Chapter VI: Part 6

As soon as Mrs. Bat recovered from her dizzy fall, she put forth one wing and a hind leg and began to walk toward a beam, for strangely enough she could not fly from so low an elevation, but must climb some distance in order to launch herself properly into the air. Hitching and tumbling along she finally reached a beam, and clutching it she began to climb it head downward, exactly as a woodpecker does. Then, having reached the desired height, she whirled away, and landed finally beside her mate.

The barn was a very silent place. The rasping of its rusty latch always gave ample time for all its little wild tenants to get under cover, so usually all you heard when you entered would be the hidden, lonely trill of a cricket or a faint, stealthily rustle in the hay.

Upon a broad beam far up over the loft where the oat straw was stored, lived rather an exclusive family, that of the barn owl. You would never have dreamed they were there, so well did the brown feathers of the owls blend in with the dimness of the shadows. Under the grain bins, far down below, lived a large colony of fat rats, while in among the dried clover raced and romped shoals of field-mice who wintered there. But there was another, a new tenant, feared and shunned by all the others. He came from no one knew where, exactly; still the farmer’s boy might have explained, for he had lost a pet ferret.

The ferret was an ugly creature to look upon, its body long and snaky, and covered with yellowish-white, rather dirty-looking fur; its movements were sly and furtive, and somehow always struck terror to every tenant of the barn whenever they saw him steal forth. All winter the ferret had been there, and the hay was literally honeycombed with its secret tunnels, and woe to anything which happened to cross its evil trail.

Each evening soon after twilight the swallows would return to the barn from their raids, and when the shadows grew quite dusky, far down beneath them, then the bats and the barn owl family would launch themselves out into the night.

“Squeak, squeak,” ordered the big male bat; then like two shadows they would flit silently off upon their velvety wings. All during the early part of the night they chased gnats and bugs, because they invariably got their best pickings before midnight, for after that time insects were harder to find because most of them crawl beneath sheltering leaves, as the night wanes, to get away from the heavy, drenching dew, or hide from their enemies before daylight overtakes them. Before the dim shadows began to lift, the bats and owls had returned, usually, but the bat family did not retire again behind their cobweb curtain; instead they hung themselves by their wing claws head downward from their beam, folding their wings closely over their beady eyes, and thus they would sleep all day.

Warmer days came, and livelier times were stirring among the tenants of the barn. Far up on her own beam Mrs. Barn Owl tended and fed two young downy owlets faithfully. Of course the owl mother knew the beam to be quite a safe spot for baby owls, but somehow she distrusted the skulking old ferret, whom she occasionally caught sight of; besides, rats sometimes climb beams, and once, before the owl eggs had hatched, something had stolen one egg; so that is really why there were but _two_ owlets instead of three.

The swallows were the busiest tenants imaginable, for each nest now held a circle of gaping, hungry mouths to feed. All day long, and far into twilight, the swallows were whirring incessantly, in and out. But up in the secret corner, partially hidden by the torn cobweb curtain, clung Mrs. Bat herself, and if you could only have peeped beneath one of her wings you might have seen the dearest little mite of a bat, with eyes of jet, clinging close to its mother’s breast as she folded it tenderly beneath her wing. There the helpless little creature stayed, close to its mother, until it became older and stronger, for among all the tiny, fur-bearing animals there is no little mother more considerate of her young than the bat. And rather than leave the little furry thing all alone upon the great beam when she had to go off for food, as she could not carry it _beneath_ her wing in flight, she would make a kind of little basket cradle by spreading out her wing, and thus the baby bat would ride with his mother, clinging close to her back with his wing hooks and tiny teeth, and he never fell from the wing basket nor was he afraid.

When the young owlets were out of the pin-feather stage they began to go out with the old ones. But once when they were left behind, sitting huddled together upon their beam, when the mother owl came back only one small, chuckle-faced owlet remained. Hunt as she might, the robber had left no clue behind. However, her suspicions centered upon the sly old ferret and she took to watching his movements more than ever. There she would sit, sullen and revengeful, far up among the shadows and beams, with her one owlet. She frequently saw the sinuous, snake-like body of the ferret creep forth, and even caught the sound of his peculiarly hateful hiss when he encountered anything in his path. Once, in a great fury she swooped clear down to the barn floor after her enemy, but she got there a second too late. The sly creature had heard the swish of the owl’s wings when she left the beam, and caught a fleeting glimpse of her blazing yellow eyes, so he hastily slid into the nearest runway, and the owl flew back to her beam defeated; but she never forgot, she simply waited.

More and more bold became the raids of the hateful old ferret. He robbed the swallows’ nests; frequently you might see his dirty-white, sinuous body stealing across some high beam, creeping, creeping, warily arching his back, holding his snaky head high, one foot gathered up, looking for an unguarded nest; then, if he found one, he would arch his snaky neck over the edge of the nest and suck every egg.

Velvet Wings, the young bat, grew very fast. He foraged for himself now, for his wings were as broad and fleet as his mother’s. Sometimes, however, he made a clumsy start and so got many a fall. So one night as he started forth he fell fluttering and squeaking and protesting, until with a soft thud he landed far below upon the barn floor. Completely stunned Velvet Wings lay there, his wings outspread and helpless, his little heart beating so hard it shook his whole body. Of course he saw nothing, so did not notice the peaked snout of the sly old ferret as he peered inquisitively forth from his lair in the haymow to see what the soft thud might be. The next instant the ferret had Velvet Wings in his cruel mouth, but instead of devouring him at once he began to have some fun with the poor bat, tossing it in the air, then pouncing upon it as it fell, mauling it as a cat does a mouse, pinning its wings down with both fore feet. A second more and Velvet Wings would have been lost, but that second was not allowed the ferret; for far up among the brown rafters a pair of great, blazing yellow eyes had been watching, and like a rocket from above fell the old mother owl, clear to the barn floor. “Swish, swish,” went her great wings, as she buried her talons in the back of the dirty-white fur coat. With a twist of his snaky, supple body, the ferret managed to free himself a second from that awful clutch, and arching its back, it began to slip away. But the owl was too quick; landing upon the ferret’s back, she took another, firmer hold and bore him, struggling and snarling, aloft.

Down through the center of the old barn a broad sunbeam entered. It left a long bar of light through the dimness of the dusky place. The barn was strangely silent, hushed, but many bright eyes had witnessed the tragedy and were watching to see the end, but all that they finally saw was just a few wisps of white fur, which came floating lazily down through the bar of light. It appeared not unlike floating thistle-down, but it had come from the owl’s nest, and was the last they ever saw of their enemy, the sly old ferret.

Up there in the dim shadows of the old red barn you’ll find them all, and should the yellow beam of sunlight happen to dance across their dark hiding-place, you may plainly see the bat family. There they all hang through the day, looking for all the world like a row of small velvet bags, their bright eyes shrouded by their soft wings as they sleep, head downward; while off in quite another corner, perched upon her own dusty beam, drowses the brave barn owl and her one chuckle-headed owlet.

XXIII

NEMOX, THE CRAFTY ROBBER OF THE MARSHES

Nemox, the fisher, who lived in the hollow of a great pine tree, in the depths of the marsh country, lay stretched out flat upon a lofty limb of his home tree, intently watching a clumsy black figure which shuffled through the aisles of the pines far beneath him.

He thought the black, shadowy figure must be Moween, the black bear, but not feeling quite certain about it, Nemox peeked down over the limb curiously, hanging over as far as he dared, keeping his position upon the limb by digging his claws in deeply. His eyes sparkled maliciously and cunningly as he made sure that it actually was Moween herself. Then he knew she had come straight from her den up on Porcupine Ridge to forage for food, because down below, on the needle-strewn floor of the forest, Moween knew she could find plenty of prey for the taking. Close hidden beneath the low-hanging branches of the spruce bush, she sometimes came across a frightened partridge, and the roots of the pines were simply riddled with rabbit burrows. One might always rout out a sleepy hedgehog or two, if there chanced to be nothing better, for Moween knew the secret of avoiding its terrible quills and searching out the creature’s weak spot, without injury to her own snout. So while Moween rummaged about, waddling in and out among the bushes, snuffing and grunting as she threw over a rotting log with her great, padded foot, Nemox, the crafty one, continued to watch her and think deeply. Very well he knew that the old mother bear had left her two innocent, furry little cubs back in her den, up on the side of the mountain. Nemox, the fisher, in one of his cat-like rambles, had run across them one day, just outside their door, cuffing each other about, and rolling over each other like kittens, as their mother watched them fondly. Well Nemox knew that the two cubs were still too young to follow their mother long distances, or down the steep ledges, so of course, he reasoned, they must be at home, alone and unprotected, this very minute.

Instantly Nemox had made his plans, and while the little black mother bear had buried her whole head in a hollow log, hoping to find honey, Nemox began to slide and claw himself down out of the pine tree, being careful, of course, to climb down upon the far side that Moween should not spy him. Then, like a fleet shadow, he slipped off through the thick underbrush, and following the wide swath of the mother bear’s trail, he set out for her den.

Everybody knows that Nemox, the fisher, is the craftiest, most savage and powerful fighter of his age in the marshes, and most of his kindred feared him, giving him a wide berth. Nemox belonged to the cat family, and was sometimes called “the black cat of the woods.” Sinuous of body and not unlike his cousin the weasel, only larger, he could readily leap forty or fifty feet, and always landed, cat-like, upon his prey. To all this was added great knowledge of woodcraft, and reasoning powers, for the clever fisher had easily studied out the fact that the bear had left her cubs unprotected. No wonder then that the fisher was reckoned as a terror of the marsh country, for it took the craftiest of the wild to outwit him.

In and out between the rocky ledges and tall ferns, always heading for the bear’s den, traveled Nemox, and just as he drew near the spot where the little mother bear had cleverly hidden her den, he came right upon the little cubs, who were just outside the entrance of the den, and lay rolling over each other, having a regular frolic, cuffing at a swarm of black butterflies which fluttered about the milkweed blossoms. But the pretty sight of the round, furry babies of Moween at play did not for an instant touch the cruel heart of the fisher, who merely bared his sharp teeth as he hid behind a convenient blackberry bush watching them.

With twitching tail and whiskers, cat-like, the fisher began to creep stealthily toward his prey, flattening his lithe body and keeping out of sight as he crept nearer and nearer the innocent cubs. A swift dart, and he shot straight through the air and launched himself upon one of the cubs, while the other one sat up in amazement and began to whimper like a frightened child. Soon Nemox was busy with tooth and nail over the limp carcass of the cub, when suddenly his keen ear caught the sound of a stealthy pad, pad, pad; so light a footstep it was that no one but Nemox could have heard it. Instantly, fearing the return of the mother bear, Nemox left the wounded cub, for he had no notion of letting Moween, the angry mother, catch him at his cruel work, as well Nemox knew that with one blow of her great paw, armed with its lance-like claws, she could strike him to earth. He realized he would be no match for her unless he chanced to catch her napping.

So the fisher drew off, watching his chances from a safe distance, for, if the truth were known, Nemox was, in some respects, unless cornered, cowardly. He slunk into the shadow of a dark ledge, where his dark fur blended so well with the gloom that he remained completely concealed. He realized that he had taken himself off just in time, for the next instant the tall brakes were thrust aside; but instead of the mother bear making her appearance, who should peer out but Eelemos, the fox. Very cautiously the fox came forth from the bushes, and peered out in rather surprised fashion upon the scene before him; the badly wounded cub, and the other one, who still whimpered and whined helplessly, crying for its mother. Now the fox chanced to be very hungry, and the sight of the wounded cub tempted him. So he crept warily forward, his yellow eyes all agleam, and so intent was the fox upon the coming feast that he paid no attention to the other cub’s little whine of joy and recognition as a great, black, furry bulk fairly tore its way through the thick jungle. Mad with rage and fear Moween’s little red eyes flashed with anger as she caught sight of the fox and her wounded cub, and with one great bound she was upon him, growling terribly, and then, before the fox could even defend himself, the mother bear had laid him low, and soon all that remained of the proud, sly fox was just a battered red pelt, and a bedraggled, limp brush. Then Moween went back to attend to the little wounded cub, uttering low whines of distress, and lapping it tenderly, trying to revive it.

All this time, Nemox, the fisher, was peering out at her from a crack in the ledge, and he had seen the awful fate of Eelemos, the fox, and was very thankful he had got away from the den just in time. Now the fisher had not chanced to select the best spot for his hiding-place, for back inside of the ledge was the home of Unk-Wunk, the hedgehog, who had been asleep inside all the time, curled up in a round ball, until, finally, Nemox had so crowded him that he became impatient and suddenly unrolling himself, just to teach the intruder better manners, he gave him a smart slap across his sneaky pointed snout with his dreadful quilly tail. Nemox was so taken by surprise that, stifling his angry snarls so the mother bear might not hear him, he sneaked back home to the pine forest, his snout full of sharp quills, and spent most of the night spitting crossly and trying to pull them out of his burning flesh.

Next morning, bright and early, Nemox started off hunting once more. He climbed many trees looking for game, but in vain; he even found no partridges roosting down in lower branches, as usual, for already they had left their nightly haunts. At last Nemox reached the foot of a giant hackmatack tree, and right in the top of its branches he spied a great loose bundle of leaves and twigs.

“Ah,” thought Nemox, “the hawks have a young family up there, or possibly there are eggs in the nest; so much the better,” for Nemox loved eggs almost more than a young hawk. Very hungry was Nemox by this time, so he began to climb the tree. At last he reached a limb where he could peer into the nest. He was thankful that the old hawks were away, for there were eggs in the nest. Nemox knew he must hasten, for a brooding hawk is never long away from her eggs. Flattening himself close to the limb Nemox crawled to it, and had just sampled one egg, when with a sudden, wild rush of whirling wings, the mother hawk landed right upon his back, digging her sharp talons into his quivering flesh, as he snarled and spit and tore in her grasp. Finally, with a swift twist of his agile body, Nemox managed to reach the throat of the hawk, and in spite of the beating wings, which nearly thrashed the breath from his body, Nemox clung and clung to the hawk’s throat, until they both fell to earth. And then Nemox had his first decent meal in days, and afterward he climbed up to the nest and finished off the eggs, which he did not forget.

Now high above the nest of the hawk, and over toward the lake, stood a lonely hemlock tree, its limbs broken off by storm after storm. Upon the summit of this tree Quoskh, the great blue heron, came year after year to build her nest and raise her brood. From her high nest, where she sat brooding the young herons, now just out of their pin-feather age, the mother heron could plainly look down upon her neighbor the hawk, and saw all the terrible tragedy which took place. She saw the dark, slim body of Nemox, the robber of the marshes, as he battled with the mother hawk, and then the end of it all. Quoskh, the heron, was afraid for her own young, so much so that for a long while afterward she dreaded to leave them alone long enough to fly off after food. Soon, however, they became large enough to fly to the lake with her, and she was glad. But Quoskh never forgot about the hateful fisher, and always hoped that some day she might get the best of him.

Right in the heart of the marsh-land lay Black Lake. Spread out like a sheet of molten lead it lay, its lonely waters walled about by thick jungles of sedge and cattails; a desolate spot, seldom visited by man, but known and haunted by all the kindred of the wild. You might trace their well-worn trails through the swamp on all sides. Here came Moween, the black bear, and her one cub, for the other she had lost. The sharp teeth of Nemox had done their work. On the edge of the lake Unk-Wunk, the porcupine, loved to loaf, digging out lily roots, and toward night, when shadows crept over the water, Nemox, the fisher, would sneak down, hoping to trap some little wild thing.

One day about twilight, when the little herons were half-grown, a large colony of herons came to the lake. It was approaching time for their annual colonizing plans, and they always meet and talk it over. Down they flocked in droves, on wide azure wings, calling to each other their lonely salute, “Quoskh, quoskh.” And after standing on the pebbly shore solemnly upon one foot, for a while, at a signal they all began to dance a most fantastic sort of a dance, which is called “the heron dance.” Many were the curious eyes watching the strange dance of the herons. Among them was Nemox, the fisher, who almost forgot to hide himself, so taken up in watching the herons was he. However, as he watched them a sudden, fascinating odor came to his nostrils, and he forgot everything else--it was catnip.

Soon he reached the bed of catnip, all silvery green leaves, sparkling with dew. He nibbled and ate, until finally, overcome completely by the fascinating odor, he simply lay down and rolled about, purring like a cat for sheer delight. He felt dreamy and care-free. But just as he was enjoying himself supremely, down floated the wide wings of Quoskh, the great blue heron, and with two stabs of her sword-like beak she had blinded Nemox, and with her wings beaten the breath completely out of his body.

Then, triumphantly, the heron spread her great blue wings and flew off into the twilight, calling “quoskh, quoskh, quoskh” to her mate across the silence of the marshes.

XXIV

THE KEEPER OF TAMARACK RIDGE

Solomon of old was wise and old in years. So too was Solomon, the old gray lynx, the keeper of Tamarack Ridge. Crafty and cruel too was this Solomon, and feared and dreaded by most of his wild neighbors on the ridge, and also by all the dwellers of the swamp below the ridge.

Solomon’s thick coat was hoary, of a yellowish brown, and mottled and shabby, and his large round head terminated in sharp, pointed ears, set off by coarse, tassel-like tufts of black hair, which gave him a sly, sinister expression. Although Solomon the lynx was half the size of a full-grown panther, he could creep through the forest so silently that the soft pad, pad of his feet upon the soft mosses, and the time of his passing was known to few. He never extended any polite courtesies to anything he met, for his disposition was so ugly and mean that should he chance to meet a bobcat or a porcupine, he would always bare his cruel teeth in an ugly snarl, and slink away into the shadows. He mated with none but his own family, two interesting kitten cubs, and their mother.

Solomon Lynx was the oldest and almost the last one left of his tribe in the section of Tamarack Ridge. Once they were plentiful enough in the Canadian forests, but they had all disappeared, leaving only Solomon and his family as keeper of the ridge. Each year he and his wild mate raised their family there. Half-way up the side of the mountain lay the ridge, one of the wildest places in that section, covered over by a thick growth of tamarack and mountain hemlocks. At the foot of the ridge, scooped out in a basin between the mountains, lay a small, deep lake, and beyond the lake is Balsam Swamp.

To the small lake the boys come occasionally to fish for trout or catfish, and here, when the deer laws are off, come hunters from afar. Excepting for these rare intrusions, Tamarack Ridge, the lake, and Balsam Swamp, are inhabited only by the wild dwellers of the forest, creatures of feathers and fur.

The den of Solomon the lynx lay concealed in the thick tamaracks, beneath a jutting ledge of rock, the remains of an abandoned lime quarry. Their den was not a pleasant spot; just a deep, dark hole, which runs far under the ledge, from the entrance of which often peered forth Solomon’s crafty face, lighted with yellow eyes which flashed fire upon dark nights. The floor of the den was strewn over with bones, the remains of cruel, snarling feasts, when the whole family fought over the possession of a carcass. Sometimes it would be a young rabbit, a raccoon, or some other timid little wood neighbor, and most of them knew the place of Solomon’s den, and always made a wide détour when possible, not caring to cross his path; so he remained absolute monarch of the ridge.

One day, late in fall, two village boys came into the swamp to set snares for muskrats. They knew about the keeper of Tamarack Ridge and his evil reputation. For often his horrid yell might be heard on the outskirts of the village on moonlight nights, and they knew the lynx was abroad. And sometimes, if hard pressed, Solomon was overbold, and he and his mate even ventured out of the swamp, and carried off lambs from the farmyards, and once even a young calf. So that finally the farmers offered a bounty to any one who would put an end to the old lynx. So the boys had brought along a large steel trap with them, weighing about eighty pounds, strong enough to hold any lynx once he was caught in its great steel teeth. But when the boys came to set the trap they discovered, to their dismay, that some of the steel teeth were so badly worn off that the trap could not be made to catch properly. Finally by stuffing beneath the plate some leaves, they raised it enough to make the teeth meet, and then baiting their trap with a fresh sheep’s head, they hastened away, for it was by that time nearly dark, and they were afraid that the old lynx might even then have been watching them, and might leap down upon them from some overhanging tree, as he had a way of doing when it suited him.

To tell the truth, Solomon had seen the boys, and his curiosity had been aroused as to just what they had been about down on the edge of the lake. From his place of concealment, lying out flat upon the lime ledge just above his den, he had watched and peered at them between the overhanging tamaracks. And then as the boys started to leave, just as a pleasant warning to them, that they might not approach the ridge, he raised his head and sent out, one after another, a series of his blood-curdling, horrid yells, which so terrified the boys that they took to their heels and ran, as fast as they were able, away, away from those awful cries.

That night it was clear and keen, with frost in the air and young ice in the lowlands, so that when Solomon at last leisurely took his way down from the ridge, with strong, sure leaps, he finally came to where the trap was set, and by this time bait, trap, and all were frozen solid. So Solomon had no difficulty about the trap; it could not spring, and he devoured the bait unharmed, tossing the trap far aside in contempt when he had secured the sheep’s head.

As you can well imagine, the boys, when they dared come back to see if their trap had been sprung, and if they had actually caught a lynx, were thoroughly disgusted at the outcome of their well-laid plans, and almost gave up all hope of ever capturing the lynx. All through the winter months, after snowfall, Solomon’s tracks might be found, as they were readily distinguished from those of the foxes and other wild things because Solomon always took long, flying leaps across the snow, leaving a set of deep, round holes wherever his tufted feet struck. More than once his awful yell had been heard upon moonlight nights close to the traveled roads, and many were afraid to venture out late at night because of the lynx, and the little children would whimper and cry, and hide their heads in terror beneath the quilts, when they heard Solomon’s screech in the night.

When early spring came, the boys came again to the lake, this time for the mountain trout, which were running well. They came with a team, intending to camp in the balsams all night, and tethered their horse securely between two rocks, tying him with a double halter that he might not stray. The fish were biting splendidly along about twilight, and the boys were out on a raft some distance from shore. They carried a lantern with a reflector to attract the fish, and were having great sport. They thought about the lynx, but the sport was so keen that they forgot their fears. The trout would make a circuit of the round lake traveling in schools, and when a school of fish came their way, the boys were kept busy with their lines, hauling in trout. Then they would wait idly until the next school came around. During these periods of inactivity the boys were quiet, and a deep stillness settled over everything. Once a loon screeched, and then regularly, over in Balsam Swamp, commenced the old hoot owl’s lonely cry, “Waugh, waugh, waugh, hu, hu-hu, hu,” and then an old settler or a bullfrog “zoom, zoom’d,” over in the marshes.

Then all at once, in the awful stillness which had settled over the lake, came a crashing sound in the spruce bush along shore, close to where the boys had tethered their horse, followed by the well-known, awful yell of the lynx.

“It’s after the horse, perhaps,” suggested one of the boys. Awful thought; they must pull to shore and find out. So, in spite of their own terror, they poled ashore, and when they reached the spot where their horse had been tied he was no longer there, for the animal, terrified out of its senses by the near-by yell of Solomon, had broken his halters and made off. The boys decided then and there that they did not care to remain over night, so one of them took the wagon shafts, while the other boy pushed behind, and they tore down the road toward the village. Half-way down the mountain road they came across their frightened horse, and, minus their fish, finally reached home.

Thus did Solomon hold the fort, and remain on as undisputed keeper of the ridge. Never could he be trapped or shot, until finally the patience of the farmers was at an end, and they resolved to rally and have a grand hunt for the lynx family; but even then they failed to catch him, and this is how it happened.

One night that fall, Solomon and his family had been out upon one of their bold raids. Right into a farmer’s barn-yard Solomon ventured this time, while his mate waited for him farther up the trail. When he met her he dragged after him a fine, fat sheep, and together they made their way to the den to share the great feast with the waiting cubs. When it was finished, they all curled themselves up for a long, gluttonous sleep, which would last probably until their pressing hunger again awakened them.

Gradually a brooding silence settled over mountain and swamp. The moon was setting and hung, a slim crescent, just over the edge of the dark spruces. Always, before dawn, there comes a hush, when even the owls and frogs are quiet, and the hermit thrush has finished her all night lullaby. It is as if all Nature waited; waited for the birth of a new day.

Then down from the lime ledge, just above Solomon’s den, slipped a dark, lithe figure, slim, with small, sinister eyes; it half-scrambled, half-clawed its way down to a level with the den of the lynx. It moved leisurely but surely, in and out among the tall, rank ferns, threading its way with unerring scent, the scent being fresh meat. Like a shadow, the long, slim body stole inside the bone-strewn den of the lynx, nosing about among the gnawed, discarded bones of the sheep in disdain, and uttering a hissing, baffled growl of disappointment.

Suddenly a low, rumbling growl of warning came from the half-awakened lynx, who had somehow scented the presence of an intruder in the den, but the growl did not frighten off the small, slim visitor, who must be very brave indeed to face Solomon. The eyes of the lynx, mere slits of sleepiness, gradually opened wider and wider. He had caught sight of the stranger, and now thoroughly awake he bared his teeth in an ugly snarl of rage at being disturbed from his slumbers.

The next instant, like a flash of lightning, before Solomon knew how to prepare himself for attack, the slim, dark body had sprung straight for his throat. In vain the lynx shook and scratched and turned himself about. He could not rid himself of the small dark body which had fastened itself in his throat and clung and clung. Gradually the eyes of Solomon lost all luster, and he sank back limp and dead. While all this had been going on the mother lynx and her cubs had awakened, and the old lynx, intent only upon saving the cubs, had stolen off like a shadow, the cubs following her, into the darkness. They had deliberately deserted Solomon in his extremity. Off over the mountain the old lynx led the cubs, and did not stop until she had hidden them in a safe retreat miles away, upon another spur of the mountain, and she never ventured back to Tamarack Ridge again.

When the hunters found the lynx den, they also found all that remained of Solomon lying cold and stark in the edge of the den. And one of the men remarked:

“Only a weasel could do that. The lynx met his match that time.”

Thus ended the long, terrifying reign of Solomon the lynx, and the den beneath the dark, overhanging boughs of the tamarack is now without its keeper.

* * * * *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

speciment of the cat family=> specimen of the cat family {pg 75}

the lucious, succulent fare=> the luscious, succulent fare {pg 93}

for the reapppearance of that hateful=> for the reappearance of that hateful {pg 228}