Ereth, in a very private sort of way, loved Poppy. He had never told anyone about this love, not even her. Enough for him to live near her. But since the porcupine was certain that Poppy thought of him as her best friend, he assumed she would be making a great fuss over his birthday. A party, certainly. Lavish gifts, of course. Best of all, he would be the center of attention.
So it was that when Ereth waddled out of his log that morning he was surprised not to find Poppy waiting for him. All he saw were her eleven children playing about the base of the snag, squeaking and squealing uproariously.
“Why can’t young folks ever be still?” A deeply disappointed Ereth complained to himself. “Potted pockets of grizzly grunions, it would save so much trouble if children were born . . . old.”
Agitated, he approached the young mice. “Where’s your mother?” he barked. “Where’s your wilted wet flower of a father?”
“They . . . went . . . looking for . . . something,” one of them said.
Though Ereth’s heart sank, he made a show of indifference by lifting his nose scornfully and moving away from the young mice.
Snowberry, one of the youngsters, glanced anxiously around at the others, then cried out, “Good morning, Uncle Ereth!”
This greeting was followed by the ten other young mice singing out in a ragged, squeaky chorus, “Good morning, Uncle Ereth!”
Ereth turned and glowered at the youngsters. “What the tiddlywink toes do you want?” he snapped.
“Aren’t you going to stay and play with us, Uncle Ereth?” Snowberry called.
“No!”
“Why?”
“I’m . . . busy.”
“You don’t look busy.”
“I’m trying to find some peace and quiet,” Ereth snapped. “With all the noise you make, buzzard breath, what else do you think I’d be doing?”
One of the mice—her name was Columbine—slapped a paw over her mouth in order to keep from laughing out loud.
Ereth glared at her. “What are you laughing at?”
“You,” Columbine sputtered. “You always say such funny things!”
“Listen here, you smidgen of slipper slobber,” Ereth fumed. “Don’t tell me I talk funny. Why don’t you stuff your tiny tail into your puny gullet and gag yourself before I flip you into some skunk-cabbage sauce and turn you into a pother of butterfly plunk?”
Instead of frightening the young mice, Ereth’s outburst caused them to howl with glee. Sassafras laughed so hard he fell down and had to hold his stomach. “Uncle Ereth,” he cried, “you are so hilarious! Please say something else!”
“Belching beavers!” Ereth screamed. “I am not hilarious! You’re just a snarl of runty seed suckers with no respect for anyone older than you. How about a little consideration? As far as I’m concerned you mice have as much smarts as you could find in a baby bee’s belly button.”
“But you are funny, Uncle Ereth,” cried another of the young mice, whose name was Walnut. “Nobody else talks like you do. We love it when you swear and get angry at us.”
“I am not angry!” Ereth raged. “If I were angry, I’d turn you all into pink pickled pasta so fast it would make lightning look like a slow slug crawling up a slick hill. So listen up, you tub of tinsel twist.”
This was too much for the young mice. They laughed and squeaked till their sides ached.
“Uncle Ereth,” said Sassafras between giggles, “please—please—say something funny again. You are the funniest animal in the whole forest!”
Staring wrathfully at the young mice, Ereth considered uttering something unbelievably disgusting—dangling doggerels—thought better of it, and wheeled about, heading north as fast as he could.
“Uncle Ereth!” the mice shouted after him. “Please stay and say something else funny. Please don’t go!”
But Ereth refused to stop.
Sassafras watched the porcupine plunge into the forest, then turned to the others. “But what are we going to tell Mom and Dad?” he cried. “They told us to make sure he didn’t go anywhere.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Columbine assured her brother. “Uncle Ereth always comes back.”
CHAPTER 2
Ereth Makes a Decision
“KIDS,” ERETH MUTTERED as he hurried away. “They think they’re so wonderful. Truth is, they do nothing but make their elders work hard, eat their food, ask for things, break them, then proclaim all adults stupid! And what do kids give in return? Nothing!
“All that baby-sitting I do . . . all that listening to their endlessly boring stories, dumb jokes, what they learned today . . . hearing Poppy and Rye talk about this one’s problems, that one’s doings . . . attending their parties . . . finding presents for them . . .
“Well, here it is, my birthday. At least I only have one a year. But do those kids notice? No! Not so much as a gill of grasshopper gas. Do they care what I feel, think, am? Not one pinch of pith pills! Right! The whole world would be better off without kids. So all I say is, keep kids to the rear, blow wind, and turn on the fan!”
With such thoughts and words churning in his mind, Ereth rushed on. Once, twice, he passed a rabbit, a squirrel, a vole, but when they saw the mood the porcupine was in they retreated quickly, not willing even to call a greeting. After all, the creatures of Dimwood Forest knew Erethizon Dorsatum quite well. Very few had any desire to interfere with him when he was in one of his bad moods—which was clearly the case that morning.
The old porcupine pressed on, his mind taken up by a careful composition of the things he hated, the insults he had endured, the slights he had suffered. The list was very long. The more he recalled, the grumpier he became, and the faster he hurried on.
It was an hour before Ereth allowed himself to pause. All his emotion and running had quite worn him out and made him ravenous. Spying a young pine tree, he scrambled over to it and began to peel away the outer bark, then chew on the green layer underneath.
“Good, good,”
