Rascal

by Sterling North

  Among my favorite poems at this time were Rupert Brooke’s war sonnets and Alan Seeger’s prophetic and gallant lament:

  I have a rendezous with Death

  At some disputed barricade . . .

  Particularly on nights of thunder and lightning I had nightmares about the war and pulled the covers over our heads. But when the sun arose the next morning to shine upon the rain-wet grass, Rascal and I forgot our fears and prepared to go fishing.

  One of my favorite fishing spots was a sand bar below the Indian Ford dam in Rock River—a stream which rises in the Horicon marshes of Wisconsin and enters the Mississippi at Rock Island, Illinois. There were deep holes and rapids, marshy bayous and stretches as quiet as a lake, a beautiful and unpredictable stream.

  On a previous evening I had searched the wet lawn with a flashlight to catch more than fifty night crawlers. My jointed steel rod was strapped under the bar of my bicycle, and my tackle box with reel and line and lures was ready to place in the bicycle basket on the handlebars. It was good that my box was small and compact, leaving room for my fishing companion who in the last few days had become a cycling maniac.

  Rascal was a demon for speed. Weighing two pounds at most, this absurd and lovable little creature had the heart of a lion. He had learned to stand in the closely woven wire basket with his feet wide apart and his hands firmly gripping the front rim, his small button of a nose pointed straight into the wind, and his ring tail streaming back like the plume of a hunting dog that has come to a point. The most amusing aspect of his racing costume was his natural black goggles around his bright eyes, making him look like Barney Oldfield coming down the home stretch. What he liked best was going full tilt down a steep hill. It worried him slightly when I had to work hard, pumping up the next hill, the front wheel woggling from side to side to keep the bicycle in balance. But as we picked up speed again his confidence returned, and he would peer ahead like the engineer leaning from the cab window of Old Ninety-Nine.

  On the southern edge of town we had to pass the cemetery where my mother was buried under a white stone that said:

  In Memory of

  Sarah Elizabeth Nelson North

  1866–1914

  It seemed an inadequate tribute, only partially compensated by the roses I had planted there.

  From the cemetery it was all downhill to Indian Ford with a fine view of the winding river bordered by woods and pastures and neat, geometric fields of corn, tobacco, wheat, and oats. In these years of war prosperity the barns were newly painted a cheerful red, and the farmhouses white amid wide lawns and flowers. We gained speed in those last two miles, and Rascal came to full attention, the wind sweeping into his face and blowing his whiskers back to his furry ears. We were probably as happy as anyone can be in our world.

  This was the first time Rascal had seen Indian Ford, and there were many exciting things to show him: the bridge with girders rising twenty feet above the water from which boys dared each other to dive; the dam itself with a shining sheet of water cascading into the depths below; the powerhouse from which emerged the continuous purring of the dynamos; and finally the swift tailrace, too dangerous for any swimmer, particularly for a small raccoon who had barely learned to dog-paddle.

  We turned downriver on a path skirted by willows in which red-wing blackbirds made the day still more liquid with their “Kon-keree! Kon-keree!” And upon a bank overlooking a bend in the big stream we found wild strawberries almost as bright as the red epaulets on the wings of the blackbirds. A single taste of these berries and Rascal waded into the patch snatching and devouring. For one so eager and so curious, each moment brought new delights.

  We came at last to my secret fishing place, the sand bar with the deep and quiet hole below it where I had caught more fish than anywhere else in the river. I left my bicycle in the willows and began assembling my jointed pole and reel, running my silk line through the agate eyes and tip, and tying to that line a short gut leader, a swivel, and a red-and-white bass plug.

  Rascal needed no such elaborate preparation. His fishing equipment was always ready for immediate use; you might say he was born with more fishing sense and fishing tackle than most human beings acquire in a lifetime.

  I watched him for several minutes as he worked his way along the upper edge of the sand bar, examining every inch of the shallows with a slight treading or pumping motion which alternated the pressure and progress of his two hands. His eyes, as usual, played no part in this intimate investigation of his fishing grounds, as his gaze ranged far across the river to the opposite shore. At the outermost point of the bar he was momentarily swept into the stream, and I was preparing to rush to his rescue. But with no apparent distress, he swam back to the quiet water below the bar and began examining this lower margin of the small peninsula.

  With the whole river inviting their escape, the minnows were too swift for Rascal’s hands. But he soon encountered and grasped a little monster of which he had no previous knowledge.

  His catch was a particularly large crayfish (or “crawdad” in the terminology of the region). This fresh-water lobster has claws that can pinch severely, an armored body, and a delicious tail. A feast I had often enjoyed consisted of perhaps twenty-five such crayfish tails boiled over a campfire. Pink, firm, and tasting like shrimp, they furnished an excellent appetizer before the entree of fried catfish or Mulligan stew.

  This, however, was Rascal’s first crayfish. Had he been informed by his mother, he would have grasped it just behind the claws, thus avoiding any danger from those waving, sawtooth pincers. But having no one to teach him, he missed the safe-and-sane grasp, and was pinched several times before he crushed the head with his needle-sharp teeth, washed his prey, and turned the crayfish around to gobble up the delectable tail.

  Once pinched, twice shy. The very next crayfish he caught was handled with the professional skill of an old and wise raccoon.

  Feeling certain that Rascal was in no danger from the river, or from its smaller inhabitants, I began my own fishing. I was barefoot, of course, with my overalls rolled high above my knees. So I waded into the cool water at the tip of the point, pleasurably expectant as I prepared for my first cast.

  Below the point was cupped the deep, dark pool, edged toward the shore with small pond lilies, water lilies, and slender flowers which we called arrowheads. I cast smoothly toward the hiding place of many a bass and pickerel, reeling in the plug, with pauses to allow any game fish that might be following to strike the lure.

  Once a bass struck and missed, but refused to strike again. A few minutes later a sunfish weighing perhaps a pound followed the red-and-white wobbler almost to the end of the pole, then turned in a flash of color and was gone. A dozen more casts produced no additional results, so I reeled in to change my rig for catfish—those big, fighting, fork-tailed silver cats that furnished more sport than any other fish in the river.

  Anglers who have never taken this particular mutation of channel catfish find it hard to believe that these fish will strike almost any lure, a buck-tail fly, a live minnow or frog, and of course chicken livers and night crawlers. These trim, slim, and beautiful fish are streamlined for action and will frequently fight for twenty minutes or half an hour before being brought to the net.

  As I returned to my tackle box, I saw that Rascal had eaten his fill of crayfish, and had decided to take a nap in the willow shade beside my bicycle. This left me free to give full attention to my fishing.

  I attached a bronze catfish hook to my leader, weighted my line with four split buckshot, and strung an appetizing bait of night crawlers on the hook. Once again wading into the water at the point of the sand bar, I cast one hundred feet downstream to the deepest part of the pool. I waited for nearly ten minutes, and then the electrifying moment came. The bait moved twice, the line twitching as the big cat nosed the night crawlers. Then he struck with all his weight, the line singing off the reel as I slowed it with my thumb. As I pulled back to set the hook, my pole bent almos
t double, and the fight was on.

  He tried all of his tricks, once making a long run for the lily pads where he might have tangled the line and broken free, twice making dashes for the faster water where the current could help him. Then for three or four minutes he sulked so deep in the pool I thought he might have gone under a sunken log. He broke water once, all silver and blue, his great forked tail thrashing.

  Rascal awoke at this point and trundled over to join in the excitement. As the catfish was reeled in, nearer and nearer to the shore, the raccoon went up and down the sand bar, glancing at me occasionally to ask questions.

  “It’s a beauty,” I told my pet. “One of the best I ever caught.”

  Rascal extended a tentative paw as I brought it into shallow water, but retreated precipitously when the thrashing tail drenched him. Once I had the fish safely on the sand I slipped my stringer through its gills before I removed the hook. I was taking no last-minute chance of losing this big shining cat, which by the scale in my tackle box weighed just under nine pounds. I tied the stringer to a strong willow root, rebaited, and went back to the point, my heart thumping wildly.

  In two hours of fishing I added nothing more to my string except three fat, yellow-bellied bullheads weighing perhaps a pound apiece. However, both Rascal and I went frequently to view again the handsome catfish, tethered to the willow.

  It was approaching noon and the fish had stopped biting, so I reeled in, removed my tackle, and unjointed my pole. I put the fish in a gunny sack, crowding Rascal a bit in the bicycle basket, and we started homeward up the river trail, filled with contentment.

  At the Fishermen’s Rest at Indian Ford I bought a bottle of strawberry pop, and Rascal discovered a new delicacy. Without so much as a by-your-leave he put one of his little hands into the bottle, licked off his fingers, and began begging. I waited until I had finished all but the last half inch of the bottle, then I poured a few drops into Rascal’s open and eager mouth. To my amazement he grasped the neck of the bottle, rolled over on his back, and using both hands and both feet held it in perfect position while he drained the last sweet drops. Strawberry was his favorite flavor from then on. He never did learn to like lemon sour.

  All raccoons are attracted by shining objects, and Rascal was no exception. He was fascinated by brass doorknobs, glass marbles, my broken Ingersoll watch, and small coins. I gave him three bright new pennies which he hoarded with the happiness of a little miser. He felt them carefully, smelled them, tasted them, and then hid them in a dark corner with some of his other treasures. One day he decided to carry one of his pennies to the back porch. Poe-the-Crow was perched on the porch rail teasing the cats, but keeping just beyond their reach. This raucous old bird, who cawed and cussed in crow language, was arching his wings and strutting like a poolroom bully as Rascal pushed open the screen and trundled into the sunlight, his penny shining like newly minted gold.

  Poe and Rascal had taken an instant dislike to each other when first they met. Crows, like most other birds, know that raccoons steal birds’ eggs and sometimes eat fledglings. In addition Poe was jealous. He had seen me petting and pampering my small raccoon. But Rascal was large enough now to pull a few tail feathers from the big black bird during their noisy squabbles. And Poe, who was no fool, was taking few chances.

  The penny, however, was so tempting that the crow threw caution to the winds and made a dive for the bright object (for crows are as insatiably attracted by glittering trinkets as are raccoons, and in addition are inveterate thieves).

  Rascal was carrying the penny in his mouth, and when Poe swooped to conquer, his beak closed not only on the penny but upon half a dozen of Rascal’s coarse, strong whiskers. When the black thief tried to make his fast getaway he found himself attached to the raccoon, who with a high scream of fury began fighting for his property and his life. Such a tangle of shining black feathers and furious fur you have seldom seen as Rascal and Poe wrestled and struggled. I arrived to untangle them, and both were angry with me. Rascal nipped me slightly for the first time, and Poe made several ungracious comments.

  The penny, meanwhile, had rolled from the porch into the grass below, where the crow promptly spotted it, seized it once again, and took wing. “Straight as a crow flies” seldom applied to my wily pet. After any thievery he would travel by devious routes before slipping between the wide slats of the Methodist belfry where he presumably stored his loot.

  I gave the incident no more thought, pacified Rascal with another penny, and resumed work on my canoe in the living room.

  The blueprint I had made in the manual training shop at school called for a trim and streamlined craft, eighteen feet long and twenty-eight inches wide. The slender longitudinal ribs were fastened at prow and stern and curved around cross-sectional forms between. These and the inner keel were now in place. But the ribs to encircle the craft from gunwale to gunwale presented a problem. I had tried steaming hickory for this purpose, and curving the wood under pressure, but had given it up as an impossible job with my limited equipment.

  Then a happy thought struck me. Nothing is tougher than the water elm used in making cheese boxes. An additional convenience is the fact that these cylinders of thin wood are already curved into a complete circle. Most of the tradesmen were friends of mine. They bought the neatly tied bunches of white-tipped, crimson radishes which I raised in my war garden, and gave me meat scraps and stale loaves of bread for Wowser. I was sure they would give me empty cheese boxes if I asked politely.

  At Pringle’s they had one good cheese box and at Wilson’s grocery another. Before I had visited half the food stores in town I had all I needed. At home in the living room I marked two-inch strips on each of these cylinders, and with my father’s best ripsaw began the exacting and exasperating job of cutting the featherweight canoe ribs. Some of the boxes split and were ruined. But with patience I finally sawed the forty-two circles that were required. I found to my great joy that these strips of wood had no tendency to spread, but on the contrary held their circular shape to perfection.

  All of this work in the living room created some disorder, particularly when I began sandpapering the ribs, starting with number-two sandpaper and finishing with double 0, which is very fine. The wood smoothed to a satin surface, creamy yellow and pleasant to the touch.

  I was still sanding the ribs, with Rascal clambering over the unfinished canoe, when a Stutz Bearcat curved up the gravel drive. Out stepped my beautiful sister Theodora Maud (the Maud from Tennyson of course). With her was one of her maids, and Theo had a determined look on her patrician face and a light in her eyes that went well with her mass of auburn hair.

  “Theo, Theo!” I shouted happily, running out to embrace her.

  “Hello, sonny boy—my, you’re all covered with sawdust.”

  “Well you see, Theo, I’m building a canoe.”

  “That’s nice, but where?”

  “In the living room,” I said, dropping my eyes.

  “Merciful heavens!” Theo said. “Now help Jennie with the luggage, and put it in the downstairs bedroom.”

  I didn’t dare tell Theo that I was sleeping in that room and that Rascal slept there too. I loved this sister but I was slightly in awe of her. She had been kind to me after Mother died, and she would be kind to me again some years later when I was stricken by infantile paralysis. But she was a martinet concerning deportment, dress, housekeeping, and much besides. It was her training that made me jump up like a jack-in-the-box whenever an older person, particularly a lady, entered the room. She dressed me on occasion in such fashionable Norfolk suits and jackets that it took several fist fights to prove I was still one of the gang.

  Theo gave the living room one sweeping glance and raised her hands in horror.

  “I’ve never seen such a mess in my life,” she said.

  “I sweep up the sawdust and shavings every evening.”

  “Yes, I see them, right there in the fireplace.”

  “Daddy and I do a good job of
batching it,” I said defensively.

  “Batching it! That’s just the trouble,” Theo said severely. “Now you get that canoe out of the living room this minute, Sterling.”

  I had a little of the family’s fire, so I replied with a firm and angry refusal. I told Theo we were living exactly the way we wanted to live, and that I would never wear a Norfolk suit or a necktie again except on Sundays.

  “You’re not too big to spank,” Theo said, her lovely eyes flashing.

  “You just try.”

  “Now, Sterling, I’ve brought Jennie to clean this house from top to bottom. I’ll cook some decent food. We’ll hire a full-time housekeeper, and we’ll get this canoe out of the living room.”

  “Can’t you just leave us alone?” I said mournfully. “Anyhow, you’re not my mother.”

  “Oh, sonny boy,” she said, suddenly contrite and fighting back the tears. She came around the end of the canoe and kissed me quite tenderly.

  Giving Theo the downstairs bedroom didn’t worry me. She always took this big room with its adjoining bath. She said none of the other beds was fit to sleep in.

  My difficulty would come in trying to explain all this to Rascal. Raccoons have definite patterns in their minds, and Rascal had decisively chosen the same bed that Theo wanted. He also preferred a room with a bath. Each evening I closed the drain of the big lavatory and left a few inches of water in the basin so that Rascal could get a drink at any time during the night, or perhaps wash a cricket before he ate it. How was I to reveal to this small creature of habit that he was being evicted?

  Theo had not seen Rascal until this moment. He had been lying low, watching and listening shrewdly. He may not have been a perfect judge of character, but he reacted with surprising sensitivity to various modulations of voice. He knew when he was being praised or scolded and when people were feeling affectionate or angry. He didn’t altogether trust this auburn-haired stranger, although his eyes strayed often to her shining hair.