twilight in the woods. I had drifted in close to shore in my canoe to
see what Musquash was doing on top of a rock. All muskrats have
favorite eating places--a rock, a stranded log, a tree boll that leans
out over the water, and always a pretty spot--whither they bring food
from a distance, evidently for the purpose of eating it where they
feel most at home. This one had gathered a half dozen big fresh-water
clams onto his dining table, and sat down in the midst to enjoy the
feast. He would take a clam in his fore paws, whack it a few times on
the rock till the shell cracked, then open it with his teeth and
devour the morsel inside. He ate leisurely, tasting each clam
critically before swallowing, and sitting up often to wash his
whiskers or to look out over the lake. A hermit thrush sang
marvelously sweet above him; the twilight colors glowed deep and
deeper in the water below, where his shadow was clearly eating clams
also, in the midst of heaven's splendor.--Altogether a pretty scene,
and a moment of peace that I still love to remember. I quite forgot
that Musquash is a villain. But the tragedy was near, as it always is
in the wilderness. Suddenly a movement caught my eye on the bank
above. Something was waving nervously under the bushes. Before I could
make out what it was, there was a fearful rush, a gleam of wild yellow
eyes, a squeak from the muskrat. Then Upweekis, looking gaunt and dark
and strange in his summer coat, was crouched on the rock with Musquash
between his great paws, growling fiercely as he cracked the bones. He
bit his game all over, to make sure that it was quite dead, then took
it by the back of the neck, glided into the bushes with his stub tail
twitching, and became a shadow again.
Another time I was perched up in a lodged tree, some twenty feet from
the ground, watching a big bait of fish which I had put in an open
spot for anything that might choose to come and get it. I was hoping
for a bear, and so climbed above the ground that he might not get my
scent should he come from leeward. It was early autumn, and my
intentions were wholly peaceable. I had no weapon of any kind.
Late in the afternoon something took to chasing a red squirrel near
me. I heard them scurrying through the trees, but could see nothing.
The chase passed out of hearing, and I had almost forgotten it, for
something was moving in the underbrush near my bait, when back it came
with a rush. The squirrel, half dead with fright, leaped from a
spruce-tip to the ground, jumped onto the tree in which I sat, and
raced up the incline, almost to my feet, where he sprang to a branch
and sat chattering hysterically between two fears. After him came a
pine marten, following swiftly, catching the scent of his game, not
from the bark or the ground, but apparently from the air. Scarcely had
he jumped upon my tree when there was a screech and a rush in the
underbrush just below him, and out of the bushes came a young lynx to
join in the chase. He missed the marten on the ground, but sprang to
my tree like a flash. I remember still that the only sound I was
conscious of at the time was the ripping of his nails in the dead
bark. He had been seeking my bait undoubtedly--for it was a good lynx
country, and Upweekis loves fish like a cat--when the chase passed
under his nose and he joined it on the instant.
Halfway up the incline the marten smelled me, or was terrified by the
noise behind him and leaped aside. A branch upon which I was leaning
swayed or snapped, and the lucivee stopped as if struck, crouching
lower and lower against the tree, his big yellow expressionless eyes
glaring straight into mine. A moment only he stood the steady look;
then his eyes wavered; he turned his head, leaped for the underbrush,
and was gone.
Another moment and Meeko the squirrel had forgotten his fright and
peril and everything else save his curiosity to find out who I was and
all about me. He had to pass quite close to me to get to another tree,
but anything was better than going back where the marten might be
waiting; so he was presently over my head, snickering and barking to
make me move, and scolding me soundly for disturbing the peace of the
woods. In summer Upweekis is a solitary creature, rearing his young
away back on the wildest burned lands, where game is plenty and where
it is almost impossible to find him except by accident. In winter also
he roams alone for the most part; but occasionally, when rabbits are
scarce, as they are periodically in the northern woods, he gathers in
small bands for the purpose of pulling down big game that he would
never attack singly. Generally Upweekis is skulking and cowardly with
man; but when driven by hunger (as I found out once) or when hunting
in bands, he is a savage beast and must be followed cautiously.
I had heard much of the fierceness of these hunting bands from
settlers and hunters; and once a friend of mine, an old backwoodsman,
had a narrow escape from them. He had a dog, Grip, a big brindled cur,
of whose prowess in killing "varmints" he was always bragging, calling
him the best "lucififer" dog in all Canada. Lucififer, by the way, is
a local name for the lynx on the upper St. John, where Grip and his
master lived.
One day in winter the master missed a young heifer and went on his
trail, with Grip and his axe for companions. Presently he came to lynx
tracks, then to signs of a struggle, then plump upon six or seven of
the big cats snarling savagely over the body of the heifer. Grip, the
lucififer dog, rushed in blindly, and in two minutes was torn to
ribbons. Then the lynxes came creeping and snarling towards the man,
who backed away, shouting and swinging his axe. He killed one by a
lucky blow, as it sprang for his chest. The others drove him to his
own door; but he would never have reached it, so he told me, but for a
long strip of open land that he had cleared back into the woods. He
would face and charge the beasts, which seemed more afraid of his
voice than of the axe, then run desperately to keep them from circling
and getting between him and safety. When he reached the open strip
they followed a little way along the edges of the underbrush, but
returned one at a time when they were sure he had no further mind to
disturb their feast or their fighting.
It is curious that when Upweekis and his hunting pack pull down game
in this way the first thing they do is to fight over it. There may be
meat enough and to spare, but under their fearful hunger is the old
beastly instinct for each one to grab all for himself; so they fall
promptly to teeth and claws before the game is dead. The fightings at
such times are savage affairs, both to the eye and ear. One forgets
that Upweekis is a shadow, and thinks that he must be a fiend.
One day in winter, when after caribou, I came upon a very large lynx
track, the largest I have ever seen. It was two days old; but it led
in my direction, toward the caribou barrens, and I followed it to see
what I should see.
Presently it joined four other lynx trails, and a mile farther on all
five trails went forward in great flying leaps, each lynx leaving a
hole in the snow as big as a bucket at every jump. A hundred yards of
this kind of traveling and the trails joined another trail,--that of a
wounded caribou from the barrens. His tracks showed that he had been
traveling with difficulty on three legs. Here was a place where he had
stood to listen; and there was another place where even untrained eyes
might see that he had plunged forward with a start of fear. It was a
silent story, but full of eager interest in every detail.
The lucivee tracks now showed different tactics. They crossed and
crisscrossed the trail, appearing now in front, now behind, now on
either side the wounded bull, evidently closing in upon him warily.
Here and there was a depression in the snow where one had crouched,
growling, as the game passed. Then the struggle began. First, there
was a trampled place in the snow where the bull had taken a stand and
the big cats went creeping about him, waiting for a chance to
spring all together. He broke away from that, but the three-legged
gallop speedily exhausted him. Only when he trots is a caribou
tireless. The lynxes followed the deadly cat-play began again. First
one, then another leaped, only to be shaken off; then two, then all
five were upon the poor brute, which still struggled forward. The
record was written red all over the snow.
[Illustration: The lynxes and caribou]
As I followed it cautiously, a snarl sounded just ahead. I kicked off
my snowshoes and circled noiselessly to the left, so as to look out
over a little opening. There lay the stripped carcass of the caribou
with two lynxes still upon it, growling fearfully at each other as
they pulled at the bones. Another lynx crouched in the snow, under a
bush, watching the scene. Two others circled about each other
snarling, looking for an opening, but too well fed to care for a fight
just then. Two or three foxes, a pine marten, and a fisher moved
ceaselessly in and out, sniffing hungrily, and waiting for a chance to
seize every scrap of bone or skin that was left unguarded for an
instant. Above them a dozen moose birds kept the same watch
vigilantly. As I stole nearer, hoping to get behind an old log where I
could lie and watch the spectacle, some creature scurried out of the
underbrush at one side. I was watching the movement, when a loud
_kee-yaaah!_ startled me; I whirled towards the opening. From behind
the old log a fierce round head with tasseled ears rose up, and the
big lynx, whose trail I had first followed, sprang into sight snarling
and spitting viciously.
The feast stopped at the first alarm. The marten disappeared
instantly. The foxes and the fisher and one lynx slunk away. Another,
which I had not seen, stalked up to the carcass and put his fore paws
upon it, and turned his savage head in my direction. Evidently other
lynxes had come in to the kill beside the five I had followed. Then
all the big cats crouched in the snow and stared at me steadily out of
their wild yellow eyes.
It was only for a moment. The big lynx on my side of the log was in a
fighting temper; he snarled continuously. Another sprang over the log
and crouched beside him, facing me. Then began a curious scene, of
which I could not wait to see the end. The two lynxes hitched nearer
and nearer to where I stood motionless, watching. They would creep
forward a step or two, then crouch in the snow, like a cat warming her
feet, and stare at me unblinkingly for a few moments. Then another
hitch or two, which brought them nearer, and another stare. I could
not look at one steadily, to make him waver; for the moment my eyes
were upon him the others hitched closer; and already two more lynxes
were coming over the log. I had to draw the curtain hastily with a
bullet between the yellow eyes of the biggest lynx, and a second
straight into the chest of his fellow-starer, just as he wriggled down
into the snow for a spring. The others had leaped away snarling as the
first heavy report rolled through the woods.
Another time, in the same region, a solitary lynx made me
uncomfortable for half an afternoon. It was Sunday, and I had gone for
a snowshoe tramp, leaving my rifle behind me. On the way back to camp
I stopped for a caribou head and skin, which I had _cached_ on the
edge of a barren the morning before. The weather had changed; a bitter
cold wind blew after me as I turned toward camp. I carried the head
with its branching antlers on my shoulder; the skin hung down, to keep
my back warm, its edges trailing in the snow.
Gradually I became convinced that something was following me; but I
turned several times without seeing anything. "It is only a fisher," I
thought, and kept on steadily, instead of going back to examine my
trail; for I was hoping for a glimpse of the cunning creature whose
trail you find so often running side by side with your own, and who
follows you if you have any trace of game about you, hour after hour
through the wilderness, without ever showing himself in the light.
Then I whirled suddenly, obeying an impulse; and there was Upweekis, a
big, savage-looking fellow, just gliding up on my trail in plain
sight, following the broad snowshoe track and the scent of the fresh
caribou skin without difficulty, poor trailer though he be.
He stopped and sat down on his feet, as a lucivee generally does when
you surprise him, and stared at me steadily. When I went on again I
knew that he was after me, though he had disappeared from the trail.
Then began a double-quick of four miles, the object being to reach
camp before night should fall and give the lucivee the advantage. It
was already late enough to make one a bit uneasy. He knew that I was
hurrying he grew bolder, showing himself openly on the trail behind
me. I turned into an old swamping road, which gave me a bit of open
before and behind. Then I saw him occasionally on either side, or
crouching half hid until I passed. Clearly he was waiting for night;
but to this day I am not sure whether it was the man or the caribou
skin upon which he had set his heart. The scent of flesh and blood was
in his nose, and he was too hungry to control himself much longer.
I cut a good club with my big jack-knife, and, watching my chance,
threw off the caribou head and jumped for him as he crouched in the
snow. He leaped aside untouched, but crouched again instantly, showing
all his teeth, snarling horribly. Three times I swung at him warily.
Each time he jumped aside and watched for his opening; but I kept the
club in play before his eyes, and it was not yet dark enough. Then I
yelled in his face, to teach him fear, and went on again.
Near camp I shouted for Simmo to bring my rifle; but he was slow in
understanding, and his answering shout alarmed the savage creature
near me. His movements became instantly more wary, more hidden. He
left the open trail; and once, when I saw him well behind me, his head
was raised high, listening. I threw down the caribou head to keep him
busy, and ran for camp. In a few minutes I was stealing back again
with my rifle; but Upweekis had felt the change in the situation and
was again among the shadows, where he belongs. I lost his trail in the
darkening woods.
There was another lynx which showed me, one day, a different side to
Upweekis' nature. It was in summer, when every creature in the
wilderness seems an altogether different creature from the one you
knew last winter, with new habits, new duties, new pleasures, and even
a new coat to hide him better from his enemies. Opposite my island
camp, where I halted a little while, in a summer's roving, was a
burned ridge; that is, it had been burned over years before; now it
was a perfect tangle, with many an open sunny spot, however, where
berries grew by handfuls. Rabbits swarmed there, and grouse were
plenty. As it was forty miles back from the settlements, it seemed a
perfect place for Upweekis to make a den in. And so it was. I have no
doubt there were a dozen litters of kittens on that two miles of
ridge; but the cover was so dense that nothing smaller than a deer
could be seen moving.
For two weeks I hunted the ridge whenever I was not fishing, stealing
in and out among the thickets, depending more upon ears than eyes, but
seeing nothing of Upweekis, save here and there a trampled fern, or a
blood-splashed leaf, with a bit of rabbit fur, or a great round cat
track, to tell the story. Once I came upon a bear and two cubs among
the berries; and once, when the wind was blowing down the hill, I
walked almost up to a bull caribou without seeing him. He was watching
my approach curiously, only his eyes, ears, and horns showing above
the tangle where he stood. Down in the coverts it was always intensely
still, with a stillness that I took good care not to break. So when
the great brute whirled with a snort and a tremendous crash of
bushes, almost under my nose, it raised my hair for a moment, not
knowing what the creature was, nor which way he was heading. But
though every day brought its experience, and its knowledge, and its
new wonder at the ways of wild things, I found no trace of the den,
nor of the kittens I had hoped to watch. All animals are silent near
their little ones, so there was never a cry by night or day to guide
me.
Late one afternoon, when I had climbed to the top of the ridge and was
on my way back to camp, I ran into an odor, the strong, disagreeable
odor that always hovers about the den of a carnivorous animal. I
followed it through a thicket, and came to an open stony place, with a
sharp drop of five or six feet to dense cover below. The odor came
from this cover, so I jumped down; when--_yeow, karrrr, pft-pft!_
Almost under my feet a gray thing leaped away snarling, followed by
another. I had the merest glimpse of them; but from the way they
bristled and spit and arched their backs, I knew that I had stumbled
upon a pair of the lynx kittens, for which I had searched so long in
vain.
They had, probably, been lying out on the warm stones, until, hearing
strange footsteps, they had glided away to cover. When I crashed down
near them they had been scared into showing their temper; else I had
never seen them in the underbrush. Fortunately for me, the fierce old
mother was away. Had she been there, I should undoubtedly have had
more serious business on hand than watching her kittens.
They had not seen more of me than my shoes and stockings; so when I
stole after them, to see what they were like, they were waiting under
a bush to see what I was like. They jumped away again, spitting,
without seeing me, alarmed by the rustle which I could not avoid
making in the cover. So I followed them, just a quiver of leaves here,
a snarl there, and then a rush away, until they doubled back towards
the rocky place, where, parting the underbrush cautiously, I saw a
dark hole among the rocks of a little opening. The roots of an
upturned tree arched over the hole, making a broad doorway. In this
doorway stood two half-grown lucivees, fuzzy and gray and
savage-looking, their backs still up, their wild eyes turned in my
direction apprehensively. Seeing me they drew farther back into the
den, and I saw nothing more of them save now and then their round
heads, or the fire in their yellow eyes.
It was too late for further observation that day. The fierce old
mother lynx would presently be back; they would let her know of the
intruder in some way; and they would all keep close in the den. I
found a place, some dozen yards above, where it would be possible to
watch them, marked the spot by a blasted stub, to which I made a
compass of broken twigs; and then went back to camp.
Next morning I omitted the early fishing, and was back at the place
before the sun looked over the ridge. Their den was all quiet, in deep
shadow. Mother Lynx was still away on the early hunting. I intended to
kill her when she came back. My rifle lay ready across my knees. Then
I would watch the kittens a little while, and kill them also. I wanted
their skins, all soft and fine with their first fur. And they were too
big and fierce to think of taking them alive. My vacation was over.
Simmo was already packing up, to break camp that morning. So there
would be no time to carry out my long-cherished plan of watching young
lynxes at play, as I had before watched young foxes and bears and owls
and fish-hawks, and indeed almost everything, except Upweekis, in the
wilderness.
Presently one of the lucivees came out, yawned, stretched, raised
himself against a root. In the morning stillness I could hear the cut
and rip of his claws on the wood. We call the action sharpening the
claws; but it is only the occasional exercise of the fine flexor
muscles that a cat uses so seldom, yet must use powerfully when the
time comes. The second lucivee came out of the shadow a moment later
and leaped upon the fallen tree where he could better watch the
hillside below. For half an hour or more, while I waited expectantly,
both animals moved restlessly about the den, or climbed over the roots
and trunk of the fallen tree. They were plainly cross; they made no
attempt at play, but kept well away from each other with a wholesome
respect for teeth and claws and temper. Breakfast hour was long past,
evidently, and they were hungry.
Suddenly one, who was at that moment watching from the tree trunk,
leaped down; the second joined him, and both paced back and forth
excitedly. They had heard the sounds of a coming that were too fine
for my ears. A stir in the underbrush, and Mother Lynx, a great savage
creature, stalked out proudly. She carried a dead hare gripped across
the middle of the back. The long ears on one side, the long legs on
the other, hung limply, showing a fresh kill. She walked to the
doorway of her den, crossed it back and forth two or three times,
still carrying the hare as if the lust of blood were raging within her
and she could not drop her prey even to her own little ones, which
followed her hungrily, one on either side. Once, as she turned toward
me, one of the kittens seized a leg of the hare and jerked it
savagely. The mother whirled on him, growling deep down in her throat;
the youngster backed away, scared but snarling. At last she flung the
game down. The kittens fell upon it like furies, growling at each
other, as I had seen the stranger lynxes growling once before over the
caribou. In a moment they had torn the carcass apart and were
crouched, each one over his piece, gnarling like a cat over a rat, and
stuffing themselves greedily in utter forgetfulness of the mother
lynx, which lay under a bush some distance away and watched them.
In a half hour the savage meal was over. The little ones sat up,
licked their chops, and began to tongue their broad paws. The mother
had been blinking sleepily; now she rose and came to her young. A
change had come over the family. The kittens ran to meet the dam as if
they had not seen her before, rubbing softly against her legs, or
sitting up to rub their whiskers against hers--a tardy thanks for the
breakfast she had provided. The fierce old mother too seemed
altogether different. She arched her back against the roots, purring
loudly, while the little ones arched and purred against her sides.
Then she bent her savage head and licked them fondly with her tongue,
while they rubbed as close to her as they could get, passing between
her legs as under a bridge, and trying to lick her face in return;
till all their tongues were going at once and the family lay down
together.
It was time to kill them now. The rifle lay ready. But a change had
come over the watcher too. Hitherto he had seen Upweekis as a
ferocious brute, whom it was good to kill. This was altogether
different. Upweekis could be gentle also, it seemed, and give herself
for her little ones. And a bit of tenderness, like that which lay so
unconscious under my eyes, gets hold of a man, and spikes his guns
better than moralizing. So the watcher stole away, making as little
noise as he could, following his compass of twigs to where the canoes
lay ready and Simmo was waiting.
Sometime, I hope, Simmo and I will camp there again, in winter. And
then I shall listen with a new interest for a cry in the night which
tells me that Moktaques the rabbit is hiding close at hand in the
snow, where a young lynx of my acquaintance cannot find him.
VIII. HUKWEEM THE NIGHT VOICE.
[Illustration: Hukweem]
Hukweem the loon must go through the world crying for what he never
gets, and searching for one whom he never finds; for he is the
hunting-dog of Clote Scarpe. So said Simmo to me one night in
explaining why the loon's cry is so wild and sad.
Clote Scarpe, by the way, is the legendary hero, the Hiawatha of the
northern Indians. Long ago he lived on the Wollastook, and ruled the
animals, which all lived peaceably together, understanding each
other's language, and "nobody ever ate anybody," as Simmo says. But
when Clote Scarpe went away they quarreled, and Lhoks the panther and
Nemox the fisher took to killing the other animals. Malsun the wolf
soon followed, and ate all he killed; and Meeko the squirrel, who
always makes all the mischief he can, set even the peaceable animals
by the ears, so that they feared and distrusted each other. Then they
scattered through the big woods, living each one for himself; and now
the strong ones kill the weak, and nobody understands anybody any
more.
There were no dogs in those days. Hukweem was Clote Scarpe's hunting
companion when he hunted the great evil beasts that disturbed the
wilderness; and Hukweem alone, of all the birds and animals, remained
true to his master. For hunting makes strong friendship, says Simmo;
and that is true. Therefore does Hukweem go through the world, looking
for his master and calling him to come back. Over the tree-tops, when
he flies low looking for new waters; high in air, out of sight, on his
southern migrations; and on every lake where he is only a voice, the
sad night voice of the vast solitary unknown wilderness--everywhere
you hear him seeking. Even on the seacoast in winter, where he knows
Clote Scarpe cannot be--for Clote Scarpe hates the sea--Hukweem
forgets himself, and cries occasionally out of pure loneliness.
When I asked what Hukweem says when he cries--for all cries of the
wilderness have their interpretation--Simmo answered: "Wy, he say two
ting. First he say, _Where are you? O where are you_? Dass what you
call-um his laugh, like he crazy. Denn, wen nobody answer, he say, _O
I so sorry, so sorry_! _Ooooo-eee_! like woman lost in woods. An'
dass his tother cry."
[Illustration: Hukweem]