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Exotic Small Mammal Care and Husbandry 1st Edition
Ron E. Banks Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Ron E. Banks, Julie Sharp, Sonia Doss, Deborah Vanderford
ISBN(s): 9780813810225, 0813810221
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 6.96 MB
Year: 2010
Language: english
Exotic Small Mammal Care
and Husbandry
Exotic Small Mammal Care
and Husbandry

Ron E. Banks, DVM, DACLAM, DACVPM, CPIA

Julie M. Sharp, DVM

Sonia D. Doss, M.Ed., RLATG

Deborah A. Vanderford, DVM

All authors are staff at the Office of Animal Welfare Assurance, Duke University,
Durham, North Carolina

A John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Publication

 Edition first published 2010
© 2010 Ron E. Banks, Julie M. Sharp, Sonia D. Doss, Deborah A. Vanderford

Blackwell Publishing was acquired by John Wiley & Sons in February 2007. Blackwell’s publishing program has
been merged with Wiley’s global Scientific, Technical, and Medical business to form Wiley-Blackwell.

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Service are ISBN-13: 978-0-8138-1022-5/2010.

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Disclaimer
The contents of this work are intended to further general scientific research, understanding, and discussion only and
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Exotic small mammal care and husbandry / Ron E. Banks . . . [et al.].
p. ; cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-8138-1022-5 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Exotic animals. 2. Pets. I.
Banks, Ron E. [DNLM: 1. Animal Welfare. 2. Veterinary Medicine. 3. Animal Husbandry. 4.
Animals, Domestic. SF 745 E96 2010]
SF413.E96 2010
636–dc22
2009041421

A catalog record for this book is available from the U.S. Library of Congress.

Set in 9.5 on 11.5 pt Sabon by Toppan Best-set Premedia Limited

Printed in Singapore

1 2010
Contents

Acknowledgments vii

1 Introduction 3

2 Enrichment 11

3 Preventive Medicine 21

4 Rabbits 49

5 Ferrets 61

6 Mice 73

7 Rats 81

8 Gerbils 93

9 Hamsters 103

10 Guinea pigs 115

11 Chinchillas 125

12 Degus 137

13 Hedgehogs 143

14 Sugar Gliders 157

15 Opossums 169

Index 175

Color plate appears between pages 80 and 81

v
Acknowledgments

The authors acknowledge the many unnamed strong and effective stewardship of the condi-
and on occasion unknown contributors to our tions in which we and animals live is the highest
education and training in the field of husbandry ideal one can assign to a human-and-animal
and veterinary medicine. No accomplishment relationship; the engaged manner of our com-
is a singular achievement, and without the passionate care and our progressive husbandry
assistance of many this book would not have is the best reflection of our humaneness.
been possible. Thank you. The authors wish to acknowledge Mr. Ian
It is the desire and hope of the authors that Thomas for all line drawing illustrations as
this text will be used for the betterment of the well as the following individuals for assistance
animals with which we share this globe and for with photographs: Amy M. McArdle, CVT,
improvement of the condition and environ- LATG; Dan Johnson, DVM; Judi Fox, Cynthia
ment in which they live. Our commitment to Prevost, and Dorcas O’Rourke, DVM.

vii
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Mentor Graham took a great liking to him. He lived in Kentucky once
and then Indiana. He asked about the folks in these parts and when
he heard Jo Kelsy owns a Shakespeare he said he was going to try
to borrow it, said he's read the Bible till he knew it by heart and the
Constitution and some other things but never seen a Shakespeare.
When Mr. Graham told him he had fifty books his dull, gray eyes
turned bright as new candles. He's terrible interested in books, but
he don't have any time for girls."
"How do you know?"
"'Cause. Ma asked him if he saw the girl waving at him, when the
boat stuck? He said, 'Yes'm—wasn't it kind of her?'"
"Ma said, 'She's the prettiest girl in town.'"
"He said, 'Yes'm—isn't that nice?'"
"Ma said, 'She's the smartest girl in town.'"
"He said, 'Yes'm—it's worth while to be smart!'"
"Ma told him you was going to marry John McNeil. He said, 'They all
do it.' And he never even asked your name."
"I tell you what; you drop past to-morrow afternoon before supper.
He'll be there then. He won't look at you, he's so funny. But you can
see him."
It was with as much interest as a person goes to a show that Ann
Rutledge went to the Cameron home the next afternoon. She was
doomed to disappointment.
"He's gone," Nance informed her.
"Where?"
"Gone out to split rails for some folks that have come in from
Indiana and are taking a homestead near Turtle Ford. He's going to
split enough rails to fence the clearing. He's to get one yard of
brown jeans dyed with white walnut bark for every four hundred
rails. It's to make some new breeches."
"That's an awful lot of work for a pair of pants."
"Yes, but look at the length of his legs. A fellow with legs like that
will always have to work extra to keep them covered."
"I wanted to see him."
"He's coming back. I heard him telling Pa he was going to open a
store here for a man named Offutt. His wares haven't come yet.
They will be here by the time the new breeches are ready. Then you
can see him. You'll think him half-baboon and half-giraffe and he
won't even notice you only to say 'Yes'm' and pull off his hat."
"Does he have any name? You didn't tell it."
"Name? O yes," and Nance laughed. "He's named after Abraham, of
the Abraham, Isaac and Jacob family. The rest of his name is
Lincoln."
"Abraham Lincoln," Ann repeated. "I don't think that's such a bad
sounding name."

John McNeil called at the Rutledge home the night young Lincoln
went to Turtle Ford to earn his new pants. After the family had gone
to bed and Ann was left to say good-night to the young man she
was engaged to, he said, "Ann, I thought that fellow was captain of
the boat and maybe owned some of the cargo. He's nothing but a
railsplitter."
"He didn't use his hat like a railsplitter."
"He's picked up a few lessons in manners somewhere—maybe saw
somebody doing it in New Orleans."
"No—because it was on his way down that he lifted his hat."
"Well, I don't know where he got it, but he's only a railsplitter just
the same. Hasn't a cent in the world. Didn't know it was a railsplitter
waving to you, did you?"
"It wasn't me he waved at. He never heard of me and don't know
yet that I am living. It was the flowers he liked and I'm glad he likes
flowers if he is a railsplitter."
"I'd like to know, Ann, why you take on so over flowers. What are
they good for?"
"Good for? What a funny question. What is the song of birds good
for and the fragrance of flowers and the beauty of ferns? What is the
music of running brooks good for and the splendor of gold and red
sunsets—what are any of them good for?"
"That's just what I'm asking," John McNeil said seriously. "What are
they good for? Can't eat them, can you? Can't wear them, can you?
Can't sell them, can you? or trade them or swap them for anything?
Women are such funny folks and don't know a thing about values.
But I'm going to leave the plum thicket another year and the corner
in the pasture where the blue flowers grow you like to pick."
"Thank you, John—thank you a whole lot"; and happy because of his
promise, Ann kissed John McNeil good-night.

CHAPTER IV
THE PILGRIM
A few days after Abraham Lincoln had entered service to split rails
for a new pair of breeches, he came to town late one afternoon to
get an ax.
After tarrying a short time to tell a story or two, he started back
about sun-down, his ax, on the handle of which was swung a
bundle, over his shoulder.
As twilight gathered, the ungainly youth took his way along the road
that ran not far from the smoothly flowing Sangamon. His strides
were long and easy, and, away from the small habitations and
contrivances of mankind, he seemed to become one with the big
things of nature, and what was sometimes considered lack of grace
seemed now an easy expression of reserve force.
The roar of the mill-dam sounded musical as if the twilight were
softening its daytime boisterous tumult.
The falling dew seemed loosening up the fragrance of the woods,
the subtle breath of tangled vines and trailing roses, with sometimes
a more decided fragrance, as when the full-sized foot of the
pedestrian brushed into a bed of wild mint.
As he rounded the skirt of the bluff, the rosy tinted sky seemed
suddenly to withdraw itself, and the timbers upon the summit to
move themselves slowly against the crimson and fading gold, like a
row of shadowy sentinels gathered for the night.
A tinkling gurgle from an irregular, dark spot against the foot of the
bluff told of a ravine, and the running stream, whose musical babble,
as it made its way to the river, sounded like the prattle of a child
compared to the river's volume falling by the mill.
As he took his way in the gathering gray of night, the long-limbed
youth cast giant shadows, subtle, indistinct shadows far across the
road and into other shadows, where they merged into the formless
gloom and were lost.
While yet rounding the bluff he heard the barking of a dog and then
the tinkle of a cow-bell. Common sounds these were, but coming on
the stillness from the heights above they lent a sort of musical
enchantment to the quiet and the enfolding mystery of night. Then a
human voice was heard, a woman's voice that seemed to burst
suddenly into the flower of a full blown song.
The youth slowed up a bit and listened. The words thrown out by
the ringing voice sounded clearly:
I'm a pilgrim
And I'm a stranger;
I can tarry, I can tarry but a night.
The young man stopped. The song was to him unusual. The clear
voice took the notes unhesitatingly and rolled them in melodious
movement as she sang the words "p-i-l-grim" and "s-t-r-a-n-ger,"
and then hurrying on gladly, as if it were a matter for great rejoicing
that she could tarry but a night.
The youth dropped his ax and bundle to the ground and turned his
face toward the bluff casting its long shadows. The bell tinkled a
moment in the gathering gloom. Then the voice rang out again on
the evening hush:
Do not detain me,
For I am going
To where the streamlets are ever flowing.
Again there was the peculiar rolling fall and rise on the syllables.
Again the gladness of some exultation, then the refrain "I'm a
pilgrim" with its confidence and its melody.
The voice was nearer now. There was no sound or sight of any
moving object on the bluff, but she was somewhere there and
seemed coming nearer.
The tinkle of the cow-bell made an interlude. Then again the voice
of singing, whether nearer or farther now he did not question. He
was listening to the words:
Of that country
To which I'm going
My Redeemer, my Redeemer is the light.
There is no sorrow
Nor any sighing
Nor any sin there, nor any dying.
The mysterious singer on the heights was farther away now. The
voice was growing fainter as the refrain rang into the stillness, "I'm a
pilgrim—and I'm a stranger—I can tarry—I can tarry——"
The youth leaned forward and listened, breathlessly. But the voice
was dying and the tinkle of the bell came on the stillness, faint as a
memory.
After standing a moment, the listener in the shadows made ready to
go on. When he turned to pick up his ax and bundle, he found his
hat in his hands. When he had removed it he did not remember.
Mechanically he placed it on his head and started on his way.
The red and purple of the earlier evening showing through the
trunks of the trees crowning the bluff was giving way now to the
silvery green of the rising moon.
With his ax over his shoulder the figure paused a moment for a last
look upward and then moved on.
But he did not feel the same. He had undergone some change. What
was it? Within his breast the song had raised something intensely
alive—something like hunger, fierce yet very tender; something like
strange pain; something like wild joy; something like unsatisfied
longing, together with unmeasured satisfaction. What was it? He did
not know. Mysterious to him as was the singer, was now the effect
of the singing.
Yet out of the mingled sensation of unrest and satisfaction, suddenly
stirred into life, there came to the youth thoughts of his mother.
His mother had been a pilgrim on a journey. He had heard her say
so many times. But the burden of her song had been "Earth is a
desert drear." He had heard her sometimes try to sing. But she did
not go shouting. She suffered on the way, endured, was patient, and
at the last she reached a groping hand for something strong to hold
her back from that country to which she believed she was going. It
was with a twitching of his muscles and a quiver of the big strong
mouth he thought of the passing on of his mother.
But here was a pilgrim happy, shouting, even jubilant. Who was she?
What manner of person could she be? His curiosity was aroused.
As he strode on toward Turtle Ford the falling waters of the dam
softened their roar into an indistinct murmur, and then like the voice
of the singer and the tinkle of the bell, blended into the quiet,
broken only by the call of a whip-poor-will or the whirr of a bat's
wing.
The moon rose above the lacey darkness of the timber-line. The
railsplitter had had no supper. Once he stopped and gathered some
berries. But he was not thinking of food. The eternal mystery of the
awakening of one's other self had both breathed through and
enfolded him. He was not hungry. He tossed the berries down by the
roadside. His pace quickened as he neared the clearing. He did not
understand, but for some reason he himself experienced a lifted-up
sensation. It was as if the conquering confidence and joy of the
unknown singer had been contagious.
At the edge of the clearing he stopped. The shack and pig-pen and
few rail-fences stood out in the moonlight like the skeleton of
something to be clothed with a body. The dogs came out and
barked, but crept back satisfied at sight of the tall figure. He stepped
up to the door of the shack. The snoring of a man told him his
approach had not disturbed the sleeping family.
He turned toward the end of the cabin where a ladder stood, which
he mounted. At the square opening which served as door and
window to the loft, he paused and looked in, and by the moon's
indistinct light he saw the three boys of the family lying on a pallet.
The dull hum of mosquitoes sounded.
He turned back to the ladder, and on its top, with his back resting
against the cabin, he sat and looked out into the night. In the light
all was beautiful; even the piles of brush were softened until they
looked like the gray and silver tendrils of giant vines piled by titanic
fairies, and the trunks of trees were columns in some mysterious
and endless cathedral canopied with silvered green.
Across the wilds of the forest, which in the magic of night and the
moon were so beautiful, the thoughts of the youth again traveled
back to his childhood and its mysteries, and he seemed to see again
a very small grave in a lonesome spot beside which his mother cried
and declared with tears and choking voice that she could not go
away and leave it forever. To the boy who looked on, this had
seemed strange. Why should she weep because she could not take a
grave from Kentucky to Indiana, the new home, and such a tiny little
grave? It had been a mystery. Later he came to answer the mystery
of it by calling it "mother love." He thought of that grave, far away in
Kentucky, as he sat on the ladder. Then he thought of the grave of
the mother who had wept beside the little grave—two graves.
Some time he too would fill a grave somewhere—and so would the
singer on the heights. What was life after all? Its end was the same
for all—whether a tiny grave or one long enough even for him? The
question seemed to mock itself and laugh.
Then the voice of the singer rang clear again—a pilgrim rejoicing,
shouting—such a glad pilgrim, and again he felt himself impelled to
the heights from which it had come—felt himself a creature of some
fresh-born force he could no more fathom than explain.
A wild cat screamed down the creek. The three boys thumped the
floor, seeking in their sleep to destroy the mosquitoes. The dogs
scratched under the house. The man snored. Once the baby cried
and the mother soothed it.
These voices and sounds seemed a part of the secrets of the night
and of the strange awakening that possessed him with the pleasure
and pain of its mystery.
There was a sound, however, that came with the first pink of the
morning that seemed in some unknown way to hold the key to the
mystery of his strangely aroused hunger—a hunger born whether for
good or ill he knew not.
With the first stirring of life at the new day, a song bird just at the
edge of the clearing sent out its call, clear as the voice of the singer
on the bluff and, in the imagination of the inquiring youth, like it,
glad and unafraid.
But the bird was calling for a mate—one of its own kind—one which
would answer its call.
Again the call rang out penetrating and joyful.
The young man listened. Then a smile of satisfaction lit his homely
face, for from somewhere down in the tangle of the creek banks,
one of its own kind was answering the call.
The hidden singer in the clearing called again, even throwing more
life and gladness into the song. Again the answer came from the
unseen one of like kind, a little closer now. They were moving
toward each other. The silent listener had not made a study of birds.
Yet now he was quite sure that somewhere they would meet in the
wide expanse of over-laced branches and would mate.
Again his mind went back to the singer of the bluff—and her
challenging call. Who or what manner of woman was she? He
wondered.
When the man who had been snoring awoke with the first streaks of
day, the ringing of an ax sounded on his ear. "If he don't beat
anything to bite them trees down and eat them up, I'm a liar. He
must have been at it all night."
"He needs breeches—needs them powerful bad," his wife replied.
"Must want to go a courtin'," was his comment.
"Courtin' or no courtin', he'll be ketched by the sheriff if he don't git
some new breeches right soon. His is fixin' to leave him. I'm skeered
every time he jumps over the fence."

CHAPTER V
SWAPPING HOSSES
Not more than a fortnight after Windy Batts had been weighed in
the balance by the Clary Grove boys, Mrs. Mirandy Benson ran over
to Rutledge's to discuss a few news items.
Mrs. Benson was Phoebe Jane Benson's mother. Phoebe Jane
Benson had never been kissed by a human man—her mother the
authority for the statement. "No start, no finish," was Mrs. Benson's
oft-quoted statement as touching the delicate question of the
preservation of female virtue. "For this reason, Mis' Rutledge, I'm
dead set against huggin'. There's never no tellin' where huggin' will
end, and Phoebe Jane shan't get no opportunity."
But it was not of hugging that she now talked. "Mis' Rutledge," she
said, "Windy Batts has been dipped and is going to set out preachin'
for the Hard Shells and will hold a meetin' near New Salem. It's set
to his credit, I say, that he chose to unite with the Hard Shells
instead of the Clary Grove gang. Since Windy Batts has been keepin'
company with Phoebe Jane, I've been uncommon interested. He has
a powerful flow of language, and will make a famous exhorter."
A second topic of conversation was the tall clerk who was in charge
of the new store opened by Offutt. "He's the one that helped Mentor
Graham election day and has been chopping rails since on Turtle
Ford.
"Everybody in town's been in the store, and the men hang around
every evenin'. Phoebe Jane, she's been, too. He's an awful friendly
fellow, scraped up a speakin' with Phoebe Jane and asked her who
in these parts could sing. She told him she could sing, bass or tenor,
either he liked. Phoebe Jane was quite took up with him and wanted
to ask him to meetin'. But he's too friendly. These friendly young
fellows must be watched. He might be all right. Then again he
mightn't, and if he should take a huggin' spell like some young
fellows takes, with them arms no tellin' what might happen. I told
Phoebe Jane not to let out too much rope, especially since Windy
Batts got religion."
It was true the new clerk at Offutt's store had inquired who about
New Salem could sing. Having been unable to learn anything
satisfactory from the girl he had asked, he put the question to
several men who chanced to be in the store. The only result of his
questioning was to bring out a story about a girl in New Salem who
had a "singin'" in her head for which a plaster of "psalm tunes,"
applied to the feet to draw the singing down, had been prescribed.
Unsatisfied, young Lincoln determined to keep his ears open and try
to discover for himself.
Meantime there were many to get acquainted with, and when Bill
Clary himself invited the new man to the Grove, he at once accepted
the invitation.
Ole Bar, Buck Thompson, Jo Kelsy and several others had gathered
early and were discussing the guest that was to arrive shortly. Buck
Thompson was especially interested. He was in possession of a
horse with a head three times too large and legs four times too
small for his bony body. Some fatal defect in the horse made him, as
Buck Thompson confidently told the crowd, "not worth a chaw," and
this horse he was going to try to swap Lincoln, "sights unseen."
Speculation has just started as to the outcome of Buck's horse-trade
when Clary and the tall stranger arrived.
"His name is Abe Lincoln," Clary advised.
"'Linkhorn' is what they called me over in Indiana."
"Paws, Abry Linkhorn," Ole Bar said, extending his hand and casting
his one good eye with approval on the stranger.
The few brief formalities having been dispensed with, the group
settled down to stories and discussions, Ole Bar leading off with a
graphic description of many of the wonders of Arkansas, and its
riches of soil and abundance of game. "There was one feller down
thar had a sow," he declared gravely. "She stole an ear of corn and
took it down whar she slept at night. She spilt a grain or two on the
ground, and then she lay on them. And, gentlemen, believe it or not,
before morning the corn shot up, pushed on right through her and
the percussion killed her. Next morning she was found flat as a
pancake and three-inch corn sticking like green har through her
spotted hide."
"I swear!" exclaimed Jo Kelsy.
"Don't cuss; jes go down to that country and see," was Ole Bar's
comment.
When Abe Lincoln's time came he was asked for the lizard story he
had told at the store the night the flat boat stuck on the dam. In an
inimitable way he told the story, joining heartily with the others in
the boisterous laughter it called forth, but neither this nor any other
of the stories told diverted the mind of Buck Thompson from the
main question, this being, "Is he as green as he looks? Will he swap
hosses?"
"Don't happen to have a hoss you want to trade, do ye?" Buck at
last indifferently questioned.
The interest of the company was at once centered on the answer.
"Want to swap hosses?" Abe Lincoln asked good naturedly.
"Well, I dunno. Do you happen to own a hoss of any kind?"
"Yep," answered the visitor. "Such as it is, I own a hoss."
An expression of pleasure showed on the face of Buck Thompson.
"What sort is he?" Buck asked.
"Who said it was a 'he'?"
The crowd laughed.
"What kind is she?" Buck corrected.
"Well," answered the youth as if weighing the matter, "she ain't
nothing extra on looks, but she can stand up under as much hard
work as any hoss in these parts."
"How old is she?"
"I dunno to a day—not very old."
"Stand without hitchin'?"
"Never's been hitched to anything in her life."
"Saddle hoss, I take it. Ain't any mustang is it?"
"Not a drop of mustang in the critter, I swear it."
"Ain't blind in one eye, is she?"
"No."
"How's her legs?"
"Can't lie partner. She's stiff in the legs."
"Stiff in the legs, eh? How about her teeth?"
"Haven't counted them."
"Ever had the botts?"
"Not as I know of."
"Or winded?"
"Not since I've had her."
"Want to swap hosses?" Buck asked.
"What you got?" Abe Lincoln asked with interest.
"I got one what'll stand hitched. I'm goin' to be honest as you and
tell you my hoss has stiff legs. From what I git, my hoss is just about
such a hoss as your hoss. How'll you swap, sight unseen?"
Abe Lincoln aked a few questions which proved beyond a doubt to
Buck Thompson that the lanky youth was as green as he looked on
the horse-trading proposition, and he was delighted both for the
stakes involved and the effect of his deal on the Clary Grove Boys,
when Abe Lincoln agreed to the trade.
"Where's your hoss at?" Buck inquired.
"Out back of Offutt's store. Where's yourn?"
"He's to home—but I'll bring him."
"Any rush?" Lincoln inquired. "Morning's not far off."
But Buck had no notion of taking chances on letting the horse-trader
consider over night. He insisted on winding up the trade in the bright
light of the moon in front of Offutt's store. The crowd agreed to be
present, and immediately afterward, with singing and loud talking,
the Clary Grove gang took their way to New Salem to Offutt's store.
Buck Thompson went after his horse, and Abe Lincoln disappeared
in the shadows of the store to find his.
Buck was the first to arrive. Not even the moonlight could cast any
redeeming qualities on the beast that hobbled after him. The crowd
looked it over and laughed uproariously. Buck grinned with
satisfaction at the sight-unseen trade he was about to make and
questioned half fearfully if the greenhorn would stand by his
agreement.
The appearance in the distance of a tall and shadowy figure
approaching with long, easy strides was not reassuring. Certainly he
was neither leading nor driving a horse. The company looked. As he
came nearer they saw he carried something. Its shadow blended
with that of his body.
"He's got his hoss under his arm or on his back," one observed.
Buck was looking anxiously.
"Bet two to one it's a goat," Jo Kelsy said.
This sounded good to Buck. "Goat!" he said with evident pleasure.
Then they looked again. The next minute he cleared the last lap of
shadow and came into the light in the open space.
There was a moment of impressive silence.
"My hoss is this kind—one of the most useful animals in this neck of
the woods," and he placed a saw-horse before them.
There was a moment of impressive silence, then the angry voice of
Buck Thompson.
"You're a liar," he cried, greatly angered by the roar of laughter that
had greeted the speech.
A dead hush fell on the company. A fight seemed the next
excitement. Every eye was on Lincoln.
"Don't get riled up," he said good naturedly, "especially after I told
you I was tellin' the truth. Didn't I tell you her legs was stiff?"
"Yeh," roared 'Buck—"and you told me she had two good eyes—eh,
boys?" and he turned to the crowd standing close about.
"Easy now," Abe Lincoln remonstrated. "I didn't say she had two
good eyes. You asked if she was blind in one eye, and I said 'No, she
ain't blind in no eye.'"
"You said she had all her teeth," Buck challenged.
"Naw, what I said was, 'she hasn't never lost no teeth, far as I
know.' Can you see any place where they have come out?"
Clearly the new clerk had the best of the trade. Buck Thompson
stood to his bargain. The horse was passed to Lincoln. He looked it
over. Something in the ungainly figure and the big-headed horse
brought a smile. Yet they waited. What would he do next—or say?
"Partner," he said to Buck after the examination, "I wouldn't know
what use to make of this here critter. I can't make no sight-unseen
proposition, but I'd give you two bits for my own hoss back."

CHAPTER VI
"FIXIN FER THE ANGELS"
Offutt's new store under the management of Abe Lincoln came to
be, almost immediately, the chief point of interest in the village.
Business was never so rushing that the genial, long-legged new-
comer could not find time for a friendly greeting or a new story.
Jo Kelsy, famed as the best Shakespeare scholar New Salem
boasted, soon discovered a kindred spirit in Abe Lincoln, and was
delighted to find in him a pupil so hungry to get acquainted with Bill
Shakespeare.
Mentor Graham, the Scotch schoolmaster, dropped into the store
because he soon discovered that, although the youth who had
assisted him on election day had had no opportunity of going to
school, he was far more advanced in general knowledge than any
pupil in his school, and the fact that Abe Lincoln wanted to study
grammar with him, and after a while higher branches, pleased him.
Even Doctor Allen, the busiest and most conscientious Predestinarian
in Sangamon County, cultivated the acquaintance of the Lincoln
youth, and he soon discovered that the uncommon young fellow,
who seemed to be everybody's friend, was not given to social drink,
and this pleased Doctor Allen, who boldly preached that liquor was
poison and stood for its total abstinence.
The Clary Grove Boys visited the store, and when several of them
happened in at the same time, the laughter and boisterous talk
could be heard the length of New Salem.
Ann Rutledge had not yet been at the new store. She had heard
from it, however, through her brother Davy, two years younger than
herself, and her half-grown sister, known as "Sis Rutledge," both
having formed the acquaintance of Abe Lincoln and both having
immediately become his staunch admirers.
Ole Bar was in the store one afternoon when Davy came in.
"Davy," Abe Lincoln said, "see here"; and putting three long fingers
gently into his pocket he drew out a handful of tiny rabbits. "Their
mother got killed. I put the poor little things in my pocket. Know
anybody that will take care of them?"
Ole Bar opened his good eye and listened.
"Sure, Ann, she'll do it. Ann Rutledge takes care of blind cats, lame
dogs, lousy calves, birds With broke wings, and all such things."
Abe Lincoln had placed the rabbits carefully in his hat and handed it
to Davy.
"Want them back?" the boy questioned as he turned toward the
door.
"No—but hurry back with my hat. I'm goin' out with Kelsy while he
fishes, and read about a Jew who wanted a pound of flesh."
The expression on Ole Bar's small eye was one of concentrated
disgust.
"Men's not what they used to be," he observed, chewing violently.
"I reckon not," Abe Lincoln observed.
"These times they wear whiskers on their upper lip, and breeches
buttoned up the fore, but I don't see as it's give them any more
wits."
Abe Lincoln did not answer this, but asked a question.
"Who sings about these diggin's? It's some woman who has a way of
her own."
"All wimmin sings; wimmin birds sings, and wimmin bull frogs sings,
and human wimmin sings. But whether they be scaled or feathered
or diked out in calico and combs, their singin' is to git the men of
their kind. Take the advice of Ole Bar, my long-legged son, Abry
Linkhorn, and let all wimmin kind alone. Furthermore, don't try to
start no love-makin' with Ann Rutledge and blame it onto rabbits.
I've heard said Ann Rutledge can outsing a bird. If she can, it's for
John McNeil. John McNeil, he's worth ten thousand dollars—so they
say. Hain't this worth singin' for?"
"The one I'm talking about wasn't singin' for any man's money."
"How do you know?"
"It wasn't that kind of a song."
Ole Bar laughed. "Sonny," he said, "you're as green as you look. But
why don't you go up to the meetin' what Windy Batts's started? All
the singers will be there. Windy's trying to scare the devil out of his
own den by his fierce preachin'. Last night he called the whole Clary
Grove tribe by name and told them the devil was goin' to pepper
them with burnin' fiery sulphur in chunks as big as Rutledge's Mill
forever and aye unless they crawled up on the rock of ages. They'll
be going to meetin' theirselves right soon, and if he don't know any
better sense than readin' cusses at them out of the Holy Scriptures
and pointin' the finger of scorn at them before the people, they'll
learn him some."
It was this same evening Abe Lincoln decided to go to Clary Grove in
search of Kelsy, from whom he wanted to borrow the Shakespeare.
The Grove Boys were in council. An indignation meeting was being
held. Kit Parsons had just been quoting Windy Batts, who had the
night before consigned those Clary Grove sinners root and branch to
burn forever, and it had been just about decided that he, and the
horse he had purchased to start on an itinerary after his New Salem
meeting, should be treated to a coat of tar and feathers.
"That deer-faced hypocrit tells how God sent his angels to git Daniel
out of the lion's den, how he sent angels to git them three fool Jews
out of the fiery furnace. He says them kind of angels guard the Hard
Shells, saves them from their enemies and gits them out of tight
places. We're needin' some angels in this section. Let's coax them
down. Let's anoint this belly-aching coward with hot tar and feathers
—both him and his horse, till we make him look like the buzzard he
is. Then we'll set by and see how long it takes them angels to git the
feathers picked off."
A laugh had followed this speech. It was about this time Abe Lincoln
appeared.
"Howdy!" he said in his most friendly manner.
They returned his greeting, but it was evident he was not wanted.
They, however, asked him for a suggestion as to how best to punish
"a moon-eyed pole cat that hain't nothin' better to do than stir up a
stink about hell fire and brimstone, and call out the names of them
picked by the devil to supply the roasts."
"I wouldn't take it to heart about his fiery talk. He can't hurt God
with his spittin' and sputterin', and so long as God's all right the rest
of us needn't worry," Lincoln said, before answering the request
asked. "As to punishin' a 'Moon—faced pole cat,' I'd plug him up in
some tight corner, poke sin out of him—and he'd punish hisself
gentlemen—punish hisself."
Abe Lincoln got the book and went away. After he had gone, the
Clary boys put their heads together, and before they had separated
for the night, the tar and feathers plan had been temporarily
abandoned.

CHAPTER VII
"SIC 'EM, KITTY"
The afternoon following his rather unwelcome visit to Clary Grove,
Abe Lincoln was invited by Kit Parsons to attend religious services
that night. From the manner of the invitation, the storekeeper
gathered that there might be something interesting on foot, and he
decided to go.
Some changes had been made in the meeting-place since the
gathering of the year before. At the former time Satan had moved
the dogs, so the elder explained, to crowd under the exhorter's
stand and engage in riotous disagreement. In an endeavor to chew
each others ears and gnaw holes in each others hides, they had
bumped their backs onto the rude floor underneath the preacher's
feet, and in other ways raised a disturbance.
To prevent a repetition of this disorderly conduct on the part of the
dogs, the hiding-place under the stand had been made proof against
all intruders by the use of stobs driven so close that not even a
shadow could creep between.
It was in this long-time rendezvous of dogs that a couple of the
Clary Grove gang seemed interested, as between services they
strolled several times past the pulpit end of the arbor.
That evening, in the shadowy gloom cast by the arbor roof, a couple
of men might have been seen, had the dark been closely scrutinized,
moving softly about.
Just what they were doing was not apparent. They seemed to have
a barrel close by and a long trough of some kind.
But nobody paid any attention to these quiet two. All interest was
centered in Windy Batts, who in a trumpet voice was giving out the
words of a song which all who knew him were certain would be sung
with great unction and fervor.
He was reading the lines from a hymn-book. At the end of every
second line he gave the pitch, whereupon all sang in many keys, but
with united fervor.
Into a world of ruffians sent,
I walk on hostile ground;
While human bears, on slaughter bent,
And raving wolves surround.
Between each two lines he shouted, "God have mercy on them Clary
Grove sinners! Them ravening wolves! Strike them human bears
down!"
Then the hymn went on:
The lion seeks my soul to slay,
In some unguarded hour;
And waits to tear his sleeping prey,
And watches to devour.
"God save us from them Clary Grove lions that seek to devour."
The movements in the shadows just outside the arbor continued,
but nobody noticed. The exhorter, calling on God and all the holy
angels to witness the truth of his sayings, was drawing a graphic
comparison between the righteous and the sinner, especially of that
most fallen and hopeless sinner, the Clary Grove sinner.
After the discourse, which was thundered out with tremendous
force, the first altar-song was announced,
If you get there before I do,
I'm bound for the land of Ca-na-yan;
Look out for me, I'm coming, too,
I'm bound for the land of Ca-na-yan;
When this popular song got well underway, the woods for miles
around rang with the refrain. The altar filled with sinners who fell in
the dust, and with saints who whispered in their ears full directions
for planting their feet firmly on the old ship Zion, and with shouters,
among whom was Phoebe Jane Benson.
Ann Rutledge and Nance Cameron on one side of the arbor, and Abe
Lincoln and Jo Kelsy on the other, had watched Phoebe Jane taking
her combs out and in other ways preparing for the shouting. Ann,
remembering what Mrs. Benson had said about hugging, was
prepared to watch for developments as Phoebe Jane, with arms
flying, began her religious exercise.
When the mourners were prostrating themselves in the dust, one of
the dark figures in the shadowy background whispered, "Tickle her
up and then run"; and as he reached a long pole into the enclosure
under the exhorter's feet he said, "Sic 'em, kitty!" and the two were
off.
Just as the first sinner was saved and the shouters were getting well
warmed up, a heavy and most unreligious odor suddenly pervaded
the air.
The front row of mourners, with their faces in the dust, nearest the
exhorter's stand, noticed it first as it came like a puff from the
infernal regions just pictured by Windy Batts. Lifting their heads,
these mourners looked about, with facial expressions none too
pious, to see what had smitten them. Next the shouters got the full
force of the growing odor. Immediately their shouts turned to
groans, and they put their hands over their noses. By this time the
mourners were on their feet. This sudden change from the dust of
humiliation to the erect poise of saved souls, ordinarily denoted a
conversion. At this time, however, the eye of suspicion cast on every
man by every other man, together with the sudden and violent
outbreak of snorting and spewing, gave evidence of something
different from spiritual birth.
When Windy Batts, who at this first moment was engaged in holding
Phoebe Jane in the close embrace of brotherly love, was struck by
the force of the permeating odor, he pushed Phoebe Jane from him,
giving her a look both questioning and unsanctified.
A moment, and he understood. Springing onto his high platform, he
cried in trumpet tones, "The devil is at his old game! A burning, fiery
trial is about to test our faith. Sometimes afflictions come like lice,
mites, boils, fits. But the worst has been reserved for these later
days, and now doth God afflict his people with a skunk. Satan
abounds on every hand. The most eternal and ding-blasted stink
ever turned loose on the sanctuary of the Lord is now in our midst.
Let a committee of fearless men with good noses volunteer to locate
the spot where this varmint of the pit is hiding."
The source of the odor was soon located. About this time, out in the
darkness of the woods, was heard a man's voice shouting:
The devil's dead.
Oh! smell his stink;
Killed by the power of Windy.
Then a rooster was heard crowing—the crow repeating the words.
Then a cat yowled—and a dog growled—and a goose quacked, all
sending out the same message about the devil's death, and the
manner thereof.
Here was insult added to injury, for while the exhorter might have
forgiven God and the angels for the horrible ordeal they were
passing through, he could never forgive the Clary Grove crowd.
During the excitement John McNeil had joined Ann Rutledge and
Nance Cameron.
"It's those Clary Grove rowdies," John McNeil said. "They're a bad
lot, and there will be murderers in the bunch if they do not change
their ways. For this they should be put in jail."
"Windy Batts said very unkind things about them," Ann observed.
"And didn't say half bad enough. I'm sorry Abe Lincoln joined in with
them. He was in their camp last night. Like as not he hatched this
whole plot."
"I can't see why he should want to do a thing like that," Ann said.
"You don't? Don't you know the whole Clary Grove gang is opposed
to religion? Do you suppose this railsplitter would choose their kind if
he wasn't an opposer, too?"
"But he's not a railsplitter now—he's Offutt's clerk."
"He's no real clerk and never will be. Once a railsplitter, always a
railsplitter."
"Maybe so, but even then, John, it's no disgrace to be an honest
railsplitter—and I'm going to ask Nance if he's an opposer."
"What difference does it make to you whether he's an opposer or
not?"
"I always like to think the best of everybody, John," Ann answered,
"and it's an awful sin to be an opposer of religion."

CHAPTER VIII
THE TEST
The Clary Grove gang were gathered in council. A grave matter was
to be decided and there seemed a division of opinion as to the
qualifications of Abe Lincoln for becoming a member of the
brotherhood. Personally no man had an unfriendly feeling. In fact
some of them liked him. But there were certain qualifications which
it was not certain he possessed.
The horse-trade with Buck was discussed. Had he gotten the best of
Buck? Several contended that he should have kept the horse and
would have done so had he not been afraid of the gang. Others
were of the opinion that he did not want the horse, and several
declared him a good fellow for knowing where to quit joking.
There were graver considerations than this, however.
"Ever see a man that had any guts totin' rabbits around in his
pockets?" Ole Bar questioned sharply. "I seen a feller once that
packed a couple of wild cats about with him—but rabbits—rabbits
——" and language failed to express his disgust.
"And he don't drink no whiskey."
"And Jo Kelsy says he never carries a gun."
"Don't never go gamin'?"
"No," answered Jo Kelsy, "he ain't never been no hunter."
"Hain't never killed nothin'?" Ole Bar questioned in amazement.
"Not just fer fun. Once he killed a pant'er what dropped on him
without saying nothin'. He ketched it around the neck and choked its
eyes out and skinned it. He said he wouldn't have bothered it if it
hadn't acted so nasty and climbed his frame without warnin'."
There was silence. No such case had come up for discussion. Here
was a young giant who could strangle a panther—perhaps a bear.
Yet he didn't bother them if they let him alone, and he carried new-
born rabbits in his pocket, and didn't drink whiskey.
"Offutt's got him put up against any man in Sangamon County; says
he can out-run, out-wrestle, out-throw, out-whip the best man that
can be put up. He's bragged till folks has forgot about Jack
Armstrong of Clary Grove."
The eyes of the company turned to Jack Armstrong, the champion
wrestler of Sangamon County. Built square as an ox, his mighty
muscle gave the suggestion of the monarchy of muscular force.
Added to his force of muscle was unusual quickness, and added to
this, as the Clary Grove crowd knew, was the art of a trick that was
held permissible by the gang as a last resort in holding
championship of the county.
"What about it, Jack?" Kit Parsons asked.
"I'll wrastle him."
"He's different from anything you've gone up against. Jo Kelsy saw
him lift a whiskey barrel and let a feller drink out of the bung hole
one day when he was in the store."
"The Lord's truth," Jo answered solemnly.
"And Buck Thompson says he histed a chicken coop that weighed
five or six hundred pounds and set her down on the other side of
the yard, nobody lendin' a hand."
"The Lord's truth," Buck answered.
"And Ole Bar says they was having some sort of a contest down at
the mill when he first come here—some sort of a stone-moving
tussle—and Abe Lincoln let them strap him like a hoss and moved a
thousand pounds. Hey, Ole Bar?"
"I ain't sayin' nothin', only I seen it done."
"I can whip any man on Sangamon River." It was Armstrong who
spoke.
This was final and gave great satisfaction. The crowd shook hands
with the champion, and one of the number was appointed to bear
the challenge to Abe Lincoln, early the next morning.
When the young clerk was approached on the matter of the fight he
declined. "What's the use of this wooly-rousin', anyhow? I never did
see no sense in tuslin' and cuffin'. Grown-up men might be in better
business."
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