Sycamore was sweating a little when he finished the vision of himself as a bank robber. He felt cold in the bottom of his stomach. Sam had said to think it over. He had. The next time he met Sam he would tell him about this plan, and maybe Sam would do the lifting since he was much more worldly and had even smoked a cigar once.
“Killie, killie, killie,” Sycamore Will looked up to see Sparvarius, the sparrow hawk, who lived on the farm. He bobbed his head, opened his wings, and dropped like a stone into the grass along the fence row. Beating his wings rabidly he rose with a mouse. The boy watched him fly toward the hollow sycamore tree along the creek. When he had gone, birds that had been silent in his presence took up their activities again. The savannah sparrow on the fence post relaxed and sang the buzzing phrases of his song. He was answered by chirps in the tall grass and flew to a fledgling. Two field sparrows flew up from hiding and sat on the wire fence. Sycamore whistled to them as he scuffed down the stony road to the barn. He heard Seed call.
“Sycamore! Sycamore!” He wondered if his father would be sorry when he was far out in Arizona, a real outlaw wanted for robbing a bank.
“Sycamore!” The voice was not commanding, it almost had a laugh in it. His father was on the other side of the barn. Sycamore Will burst into a run, responding with boyish excitement to the first pleasant tone his father had used in many days.
He rounded the end of the barn and came to a sudden stop at the old silo pit. He did not need to look, for the air reeked with the odor of skunk.
“Oh, Pa! Oh, Pa! it’s the skunk. How did you do it, Pa? How did you do it?” Seed was laughing and jumping back from the pit each time the animal stormed toward him raising her tail.
“She did it herself,” he said. “Musta been after a mouse or something and fell into the pit. She sprayed once when I came around the corner of the barn to see what the commotion was, but she hasn’t sprayed since. Doesn’t seem to mind us too much now, does she?”
“Maybe she’d get real tame,” said Sycamore.
“Well, I once knew a man who had a tame skunk and it was a real friendly critter.”
“Could we keep her, Pa? Could we? She can’t get out of here and this would make a real nice cage. I’ll build her a little box, and give her water and food. What do skunk’s eat, Pa?”
“Oh, corn maybe or something. I don’t know.”
“Then can we keep her?”
“Well, I ain’t going down to let her out, so you might as well throw in some food.” Seed grinned down at the plucky little animal who was now sitting calmly in the shade of the pit wall. She seemed resigned to her misfortune, looked around, then stretched out on the earthen floor and rested quietly. Seed went on back to the barn to finish bedding down the calves, leaving Sycamore crouched at the side of the pit.
For a long time Sycamore Will peered down at the beautiful animal. He studied her minklike face, her long front claws, and her tear-shaped body. He looked at the glistening jet black fur and the pure white stripes that began as one at the back of her head and divided down both sides of her body. Then he admired her handsome tail that splattered over her back in black and white spangles. Finally he leaned over and said gently to her:
“Do you want your baby?”
The mother skunk, startled by the voice, lifted her head and looked blankly at the face above her. She was unafraid of the boy and not particularly interested in him. She snuggled her head against her front paws. Her only interest was the coming of darkness, when she could dig her way out of the pit and return to Meph. She looked once more at the boy, blinked and dug her nails in the soft earth. He had turned and walked away. Presently he returned with two ears of hard yellow corn. He leaned down and placed them near her. She sniffed them a few times and laid her head back on her feet.
He disappeared again, and from the pit she could hear noises in the barn as the cattle mooed and stamped in their stanchions. As the shadow of the pit wall lengthened, she felt the coolness of the ending day. She saw the tips of the maples turn gold-red in the sunset, and heavy blue clouds gathered in the aqua sky. A cricket sleeping under a stone near her, rubbed its feet against its wings and began its mating call. It strummed loudly and monotonously. The immature house sparrows scrapped noisily for roosts under the eaves of the barn, and the barn owl family cried out like hissing winds. Yellow lights flicked on in the old stone house. Still the mother skunk remained quiet, her head resting on her front feet seemingly as calm as if she were sleeping with her kit beneath the dusty summer kitchen.
The boy came back after sunset and spoke gently to her again:
“Just as soon as the supper dishes are done I’ll go get your little baby. Now don’t you move until I get back.”
Meph was awakened by the cracking gnaw of a rat as it tried to bore through the floor boards into the summer kitchen. He yawned, rolled over on his back, and looked around the square enclosure. The fading light of the sun coming through the hole in the wall attracted his attention. He watched the circle of light move across the floor, up the wall and disappear. When it had gone, he adjusted his eyes to the gloom and picked out the shape of the noisy rat at the far end of the room. The rat was standing on his hind feet reaching up to the floor boards where he sawed vigorously with his long chisel-shaped incisors. Meph listened to him a moment, for the little animal could scarcely see him at the other end of the enclosure. Being equipped with a good nose and excellent digging claws, he did not need sharp eyes with which to hunt. And as for needing keen eyes to see his enemies, that, too, would be unnecessary in time. The larger predators would attack him only as a last resort, for the skunk is well protected. Like a nearsighted man who had lost his glasses, Meph squinted at the rat.
Meph was waiting for his mother to return so they could go hunting together. He scarcely got any milk from her now and what he did get was of poor quality. Hunger pains were gnawing at his stomach as persistently as the rat gnawed at the floor boards. Meph waited and waited.
He fell asleep for a short time, but an empty ache in his stomach woke him and he got up and walked to the hole in the foundation. For many moments he peered into the night, waiting patiently, for he had not been told to leave. He smelled the air from time to time, but the scent of his mother was not upon it. He turned away and scratched at the earthen floor, but it was dry and dusty and barren of food. Uncertain as to the many reasons for being uncomfortable and unhappy, he stamped his feet and spit and garbled. Then he cried, a squeaking husky whine, calling to his mother to come and get him and take him out hunting.
MEPHITIS
SYCAMORE WILL PICKED up the stew kettle and wiped it dry. He put it down on the kitchen table and went back for the last pan.
“The stew kettle belongs in the cupboard,” his mother said gently. “Would you put it away for me?” Sycamore made a long face as if in pain, for this was the last of his chores. He had had a full evening of milking and working around the barn and he was impatient to be free to get the baby skunk. Sighing resignedly, he walked heavily across the floor and climbed up the shelves to the high cupboard. Holding to the middle support, he jammed the kettle on the top shelf. As he started down his eyes fell on the canned jars of cherries neatly arranged on the third shelf. Suddenly his blood ran cold and he stopped and stared. There carefully cached away among the cherries was his mother’s mason jar filled almost to the top with egg money. He heard Sam’s voice: “It isn’t much more than a month’s egg money.” Here were many months of savings.
Egg money, he thought. But surely, Sam didn’t mean this. A bank maybe, but not Ma’s egg money. He turned to his mother, maybe if he asked her for it—but she was carrying the dishwater through the summer-kitchen and out the door to throw it on the hollyhocks. Oh, well, maybe he didn’t really want to go to Arizona, and maybe Sam wouldn’t either when he saw his mother skunk and her baby in the silo pit. He ran toward the door, picking up the flashlight as he went.
Shaking with excitement he half slipped, half ran down the c
ellar steps and pushed back the window that opened under the summer kitchen. He remembered to move slowly as he wiggled forward on his stomach. The dust-filled webs stuck to his hair and face, but he did not feel them. Carefully he moved forward, shining the light around the dark room. Something moved and darted away. Sycamore almost cried aloud as the little animal went down a hole by the wall. Feverishly he moved after it, and dug his hands into the cavity. The tunnel was long and deep, and went down under the foundation; but he must dig it up, the baby skunk would die without its mother. He laid the flashlight down and pulled at the earth with both hands. Musky smelling dirt flew right and left as he worked. Finally he stopped, for the ground was hard and packed and his hands were not strong enough to break it. He moved back. He would wiggle out and get the iron bar. As he turned to go, something moved by his right leg. Startled, Sycamore straightened up and cracked his head smartly on the floor boards. But he hardly felt the bump, for stamping the ground in front of him, tail twisted to face him, was little Meph.
From the leafy nest by the chimney Meph had watched the gangling boy come into his home. At first he had been frightened, had even tried to throw his spume, but seeing him working furiously at the rathole had roused his curiosity and he had come over to him. He sniffed his leather shoes and faded jeans that smelled of the barn. He moved up toward the head. The boy suddenly sat up and shook the floor with a thud. Meph’s mother had never seemed concerned about the people on the farm, so Meph felt no fear. When the surprise of the noise had left him, he lowered his tail and sat down to look at Sycamore. Sycamore’s great white paw came toward him. He rose and smelled it. It was acrid and unpleasant, so unlike the sweet rich smell of his mother’s fur. He backed away, but the paw kept moving forward. He crouched and smelled it again as it came to rest upon his head. The claws were soft and limber and moved lightly around his ears. The sensation was good and he lifted his head with pleasure, then bounced away and back again to play with the frolicsome claws. He bit them gently and waited for them to dig into his fur again. The second time they encircled his fat stomach and before he could withdraw, he was lifted through the air and pressed into the warm chest of the boy. Still Meph was not alarmed. He was accustomed to the gentle pressure of his mother’s body, and he responded to Sycamore’s affection. He nosed his head into the folds of Sycamore’s sleeve and gabbled softly. The white paw stroked him constantly and he felt assured and good.
Sycamore’s broad mouth was curled in a grin, and his blue eyes sparkled in a thin film of tears. This was too wonderful, the little skunk had found him, and seemed to like him. He ran his hands over the fuzzy body and felt the small heart, beating in the little chest. He touched the fur-covered ears and the soft plumes of the tail. Then he lifted him to his cheek and rubbed him against his face. He smelled the clean fur, so lovingly washed by the mother, and let all his need for affection flow into the young animal.
Still holding the baby skunk closely and gently, Sycamore Will scooted on the seat of his pants across the dusty floor to the window. With great effort he let himself down to the cellar floor and walked carefully to the steps. Out in the warm June air he laughed aloud as the tiny pointed teeth of Meph tickled his thumb. He hurried to the silo pit, for the baby skunk was getting restless and a little disturbed at being transported through the night. Sycamore Will lowered him into the three-foot deep circular pit as the mother skunk rounded the enclosure for the twenty-first time in her search for a way out. She stopped when she heard the boy. Sycamore lowered Meph into the pit and waited for him to join his mother. It was almost too dark to see, but after a few moments, he heard a throaty murmur and a gabbling squeal. He went off to get the nail keg and a pan of water, then he would go to the attic and find what skunks liked to eat.
When Meph felt the warm hands release him, he stood still, alarmed by the strange place in which he found himself. He quickly calmed, however, for all around him was the odor of his mother, strong and wonderful. Then he smelled her presence and heard her long front nails click against the earth as she came toward him. She was running. He backed up, waiting for her scolding note, for he was here without her permission. But she jumped onto him with a devoted murmur and Meph answered her in his high squeak. She rolled him over and over, biting and touching him, communicating happily with him through noises that came from her larnyx. She smelled him and an acrid odor of the boy permeated his fur. She was angry, and she picked him up by his neck fur and carried him around the enclosure, looking for a route of escape. She moved excitedly often pivoting and nosing the crevices in the wall. Meph swung and spun as she moved about. He screeched his discomfort and churned his legs as he tried to wrench himself free. Finally the mother stopped her nervous prowl and held him down while she tried to clean his odorous fur. Meph screamed and chortled as she struggled to wash the boy’s scent from him. As she licked his face and ears, he fought and pushed her chest with his front feet, but she was stronger; and she cleaned him of the boy smell.
A light flashed into the silo pit and Sycamore Will climbed in with a barrel and an armload of straw.
He put down a bowl and hopped out. The mother skunk turned her weapon toward him, for she was now protecting her kit. But before she released it, Sycamore was gone. Meph smelled the warm odor of fresh cow’s milk. He was ravenous, and waddled swiftly to the cat’s bowl that the boy had taken from the barn. He drank and drank, and when he was done his mother finished the food. They paced around the pit for an hour or so, going in and out of the barrel. Finally, tired from the strain of their many new experiences, they curled up in the nail keg. The mother pulled the straw in behind them. It made a plug and the two skunks felt secure shut off from the world.
Sycamore ran into the kitchen where his father was going over the farm accounts again. His mother was standing at the ironing board wearily pushing the heavy iron over the clothes.
“Pa,” he shouted, “Pa, I found the mother skunk’s baby! It was under the summer kitchen. I gave it to her, and she licked it and kissed it.”
Seed Lites looked up. He was desperately tired from the hard work in the June heat, and discouraged about his hay. He needed to get two tons per acre to keep the cattle the coming winter, but he couldn’t hope for that much. He would be lucky to get a ton per acre from the dry tired soil. He would have to sell some of the cows and that meant a smaller milk check.
“Pa!” Sycamore leaned on the table and grinned into his father’s face.
“Yes, yes,” Seed said irritably, “I heard you; and look out for these papers, you’re messing them up.” He raised his arm to push the boy away.
“But, Pa, you ought to come and see it. It’s little and funny, and it likes me.”
“I don’t have time,” he snapped. “And you go on to bed and stop bothering me. We start haying tomorrow if the weather’s good. I don’t want a tired grumpy boy around.”
The joy went out of Sycamore’s voice. He turned to his mother.
“Would you like to see my baby skunk?” he said meekly.
“In the morning, Sycamore,” she replied. She smiled a tired unhappy smile. “You better listen to your father and go to bed. You’ll need your sleep.” Sycamore turned toward the door.
“O.K., O.K., but you’d think somebody would like to know how I caught him.” He kicked the base of the back steps to keep back the tears of disappointment. His mother said:
“Sycamore, I’d like to hear.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Not really, you’re just being nice.” He stormed up the steps. Seed looked at his wife.
“He’s getting out of hand. I don’t think he should see that Sam Toy any more. They say the Toy boy is going bad. Guess I’ll talk to Sycamore tomorrow. A boy needs to be put into line now and then.” Molly looked at him sadly, for she understood Sycamore’s disappointment, but she was too tired to explain the boy’s actions. She only said:
“I suppose so. But after all he’s only a child.” She flipped back the sleeve of a worn blue shirt and wear
ily pressed the cuff.
Sycamore did not go to bed. He messed up the covers, stuffed his pillow under them, and tiptoed to the attic. There he hunted around with the flashlight until he found the book he had remembered reading last winter. It had pictures of many of the North American mammals and short paragraphs on their habits. He found the discussion of the skunk.
“The striped skunk,” he read. Beside these words in italics was printed Mephitis mephitis. Sycamore repeated the scientific name and smiled. I’ll call him Meph, he thought. Quickly he read on until he came to the habitat and foods of the skunk. He learned that Mephitis mephitis lived along wooded stream beds, that he generally denned in the earth and was harmless unless threatened. Insects—largely grasshoppers, crickets, and grubs; mice, some fruits, and berries made up his diet. Sycamore reread the paragraph, then stole back to his bedroom. He lay awake long after Seed and Molly had gone to bed, planning how he would trap mice and catch grasshoppers, and how he would pick the raspberries that grew along the road for his new friends.
Cutting the hay proved to be just what Sycamore wanted. The alfalfa field was filled with meadow voles and house mice exposed and made homeless by the fallen hay. Grasshoppers were everywhere. Sycamore kept a paper sack fastened to his belt, which he filled with loot from the fields. He worked willingly and hard, and although his father was irritated by his jumping on and off the tractor he could not honestly complain. Sycamore was doing a good job.
Meph and his mother were not unhappy in the silo pit, for it was comfortable, reasonably spacious, and food was constantly presented to them. They need not make their long weary journeys around the farm hunting and digging, for the boy brought them more than they could have possibly caught on their own. By the end of the week, Meph was weaned and accepting mice and grasshoppers from Sycamore’s hand. Although the mother never approached the boy, she sensed he was a young friend and did not attack him. When he came near, she crawled into the den, and watched her kit stamp the ground and beg for food. The experience was a strange one to her, but she accepted it.
Meph, the Pet Skunk (American Woodland Tales) Page 3