ry much ashamed
of his marksmanship. But he was mistaken. The very last bullet broke one
of the Porcupine's lower front teeth, and hurt him terribly. It jarred
him to the very end of his tail, and his head felt as if it was being
smashed to bits. For a minute or two the strength all went out of him,
and if he had not been lying in a safe, comfortable crotch he would have
fallen to the ground.

The pain and the shock passed away after a while, but when supper-time
came--and it was almost always supper-time with the Porcupine--his left
lower incisor was missing. The right one was uninjured, however, and for
a while he got on pretty well, merely having to spend a little more time
than usual over his meals. But that was only the beginning of trouble.
The stump of the broken tooth was still there and still growing, and it
was soon as long as ever, but in the meantime its fellow in the upper
jaw had grown out beyond its normal length, and the two did not meet
properly. Instead of coming together edge to edge, as they should have
done, each wearing the other down and keeping it from reaching out too
far, each one now pushed the other aside, and still they kept on
growing, growing, growing. Worst of all, in a short time they had begun
to crowd his jaws apart so that he could hardly use his right-hand
teeth, and they too were soon out of shape. The evil days had come, and
the sound of the grinding was low. Little by little his mouth was forced
open wider and wider, and the food that passed his lips grew less and
less. His teeth, that had all his life been his best tools and his most
faithful servants, had turned against him in his old age, and were
killing him by inches. Let us not linger over those days.

He was spared the very last and worst pangs--for that, at least, we may
be thankful. On the last day of his life he sat under a beech-tree, weak
and weary and faint. He could not remember when he had eaten. His coat
of hair and quills was as thick and bushy as ever, and outwardly he had
hardly changed at all, but under his skin there was little left but
bones. And as he sat there and wished that he was dead--if such a wish
can ever come to a wild animal--the Angel of Mercy came, in the shape
of a man with a revolver in his pistol pocket--a man who liked to kill
things.

"A porky!" he said. "Guess I'll shoot him, just for fun."

The Porcupine saw him coming and knew the danger; and for a moment the
old love of life came bac