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Updated: May 27, 2025
"What about your home?" asked Happy Jack. "Home is wherever I happen to be, most of the time, but Mrs. Porky has a home in a hollow log or a cave or under the roots of a tree where the babies are born. I guess that's all I've got to tell you." "You might add that those babies are big for the size of their mother and have a full supply of quills when they are born," said Old Mother Nature.
Two months later, on a hot August afternoon, I was paddling along the edge of the Glimmerglass in company with a friend of mine, each of us in a small dug-out canoe, when we found the Porky asleep in the sunshine. He was lying on the nearly horizontal trunk of a tree whose roots had been undermined by the waves till it leaned far out over the lake, hardly a foot from the water.
Beany, who had walked rapidly over to the place allocated for him, had waited in vain for something to turn up, and long after the time set for the meeting had commenced watching for his brother. Something, he felt sure, had happened in some other part of the grounds. He was strangely uneasy. A great desire to find Porky came over him.
Did you see the man go overboard, boys?" "Yes, sir, we did," said Porky; "but we didn't see who it was. Was it any one we knew? We saw the Captain shoot him." "Yes," said Beany of the eagle eye, "it made me feel funny, somehow. The Captain shot quick. Just bing! and the bullet hit him, about an inch above the back of his neck just a shade to the left of the middle of his head."
That is, not a moment except just at bedtime. Then Mrs. Potter came into the boys' room, and gave them each a little, thin package. She just handed it to them and kissed them goodnight, and went out. "Let's see what they are," said Porky. There were two little leather cases. Inside were Mom Potter's pretty, motherly dear face, and pop's splendid, homely countenance. Porky jerked out the light.
He expected a lot of them. You see, he knew that none of them ever had seen a Beaver at work unless perhaps it was Prickly Porky the Porcupine, who also had come down from the North. So as he worked he kept his ears open, and he smiled to himself as he heard a little rustle here and then a little rustle there. He knew just what those little rustles meant. Each one meant another visitor.
"All right," said Beany. He swung to the floor. "Hustle and dress. I bet some thing is on foot." He hustled himself into his clothes and was ready as soon as Porky, who considered himself the record dresser. Together they slipped through the dark passage and went up on deck. The Firefly fled like a wild thing, cutting a swift path through a rough and choppy sea. They went forward.
There were days when he was even hungrier than his mother had been the night she serenaded the land-looker, and it was on one of these occasions that he found a porcupine in a tree and tried to make a meal of him. That was a memorable experience. The porky was sitting in a crotch, doing nothing in particular, and when the Kitten approached he simply put his nose down and his quills up.
He slipped down from the tree where he had sought safety, crept around behind Granny, and bit her sharply on one heel. Granny let go of Peter to turn and snap at Unc' Billy. This was Peter's chance. He slipped out from under Granny's paws and in a flash was behind Prickly Porky.
Everybody knew that Paddy the Beaver was laying up a supply of food for the winter, and everybody thought it was queer food. That is, everybody but Prickly Porky the Porcupine thought so. Prickly Porky likes the same kind of food, but he never lays up a supply. He just goes out and gets it when he wants it, winter or summer. What kind of food was it? Why, bark, to be sure.
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