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Updated: May 11, 2025
Her host, sitting sidewise on the edge of the table so that he could swing one leg freely and spit cleanly through the open window, bit off a contemplative quid of "blackjack" tobacco, and waited for her to unfold the problems that troubled her. Mrs. Gammit's rugged features were modelled to fit an expression of vigorous, if not belligerent, self-confidence.
In the days that followed, neither weasel, wildcat, nor porcupine came to Mrs. Gammit's clearing, and the daily harvest of strictly fresh eggs was unfailing. At the end of a week, the good lady felt justified in returning the traps to Joe Barron, and letting him know how mistaken he had been. "There, Mr. Barron," said she, handing him the three traps, "I'm obleeged to you, an' there's yer traps.
And the sheep, having slowly extricated themselves from the deep snow behind the well-house, huddled together, with heads down, in the middle of the yard, fearfully eyeing the limp body which lay before the shed. Mrs. Gammit's Pig "I've come to borry yer gun!" said Mrs. Gammit, appearing suddenly, a self-reliant figure, at the open door of the barn where Joe Barron sat mending his harness.
"Scat! you brute!" she had yelled frantically, thrusting head and shoulders so far out through the window that she almost lost her balance in the effort to shake both fists at once. The bear, not understanding the terms of her invective, had sat up on his haunches and turned his one eye mildly upon the bristling tufts of grey hair which formed a sort of halo around Mrs. Gammit's virginal nightcap.
It was a favourite saw of Mrs. Gammit's that "a watched pot takes long to bile"; and her experience that night exemplified it. With the kitchen door ajar, she sat a little back from the window. Herself hidden, she had a clear view across the bright yard. Very slowly the round moon climbed the pallid summer sky, changing the patterns of the shadows as she rose. But the bear came not. Mrs.
Gammit's clearing, and realized, after long and cautious investigations, that its presiding genius was nothing more formidable than one of those petticoated creatures who trembled at his growl, he had licked his chops with pleasant anticipation. Here, at last, was his opportunity, the flesh-pots of servitude, with freedom. Nevertheless, the old bear was prudent.
With a reluctant grunt he had turned and fled, indifferent to his dignity. And he had thought best not to stop until he found himself quite beyond the range of Mrs. Gammit's disconcerting accents, which rang harsh triumph across the solemn, silvered stillness of the forest. It was, of course, this imminent peril to the pig which had roused Mrs.
Then he had tried some nocturnal experiments on the garden, sampling the young squashes which were Mrs. Gammit's peculiar pride, and finding them so good that he had thought surely something would happen. Nothing did happen, however, because Mrs. Gammit slept heavily; and her indignation in the morning he had not been privileged to view.
And in the present instance she found no reason to change her views on the subject. The stone did not hit the porcupine. It did not, even for one moment, distract his attention from the hemlock twigs. Instead of that, it struck a low branch, on the other side of the tree, and bounced back briskly upon Mrs. Gammit's toes.
An ear-splitting succession of squeals had issued from the dark interior of the pen, and the bear had backed off in amazement. Before he could recover himself and renew his assault, the window of the cabin had gone up with a skittering slam. The white pig's appeal for help had penetrated Mrs. Gammit's solid slumbers, and she had understood the situation.
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