This seemed a very commonplace happening, but the fact of a house Cat taking to the woods lent her unusual interest, and Yan felt much of the thrill that a truly wild animal would have given him, and had gone far enough in art to find exquisite pleasure in the series of pictures the Cat had presented to his eyes.

He lay there for some minutes expecting her to reappear; then far up the creek he heard slight rattling of the gravel.  He turned and saw, not the Cat, but a very different and somewhat larger animal.  Low, thick-set, jet black, with white marks and an immense bushy tail—­Yan recognized the Skunk at once, although he had never before met a wild one in daylight.  It came at a deliberate waddle, nosing this way and that.  It rounded the bend and was nearly opposite Yan, when three little Skunks of this year’s brood came toddling after the mother.

The old one examined the tracks much as the Cat had done, and Yan got a singular sense of brotherhood in seeing the wild things at his own study.

Then the old Skunk came to the fresh tracks of the Cat and paused so long to smell them that the three young ones came up and joined in.  One of the young ones went to the bank where the Cat came down.  As it blew its little nose over the fresh scent, the old Skunk waddled to the place, became quite interested, then climbed the bank.  The little ones followed in a disjointed procession, varied by one of them tumbling backward from the steep trail.

The old Skunk reached the top of the bank, then mounted the log and followed unerringly the Cat’s back trail to the hole in the trunk.  Down this she peered a minute, then, sniffing, walked in, till nothing could be seen but her tail.  Now Yan heard loud, shrill mewing from the log, “Mew, mew, m-e-u-w, m-e-e-u-w," and the old Skunk came backing out, holding a small gray Kitten.

The little thing mewed and spit energetically, holding on to the inside of the log.  But the old Skunk was too strong—­she dragged it out.  Then holding it down with both paws, she got a good firm grip of its neck and turned to carry it down to the bed of the brook.  The Kitten struggled vigorously, and at last got its claws into the Skunk’s eye and gave such a wrench that the ill-smelling villain loosened its hold a little and so gave the Kitten another chance to squeal, which it did with a will, putting all its strength into a succession of heartrending mee-ow—­mee-ows. Yan’s heart was touched.  He was about to dash to the rescue when there was a scrambling in the far grass, a rush of gray, and the Cat—­the old mother Cat was on the scene, a picture of demon rage, eyes ablaze, fur erect, ears back.  With the spring of a Deer and the courage of a Lion she made for the black murderer.  Eye could not follow the flashings of her paws.  The Skunk recoiled and stared stupidly, but not long; nothing was “long” about it.  Her every superb muscle was tingling with force and mad with hate as the mother Cat closed like a swooping Falcon.  The Skunk had no time to aim that dreadful gun, and in the excitement fired a volley of the deadly musky spray backward, drenching her own young as they huddled in the trail.