The mystery was solved, when after a few days I 

 looked carefully into a deep well. In a way I never 

 could understand, both parents had fallen into the 

 well and had been drowned. 



While there is much tragedy in the life of the wild, 

 comedy and fun is by no means wanting. As I sat 

 on a platform watching for beaver. I observed a young 

 woodchuck who tried to cross a break in the beaver 

 dam on a thin pole. Like a boy who tries to cross a 

 stream on a slippery log. he fell into the water. He 

 scrambled out, shook himself and began to feed near 

 the beaver pond. 



One of the rarest sights I ever witnessed was the 

 play of three young mink. For twenty minutes they 

 played a sort of game of tag on a gravel bank and 

 in a shallow ditch. One climbed on top of a stump 

 in the water. The others nipped his tail and tried to 

 pull him off. At last it seemed as if a hidden referee 

 had called time on their frolic, for all three suddenly 

 stopped playing and disappeared under a pile of old 

 logs. I returned several times to the spot, but never 

 saw the young players again. 



The porcupine might well be called the Grouch of 

 the Woods. It may be that the little porcupine babies 

 indulge in play; the old ones, encased in a coat oJ 

 sharp, bristling quills could not play even if they felt 

 the inclination. 



What the porcupine has gained in protection and 

 safety, he has lost in grace and agility. He is not a 

 runner, nor a graceful climber. The old story that 

 he can throw his quills like darts, is a fable; but by 

 slapping his enemy with his tail he can inflict terrible 



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