THE POLECAT IN DEVONSHIRE.
WHEN I asked an old Devonshire gamekeeper _ whether he remembered the polecat he looked at me uncertainly, then, with an air of enlightenment, proceeded to describe a peculiar sort of grey cat with a stub tail and a remarkably broad head. Cats of this description were found upon Dartmoor in a wild state a quarter of a century ago. What they were, or how they got there, nobody seems to know. In the case of the true polecat, anybody desiring information must inquire about the " Fitchie." It is a word that will loosen the tongue of every old-fashioned keeper in the West.
People frequently ask why trapping does not keep 'rabbits down satisfactorily. The reason is this : trapping, though effective for the time being, destroys too many of the rabbit's natural enemies, thus upsetting Nature's balance, with the usual disastrous consequences. A single polecat can work a mile or two of hedgerow in a night, and few rabbits indeed will so much as re-enter for many weeks to come a burrow through which he has passed. But in this respect, as in many others, the trapper has brought about a notable change. Stoats and " vairies," though still found, are comparatively rare, and the redoubtable polecat, fiercest of his order, deadliest enemy of rodents great and small, is making what bids fair to be his last stand against total extinction.
Yet as recently as ten years ago he was tolerably plentiful in many parts of Devon and Cornwall. When watching quietly in lonely glades for woodpigeons or badgers one caught frequent glimpses of him as he pursued his black business in and out of the brakes and burrows. Once seen in the wild state he is not easily forgotten. His personality is impressive, and after observing his silent, deadly methods, and the ferocity and purposefulness displayed by him at every turn, one ceases to wonder at the paralysing terror which he inspires in his victims.
So widely does the polecat, or " fitchet," differ from the stoat that confusion is nearly impossible. Not only is he double the other's size, but the colour and markings of the two species are quite distinct, and under no conceivable circumstances could the dark, badger-coloured coat of the polecat be mistaken for the stoat's rich chestnut and flower-like whiteness. In character and general habits they are closely akin, save that the stoat subsists exclusively upon animal fare, whereas the larger variety appreciates a lighter diet now and again, being, for example, exceedingly fond of honey when obtainable. He is also said to be a fisherman ; this, however, is open to question. True, he haunts river banks a great deal, but so do other preying animals, and I am inclined to think that frogs and the abundant rodent life attract him there rather than his taste for fish.
• The most savage bit of his hunting that I ever saw took place one midsummer afternoon on the edge of a cornfield. I was after rabbits at the time, walking quietly alongside a wild and overgrown hedgerow, where the sparse growth of the headland had been nibbled bare in patches by sharp little teeth. There was a sudden rush and scramble ahead, but I could see nothing. Something rustled past to the ditch, where grew an old pollard, and I looked ahead, expecting to see the rabbit pass an open place above which was a large burrow. It did not appear, however, and I was advancing cautiously when movement upon a higher level caught my eye. A big brown rat was scrambling up the old pollard scarcely ten yards away, unaware, it would seem, of my proximity. He reached the earthy, moss-grown crown, faced about, and looked down, watching his back track intently.
He was an easy mark, of course, but his behaviour puzzled me, and I hung fire. I could see the ditch more clearly now, and there next moment appeared a polecat, silent-footed and lean, hot on the trail of somebody. Even then in the excitement of a close chase the coldblooded calculation of the beast was uncanny. He did not over-run the scent an inch. The rat had evidently taken a long jump before beginning to climb, for some three feet from the tree the pursuer stopped, sniffed about, then sat erect upon his haunches, peering everywhere. Then he caught sight of the fugitive, and darted up the tree quicker than thought. There was a brief scuffle, a squeal or two, then down they came, landing in a confused heap in the long grass.
When I got there the fitchet had laid hold of his formidable antagonist behind the ear, and was shaking him as a dog might have done. He jumped off at my approach, spitting like an angry cat, and watched the post-mortem from the bank a few feet away. The rat was an unusually fine specimen of his kind, with tusks like a walrus, and would have given a good account of himself against almost any other antagonist. He was quite dead, his brain having been laid bare in the most approved style. Incidentally, the brain is the only part of a rat considered edible by most wild hunters. Thus many rodents must necessarily go to satisfy the hunger of one stoat or polecat.
Like the skunk, though in a minor degree, he is armed with a poisonous secretion, which he does not hesitate to use when provoked. The odour is peculiarly offensive, and adheres to clothes or boots with incredible tenacity. For this reason other hunting animals fight shy of him, and never cat his flesh save in the last extremity of hunger. In connexion with this point, however, I venture to tell a curious story. Few people will credit it, but I have been assured of its truth none the less.
A pack of foxhounds were trotting along a quiet Cornish lane when a polecat, intent upon its own hunting and, therefore, blind to all else, suddenly flashed from a wayside burrow into the very midst of the pack. There was a general scramble at it, of course, but one hound snapped it up, and scarcely realizing what he had got hold of, actually bolted it whole and alive. He might preferably have swallowed a scorpion, one would have thought, but no ill effects were suffered—or so the story goes.
The untiring activity of this animal is not his least remarkable characteristic. Owners of polecat ferrets, which differ little in the main from the wild variety, can vouch for the enormous distances that one of these animals can cover in a very short space of time. When rabbiting once on the Torridge my ferret—a polecat—slipped out unobserved, and was picked up an hour later a good two miles away. Assuming that it had been working hedgerows all the way, as was probably the case, this was an extraordinary performance. I owned another of the same strain that would hold a rabbit in the open almost like a terrier. When put to ground, if anything was there he would locate it instantly, no matter how big the burrow might be ; nor would he again show his nose until all the inmates had been accounted for. He was invaluable for all kinds of work, being fast and thorough, but, unfortunately, a bite from a rat proved fatal to him when still at his best. The same polecat had a strung predilection for sweet cake. He once caused considerable amusement by annexing a large slice that had been dropped from a luncheon basket, and retiring with it into the nearest hole.
Once only, and then by accident, have I found a litter of young polecats. This, again, happened when I was rabbit• stalking—a very profitable pastime, by the way, affording unique opportunity for Nature study. Moving quietly round an immense furze-brake, I saw something which looked like a great black snake twisted into knots lying in a little grassy opening half a gunshot ahead. This in due course unrolled, and proved to be several small, snakelike creatures playing together, and, to my delight, I soon saw that they were in very truth fitchets, lean, sinuous little things, about twelve inches long, mostly neck and tail, as far as could be seen. Their gambols were curious, and not a little uncanny. Unfortunately, however, they did not long allow me the pleasure of watching them. I did nothing wittingly to betray myself, but suddenly they appeared to become aware of my presence. There was a startled sputtering, a flurry of black and white, and, quick as light, they trickled away into the bracken.
When I reached the place nothing was to be seen, but suggestive rustlings guided me to a large mound overgrown with brake fern and brier. This proved to be a pile of age-old brushwood faggots, cut years before and never removed, and here doubtless was the young savages' nursery. The parents were close at hand, it appeared, and these announced their pretence by a loud, angry hissing as I came up. This they maintained all the time I was there, creeping sometimes to my very feet under cover of the thick blackberry growth. I left them undisturbed, but, as usually happens in such cases, I never saw them again. DOUGLAS GORDON.
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