On one of these
riffles Mooween stations himself during the first bright moonlight
nights of June, when the run of fish is largest on account of the
higher tides at the river mouth. And Mooween knows, as well as any
other fisherman, the kind of night on which to go fishing. He knows
also the virtue of keeping still. As a big salmon struggles by,
Mooween slips a paw under him, tosses him to the shore by a dexterous
flip, and springs after him before he can flounder back.
When hungry, Mooween has as many devices as a fox for getting a meal.
He tries flipping frogs from among the lily pads in the same way that
he catches salmon. That failing, he takes to creeping through the
water-grass, like a mink, and striking his game dead with a blow of
his paw.
Or he finds a porcupine loafing through the woods, and follows him
about to throw dirt and stones at him, carefully refraining from
touching him the while, till the porcupine rolls himself into a ball
of bristling quills,--his usual method of defense. Mooween slips a paw
under him, flips him against a tree to stun him, and bites him in the
belly, where there are no quills. If he spies the porcupine in a tree,
he will climb up, if he is a young bear, and try to shake him off. But
he soon learns better, and saves his strength for more fruitful
exertions.
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