bird music in the weeks ahead.
     We were not going to want for other woodland interest either. The whole Sanctuary was rich with promise. Beavers had established themselves in a little cove we called Beaver Bay, We found evidence of their presence in freshly cut trees along the shores and up the creek, and in floating sticks of aspen from which the bark had been removed by their sharp teeth.
     Bears were in the region of Vanishing Lake. Along the trail to the little lake were several trees having their unmistakable marks. Nature students are not in agreement as to the motive bears have in making such marks. The powerful creatures fly at a tree as if they were going to pull it to pieces. They will strike it with their ponderous paws, cut deep gashes in the bark with their claws. Not infrequently they bite into the tree savagely, growling in apparent fury, tearing out great pieces of wood. Some say this is a way of showing off before a mate. Others believe it is posting a challenge to other bears who might invade forbidden territory. Still others believe the purpose, at least in part, is to obtain the medicinal sap of the tree, as bears are seen to come back to trees so treated and lick at the wounds they have made. Perhaps all these purposes are involved. But at least, as far as we were concerned, it was a message that these interesting animals were in our forest.

     Near the bear trees there were curious marks on small balsams. These also told us a story. Long scratches ran lengthwise of the little trees, beginning at a point about three feet high, and running almost to the ground—the autograph of a wildcat, left as the beautiful but cunning creature had yawned and stretched and reached for something on which to try his claws, even as our domestic cats do.
     At the base of a white spruce which towered over a hundred feet high were several holes cut deeply into the tree. The holes were fully two inches across at the opening, and reached a depth of about three inches into the tree. On the ground beneath them was a pile of chips, some of the slivers large enough to do credit to the gnawing of our porcupines. But this was the work of the great pileated woodpecker, which is exceeded in size only by the ivory-billed woodpecker of the South. He looks to be fully as large as a crow, his head crested with red, and there is no more happy or industrious workman in all the forest. Chanting incessantly, he bores quickly into the trees, making the chips fly and letting them fall where they may, while he feasts upon insects and grubs he is finding.
     What grand things we had to watch that Season! What pleasure it would be to spy on these creatures, watch their ways, and maybe learn some things we had not known before!
     Along the north shore of our lake one of those first

days we found the footprint of an enormous buck! Hurriedly we landed and examined the tracks. We could see where the creature had come down to the water to drink, had wandered along the sandy shore for fifty yards, and then returned into the woods. Likely this visit had happened but a short time before. The footprints of a deer are not at all rare in those sands and usually such markings would have drawn no more than passing notice from us. But these tracks were of deeper interest. They were tremendous in size.
     “The Antlered King?” queried Giny as we noted the great spread and depth of the hoofmarks.
     Perhaps! We could not know from tracks alone. But certainly such a track could indicate the presence of that greatest of all bucks whom we had named the Antlered King. Two years before we had seen him on several occasions. No adventure at the Sanctuary was more prized than those moments when we looked upon this magnificent creature, who was so much larger than others of his kind that it seemed he might have been of another species. He was a leftover from the earlier years, when many living things of the forest were of greater strength and stature. Then a year passed in which we did not see him at all. We feared something had happened to him. But now these tracks—had he returned?
     One evening Giny and I sat before the fireplace,

making notes of the many things developing in the woodland world about us.
     “There is so much in this great show nature is staging for us that it seems a shame others are not here to enjoy it,” I ventured with conviction.
     Giny’s eyes lit with interest.
     “Yes,” I continued, “there should be someone with us—perhaps a youth. Someone to ask funny questions and make us think hard to give the answers. Someone to tip things over accidentally, to get in funny kinds of trouble——"
     “You are missing Bobby, aren’t you?” Giny interrupted.
     I nodded.
     “Why, there hasn’t been a thing dropped or broken or spilled since we arrived. No one has tipped over the coffee pot, no one has fallen in the lake, no one has put salt in the sugar bowl—I tell you, it is monotonous!"
     But Giny was not listening to me. She had risen, walked over to the desk, and begun writing a letter. I watched her, awaiting an explanation which was not to come. With an air of affected aloofness she sealed the envelope and stamped it.
     “Am I to know anything about that letter?” I finally asked.
     “Maybe!” With studied indifference she placed the envelope in her handbag, obviously to keep me from seeing the address.

     “When ?”
     “Oh—sometime.”
     “Is something going to happen because of that letter?”
     “I hope so.”
     “Will I like what happens?”
     “I hope so,” she said.

EACH day was bulging with events and adventure, so that the mysterious letter was half forgotten. Interest in the matter was suddenly revived, however, when Giny snatched from one morning’s mail an envelope bringing a reply to what she had written. Again she wrote and mailed a letter of which I was refused the slightest information. In helplessness, I left the matter to developments.
     A survey of the trees of the island made me somewhat uncomfortably conscious of the nibblings and gnawings our porky friends had done during the winter. They had bitten their autographs into almost everything they could reach. Numerous trees had been scarred—balsams, birches, cedars, white and red pines, cherries, maples, oaks. There seemed to be none immune. Most of the trees were not seriously injured. Many had been bitten slightly at one small spot, as if the porcupines were only tasting them. However, one red pine that stood beside our little back porch had been completely peeled of bark from top to bottom! It was a lusty young pine, some forty feet high, and we

disliked losing it. We told the porkies so. In fact, we gave them a mighty severe reprimand, to which they listened with interest—then decided we were playing with them, and started a lively romp.
     But we knew well that if we were not prepared to stand such losses we had no right to have porcupines for pets. Their friendship must be rated as worth this cost or not accepted at all. After all, no matter how friendly they might be with us, they were still porcupines and must live as porkies. Bark is their principal winter food. When snows are deep and travel difficult, a porcupine will select a tree to his particular liking, climb in it and live there perhaps for several weeks. During this time he will scale the bark from the tree, eating much of it. Of course, the tree cannot live after that. Our fine red pine was gone. But Salt and Pepper had behaved simply as porcupines. It was nothing to them that the tree was one of our favorites. They were born to an infinite forest, and all trees were created for their use—as near as they could tell. Furthermore, in nature’s over-all plan porcupines benefit the woods by their gnawings. They thin out timber stands so that there will be fewer trees perhaps, but far better ones. Before we criticize them too harshly let us remind ourselves that the grandest forests in the world have reached their perfection while porcupines lived within them—and men did not.
     Gradually Salt and Pepper were weaned away from

their gnawing at the door and the floor joist. When they found we were not going away again they were not so anxious to be with us every moment. Besides, they need not spend all their time and energy in chewing tasteless old boards; they had found a new diversion. Screen doors had been hung, and screens placed on the windows. The doors especially made wonderful scratching, and this different kind of a sound got them very quick results.
     As the nights grew warmer and windows were left open, they formed another habit which ultimately caused us considerable embarrassment with our neighbors. In the evening, especially when Giny and I would be talking or reading aloud, they would climb into a tree just outside our window and enter into the conversation in a most disconcerting way. Right in the midst of our words they would break in with that little Honk! Honk! Honk! of theirs, and continue it so insistently that sometimes we had to give up.
     One night Giny was reading from Emerson’s essay “Self-Reliance.” She had reached those very wise words where this great man tells us something we should all know: “There is a time in every man’s education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance, that imitation is 
suicide. . . .”
     Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk! This sound came from a tree outside the window. Giny added power to her tones, determined not to be interrupted.

     “That he must accept himself for better or for worse as his portion, and though . . .”
     Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!
     “And though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him except through his toil . . .”
     Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!
     Giny drew a deep breath and stubbornly continued, “except through his toil bestowed upon that plot of ground which is given him to till. . . . None but he . . .”
     Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!
     “. . . none but he can know what that is that he can do . . .”
     Honk, honk
     “. . . nor does he . . .”
     Honk! Honk! Honk!
     “. . . nor does he know until he has tried!”  During the last words Giny’s voice had increased until she was fairly shouting.
     Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk! came the rising cries from outside the window.
     “Salt and Pepper, such manners!” Giny started a reprimand that was never finished. The porcupines, hearing words addressed to them, turned loose an avalanche of honks that monopolized the occasion.

     More and more we were seeing the great difference

in the two porcupines. Salt, although the male, was the more affectionate of the two, wanting always to be with us. He liked to be cuddled. When we would take him in our arms and, regardless of sharp quills, squeeze him to us, he would relax, let out a sigh of contentment, and remain perfectly still as long as we held him.
     One night Giny took him in her arms and, swinging him back and forth as one would a baby, sang a little lullaby. That was just grand for Salt! Back he came the next night at about the same time for an encore. Giny obliged him. After that he came every evening expecting this bit of mothering. He would refuse food, or any other kind of attention, until Giny put him through his lullaby.
     Pepper, the female, leaned more toward the wilderness. She sought the tops of tall trees, explored the mystery of brush and logs. Salt would leave whatever he was doing—even his sleeping, which was his principal occupation—to pester us and play with us. Not so with Pepper. We were a mere incident in her life, and not the sole object of her affections. She would come to us, behaving at such times somewhat as Salt did, but always with much more reserve. Frequently we found her in trees at the far points of the island, and by her manner she showed us clearly she would rather not be disturbed. Sometimes she would be in the shallow waters at the shore line, looking in the

direction of the great forest on the mainland, silently listening and seemingly yearning for the adventures she might find there.
     But Salt was much more contented with his island, and with us. It was he who was watching for the door to open so that he could pounce upon us. It was he who would chew on our window sill in the middle of the night, and call to us whenever he heard us. Yes, and many times when he didn’t!
     During these days we were learning more of the language of the porcupine. He has a surprising variety of tones, calls, expressions, each with a specific meaning. One still night we heard a startling scream coming from a stand of pine trees on the mainland. We could not identify it. The quality of the voice suggested a porcupine, but neither Giny nor I had ever heard one make a noise like that. It seemed to be a distress cry, not unlike the shriek of an excited monkey. Several times the cry was repeated. So certain did I feel that some creature was in serious agony that I went forth in my canoe to investigate. When I landed on the far shore, the cry ceased for a time. Then suddenly it issued forth from a tree almost directly over my head. With my flashlight I searched about the foliage. The startling cry was given once more, and there in the crotch of a tree I discovered an enormous old porcupine, perfectly relaxed and certainly the picture of comfort. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be asleep.

As I watched him, he gave the maudlin cry again. He did not even lift his head or open his eyes. Perhaps he was undergoing a porcupine nightmare; maybe he dreamed he was a wildcat, and if so, he was doing a right good job at impersonating one. I wanted to make sure he was all right, so I tossed sticks up in the foliage near him. He stirred himself, got to his feet, looked down at me resentfully, and then with fine agility climbed higher to another crotch, where he settled in comfort. Clearly there was nothing wrong with him.
     As I went back to my canoe, he gave that weird cry again. I do not know its meaning. Maybe it is the most far-reaching call for a mate. Maybe it is simply the animal’s effort to express himself. Perhaps it is a challenge to his enemies. Whatever the purpose of it may be, it is one of the most moving calls I have known in the forest, even challenging the fearful shriek of the lynx for wild fury.
     We have never heard Salt or Pepper give this cry. However, there was something of it in Salt’s voice whenever Pepper had wandered away from him. At such times his calls had a touch of loneliness in them. His voice would begin high, descending the scale in little staccato grunts, the quality of which could arise only from a lonely heart.
     We knew well their little play talk that went on as they scuffled with each other. It was a mumbling, grumbling series of sounds that were playfully resent-

ful. We knew the cross tone that seemed to say, “Let me alone and get away from here”—this one uttered by the first one who tired of playing and wanted to quit. We knew their hunger call, which told us to bring them some bread, some cookies or some peanuts. We knew and loved their soft notes of contentment, their highest expression of happiness, uttered when they were given liberty to chew our hair and bite the backs of our heads. And we knew well the little grunts of happiness that were uttered when anything pleased them.
     Through knowing the meaning of their calls, we could understand something of what went on in their minds. One day we had enticed Pepper into a sunny spot to take pictures of her. The sun was hot that spring day, and if there is one thing that a porcupine likes less than all others it is hot sun. We lured Pepper into desired poses by offering bites of tasty food, and by petting and playing with her. But all the time she was blinking discontentedly, and becoming very tired of the sun. Of a sudden she became animated with decision. She faced about, pointing toward a shed underneath which the ground would be cool and where the sun could not shine. Then she gave a series of those little happiness grunts. Unquestionably she had thought of this place where she could be more comfortable. It takes a lot to make a porcupine run, but she ran that day—straight to that shed and far back

under it. We could not coax her out for the rest of the day.
     And because we know what this little talk means, we were able to interpret another adventure one of those first evenings. Hoping always for our many forest friends to come to us, we had been placing a pan of food out near our island cabin every night. In the previous season creatures from the mainland had been regular customers at this outdoor cafeteria. One of our favorite sights was to see a circle of raccoons about the pan, with Salt and Pepper trying hard to edge their way in and get some food that they wouldn’t have eaten at all if they had not believed others wanted it.
     We had just retired that night when we heard Salt and Pepper scuffling, giving their competitive little calls as they tried to bite and push each other around. Suddenly this call ceased, and we heard the little happy grunt. Something had happened to please them greatly. The change in their mood was so sudden it puzzled us. We arose and tiptoed to the open window, all the while hearing their happy call. There we saw what

had so delighted them. The raccoons had returned, probably for the first time since the previous autumn. Salt and Pepper had remembered their friends and obviously were glad to see them. The raccoons, too, were giving a dainty trill, which is their manner of expressing pleasure. It was plain that these creatures had formed a happy acquaintance and possibly a real friendship.
     But in truth, we human beings know only enough about the language of animals to understand that there is much to learn. We know the purring of a cat means contentment, and we know how the same creature cries when in distress. We understand some of the expressions of dogs—their little barks of happiness when things are right, their whines and howls of discontent when things are not so good. A hunter knows well the baying of his hound when the creature is following a trail, and he understands the short sharp barks when the dog has treed his game. A farmer knows the meaning of the mooing of his cow, and the whinny of his horse. A woodsman hears the howling of a wolf, the bark of a fox, and can be fairly sure what these creatures are saying. Yet, at best we are only catching a word here and there of a vast animal language. There are things we can observe but cannot explain. We do not understand how creatures communicate complete ideas. We cannot explain how a doe instructs her fawn in absolute silence. We do not know what call assembles conven-

tions of animals—rabbits, squirrels, birds—and sometimes leads them to great migrations. On occasions when we see great flocks of wild geese flying as do our planes in V-shaped battle formation, we hear their calls, their commands. But what has brought them together, by what method they have chosen their leader, how all know where they are going—this is beyond our knowledge. And by what method do the birds pass around word that our feeding station has been opened for business? The first day food is put out, perhaps three or four drop in. But within a week there will be scores of them. Some way the news has been spread around. And there is that remarkable observation about ants, when one of them, having discovered a huge bit of food too large for him to lift, returns to his colony and gets help. What does he do to present the problem to his fellows? How does he say the equivalent of  “Come on, Jim, Jack, Hortense and Percival—I need your help.” Yet, in some manner he does it, for a right number of helpers will follow him to the burden and bring it in.
     Yes, there is much more going on in this world of nature than most people suppose. We have caught a few audible words of a vast and universal language. There is no such thing as dumb animals, unless it may be that we are pretty dumb when we call them that

THERE are times in forest life that are made just for unusual adventure. One who lives in the woods quickly recognizes such charmed hours. I doubt if anyone can say just what distinguishes them. Nevertheless, occasionally there is a sacred something in the mood of nature which promises great things. All the little living things fall under this spell, and the whole woodland world moves in mysterious ways about one common purpose. While we often feel this mood during daylight hours, it reaches its height only as darkness creeps over the forest world. Magic Night is the name we have for such precious periods, and it does seem then that the fairies, gnomes, nymphs and spirits created by human imagination might come trooping out of secret doors in trees and rocks, or come sliding down on star beams.
     That spring a Magic Night came to the Sanctuary. Giny recognized it and called me to look out our door into the gathering gloom. Salt and Pepper for once were quiet! They stretched out on the limb of a tree,

feet hanging down, eyes open, just looking and listening into the night.
     “There will be adventure in the forest tonight,” Giny affirmed.
     The sky had blushed beautifully at the last caress of the sun, and now an afterglow held at the horizon as if nature were clinging to her memory of day. Venus, the evening star, was shining like a jewel worn on the breast of night. The sweet breath of the forest bore the pungent perfume of countless woodland blossoms. A pleasant nocturnal chill crept over the earth, and a mist began to rise like a veil nature was drawing across her face.
     “The night is calling—shall we go?” I asked.
     But Giny did not wish to go. She had writing to do, she said. I knew well about that writing. Another of those mysterious letters had arrived, and must be answered. My questions always drew the same evasive answers, the same provoking wink and smile, so I had learned it was futile to press the matter.
     “Then, if you do not mind, I shall go alone,” I said. “We must not waste a Magic Night, you know.”
     “Please do!” insisted Giny. “And I’ll be waiting to hear of your adventure.”
     I walked through the darkness to the shore where my canoe was always waiting. Salt and Pepper never stirred as I passed beneath them.
     “Would that I could charm them as this night has

done!” I thought, recalling their nibblings and gnawings. But I knew this power would never be mine.
     For a moment I stood beside the canoe drinking in the growing glory about me. In the distance a great horned owl haunted the rich gloom with his hollow voice. Tree toads were calling; there came the last sleepy notes of a robin. Some creature—a deer or a bear—was wading along in shallow waters on a distant shore, splashing musically. Back of all else was the rhythmic murmur of hordes of insects. In the dark these sounds seemed unattached, as if the night itself thus spoke in countless tongues.
     Now I slipped the canoe into the water, and sculling silently over the smooth surface, approached the mainland. Towering trees loomed like a great cloud over me as I neared shore. Back of me now lay the island, silhouetted against the afterglow, the lighted cabin windows looking like little peepholes in the darkness through which we might see into a realm of even greater glory. And I remember saying quietly to myself, “I wonder if there is anything in creation more beautiful than that: a cabin with lighted windows, standing on a pine-covered island, silhouetted against the afterglow—seen on a Magic Night!”
     Some way it seemed to be the meeting point of what is human in nature and what is natural in man, revealing that which is Divine.
     I landed and walked through the darkness along the

trail that circles our mainland cabin. No need to use the flashlight I carried in my pocket. I knew every foot of this trail, every bush, every tree. I knew when I was at the hillside where Bobette the fawn had loved to sun herself, knew when I passed the little animal runway where Rack and Ruin the raccoons came and went, knew when I was approaching the old red pine stump on which had been placed a cake of salt as an offering to all visiting creatures—but particularly as a gift to Inky the porcupine.
     But here something caused me to stop and listen. There was a creature at the salt lick! First I heard the rustling about in leaves that might have been caused by almost any kind of animal. I listened anxiously. Then came sounds which left no doubt of the identity of the sound maker. C-r-u-n-c-h!  C-r-u-n-c-h!  C-r-u-n-c-h! as chisel-like teeth bit into the wood of the salt-soaked stump, and then I heard the soft, happy grunts of a porcupine! Could this possibly be my old friend Inky? My heart pounded with delight.
     Suppressing excitement as best I could, I gave the porcupine call—the one for companionship or attention. The crunching stopped; so did the happy grunts.
     “Inky!” I ventured his name, and then followed with a message in porcupinese.
     There was no reply immediately. However, neither was there a hurried flight by the animal, and this encouraged me. Taking one cautious step at a time, I

moved toward the salt lick. It was now about thirty feet away. All the while I was talking my most cultured porcupinese, interspersed with a few enticing human words.
     Within about ten feet of the stump I paused. Still there was no sound from the creature. I turned on my flashlight. There sat an enormous old porky looking calmly and inquisitively in my direction. I was convinced!
     “Inky! Inky—you blessed old scamp, is it you?”
     He did not move. This assured me more than anything else that it was he. A wilder creature would be gone before this. I approached him cautiously, talking constantly in soft tones. Finally, after I had emitted a long series of porky words intended to be happy grunts, he made several little sounds in reply!
     Fully confident now that this was my pet, I knelt near him. Not more than three feet separated us. He did not move. I reached out a hand and he sniffed at it. I touched his nose, and then cautiously smoothed down the coarse quills that crowned his head. For just a moment this extreme intimacy frightened him. Long life in the forest had nearly erased from his memory this manner of greeting. He started up as if to run away. But he stopped and turned toward me again. Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk. His calls became more strong and confident. He was remembering me. Four years now this little creature had lived a normal porcu-

pine life in the forest. Four years of problems which daily directed him to develop and depend upon his instincts. Yet the love he had established in his heart for human friends lived on!
     And there we sat that Magic Night—a porcupine and a man—our world for the moment a tiny bubble of light the flashlight made in an infinitude of darkness, but each one happy in his own way that he had found the other.
     “Inky, you bedraggled, quill-covered, ornery-looking old rascal!” said I, accustomed to abusing those I love. “I never saw anything in my life that looked worse and yet looked better to me than you.”
     In times past I always had given Inky the power of human speech in my imagination. We had carried on many a fancied conversation together. That Magic Night he gained voice once more, in the same way.
     “Well, Sammy, old kid!” he replied with a twitch of his nose. “You wouldn’t take any prizes in a porcupine beauty contest yourself, you white-skinned, thin-haired, dull-toothed, earth-bound scamp. It’s right good to see you. Bend over here while I set a quill in your ear, just for old time’s sake!”
     “You would, you bum!” I said, taking care that he did not get hold of me. “Stand still while I look you over. What a whopper you are!”
     Inky was an enormous porcupine. I looked at him in amazement. He would weigh well over twenty

pounds, and his great coat of quills made him look much heavier than that. His quills were very coarse, some of them four inches long, and light in color so that he presented a gray appearance. His babyhood blackness that had earned him the name of Inky had entirely vanished.
     Now he became a bit bolder, apparently recalling more and more of our friendship. I had dropped to sitting position on the ground. He moved to me, step at a time, until his front feet were in my lap, and he was looking into my face, freely talking his happy grunts. I grunted right back at him. How I wished I could really learn from him his adventures during those long months in the forest! What fine sights he must have seen from his perch high in a tree!
     “Seems to me,” he said, “seems to me you talk better porky than you used to. Lost some of that human accent.”
     “I’m having lots of practice these days, Inky.” I was stroking his head again. “Have you heard about Salt and Pepper?”
     “Humph! I’ve heard about 'em.” He shook his quills in obvious disgust. “A couple of young punks, if you ask me. Is that the best you could get?”
     I laughed. “Inky, I do believe you are jealous!”
     “What! Jealous of those young twig-chewers?” He chattered his teeth. “Bet I can girdle a maple tree faster than they can bite off a lily pad!”

     A look at the great amber-colored teeth at the front of Inky’s mouth would suggest that this might be true.
     “But they skinned a forty-foot red pine for me,” I taunted.
     “Aw! Balsam Juice! It took two of 'em to do it, didn’t it? Someday come back and see the white pine I skinned all by myself! One of your big ones—out near Vanishing Lake. I tell you it would take a dozen of those little monkeys to make one good porcupine!” And of a sudden he flew into a spasm of his old-time toughness, whirling, whirling, first one way, then the other, lashing back and forth with his tail and chattering his teeth. I laughed at his antics. How well I remembered how he used to execute this dervish dance on our cabin floor, sending us up on chairs or anywhere to get out of his way! I told him I would have to admit that he was quite a porcupine.
     But right when Inky’s dance was at its height, there came the sound of breaking twigs back in the forest. Inky heard it, and stopped to listen. There were more sounds—some heavy creature was coming. Inky made a dash for a tree and climbed to safety.
     “So long, old top,” I whispered. “I’ll meet you here again.
     “That’s a date,” said Inky, and so it proved to be on many occasions that summer.
     Now I moved back of a bit of brush, shut off the flashlight, and waited. Closer and closer came the

sound trail of the newcomer, moving unhurriedly, but steadily. I heard the leaves stir on the ground, heard twigs crack, heard bushes rustle as something forced a way through them. At last the sounds were right at the salt lick. I turned on the flashlight.

     There stood a magnificent doe! The light did not frighten her in the least. She was pawing at the stump a little, and licking the wood below the cake of salt. Occasionally she lifted her beautiful head and looked alertly into the night. Her great cupped ears turned constantly, pointing ahead, to the sides, and even back of her, as she kept the whole forest under attention.

     An idea came to me, though perhaps I was expecting too much of this Magic Night. Could this be Bobette? If Inky had held his liking for our Sanctuary, and had made the salt lick a calling place, would it be impossible that our fawn should do the same?
     “Bobette!” My voice trembled a little. “Bobette!”
     The doe’s ears came forward and she was all attention. Yet, despite my anxiety, I could not accept this as proof. Any deer would have reacted in the same way to any sound.
     “Bobette, is that you?”
     I asked the question with all my heart, and yet I knew that I would never have an answer. There was no mark nor manner about this lovely creature that would prove it was our former friend. We had no language in common. The deer is the most silent of all forest creatures, having no sound other than the whistling snort which is given in alarm. I could not grunt out a conversation as with Inky. The most satisfaction I could know was that it could be Bobette there before me. This was a big doe. Bobette would be of good size now, for she would be four years old. This creature had come from the direction of the valley in which Bobette had made her wildwood home. She had come to the cabin where Bobette had been cared for as a fawn. It could be—and I felt happiness even in the possibility.
     The doe finished her refreshment at the salt lick.

Unhurriedly she moved into the dark forest from which she had come. I could follow her far into the dark distance by the sounds of breaking twigs, rustling leaves and brush. Perhaps there was a tiny spotted baby of hers back in there somewhere, curled up on the ground implicitly obeying orders to remain absolutely silent until the mother’s return.

     Giny listened to a detailed account of the adventure as we sat before a dancing grate fire. She was delighted to hear of Inky’s presence.
     “And couldn’t we just call this doe Bobette?” she asked. “You know it could be.”
     “Bobette is a good name for any deer,” I commented, and from that night on, any deer seen at that salt lick was Bobette so far as we were concerned.
     “And now,” said I, with a meaning look, “you have written another letter. Am I to learn anything about that mystery?”
     There came that smile and sly wink. “Not even a Magic Night can get you that,” said Giny.
     “That’s what I thought!” said I, resignedly.

ONE sunny morning, a few days after the Magic Night with Inky, I was wasting my time in a most capable way, trying to get Salt and Pepper to pose for a motion picture. Particularly did I want to record the highly amusing way they would sometimes box with each other. We had watched it often. I presume there was a measure of ill-humor involved in it, for their talk at the time was not made of those happy grunts. 

It resembled the resentful blast of a cat whose dignity had been offended. The two porcupines would sit facing each other, striking out harmlessly with their

front feet, apparently not liking the experience in particular, but each one too stubborn to withdraw.
     That morning I had noticed them start their comic boxing match. I ran out with my camera, but immediately they stopped. When I came in to put the camera away they started again. Once more I ran out ready to take pictures, but the opportunity was gone. I tried to provoke the mimic battle by placing them before each other, but they were not in the mood. No sooner would I get Salt in position than Pepper would run away. When I had retrieved Pepper, Salt would dash for the underbrush.
     Suddenly I noticed Giny was standing in the cabin doorway laughing at my futile efforts.
     “Do I hear any helpful suggestions?” I asked.
     “None—but I have a bit of news for you.” She came out of the door, carrying a newly opened letter in her hand.
     “The mystery of those letters is about to be cleared up,” I guessed, as Pepper ended all hope of picture-taking by racing up a tall birch tree, while Salt, suddenly becoming affectionate, was climbing to my shoulder, grunting soft nothings in my ear.
     Giny nodded. “Do you remember the day you wished for someone to join us here, the day you were so lonely for Bobby, and said we should have someone around to laugh and to get in trouble?”
     I did.

     “Well, you are to get your wish. Carol is coming!”
     “Carol? You mean our little Carol? Coming here?” I could hardly believe it.
     “Yes, I mean our little Carol. She is coming in late August. All those letters were extending an invitation, getting her parents’ consent, arranging the date and such things. Are you pleased?”
     I was more than pleased, I was jubilant.
     “Salt, do you hear?” I cried as I picked the surprised porcupine off my shoulder and raised him to arms’ length overhead. “Carol is coming!”
     If it is possible for a porcupine to say “So what?” with a look, Salt did it. Who was this Carol person, whose very coming stirred up things so he must be snatched away from chewing my head, and waved about in the air?
     Well, Salt, if you knew Carol you would be as stirred by the news of her coming as were Giny and I. Carol was then a lovely girl of high-school age who had already proved her ability to be sweet without weakness, beautiful without self-consciousness, intelligent without conceit. We had first noticed her when she was still a grade-school child. She had attended a lecture in which we had shown pictures of the Sanctuary animals. She was so taken with Inky, Rack and Ruin, Bobette and Sausage that she squealed with delight when she saw them. Her enthusiasm and animation put us all to laughing. Undoubtedly that evening brought her par-

ents many new problems. She must have a porcupine pet. She must have some raccoons. She wanted some bears. Already, they informed us, their home had been an asylum for every kind of creature Carol had found
—dogs, cats, birds, turtles, mice, bugs and most everything but snakes. That night she became so insistent upon having these new pets that the situation almost got out of control. To quiet her, Giny and I said that maybe someday she could come up to the Sanctuary and see our friends. This little proposition, given in the best of faith, did not calm matters in the least. It merely made her break out with her enthusiasm in another direction. All right! She would come. When would it be? Next week? Next month? Should she start getting her things ready?
     Carol was finally quieted for that night, but she had taken our invitation seriously, and indeed we had meant it that way. Nothing could give us greater happiness than to have a visitor who loved nature the way she did. But our place is not suited to tiny tots. Carol must grow a bit first.
     I fear when this was told to Carol, she spent much of her time trying to grow to Sanctuary requirements. Often we heard from her. Whenever I gave a lecture within reach of her home, she attended. We knew of her graduating from grade school, and of her first days in high. But the many new things which came into her life did not dim her enthusiasm for nature, nor did she

forget that “someday she was coming to the Sanctuary.” If there was any change, it was only that she became more excited about the idea. At the close of her freshman year she asked if she might come, but we felt that she was still too young to exercise the judgment necessary in our work with those animals. After her sophomore year she might have been qualified, but we were away. Now she was in her junior year, and still the flame of interest and enthusiasm burned on. Nor had our desire to have her been reduced in the least. In fact, I think we were as anxious and excited about it as she was. But a new obstacle had presented itself. Out of patriotic duty, Carol had devoted her vacation time to war work. It seemed the right thing to do, and undoubtedly it was.
     “You will understand it if I read you parts of her letter,” Giny was saying. “Just listen to this. She says, ‘Yes, I can come. It won’t be for long, just a week— but what a week it will be! Mother says I need this rest before school starts. But oh, I wonder if that week will ever come. It seems so far away. In school I used to try to understand those long periods of geological time, eons, ages and such things. Now I know how long they are—like the time between now and when I come up to the Sanctuary. I’ll be there, like a whirlwind!’”
     I laughed, placing the objecting Salt on the ground.  That described it—Carol would come like a whirl-

wind. But it would be a blessed, beautiful whirlwind, stirring up that forest world to happier living.
     “The mystery of your letter writing comes to a happy ending,” I said to Giny. “It was a grand idea! But now I have an idea, too—Carol shall have a tent house!”
     “A penthouse?” Giny misunderstood.
     “No—a tent house,” I laughed. “I know of a manufacturer who makes a tent in the form of a house. Carol shall have a cabin of her own, close enough to ours so she will not be afraid.”
     Another exchange of letters brought Carol’s approval of this idea. A cabin of her own, a canvas cabin among pine trees—nothing could please her more.
     It was some weeks before Carol would arrive, but there was much to be done. First we ordered the tent house, and in the course of a few days it arrived, knocked down, crated in a long box.
     It was rather a hopeless array of varied-length sticks and rolls of canvas we looked upon when we opened the box. But if we did our work well when we had finished bolting together the woodwork, laying down the floor, and stretching the prepared strips of canvas in proper place, Carol would have awaiting her a clean, comfortable cabin twelve feet long and eight feet wide. It would be weather-tight, and mosquito-tight. It would be almost touching our cabin.
     Putting that tent house together was quite a job.

Giny and I were the construction engineers and the labor crew. We said later we could have done the whole thing in one-third the time if we hadn’t had some help. The more help we received, the more difficult the job. For our help came, unsolicited and unwanted, from Salt and Pepper!
     The sight of all that new, clean wood, and rolls of brown canvas was too much for them. They actually became bewildered as to what to bite first. We almost gave up. It took nearly all of our time keeping those porkies away from our new equipment. They chewed the canvas roofing, they bit the wooden beams, they gnawed the bottom of a nail sack so that the nails poured out on the ground. It was a field day for them. What more could they want? All these grand things to chew, and their human friends staying with them hour after hour—just to play! And play it was—for them! When we would push them away, they would whirl around and act tough. When we would jump to save some priceless bit of equipment from their devastating teeth, they loved the attention and would go nosing about honking happily.
     Boards had to be sawed at proper length to make the floor. No sooner had I started to do this, than here came two porcupines on the run. Two children headed for a Halloween party could not have looked happier than they, and for the same impish reason. Salt paused long enough on his way to tip over a small can of

paint that had carelessly been left on the ground. I jumped to grab it and save as much of it as possible—and that wasn’t very much. While I went to put the nearly empty can in a shed, Salt proceeded to wade in the paint that had been spilled. When I next saw him he was leaving a trail of green after him, and headed straight for a roll of our nice new canvas. I grabbed an old rag, ran frantically to him and threw it over him. Then I picked him up and carried him away. He was honking his happiest and biting his best. Scolding him constantly and futilely, I wiped the paint from his feet and tail as best I could.
     A call came from Giny. “You had better see what Pepper is doing over at the flooring—she is awfully quiet!”
     She was quiet, all right, but not idle. The handle of my saw had been chewed halfway through, and when I arrived she was just finishing the complete demolishment of the pencil I had been using for marking the boards. I carried her away (not too gently, I fear) and hung her far out on the limb of a tree. I hurried back to get a stroke or two of sawing done before she could return—and there sat Salt on the flooring, chewing away at the bits of pencil he could find, and still having enough green paint on him to leave a footprint everywhere he stepped! Before I could pick him up, Pepper had come back and, with fiendish delight, climbed up on the boards. I wouldn’t have minded so

much, except they insisted on being right where I wanted to saw.
     I am sure it was one of the happiest moments of their lives, and let me add that the pleasure was all theirs. If Rome wasn’t built in a day, as the saying goes, I’ll wager it was because there were some porcupines around. Once I carried them down the trail to the far part of the island, left them there and hurried to my sawing. They almost beat me back! The only way I ever got that sawing done was to put the two pests on my shoulders and let them chew on my head to their hearts’ content. And if you think that is a comfortable way to work, just try it sometime. Finally the flooring was sawed, but it looked as if it had been done with a can opener!
     It wasn’t only with the sawing that Salt and Pepper “helped.” When Giny and I were bolting the framework together, it was a golden opportunity for their talents. What a mess of things to bite, and what countless places to be! Every time we tried to drive a nail, a porcupine suddenly appeared on top of it. If we wanted to tighten a bolt, one of them would try to do it with his teeth. Whenever a new beam or rafter was put in position, both Salt and Pepper would have to climb on it to see that it was in proper place. If we stooped over, they would climb on our backs; if we knelt down, they thought we were playing with them and they would go whirling around acting tough all over the place. Once, when I had been on my knees

nailing flooring for some time and had become a bit tired, I decided to rest for a few moments, and sat down—right on a porcupine! I didn’t stay there long. And through it all we listened to more porcupine grunts than we had heard in all our previous experience. They were the happy grunts. This was life as they thought it should be lived.
     It speaks well for our endurance that we finally finished erecting Carol’s tent house. It was endurance that did it. We did not outwit our porcupine helpers, nor did we master them—we simply outlasted them. By midafternoon they were exhausted, which fact shows there is some justice in the world. They dragged themselves slowly and regretfully away, climbed into a tree and went to sleep. Giny and I would have liked to climb into a tree also, if that meant rest. But this was our opportunity, and we called forth our last bit of reserve strength to take advantage of it. The framework of the tent house had been completed, and the canvas stretched on just as darkness closed over the world. And if the sun had been as tired as we were it would have skipped next day—that is, unless it had two porcupines calling to it the way Salt and Pepper called to us a very, very few hours later.
     That tent house stands today, with porky teeth marks in its framework, porky teeth holes in its canvas, porky footprints in green paint on its floor, but in all we feel that it is a monument to our own perseverance—and we are proud of it.

FOR Carol the next few weeks in the city dragged along as if they were trailing an anchor. She tried to shorten that “geological period” between the accepted invitation and the day of her coming by writing letters. What should she bring? What should she wear? Did we suppose it was going to rain? At what time would her train arrive, and why couldn’t it get there sooner? Who would meet her at the station? Could Salt come? What were we going to do the first day, the second day, the other days? Could she learn to chop wood with a saw, or saw it with an ax—she wasn’t sure which was right. She wanted to swim, hike, climb trees, be on the go early and late—in fact, she designed a program of events that would have worn out a regiment of soldiers. She wanted to know all about her tent house, and her letter fairly squealed with excitement after our detailed description. We had no doubt of the wild and happy time we were in for when that little tornado struck the Sanctuary. Giny expressed it well when someone asked her who our much-talked-of guest was to be.

     “There will be about half a dozen people called Carol,” she said, and so it proved to be.
     While Giny and I were anxious for Carol’s coming, time did not drag at the Sanctuary. Salt and Pepper saw to that. Their resources for giving us problems were simply inexhaustible. Sometimes it was because of what they did, sometimes what they didn’t do. Sometimes it was that they were too much in evidence, sometimes because they couldn’t be found at all.
     Right now they were preparing for us a new adventure, having in it pleasure with a bit of pain, a Sweetness that was just a little sad.
     The poor old porcupine has never been thought of as having much affection for his kind, or in fact for anything else. His supposed indifference and stupidity have been the joke and jibe of nature students. But in Inky, our solitary porcupine pet, we had found an ability to form a friendship which endured. In Salt and Pepper was a repetition of the friendship, but also living evidence of their devotion to each other.
     Sometimes the wild heart rings truer than our own. Numerous and gripping are the stories of devotion between creatures, often in odd combinations.
     On a midwestern farm a few years ago a collie dog struck up a friendship with a huge stray cat. The cat appeared about the barn, apparently intent upon staying. The dog was delighted, but not the farmer. Times were hard at this farm, where there were many to feed,

and even one extra cat would burden them. The cat remained for several weeks, mostly because of the insistence of the dog. But one day Old Tommy, as he had been named, was taken away to another farm several miles distant, where an overpopulation of rats and mice offered him considerable employment. Yet the cat found no contentment at his new home, and spent most of his time miaowing his loneliness. The collie dog back at the other farm became despondent. He refused to eat, spending all his time searching for Old Tommy. One day the dog disappeared. He was gone for several days, then reappeared trotting happily up the roadway—Old Tommy beside him! It was an experience which touched the heart of the farmer. Nevertheless, Old Tommy was taken back to the second farm once more. Again the collie retrieved him. Then in desperation, the farmer took Old Tommy to a third farm, about six miles away. It was a larger problem for the collie this time, but he was equal to it. He was gone for over a week before he returned—with Old Tommy trotting by his side. The farmer gave in then, and Old Tommy was allowed to stay, much to the delight of the collie and himself.
     At the home of a friend of mine I saw a black cat (named Rastus) and a gorgeous yellow canary (named Lucky) form an attachment for each other that was amazing. Lucky always enjoyed the freedom of the house. A few appealing peeps from him would bring

someone to open the door of his cage so that he might fly anywhere he pleased. Sometimes his choice was a perch on the chandelier, sometimes on the head or shoulder of a human friend, sometimes he preferred to take a bath in a water glass on the dinner table, or sit on the side of a plate and pick up bits from a vegetable salad. But sooner or later he would go in search of Rastus. Finding the cat, he would emit a number of happy little notes, and light between the two black ears of the cat. Immediately the cat would begin purring! It was a strange sight to see two creatures, often enemies, so devoted. At sleepy time in the evening, neither the cat nor the bird would go to bed without the other. Rastus had appropriated for himself a big luxurious chair in the parlor. At the right hour he would climb into this chair, but instead of curling up and going to sleep in that wonderful, relaxed cat fashion, he would begin a teasing miaow. This would continue until Lucky was brought, cage and all, and placed near him. Then the air would be filled with purrs by Rastus and peeps by Lucky, until the two fell into a sleep that was enriched by their fine friendship.
     On a stock farm in a prairie state, a small monkey appeared one day. Nothing was ever learned of his history. Perhaps he had escaped from a circus. Perhaps he had been a pet of some traveler. Whatever was his story, he appeared at this farm, riding on the back of a cow! It was something of a shock for the farmer,

living far from the country where monkeys grow, to see one suddenly so much at home with his domestic animals. The farm animals seemed to think nothing of it, however. The monkey, named Mike by his new friends, was perfectly at home with cows, horses, pigs, chickens, ducks and the farm dog. They liked him and he liked them. In fact, his affection for his animal associates was a source of considerable trouble for the farmer. Mike didn’t want these pals of his disturbed. He didn’t want the cows to be milked. He didn’t want the pigs put in their pen. When the farmer would come to get the pigs from the hickory grove where they were often allowed to roam, the monkey would chase them to the far corners of the field. As the farmer approached, Mike would jump at the porkers, scream-

ing and striking at them, sending them away on the run. And it was not uncommon to see him grab the tail of a running pig, swing himself upon the porker’s back, and go riding away in Wild-West style. Mike stayed on into the winter, sleeping at night on the back of a cow where he would be warm. The farmer took a liking to him and tried to be patient with his many pranks, but some of the things the little monkey did would exasperate a saint. So much did Mike object to the farmer milking the cows, that frequently he would grab the man’s hat and run with it to the top of a tall oak tree. There he would deposit it, wedging it firmly in a crotch. The farmer spent much of his time climbing high after his hat and other small articles of clothing. When many such annoyances forced him to do so, the man had the monkey taken to a zoo. There Mike is with others of his kind, and no doubt he is telling them many stories about the fine fellows he found at that farm—and how the cruel farmer would pinch a cow until milk came!
     One of the most amusing bits of mothering I have seen was a cat who adopted a family of young ducks. It was strange indeed to see her go along talking in the same tones she would have used with kittens, the ducks waddling along at either side, behind, and beneath her. Her worries were intensified when her adopted youngsters quite naturally took to swimming in a little pool, while she stood at the edge held back by her inborn dis­

like for water, calling to her charges instructions and
cautions that fell on deaf ears.
     So many are these stories that no animal lover will doubt for a moment the ability of these so-called dumb creatures to manifest the highest order of devotion. Of course, most such stories are about those animals nearest us—the domestic or tame ones. But the little wild folk are no different. We cannot see so clearly into their lives, but we see enough to know that the same fine character is there, and that Sometimes companionship is so important to them that they do not care to live if it is broken.
     A hunter, walking along the shore of a frozen northern lake, was attracted by the hectic and unsteady flight of a duck. The bird circled about, calling constantly, and did not dart through the sky in the arrowlike style typical of his kind. Besides, it was late for such birds to be in that country; they should have gone south long before. Soon the man discovered what was bothering the duck. On the ice was another duck, probably the mate, and obviously in trouble. The bird would try to fly, but could not rise. The hunter was not a very good sportsman, as events disclosed. Intent only upon getting the duck, he made his way across the ice. As he did, the bird overhead circled low over him, apparently trying to draw his attention. But he went on, reached the helpless bird, and killed it with a stick. As he returned to shore, the other duck came in and landed

near him. It made no effort to escape as he ran toward it, but quietly waited for the blow of the stick which ended its life. The man later expressed his regret that he had killed the birds, for he said that most certainly those ducks had refused to be separated even at the cost of their lives.
     On a backwoods road in a Western national park, two rangers were driving along in a car on fire-patrol duty. The road, not being graveled or paved, had two very deep ruts in it, cut by automobile wheels. Suddenly ahead of them, the men saw a big mother rabbit come out of the brush, followed by half a dozen little woolly youngsters. The mother skipped over the road easily, leading the way, but the little ones did not do so well. The rut was too deep and too wide for their tiny jumps. Into it they tumbled, and their troubles began. Time and again they tried to climb the walls of dirt, only to fall back. They raced up and down their troublesome trench looking for lower places, but they found none. The rangers had stopped their car to take in the amusing show. But when it seemed sure that the little fellows were not going to get out under their own power, the men left their car and started walking toward the animals, intent upon helping them. The mother rabbit did not understand their move. Suddenly she appeared in the middle of the road directly in front of the men, all prepared to fight. She bared her teeth, raced nervously back and forth, and showed plainly that if those

men wanted to hurt her babies they would have to deal with her first. The men stopped in admiration at this display of courage and devotion. In the meantime, the little fellows obviously were inspired by the actions of their gallant mother. By supreme effort, they scratched, kicked and scrambled out of the rut and ran into the woods. Then the brave mother followed them. As the rangers went back to the car, one of them said, “I am glad I saw that in person, for if you had told me about it, I wouldn’t have believed you.” The other one said he was having a hard time to believe his own eyes.
     Salt and Pepper lived in fine companionship from the very first. They played together constantly, and, during the early months at least, were inseparable. Of course, they had their little quarrels, which were never serious.
     Springtime had now ripened into summer. June rains had finished, and the long lazy days and warm nights of July had come to the Sanctuary. The protected waters in shallow bays were becoming speckled with lily pads, while slender blades of basket grass floated on the surface pointing the direction of the current.
     Now we were seeing the individuality of our porky pets come forth. Salt, although the male, was the stay­at-home, the one contented with his island life. He held to the trees close to our cabin, and it was he who was forever calling to us in the middle of the night, or

pestering us through the day. Pepper, however, had reached a point where she seldom called to us, her attention directed out into the mysterious distance and vastness of the forest. She haunted the far corners of the island, climbed to dizzy heights in the trees, and at times waded in the shallow waters along the island shores as if striving to get up enough courage to swim away. Between the two porcupines there had developed a mental tug-of-war. Salt was forever coaxing her to the cabin, calling to her, and trying to keep her within the sphere of his interest. Sometimes he succeeded in influencing her briefly, and bringing her to our doorstep where they would scuffle as in their baby days. But presently Pepper would turn away, sniff the breeze, and start for the deep brush or tall trees. Sometimes she could coax Salt away with her, take him exploring, perhaps to show him how much larger the world was than he had supposed. But he was not content to stay away from us for long. Day after day we watched this contention grow between them. Unquestionably they wanted the society of each other. Their little grunts of happiness when they were together showed that. But something was reaching out of the wilderness and drawing Pepper, while Salt’s heart was devoted to the Sanctuary.
     “I believe she is hearing the call of the wild,” said Giny one star-lit evening, as we watched Pepper astride the low limb of a tree, looking and listening into the

silence. Certainly everything about the creature suggested fascinated attention. Her eyes were open wide as if they could see through the darkness, her nostrils working to analyze scents beyond our ken. We called to her, but she did not respond, nor even look our way. Salt played at our feet, grunted a greeting and climbed to my shoulder to chew methodically at my head. Whatever the spell that held Pepper, it did not touch Salt.
     Nature students are sometimes led to wonder if animals do not have abilities unexplained by the action of the five senses as we know them. There is a rich and beautiful veil of mystery between the grand drama of nature and ourselves. We human beings may as well be honest and admit that we know very little of the why and wherefore of what we see. We are spectators of marvelous happenings, but our explanations are only guesses. What impulse compels the migrations of birds and butterflies? What directs the miraculous flight of a bee? Whence come the laws which govern the civilization of ants? What guides the salmon to the river of his birth? A thousand other unanswered questions remind us that our knowledge of such things is little, even though our interest is great. And sometimes we try to dismiss those doings of the wild folk by calling it “instinct”—which is a cover-all word for that which we do not understand.
     We realized our questions about Pepper would never

be answered. Something, we knew not what, was reaching out of the forest or out of her own nature and drawing her away from us. We felt the distance grow between us. Her effort to take Salt along was obvious and continuous. So was his effort to hold her back.
     “Someday she is going to leave,” said Giny, a tone of sadness in her voice. “Whatever that call may be, it is too strong.”
     It happened sooner than we anticipated. Summer was still young when there came another Magic Night. The veil of mystery hung over the north country, and the silence that is more than silence reigned everywhere. It was the kind of night when strange things happen. Pepper was restless and excited. She came to the house and ate sparingly of a cookie we gave her. For a brief moment she played with Salt. Then she went up a tree—he went to sleep.
     The still night was ideal for canoeing, and Giny and I sculled our light craft about the north shore of our lake. Half a dozen deer appeared like ghosts in the edge of the water. We saw a beaver, a muskrat, heard a bear, and felt everywhere the charm that enchanted the forest. When we returned to the island there was a strange and empty feeling about the place. We both felt it. Salt met us at the dock, acting oddly. He talked incessantly, a new note in his voice. The usual things did not please him. I raised him to my shoulder, but he did not wish to remain there, and was not interested

in chewing on my head. He followed us to the cabin,
but refused the bite of cookie we offered him.
     Giny stood looking at him intently for a moment. “Do you know,” she said, “I believe Pepper is gone!” We searched the island, looking up trees that had been favorite spots of Pepper, peering under boathouse and cabin, calling constantly. Salt trailed along with us, adding his call to ours. But the night gave us no answer. There was only the drip of dew, only the rustle of deer mice in dry leaves, only the echoes of our own voices.
     Salt was most distressed. His little talk became almost a wail. Not a thing we could do gave him the least bit of comfort. Pepper was gone. In vain she had tried to pull him with her. But the call which was reaching her heart was one that must be obeyed. She was going into the wilderness, with Salt if he would go, without him if he would not. At the moment he was not ready to give up his attachment to the cabin and his human friends. So, she had gone without him, but she had left a most miserable porcupine pal behind her.
     It was because of Salt’s unhappiness that we continued our search. We felt no concern about Pepper. In fact, we had hoped both porkies would lead normal lives, that they would take to the forest, remembering us only sufficiently to permit us to keep account of them. We thought that the parting would be easy, that

we could see them swim away and have perfect contentment in the thought of them living naturally. But we had not figured that one would be left behind, so torn with loneliness that it troubled our hearts.
     We showered Salt with condolences, but it did no good. Our petting and caresses were not what he wanted. I presume a porcupine cannot cry tears. But there were tears in Salt’s voice if not in his eyes. We could hardly stand his grief. Out we went in our canoe, determined to bring Pepper back if possible. We cruised the shores of the lake, not knowing what direction she might have gone, calling constantly. But never a reply did we get, except from an old blue heron whom we disturbed. He flew up and over our heads, telling us a few things which fortunately we did not understand. We landed on the mainland and walked the trails, calling for Pepper in both English and Porcupinese. As we neared the salt lick, a porky voice answered us. Excitedly, we turned a flashlight in the direction of the call. There stood old Inky, looking at us with his shoe-button eyes.
     “Hi, kids!” he seemed to say. “What’s bein’ baked,
boiled, fried or broiled?”
     “Inky, boy—Pepper is gone,” I said, moving toward
him. “Have you seen anything of her?”
     “You know everything, Inky. Where is Pepper?”
Giny added, dropping to the ground near him.
     Inky moved slowly toward me, a step at a time, until

I touched him with my hand. Then suddenly he became tough, and started whirling around.
     “Inky!” I said, a bit hurt. “This is no time for play. We need your help. Pepper is gone. We can’t find her anywhere.”
     He looked up at me as if to say, “So what? That’s no loss.”
     “Yes, but, Inky, it’s serious. Salt is over there on the island with his heart broken.”
     “Aw! Balsam Juice!” Inky was tougher than ever. “Don’t get so riled up about those sentimental young upstarts. They can figure it out for themselves. They aren’t handicapped like you human beings. The only way you get any news is by talkin’ or writin’, hearin’, or seein’ something. Those young punks don’t amount to much, but they are smarter than you are. Let ‘em alone. What if Salt is lonesome? It’s good for him. He’ll hear from Pepper someday, and in a way that you couldn’t understand. He’ll be pulling out himself pretty soon, and I wouldn’t be surprised if both of them chisel in on my salt lick.”
     We were quiet while Inky continued waltzing around. Suddenly he looked up.
     “Looks as if he were sorry for us now,” said Giny.
     Yes, it did. Inky looked serious, almost apologetic. He rose on his hind legs, shook out his great coat of quills, and looked the words:
     “Aw, I suppose I’m too rough with you folks. I

don’t mean to be. But you human beings seem to be so stupid. You’ve been leanin’ on different kinds of crutches so long you have lost some of your natural ability. You don’t know how to feel things. You can’t look out into the night and just know what is going on. You don’t listen to the little voices inside yourselves that will tell you everything you ought to know. I understand you human beings haven’t always been so stupid. You used to be smarter than you are now. You had what you call instincts, as we do. Maybe you had intuition, too; I don’t know. But you don’t have to be responsible for us. We can take care of ourselves. Pepper will know where to go and when to come back. Something inside her will tell her. And as for that whimperin’ young imp over on the island, I’d like to give him some extra quills with my compliments.”
     And Inky flew into another spasm of toughness.
     “But Inky,” said Giny, “Salt is miserable; we just
have to take Pepper back to him.”
     “Aw! Balsam Juice,” said Inky, and he waltzed off
into the night.

INKY’S abrupt behavior did not banish our sympathy for Salt, however. This little fellow’s mental suffering was too obvious, too real.
     It was a disconsolate porcupine that met us that night when we returned from our fruitless search for his mate. We could hear his mournful cries long before we reached the island. He was at the landing waiting for us, as if hopeful that we would bring news of Pepper. He followed close at our heels as we walked up the path, talking his sorrow in a way that made us kneel beside him frequently to pet and comfort him. But not even Giny’s lullaby song could give him peace. Even as she held him in her arms, swinging him to and fro in the manner that had made him so happy in times past, he emitted his mournful little cries of loneliness.
     It may be that we human beings learn things only when facts come to us in a way that hurts a little. It hurt us to see Salt so grieved. We had seen Salt and Pepper play together, and laughed at the fun they were having, but we had not been impressed with the serious and sound nature of their friendship. Now Salt’s heartache echoed a pain within our own hearts.

We knew how attached he must have been to be hurt so deeply, and we understood. Never again would we doubt the affection of porcupines for one another. Nor did the fact that Pepper would leave Salt dispute the presence of devotion in her heart. We recalled now how through days and nights she had been endeavoring to take him with her, coaxing him toward the woods. The wilderness had won. Yet we could not doubt that wherever she was, she was enduring the same loneliness we were watching in Salt.
     Throughout the remainder of the night Salt called and searched. We heard him under the house, we heard him in the far corners of the island, we heard him high in the trees. For a brief moment there was his crunch,