ing to be given a wide berth, for, though Kagh seldom takes the
offensive, even the savage lynx, unless crazed by winter hunger, will
let him severely alone. This time, however, Kagh was disappointed, for
the newcomer was a furry bear cub who had never had experience with a
porcupine to teach him wisdom.

The cub stopped and sat upon his haunches to stare curiously at the
strange creature in his path, while Kagh, incensed by the delay, tucked
his nose under him until he resembled nothing so much as a huge
bristling pincushion. He lay still, his small eyes shining dully among
his quills. The cub regarded him for a moment; then he advanced and
reached out an inquisitive paw toward the queer-looking ball. For this
Kagh had been waiting. There was a lightning swing of his armed tail
which, if it had reached its mark, would have filled the paw with deadly
quills. Fortunately, however, the cruel barbs failed to reach their
mark, for, an instant before the swing, the small bear received a cuff
which sent him sprawling into the bushes, and Mother Bruin stood in the
trail confronting the porcupine.

Kagh, like most of the wilderness folk, knows that there is a vast
difference between a full-grown bear and a furry, inquisitive cub.
Though he was not afraid, the appearance of the mother bear was more
than he had bargained for, and he immediately rolled himself into a ball
again, every quill bristling defiantly. The old bear, however, wise in
the lore of the dim trails, paid no more attention to him. Calling her
cub, she shambled off through the bushes, the youngster casting many a
backward glance at this little, but seemingly very dangerous creature.
Kagh went on his way well satisfied with himself. As before, he traveled
leisurely, pausing often to browse or to stare at some larger animal
upon whose path he chanced.

Of all the creatures of the wilderness the porcupine seems the most slow
and stupid, yet he bears a charmed life. In the woods, where few may
cross the path of the hunter and live, the porcupine is usually allowed
to go unhurt. Because he can easily be killed without a gun, his flesh
has more than once, it is said, been the means of saving a lost hunter
from starvation. As a rule, the creatures of the wilderness, too, let
him strictly alone, knowing well the deadly work of his quills, which,
when embedded in the flesh, sink deeper and deeper with every frantic
effort toward dislodgment.

Only under the stress of