ye-bread when one can have cake and ice-cream?

And there among the bulrushes, one bright June morning, he had a fight
with one of his own kind. Just as he was approaching his favorite log,
two other porcupines appeared, coming from different directions, one a
male, and the other a female. They all scrambled out upon the log, one
after another, but it soon became evident that three was a crowd. Our
Porky and the other bachelor could not agree at all. They both wanted
the same place and the same lily-pads, and in a little while they were
pushing and shoving and growling and snarling with all their might, each
doing his best to drive the other off the log and into the water. They
did not bite--perhaps they had agreed that teeth like theirs were too
cruel to be used in civilized warfare--but they struggled and chattered
and swore at each other, and made all sorts of queer noises while they
fought their funny little battle--all the funnier because each of them
had to look out for the other's quills. If either had happened to push
the wrong way, they might both have been in serious trouble. It did not
last long. Our Porky was the stronger, and his rival was driven backward
little by little till he lost his hold completely and slipped into the
lake. He came to the surface at once, and quickly swam to the shore,
where he chattered angrily for a few minutes, and then, like the
sensible bachelor that he was, wandered off up the beach in search of
other worlds more easily conquered. There was peace on our Porky's log,
and the lily-pads that grew beside it had never been as fresh and juicy
as they were that morning.

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.

My friend, by the way, is the foreman of a lumber-camp. He has served in
the British army, has hunted whales off the coast of Greenland, married
a wife in Grand Rapids, and run a street-car in Chicago; and now he is
snaking logs out of the Michigan woods. He is quite a chunk of a man,
tall and decidedly well set up, and it would take a pretty good
prize-fighter to whip him, but he learned that day that a porcupine at
close quarters is worse