Chapter III: Part 3

At first the fox felt no anxiety. He thoroughly enjoyed mystifying a pursuer. Ordinarily in a straight-away run he could outdistance the fleetest foxhound. Now, however, even Nature seemed to conspire against him. He was soon drenched with spray. The water clung to his long fur, and his brush, usually carried blithely aloft, drooped heavily. In spite of all his tricks, circling and doubling, leaping from fallen trees and taking to the water, the hounds clung to his trail like bees to honey. Their deep baying sent the chill of fear to the staunch heart of Silver Spot. Realizing that here was no play such as he had indulged in with Pal, the Hermit's dog, he bent all his energies toward outstripping his pursuers.

For a time he kept well ahead of the dogs, but at length, as his old wound made itself felt, the pace began to tell upon him. His tail drooped lower until it all but swept the ground, while with it the courage of the fox seemed to fail. His breathing became labored. His foot-pads were cut by thorns and sharp sticks, leaving now and then a trace of blood upon the moss. He thought with longing of the home den which he was widely circling, but to which he dared not turn. With the pack in full cry, the hunted beast broke from cover at the edge of the wilderness where stood the cabin of the Hermit.

At once Silver Spot realized his mistake. Here in the open there was no means of avoiding the dogs, nor could he return to the woods. Even as he paused in despair, the leader of the pack burst into view, eyes gleaming savagely and cruel teeth bared. There was but one alternative and the fox took it.

Across the clearing the door of the log cabin stood open. For some time the Hermit had been following the course of the chase from his bench outside the door, his first feeling of exultation at the cunning and fleetness of his pet gradually giving place to uneasiness and then to genuine alarm for his safety. As Silver Spot came into view so closely pressed, the Hermit sprang to his feet, but the fox heeded him not. With a last effort he leaped the fence, sped across the clearing and through the door which the man closed in the very teeth of the foremost hound. The wild creature whom he had come to love had turned to him for sanctuary, and not in vain.

The hunt was over and, while the big fox crouched in the corner regaining his breath, the dogs raved unavailingly without. The hunter soon arrived upon the scene and coaxed and threatened, but the Hermit was firm. He told of his interest in the fox since the time he had found him, a furry cub, playing before the home den, and of how again and again he had watched him outwit his own dog. The hunter was at length won over and departed with his hounds, even going so far as to promise to hunt outside of Silver Spot's domain in the future.

The Hermit waited until man and dogs had vanished from sight; then he opened the door of the cabin and stood aside. There was a flash of reddish fur as Silver Spot bounded forth and away to the forest, his splendid brush once more aloft and new courage in his heart.

WHEN THE MOON IS FULL

One summer night when the moon hung so low that it seemed to have become entangled in the branches of a giant spruce, a comical furry face wearing a black mask across the eyes appeared at an opening high up in a tree. A moment later Ringtail, the big raccoon, scrambled to the ground and set off in search of food. His brown fur was long and thick, and his big tail with its seven dark rings was the pride of his heart. In the wilderness, life is a serious business, yet the big raccoon enjoyed to the utmost the blessings which Providence had heaped upon him.

Not far from the home tree lay a tamarack swamp to which Ringtail now made his way, having in mind a certain still, deep pool, bordered with rushes and lilies and teeming with fish, frogs, and tadpoles, fare beloved of raccoons. While yet some distance from the pool he could hear the chorus of the frogs, the shrill tenor of the smaller ones accented at regular intervals by the deep base of bullfrogs, and at the sound his mouth watered in anticipation.

Stealthily though Ringtail advanced, sharp eyes noted his approach. The chorus stopped abruptly and when he stood upon the edge of the pool not a frog was to be seen. The raccoon, however, being wise in the ways of frogs, was not discouraged. He crept out to the tip of the half submerged log, where he crouched, prepared for the long and patient wait which is so often the price of a meal in the wilderness. As he had hoped, the inhabitants of the pool soon forgot the presence of the motionless animal, taking him for a part of the log upon which he crouched. Gradually the chorus was resumed, at first on the farther shore, then coming nearer until, close at hand, sounded a hoarse, deep bellow which betokened the presence of a big bullfrog. Ringtail's mouth watered afresh, but he moved not so much as a muscle. The frog was as yet too far away to risk a catch.

A moment later its bulging eyes appeared, almost under the nose of the raccoon. Quick as a flash a little black, hand-like paw was thrust into the water and the big frog was flipped out upon the bank. Having secured it, Ringtail returned to the tip of his log where he proceeded to dip the body of the frog into the water again and again until every speck of leaf mold and dirt was washed away. Then he dispatched it with great relish.

As the commotion had disturbed the rest of the inhabitants of the pool, Ringtail now wisely turned his back upon the swamp and set out for fresh hunting-grounds. He wandered through the forest until he came to the bank of a clear stream which he knew of old to be well stocked with fish. Owing to recent rains at its source the stream had risen and the current was swift and strong. In the shallows where it had spread over its low banks, Ringtail found an abundance of food and fed daintily. Each morsel was thoroughly washed before he swallowed it, a habit of all raccoons, even though the morsel may have only that moment been taken from the water.

Ringtail's feast suffered a sudden interruption. A few paces farther on another raccoon had been having a similar meal when Ringtail appeared. Now the first comer believed the feast to be his by right of discovery and therefore advanced threateningly upon the intruder. Ringtail was surprised but not disturbed. Fighting was almost as much fun as feasting. Accordingly, when the other animal appeared ready to quarrel, Ringtail, although he had eaten all he desired, advanced joyously to the fray.

The two were evenly matched and for a time they rolled about, locked in each other's embrace, neither gaining the advantage. A porcupine dawdling along the trail stopped to look at the belligerents with cold little eyes; then, grunting disdainfully, he waddled to the edge of the stream to see what prize could be worth so great an exertion. As they fought, the raccoons drew nearer and nearer to the porcupine, who did not offer to move. Another lurch would undoubtedly have brought them into contact with his bristling quills had they not in the nick of time discovered their danger. Instantly they separated and leaped back. The leap brought them to the slippery mud at the edge of the stream and the next moment both rolled helplessly into the flood.

They rose gasping, but the current, which at that point set well in toward the bank, seized and bore them struggling for some distance before they managed to scramble upon a large branch that the stream was carrying. There they clung, all desire for fight wiped out by the sudden plunge.

For a time they rode, looking longingly at the banks which seemed to glide rapidly to the rear. Then their queer craft was swept into a side current and grounded, while the raccoons lost no time in wading to shore. On the bank they cleaned and smoothed their bedraggled fur until it was once more dry and fluffy; then, without a backward glance, each hurried away, Ringtail to his home tree, where he arrived just as the rosy fingers of dawn appeared in the east. The warmth of his snug hollow felt very grateful after his sudden immersion and his ride in the cool night air.

The next night found Ringtail entirely recovered from his adventure and once more abroad. He wandered until he emerged from the forest at the edge of a bit of cleared ground. Before him lay a moon-washed open space and beyond that rose tall, green ranks of corn, a sight that filled the raccoon's heart with joy. He quickly crossed the clearing and, bearing down a stalk, stripped it of its husk and sank his teeth into the milky kernels. Ringtail dearly loved sweet corn and he ate until his round, furry sides were distended and he could hold no more. Then he ran up and down through the rustling field, bearing down great quantities, merely sampling their sweetness and leaving behind a wide swath of ruin.

The next morning when the farmer beheld the work of destruction, his wrath was great and he vowed vengeance upon all the raccoon tribe. That night he lay in wait at the edge of the field with his gun. No marauder appeared, yet in the morning he found that a new section had been visited. It looked as if a dozen raccoons had feasted. A grand hunt followed, but Ringtail, safe in his hollow tree at the edge of the tamarack swamp, heard the distant barking of the dogs without alarm. The hunt swept off in another direction and quiet again fell upon the wilderness.

Thus the summer with its long, sunny days and velvety nights sped by and was succeeded by the moon of falling leaves. The air was tinged with frost and the forest flamed with color. The cornfield no longer held a lure for Ringtail, but the beech trees were dropping their little, three-cornered nuts and the big raccoon was still fat and happy.

Late one night, when he had feasted well and was making his way slowly homeward, he heard the barking of a dog. He paused in the trail to listen. His sharp ears soon assured him that but a single enemy was upon the trail and he started on again, not at all alarmed. He made good time for so fat a fellow but it soon became apparent that he would be overtaken before he could reach the home tree. Accordingly he sought out a large beech tree and, backing up to its great trunk, waited for his foe.

He did not have long to wait. A black and white dog soon burst into view, nose to earth, and almost ran into the waiting Ringtail before he became aware of the raccoon's presence. With a yelp of surprise Pal halted so abruptly that he skidded in the dry leaves, while the big raccoon hissed warningly. For a long moment the two eyed each other, each seemingly unwilling to offer the offensive. Pal barked sharply, but the sound produced no effect upon the raccoon. Then the dog began circling the tree. Ringtail circled with him, always presenting a formidable front.

Ordinarily the peace-loving canine would hardly have attacked the raccoon, but the madness of the season was racing in the veins of the Hermit's dog and he longed for heroic adventure. So, after slowly circling the tree several times, he threw caution to the winds and closed in. Ringtail was ready, and for a time there was an inextricable tangle of raccoon and dog. Then Pal backed off, bleeding in several places, while the big raccoon, panting and disheveled, still stood with back against the tree.

For a moment the two glared at each other. Then Pal's look wavered. He glanced up into the tree and thence into the forest. Then he yawned as if he had lost all interest in the affair and, trotting off, was soon out of sight among the dark trees. Ringtail was free to continue his way homeward, limping slightly but proud of his victory. Before going to sleep he spent some time cleansing his matted fur and restoring it to its usual soft and lustrous state.

A few nights later Ringtail met with a strange adventure, one which left him thoroughly puzzled. He had left his hollow tree early in the evening, very hungry after his hours of fasting. Coming upon a bed of wake-robins, which covered the forest floor with their spotted leaves, he stopped to dig up a few of the peppery roots. Washing them in a near-by stream, he devoured them, blinking his eyes comically over an unusually hot one. Then he wandered on in search of beechnuts, his appetite only made keener by this peppery salad.

Not far from the rail fence which guarded the clearing of the Hermit, he came upon a little open glade carpeted with moss and surrounded by great trees. From the side opposite Ringtail a strange yellow radiance streamed out over the glade. In its brightness a number of rabbits were disporting themselves, jumping about as if in some queer dance, pausing occasionally to stare into the center of that fascinating glow. Now and then one would vanish into the darkness to right or left, but another was sure to take its place.

Ringtail stared, the light reflected from his bright little eyes. Slowly he crept nearer, lured by that strange radiance, fearful, yet unable to resist. The rabbits vanished at his approach, while a tiny wood-mouse which had stolen up, fled with a squeak of panic. But for once Ringtail had no eyes for plump wood-mice. He stared a moment, then moved aside into the darkness where his eyes were not so blinded, and looked about him.

The light came from a small object set upon the ground. Ringtail walked all around it, passing within a few feet of a spot where the Hermit sat concealed in a thicket of wild cherry. The man had secreted himself behind his dark-lantern in such a way that the wind would blow toward him, so no scent of human presence reached the inquisitive raccoon, who continued his cautious circling until he emerged again into the radiance of the lantern. His fur bristled and the rings upon his tail stood out sharply, while his queer little masked face held such a puzzled look that the Hermit chuckled to himself.

"You would make a fine pet, old Ringtail, but I suppose it would be a shame to deprive you of your liberty," thought he, as he looked admiringly at the big animal. His experiment with the light was proving even more successful than he had hoped.

For some time Ringtail remained in the vicinity of the light, generally just out of its glow. Several times he circled the lantern, regarding it curiously but keeping at a respectful distance, for it much resembled a trap. At length, however, the pangs of hunger asserted themselves and he went on his way reluctantly, looking back often until the strange glow was hidden from sight. Beechnuts were forgotten, but he made a satisfying meal on fresh-water clams and several big, juicy tadpoles before he turned his face toward the home tree.

By going some distance out of his way he came again to the little open glade. This time it was illumined only by the radiance of the harvest moon, a radiance very familiar and therefore not particularly interesting to the big raccoon. The night was far spent when he reached his hollow tree and climbed to his doorway. There he was sharply silhouetted for a moment against the low-hanging moon before he vanished into the friendly darkness. The bottom of the hole was made soft with a thick covering of leaves into whose warmth Ringtail sank with a sigh of content, and at once fell asleep.

The first dull cold days, heavy with their hint of coming snow, found the big raccoon fat and sleepy, ready to go into winter quarters. Ringtail seldom braved the gales of winter. He was an indolent, peace-loving fellow, who would not have been able to cope with the hunger and cold of the snowy months. The home hollow was not quite deep enough to suit his fancy, so for one whole day he wandered about, investigating tree after tree before he found one to his liking. Occasionally he would enter a hole to find it occupied by another raccoon who only looked at him sleepily and went on with his comfortable doze.

All day dark clouds had hung over the wilderness. Late in the afternoon a few big flakes, harbingers of the coming storm, drifted slowly to earth. The sight caused Ringtail to hasten his investigations and at last he discovered a place quite to his liking. It was a warm deep hollow, well up from the ground in a big beech tree, its doorway opening toward the south.

When Ringtail poked in his furry face, he found another raccoon already in possession of the snug hollow, but this fact did not trouble him at all. He slid down into the hole, which was carpeted almost a foot deep with beech leaves, and, instead of resenting the intrusion, the other raccoon only sighed comfortably and went back to sleep. Ringtail squeezed his big body into the warm bed of leaves, cuddling his nose into the thick fur of his bedfellow and protecting his feet with his own bushy tail. And there the two slept contentedly, a furry brown ball, until the warm spring sun peeping in at their doorway called them forth.

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF RINGTAIL, THE RACCOON

Late one summer afternoon a hush lay over the wilderness. The air was so still that even the poplar leaves, which move at the slightest breath, hung motionless. The swamp steamed in the heat, and even in the more open forest the air was sultry and oppressive. Birds and wild creatures waited panting for the relief of darkness, seeming to move more silently and furtively than usual. The sun sank behind a bank of angry-looking clouds, but even after dusk had shrouded the trails there was only slight relief from the heat.

Ringtail climbed from the home tree to which he had returned in the spring, and set out for the swamp, eager for a meal of frogs and fish in spite of the strange, oppressive feeling in the air. About midnight, while he was still abroad, the storm broke and swept over the wilderness, leaving its path strewn with a tangled mass of brush and fallen trees. Fortunate it was for Ringtail that he was not at home, for the great beech crashed to the earth, where it lay upon the forest floor, the entrance to the raccoon's house buried from sight. Thus Ringtail found it when he returned from his fishing, having safely weathered the storm under a ledge of rock.

His comfortable home was gone, but Ringtail was not one to complain. The next night found him abroad in search of a new dwelling, moving being no trouble at all for him. In the course of his wanderings he came to the rail fence which protected the clearing of the Hermit. Standing with his front feet on the lower rail, Ringtail surveyed the house and the cleared ground flooded with moonlight. A dark object at the top of a tall pole caught his attention and he decided to investigate.

Ringtail was a skillful climber and he soon stood on a stout platform at the top of the pole. Before him was a rude, though inviting-looking cabin of sticks; but, alas for poor Ringtail's hopes, the doorway was much too small for him to enter. He poked in his inquisitive, pointed nose, thereby causing a great commotion among the sparrows who had made the place their home. Aroused by their noisy chirping, the Hermit appeared in his doorway and in the moonlight discovered the dark bulk before his birdhouse.

Wondering what it could be, he approached noiselessly and turned his flashlight upon the visitor. The light revealed a pair of bright little eyes set in a comical, black-masked face peering down at him over the edge of the platform.

"Old Ringtail, as sure as I am standing here, and by the looks of things, trying his best to roost in my birdhouse!" The Hermit chuckled as he looked up into the eyes of the animal, who did not seem at all alarmed.

After the two had gazed sociably at each other for a few moments the Hermit bade Ringtail a cheery good-night and withdrew to his own cabin, calling to Pal, who had been arousing the echoes with his excited barking. The next morning Ringtail had disappeared, but, deciding that the raccoon would make a far more interesting neighbor than a colony of noisy sparrows, the Hermit tore out the nests and enlarged the doorway enough to permit the animal to enter. Then he awaited developments, trusting to the raccoon's curiosity to bring him back.

He was not disappointed. The following night Ringtail again visited the birdhouse. To his joy he discovered that it could now be entered, even though the doorway was a tight fit. The sparrows, who, in spite of the destruction of their nests, had returned to the cabin to roost, he evicted without a qualm of conscience. The first streaks of dawn found him curled up snugly, sound asleep in his new home.

From that time on, the big raccoon made himself very much at home about the clearing. At night he investigated everything on the place and nearly drove Pal to a frenzy until the dog's master gave him to understand that the raccoon was to be one of the family. Pal was surprised and disgusted, but from that time on he tried to ignore his old enemy. This was not an easy matter. Ringtail, who had grown extremely bold with the protection accorded him, seemed to take delight in making Pal's life miserable. He would tag the dog around the clearing until Pal, in desperation, would turn upon him with a savage growl. Then his tormentor would take to a tree, or his pole, or even the roof of the cabin, there to wait until the dog's anger had cooled.

Ringtail had, also, another habit which annoyed Pal greatly. In the shade just outside the cabin door was the dog's drinking-pan which the Hermit always kept filled with fresh water from the spring. This pan the raccoon always used for washing his food. Poor Pal, coming up hot and thirsty, was sure to find it full of leaves, twigs and earth. He bore this affront for some time but at last his patience was exhausted. There-after he did his drinking at the spring, approaching it always by a round-about way lest the raccoon discover it and pollute its clear water. The Hermit watched the two animals with amusement, but he did not interfere. Gradually the feud was forgotten. Indeed, before many weeks had passed, the two had become firm friends, though Ringtail still delighted in teasing the dog.

In a surprisingly short space of time, too, the raccoon came to trust the Hermit, even to the point of entering the cabin and eating from his hand. This friendliness, however, led to trouble, as the man soon discovered. Ringtail's curiosity was never satisfied and the cabin furnished a rich field for exploration. Shining objects of all kinds seemed to hold a fascination for him. One day when the Hermit missed his watch, and found it eventually in the raccoon's house, he decided that it was time to put a curb upon that animal's explorations.

Ringtail developed another habit which came to be very annoying to the Hermit. On warm summer nights the man slept in a hammock swung between two trees in front of his cabin. Ringtail, returning from his nocturnal hunting, would run along the low branch of one of these trees until he stood directly above the sleeper. Then he would let go and fall with a thud, sometimes into the springy hammock, but more often upon the man.

Nothing that the Hermit could do would break Ringtail of this playful habit. At length he was compelled to move his hammock, swinging it between a corner of the cabin and a small spruce having no long, horizontal branches. Here for a time he slept in peace, until Ringtail discovered that he could take a few steps on the rope and so get into the hammock, where he would sleep contentedly until morning. At least this was better than having the raccoon's weight descend upon him without warning, and the Hermit permitted him to remain. Sometimes he even used Ringtail for a pillow, a liberty which the animal never resented.

As has been mentioned, Ringtail was extremely fond of bright objects. A bit of glass or tin glittering in the light would draw him irresistibly. And one night this attraction led him into serious trouble. At dawn Ringtail was still absent, and as the morning passed and he did not return, the Hermit grew uneasy. Pal, too, seemed to miss his playmate. He wandered aimlessly about and at last disappeared into the forest.

Late in the afternoon Pal returned and signified by his actions that his master was needed in the forest. Remembering the plight in which Dave Lansing had found himself, the Hermit carried his axe with him into the wilderness. Pal ran on ahead but his eager barking enabled his master to follow. Coming to a mossy spot under a big pine, he beheld a sight which moved him to pity.

Long before, a trap had been set under the tree and forgotten. It was covered from sight and badly rusted save for one spot, where a moonbeam had made a dazzling point of light in the darkness. Lured by its gleam Ringtail had stopped to investigate and his foot had been caught fast in the trap.

For hours he had torn at the thing which held him so tightly, until, bleeding and exhausted and almost dead with thirst, he had crouched down among the leaves in despair. Thus Pal had found him and, unable to do anything for his playfellow, had brought his master, confident that to him all things were possible. When the Hermit came upon them, Pal was licking the face of the big raccoon who seemed much comforted by the dog's presence.

The Hermit, with his axe, soon freed Ringtail. As the latter limped painfully, he carried him in his arms to the cabin, Pal frisking joyfully about them. Ringtail had the best of attention and in a few days was as lively as ever, his spirits undampened by his harrowing experience. He worried Pal continually, but the dog bore it all with a look of mingled resignation and pleasure which was comical to see.

About this time a new trick which the big raccoon had developed became very annoying to poor Pal. When presented by his master with an unusually fine bone, the dog would sneak off back of the cabin, look suspiciously around and then quickly bury his prize, concealing all traces of its location. Almost invariably, however, a pair of bright eyes set in a masked face would be watching from some place of concealment and the dog would no sooner turn his back than the mischievous Ringtail would dig up the treasure. Pal generally discovered him in time to save the bone and the friendship appeared not to suffer in the least.

Once Pal, in his turn, owed his life to his friend. At dusk the two wandered together into the borders of the wilderness. While Ringtail was catching mice, Pal went on by himself. Early that spring a lynx had taken up its abode in a rocky cave not far from the Hermit's clearing, and several times had watched hungrily as Pal trotted through the forest. Pal had always been accompanied by the Hermit and, though the lynx could see no gun, it was suspicious of mankind and dared not attack. Now, however, it found the dog alone and unprotected.

Without a sound the beast crouched and leaped. As it sprang, however, a sound deflected its attention and the leap fell short, the long claws raking cruelly across the dog's unprotected back, but causing no fatal injury. Pal uttered a howl of terror and pain and, before the big cat could launch itself again, a raging whirlwind of claws and teeth descended upon its back.

Ringtail, at his hunting not far away, had heard the agonized cry of his playmate and the sound had filled him with rage. Now, perched upon the back of the astonished lynx, he bit and tore, holding his place in spite of the animal's frantic efforts to dislodge him. At length, cowed and exhausted and with bleeding flanks, the lynx was glad to escape to its den. From that time on it showed no interest in either dog or raccoon.

Late summer came, with a full moon flooding the world with its silvery radiance. The nights were almost as bright as the days and seemed to hold a witchery which ran like fire in the veins of the forest folk. Ringtail slept in his log house the greater part of the day but was seldom to be found about the clearing at night. He was round, full-fed, and jolly.

One night the Hermit fell asleep thinking of Ringtail. As he slept, he dreamed of walking in the forest and of hearing the distant barking of dogs. Louder and louder grew the sound until suddenly he awoke to find that it had not all been a dream. So close at hand as to startle him, he heard a wild clamor in which he could distinguish Pal's excited voice. Leaping from his hammock he quickly rounded the corner of the cabin and beheld a weird sight. A torch borne in the hand of a tall man cast a flickering light over a melee of dogs, leaping and barking about the foot of the pole which held Ringtail's snug home. Another but smaller figure stood near, pointing to the spot where, upon the platform before the birdhouse, two shining eyes looked down at the group. Pal was here, there and everywhere, loudly voicing his opinion of the intruders.

The Hermit strode up to the group. "What does this mean?" he asked in a stern voice, of the man who held the torch.

Instead of replying to his question, the man asked, "Is that your coon?"

"No, it isn't my coon, but it is kind enough to be boarding with me at present," the Hermit replied.

"Well, you'll have to kill him. My name is Graham. I live a mile up the river and this coon has just about ruined my cornfield," was the truculent answer.

"How do you know it is this one?" the Hermit asked. "There are other raccoons in the woods."

"How do we know?" The man was growing angry at the delay. "Didn't we just track him here? After he had ruined a choice patch last night, I made up my mind to get him. Sure enough, he came to-night and the dogs brought us here."

The Hermit's face grew grave and he raised troubled eyes to those of his old friend twinkling down at him. "If this is true," he said slowly, "of course something will have to be done. I only ask you to make sure first. Will you do what I propose?"

He talked earnestly for a few moments while the farmer listened in silence. Then Mr. Graham said, still unconvinced, "Well, we will try it, but if we find that it is your coon, he will have to be killed."

The Hermit nodded and, calling their dogs, the strangers departed without their game. The Hermit returned to his hammock and silence once more settled over the clearing. It was long, however, before the man slept. Ringtail, with his mischievous ways and funny masked face, had become a favorite member of his little household. And now disgrace and death were probably to be his portion. With a sinking of the heart the Hermit remembered Ringtail's long absences in the moonlight and his full-fed, happy appearance upon his return.

The following morning, in accordance with his promise to the farmer, the Hermit lured Ringtail to the cabin by means of a cooky. Snapping a chain about his neck he tethered him securely to a young pine before the door. Ringtail ate the cooky, nosed the Hermit's hand for more and then started for home. The chain, however, brought him up with a jerk and he turned such a bewildered look upon the man that the latter's heart almost failed him.

"I'm sorry, old chap, but I promised," he said. "If you would take just a little corn it would not matter, but I have seen a field ruined by your tribe and I know it cannot be permitted."

Ringtail tried in every way to gain his freedom but the chain was strong. Pal, too, seemed much bewildered at the sudden curtailing of his playmate's liberty. He stood at attention, looking from the Hermit to his old chum and back again.

"It's no use, Pal. I promised to keep him chained to-night. Then if Mr. Graham's field suffers again, he will know that it was not Ringtail who visited it." The Hermit patted the dog's head and turned back to the cabin. When he came out some time later, he found Pal and the raccoon asleep side by side.

So Ringtail became a prisoner of war, though, it must be confessed, a very pampered one. During the day he seemed quite contented with his lot, playing with the shining links of his chain or sleeping with his tail over his eyes. But when night came and the moon again flooded the wilderness with its radiance, the raccoon strained at his leash and whimpered like a child, so that the Hermit was forced to harden his heart anew. Meanwhile, he hoped against hope that the jury would not find his pet guilty.

Both the man and the animal spent a restless night. The Hermit rose early and was just preparing his breakfast when he heard a commotion in the clearing. Looking out, he beheld Farmer Graham and his son, guns over their shoulders and two weary dogs at their heels.

"Well, I guess you can keep your coon," the farmer chuckled, as the Hermit stepped out to greet him. "The thief came again last night and we treed him much nearer home than this." He patted a bulky bag at his back. "The trails of the two must have crossed the other time. Anyway, we'll give your Ringtail the benefit of the doubt. Sorry to have troubled you."

"That's all right and I will confess that I am glad Ringtail has not been found guilty. I am just getting breakfast. Come right in and help eat it, won't you?" the Hermit invited, heartily.

The farmer declined, on the plea that breakfast would be waiting at home, and the men parted friends. Ringtail was then released from bondage and given a good breakfast, after which he climbed to his home in the birdhouse and fell asleep, unconscious of his narrow escape from death.

THE HAUNTER OF THE TRAIL

Toward the close of an early autumn day the Hermit might have been seen leaning comfortably against an angle of the old rail fence, pleasantly engaged in doing nothing. At his feet lay a bundle of freshly dug roots, the rich forest mold still adhering to their leathery, brown surfaces. At his back stretched an upland pasture covered with coarse brown grass and dotted with clumps of jumper and wild berry-bushes; before him lay the wilderness, the golden tints of birch and poplar and the scarlet of maples in sharp contrast with the dark green of pine and spruce.

The Hermit was puzzled. On several occasions when harvesting in the woods, he had become conscious of being watched by unfriendly eyes, yet when he turned there was nothing to be seen, save perhaps an inquisitive chickadee or a squirrel peeping at him from behind a tree trunk. That very afternoon, while digging his roots, he had experienced the unpleasant sensation and, stopping his work, had searched the forest all about him. Yet, a little later, the feeling had returned, and Pal had growled deep in his throat, the hair along his back bristling defiantly. The dog, however, did not leave his master and after a moment of silent waiting the Hermit had turned again to his work, resolutely dismissing the matter from his mind.

Now, as he leaned against the fence looking back toward the forest, he resolved to visit it again the following afternoon for the sole purpose of seeking out this mysterious haunter of his trail. In the mean time the shadows were growing long and a number of tasks were still to be done, so he picked up his roots, whistled to Pal, who was investigating a woodchuck hole, and turned his face homeward.

The next afternoon the Hermit entered the wilderness alone, for he wanted no excitable small dog to balk his quest. Seating himself comfortably with his back against a log and partly screened by a thicket of young alders, he waited motionless. A deep hush seemed to clothe the forest as in a garment. All about him rose great trees, their branches shutting out the sunlight and making a mysterious green dimness.

For a long time nothing unusual appeared and the Hermit grew impatient, half believing that his experience had been but a trick of the imagination. He had just about made up his mind to abandon the quest when suddenly he caught his breath, thankful that he had not stirred. He was aware of neither sound nor motion, yet not many paces distant stood a tawny, gray-brown animal whose round, moon-like face, pale savage eyes and tufted ears proclaimed it to be a lynx, or, as it is more commonly known in the backwoods settlements, a lucivee.

The animal stood a trifle over twenty inches in height, his hind legs somewhat longer than his front ones, giving him a queer, humped-up appearance. His feet were huge, furry pads which could tread a cracking forest floor as silently as shadows; his eyes beneath the tassels of stiff dark hair glowed with a pale fire, giving the beast a most sinister appearance. Save for the nervous twitching of his stubby tail, the lucivee stood as motionless as the trees about him.

As the wind was blowing toward him, the Hermit felt sure that the lynx was not yet aware of his presence. He was glad of this, as it would give him an opportunity to study the beast. The attention of the lynx was directed elsewhere, and even the ears of the man, dull in comparison with those of the wild creature, gradually became aware of a faint rustling which grew momentarily louder. The animal drifted behind a tree where he melted into the shadows and became invisible. The effect was uncanny and the Hermit ceased to wonder that he had been unable to catch a glimpse of this haunter of his trail.

Now the rustling sound grew louder and, turning his eyes, the Hermit beheld a strange spectacle. Coming slowly between the trees was something which resembled a huge burr covered with brown leaves. The Hermit stared for a moment, scarce believing the evidence of his eyes; then, as the queer object came nearer, his face relaxed in a broad grin. The apparition was Kagh, the porcupine, who had apparently been enjoying a nap in a bed of dry leaves which had adhered thickly to his spiky covering. He was indeed an odd looking object as he blundered along. The Hermit had much ado to keep from chuckling aloud, especially as he watched the lynx who seemed interested but altogether puzzled. The animal peered out from behind the tree trunk, round eyes fixed unwaveringly upon this stranger who advanced, calmly indifferent to the scrutiny.

As the porcupine passed, the lynx came cautiously forth from his concealment and padded after him, his curiosity still unsatisfied. Kagh had not gone far when some whim caused him to turn about as if to retrace his steps. The lucivee was close behind, but with a motion like the bounding of a rubber ball he quickly vacated the spot and again stood peering from behind a tree.

And now the Hermit witnessed an amusing performance. Some strange freak seemed to possess the porcupine, for he slowly circled the tree behind which the lynx crouched, stopping every few steps to sniff at the bark or to peer up into the branches. For a moment the big cat held his ground, but the sight of the queer apparition bearing down upon him was too much for his high-strung nerves. With a snarl he scrambled up the tree, where he crouched upon a branch, glaring down at the animated leaf-pile. Kagh shambled around the tree, his nose to the ground as if hunting for something. Then he continued on his placid way, disappearing down the gray vista of the forest, apparently ignorant of the fact that there was a lucivee in the woods.

A sudden puff of wind now carried the scent of the man to the crouching lynx. By a stiffening of the animal's muscles the Hermit knew that his presence had been detected. As the branch was close enough to bring the cat within springing distance, he deemed it time to assert himself. Accordingly, he sprang to his feet with a shout, while the lynx, horrified at the sudden clamor, dropped to the ground. Shrinking off into the shadows the lucivee vanished as completely as if swallowed up by the earth.

The setting sun was casting long shadows among the trees and the air was fast growing chill with the coming of night when the Hermit climbed the rail fence into his clearing, to be met by an enthusiastic Pal. The man had learned what it was that had been haunting his trail and, his mind at rest, he felt no further uneasiness. He did not believe that the lynx would attack him, at least while food was abundant. Though he rarely carried a gun, he always bore his mattock or something which could be used as a weapon in case of need.

The big cat, too, had come to know all he desired of the man whose footsteps he had been dogging for days. His savage nature craved the deeper solitudes and the next evening found him journeying northward, away from the settlements with their danger from men and guns. Wood mice were plentiful and once the lynx caught a deer, dropping upon it from an overhanging branch. In this feast he was joined by another lynx, smaller but more savage, and thereafter the two traveled together, selecting their home among the ledges of a heavily wooded country.

Autumn passed. The wild geese drifted southward in search of open waterways, and the moon of snowshoes was ushered in. For days a fierce storm raged, the keen wind lashing the branches of the forest trees and piling the drifts deep. Few indeed of the forest folk ventured abroad, most of them keeping to their dens until the storm should pass. When the sun again appeared, it shone upon a world of pure, glistening white, where the frost particles in the air sparkled like diamond dust.

Hunger drove the creatures forth, and by evening the snow was interlaced with their innumerable trails. The bigger lynx emerged from his dark den high up under an overhanging ledge, stretched himself and yawned mightily, then set off in search of a meal. For a long time he was unsuccessful. The creatures were shy and frightened by their own shadows upon this white coverlet which made the night woods almost as light as day. The lynx was obliged to be content with a rabbit caught at the edge of a snow drift, though his fierce appetite craved stronger food.

Weeks passed and the plight of the forest creatures grew steadily worse. Icy gales swept down from the far north, following each other in rapid succession and making it impossible for any forest creature to stir abroad, sometimes for days at a time. The lynxes grew steadily leaner and their temper more savage. Like gaunt shadows of doom they drifted down the snowy aisles of the forest, now and then coming upon a grouse, which had burrowed into a drift for the night, only to find itself imprisoned by the freezing of the crust above. Even wood mice were difficult to obtain, though their runways branched everywhere deep down under the snow, which to them was a blessing. The nights were cold and still, lit by the great fan of the Aurora Borealis which pulsed upward to the zenith, glowing with its ever-changing colors--delicate green fading into violet and blue, flaming redly or dying away in a pure white light.

About this time the female lynx met her fate in an encounter with a fat porcupine who dawdled across her trail. The sight of good eating so tantalizingly near caused her to lose all caution. With her long claws she endeavored to turn the porcupine over that she might reach his unprotected under parts. In her eagerness, however, she forgot the barbed tail which dealt her a smashing blow, full in the face. One of the quills mercifully penetrated the brain and at once put an end to the painful struggles. Thus the male lynx was left to walk the trails alone, but in spite of the odds against him, he succeeded in holding his own.

The beginning of March saw no break in the intense cold. In fact, March in the wilderness is the most bitter month of the winter. Food is reduced to a minimum and the survivors of cold and hunger are exceedingly wary.

One night when the moon, far off in a cloudless sky, sent pale fingers of mysterious light creeping down the dark forest lanes, the surviving lynx appeared in his endless search for food, his huge pads making no sound as he kept himself cunningly concealed among the shifting shadows. The hush of death brooded over the frozen forest, a hush in which the scratching of a dry leaf across the icy snow crust could be plainly heard for some distance. Occasionally the silence was broken by a loud report from some great tree.

The lynx drifted on, seeking vainly for food to stay his fierce appetite. Suddenly he crouched close to the ground, startled, as a weird, hollow cry rang out just above him. It was the voice of doom for many smaller creatures but not for the lynx. As the great owl drifted by on soundless wings, the animal snarled but went on his way.

At length he paused again to listen. Far away a mournful howl rose on the still air and died away, only to be taken up by another and another. At the sound the hair bristled upon the back of the listener. It was the cry of the wolf pack.

Now the lynx hesitated, uncertain whether to ignore the sound or to make good his escape. Since game had become scarce the wolves had taken to hunting the lynxes. For a single wolf the big cat felt little fear, but he realized that he would be no match for them hunting in packs. Accordingly, much against his will, he turned back toward the den, stopping occasionally to listen, the tassels of dark hairs upon his ears standing stiffly erect and his pale eyes gleaming fiercely.

It soon became apparent that the pack was coming rapidly closer and in another moment had caught the scent. On they came, silent and swift, until they sighted their quarry among the trees. Then they broke into full cry. The lynx, knowing that he could not hope to escape them upon the ground, hastily scrambled up a tree where, crouching upon a limb, he glared down at his enemies.

Maddened at the escape of their quarry, the wolves circled the tree with snapping jaws, leaping as far upward as possible, only to fall back among their fellows. Their eyes gleamed red, but the lynx, safe on his branch high above, felt only disdain. He knew that they could not reach him.

The moon sank out of sight, leaving the forest in darkness, but still the wolf pack kept watch beneath the tree, moving restlessly but always alert. In the east the darkness paled and the sky became gradually suffused with pink. The lynx thought that daylight would see the end of his imprisonment, but though a few of the pack slunk away, enough remained on guard to make a descent from the tree extremely hazardous.

Soon after sunrise, however, easier game was sighted and those beneath the tree at once joined the chase, leaving the lynx free to stretch his cramped muscles and descend from his perch. That morning he was fortunate in finding the half-devoured carcass of a doe which a panther had killed and left unguarded, and he ate greedily of the life-giving food. His fur had grown ragged and his sides gaunt with hunger, but after this satisfying meal new life and courage seemed to flow into his veins.

For some reason the panther did not return to its kill and the flesh of the deer kept the lynx in food for several days. All too soon, however, it was gone, and starvation again stared him in the face. Then he remembered the settlements, with their many dangers, but also with their promise of food. So he drifted southward and found a new den not far from the edge of the wilderness.

Thus it was that, late one afternoon, as the Hermit and Pal were returning to the cabin after a tramp through the woods, the dog became suddenly uneasy and the man again experienced the unpleasant sensation of hostile eyes staring at him. Not caring to have darkness overtake him in the woods, unarmed as he was, he whistled to Pal and went steadily on, watchful but unafraid. The lynx, from the shadows of the trees, watched him hungrily, longing to attack the small, harmless-looking animal but afraid of the man.

Day after day the lucivee watched for a time when the dog might follow the trail alone, but the Hermit did not permit Pal to wander off unaccompanied, and he was careful to arm himself on his infrequent trips into the forest. Though he was often aware of the presence of the lynx, he caught only one glimpse of him, a dim gray shadow among the grayer shadow of the woods. The animal hunted wide. He would occasionally grow so bold as to approach the outlying farms under cover of darkness, and make a raid upon a sheep-pen. This was always sure to bring pursuit, and after the lynx had received a painful flesh wound he grew wary of the abode of man.

Thus the days passed, sometimes marked by plenty, but more often by hunger, until at last the winter came to an end, as even the longest winter must do. When the wild geese returned to their northern breeding places and food grew more abundant, the lynx, too, turned his face to the vast solitudes, far from the dangers of the settlements. With him far away, Pal was once more allowed the freedom of the trails, while his master, about his work in the woods, was no longer aware of that grim, unseen haunter of his footsteps.

WHERE WINTER HOLDS NO TERRORS

In a small reed-girt pool near the source of a forest stream which emptied into the Little Vermilion not far from the Hermit's cabin, stood a rough dome of grass roots, lily stems, mud and sticks. Standing at a bend in the stream, it resembled a mass of driftwood deposited by the freshet, yet it was the snug home of a fat old muskrat.

The roof of the lodge sloped somewhat toward the south, thus permitting the sun's warmth to penetrate the one loose place in the mass, the muskrat's ventilating shaft. In a snug room about a foot down from the roof of the dome, and well above the water line, he had made his bed of leaves and grass, where he could sleep snugly even when the winter gales shrieked overhead and the snow drifted deep.