VIII THE SKUNK, CALMLY CONSIDERED 233 
house. ‘He is a confirmed epicure, and at plun- 
dering hen-roosts an expert,” John Burroughs de- 
clares with an unction born of bitter experience: 
“Not the full-grown fowls are his victims, but 
the youngest, most tender. At night Mother Hen 
receives under her maternal wings a dozen newly 
hatched chickens, and with much pride and satis- 
faction feels them all safely tucked away in her 
feathers. In the morning she is walking about 
disconsolately, attended by only two or three. 
What has happened? Where are they gone? 
That pickpocket, Sir Mephitis, could solve the 
mystery. Quietly has he approached, under cover 
of darkness, and, one by one, relieved her of her 
precious charge. Look closely, and you will see 
their little yellow legs and beaks or a part of a 
mangled form lying about on the ground. Or, 
before the hen has hatched, he may find her out, 
and, by the same sleight of hand, remove every 
egg.” 
This is sad; but I am inclined to think both Dr. 
Lord and Mr. Burroughs have let fancy run away 
with them, and that such delicate knavery is more 
often to be credited to the artistic touch of the 
mink or weasel. The skunk is no fool, and may 
perhaps be cunning enough, but he is too careless 
and bull-headed to do his work with the neatness 
and precaution against detection implied in the 
operations described above. He goes boldly into 
the roosting flock at night and slashes about him 
