certain times and seasons when he did come more or less in contact with
his inferiors. In late spring and early summer he liked to sport for a
while in the swift rapids--perhaps to stretch his muscles after the
dull, quiet life of the winter-time, or possibly to free himself from
certain little insects which sometimes fastened themselves to his body,
and which, for lack of hands, it was rather difficult to get rid of.
Here he often met some of his subjects, and later, when the hot weather
came on, they all went to the spring-holes which formed their summer
resorts. And at such times he never hesitated to take advantage of his
superior size and strength. He always picked out the coolest and most
comfortable places in the pools, and helped himself to the choicest
morsels of food; and the others took what was left, without question.
And when the summer was gone, and the water grew cold and invigorating,
and once more he put on his wedding-garment and hurried away to the
gravelly shallows, how different was his conduct from what it had been
when he was a yearling! Then he was only a hanger-on; now he selected
his nest and his mate to suit himself; and nobody ever dared to
interfere. Whether he ever again chose that beautiful little fish from
the hatchery, whom he had been so fond of when he was a three-year-old,
is a question which I would rather not try to answer. Among all the
vicissitudes, dangers, and rivalries of life in a trout stream, a
permanent marriage seems to be almost an impossibility; and I fear that
the affections of a fish are not remarkable for depth or constancy.
The Trout had altered in many ways besides his relations to his
fellows. The curving lines of his body were not quite as graceful as
they had once been, and sometimes he wore a rather lean and dilapidated
look, especially in the six months from November to May. His tail was
not as handsomely forked as when he was young, but was nearly square
across the end, and was beginning to be a little frayed at the corners.
His lower jaw had grown out beyond the upper, and its extremity was
turned up in a wicked-looking hook which was almost a disfigurement, but
which he often found very useful in hustling a younger trout out of the
way. Even his complexion had grown darker, as we have already seen.
Altogether he was less prepossessing than of old, but of a much more
formidable appearance, and the very look of him was enough to scare a
minnow out of a year's growth.
But, notwithstanding all changes, the two great interests of his
every-day life continued to be just what they had always been--namely,
to get enough to eat, and to keep out of the way of his enemies; for
enemies he still had, and would have as long as he lived. The
fly-fishermen, with their feather-weight rods and their scientific
tackle, came every spring and summer; and only the wisdom born of
experience kept him from falling into their hands. Several times he met
with an otter, and had to run for his life. Once, a black bear, fishing
for suckers, came near catching a brook trout. And perhaps the very
closest of all his close calls came one day when some river-drivers
exploded a stick of dynamite in the water to break up a log-jam. The
trout was some distance up the stream at the time, but the concussion
stunned him so that he floated at the surface, wrong side up, for
several minutes before his senses gradually came back. That is a fish's
way of fainting.
His luck stayed by him, however, and none of these things ever did him
any serious harm. His reign proved a long one, and as the years went by
he came to exercise a more and more autocratic sway over the smaller
fry. For in spite of his age he was still growing. A trout has an
advantage over a land animal in this, that he is not obliged to use any
of his food as fuel for keeping himself warm. He can't keep warm
anyhow--not as long as he lives in the water--and so he doesn't try, but
devotes everything he eats to enlarging his body and repairing wear and
tear. If nothing happens to put a stop to the process, he seems to be
able to keep it up almost indefinitely. But the size of the stream in
which he lives appears to limit him to a certain extent. Probably the
largest trout stream in the world is the Nepigon, and they say that
seventeen-pounders were caught there in the early days. Our friend's
native river was a rather small one. In the course of time, however, he
attained a weight of very nearly three pounds, and I doubt if he would
ever have been much larger. Perhaps it was fitting that his reign should
end there.
But it seems a great pity that it could not have ended in a more
imposing manner. The last act of the drama was so inglorious that I am
almost ashamed to tell it. He was the King of the Trout Stream; over and
over he had run Fate's gauntlet, and escaped with his body unharmed and
his wits sharper than ever; he knew the wiles of the fly-fishermen
better than any other trout in the river; and yet, alas! he fell a
victim to a little Indian boy with a piece of edging for a rod, coarse
string for a line, and salt pork for bait.
I'm sure it wouldn't have happened if he had stayed at home; but one
spring he took it into his head to go on an exploring expedition out
into Lake Superior. I understand that his cousins in the streams of
eastern Canada sometimes visit salt water in somewhat the same manner,
and that they thereupon lose the bright trimmings of their coats and
become a plain silver-gray. Superior did not affect our friend in that
way, but something worse happened to him--he lost his common-sense.
Perhaps his interest in his new surroundings was so great that he forgot
the lessons of wisdom and experience which it had cost him so much to
learn.
In the course of his wanderings he came to where a school of perch were
loafing in the shadow of a wharf; and just as he pushed his way in among
them, that little white piece of fat pork sank slowly down through the
green water. It was something new to the trout; he didn't quite know
what to make of it. But the perch seemed to think it was good, and they
would be sure to eat it if he didn't; and so, although the string was in
plain sight and ought to have been a sufficient warning, he exercised
his royal prerogative, shouldered those yellow-barred plebeians out of
the way, and took the tid-bit for himself. It is too humiliating; let us
draw a veil over that closing scene.
The King of the Trout Stream had gone the way of his fathers, and
another reigned in his stead.
THE STRENUOUS LIFE OF A CANADA LYNX
THE Canada lynx came down the runway that follows the high bank along
the northern shore of the Glimmerglass, his keen, silvery eyes watching
the woods for foe or prey, and his big feet padding softly on the dead
leaves. He was old, was the Canada lynx, and he had grown very tall and
gaunt, but this afternoon his years sat lightly on him. And in a moment
more they had vanished entirely, and he was as young as ever he was in
his life, for, as he stepped cautiously around a little spruce, he came
upon another lynx, nearly as tall as he, and quite as handsome in her
early winter coat. They both stopped short and stared. And no wonder.
Each of them was decidedly worth looking at, especially if the one who
did the looking happened to be another lynx of the opposite sex.
He was some twenty-odd inches in height and about three and a half feet
in length, and had a most villanous cast of countenance, a very
wicked-looking set of teeth, and claws that were two inches long and so
heavy and strong and sharp that you could sometimes hear them crunch
into the bark when he climbed a tree. His long hind legs, heavy
buttocks, thick fore-limbs, and big, clumsy-looking paws told of a
magnificent set of muscles pulling and sliding and hauling under his
cloak. She was nearly as large as he, and very much like him in general
appearance. Both of them wore long, thick fur, of a lustrous steel-gray
color, with paler shades underneath, and darker trimmings along their
back-bones and up and down their legs. Their paws were big and broad and
furry, their tails were stubby and short, and they wore heavy, grizzled
whiskers on the sides of their jaws and mustachios under their noses,
while from the tips of their ears rose tassels of stiff, dark hairs that
had an uncommonly jaunty effect. Altogether they looked very fierce and
imposing and war-like--perhaps rather more so than was justified by
their actual prowess. So it was not surprising that they took to each
other. Perhaps he wasn't really quite as heroic as he appeared, but
that's not uncommon among other lovers besides those belonging to the
lynx tribe, and what difference did it make, anyhow, as long as she
didn't know it?
That winter was a hard one. The cold was intense, the snow was very
deep, and the storms came often. Spruce hens and partridges were scarce,
even rabbits were hard to find, and sometimes it seemed to the two
lynxes as if they were the only animals left in the woods. Except the
deer. There were always plenty of deer down in the cedar swamp, and
their tracks were as plain as a lumberman's logging road. But although
the lynxes sometimes killed and ate young fawns in the summertime, they
seldom tasted venison in the winter. It was well for them that they had
each other, for when one failed in the hunt the other sometimes
succeeded, yet I cannot help thinking that the old male, especially,
might perhaps have been of more use to his mate if he had not confined
his hunting so entirely to the smaller animals. More than once he sat on
a branch of a tree and watched a buck or doe go by, and his claws
twitched and his eyes blazed, and he fairly trembled with eagerness and
excitement as he saw the big gray creature pass, all unconscious,
beneath his perch. Splendidly armed as he was, it would seem as though
he must have succeeded if only he had jumped and risked a tussle. But he
never tried it. I suppose he was afraid. And yet--such were the
contradictions of his nature--one dark night he trotted half a mile
after a shanty-boy who was going home with a haunch of venison over his
shoulder, and was just gathering himself for a spring, intending to leap
on him from behind, when another man appeared. Two against one was not
fair, he thought, and he gave it up and beat a retreat without either of
them seeing him. They found his footprints the next morning in their
snow-shoe tracks, and wondered how far behind them he had been. I don't
know whether it was a vein of real courage that nerved him up to doing
such a foolhardy thing as to follow a man with the intention of
attacking him, or whether it was simply a case of recklessness. The
probability is, however, that he was hungrier than usual, and that the
smell of the warm blood made him forget everything else. Anyhow, he had
a pretty close call, for the shanty-boy had a revolver in his pocket.
Aside from any question of heroism, I am afraid that he was not really
as wise and discriminating as he looked. I have an idea that when Nature
manufactured him she thought he did not need as much wisdom or as many
wits as some of the other people of the woods, inasmuch as he was larger
and stronger and better armed than most of them. Except possibly the
bear, who was altogether too easy-going to molest him, there was not
one of the animals that could thrash him, and they all knew it and let
him alone. You can often manage very well without brains if only you
have the necessary teeth and muscle and claws; and the old lynx had
them, without a doubt. But I fear that Nature, in adapting a wild animal
to his environment, now and then forgets to allow for the human element
in the problem. Brains are a good thing to have, after all. Even to a
lynx the time is pretty sure to come, sooner or later, when he needs
them in his business. Your fellow-citizens of the woods may treat you
with all due respect, but the trapper won't, and he'll get you if you
don't watch out.
One day he found some more snow-shoe tracks, just like those that the
shanty-boy had left, and instead of running away, as he ought to have
done, and as most of the animals would have had sense enough to do, he
followed them up to see where they led. He wasn't particularly hungry
that day, and there was absolutely no excuse for what he did. It
certainly wasn't bravery that inspired him, for he had not the least
idea of attacking anyone. It was simply a case of foolish curiosity. He
followed the trail a long way, not walking directly in it, but keeping
just a little to one side, wallowing heavily as he went, for a foot and
a half of light, fluffy snow had fallen the day before, and the walking
was very bad. Presently he caught sight of a little piece of scarlet
cloth fastened to a stick that stood upright in a drift. It ought to
have been another warning to him, but it only roused his curiosity to a
still higher pitch, as the trapper knew it would. He sat down in the
snow and considered. The thing didn't really look as if it were good to
eat, and yet it might be. The only way to find out would be to go up to
it and taste it. But, eatable or not, such a bright bit of color was
certainly very attractive to the eye. You would think so yourself if you
hadn't seen anything scarlet since last summer's wild-flowers faded.
Finally, he got up and walked slowly toward it, and the first thing he
knew a steel trap had him by the right foreleg.
The way of the foolish is sometimes as hard as that of the transgressor.
For a few minutes he was the very maddest cat in all the Great
Tahquamenon Swamp, and he yelled and howled and caterwauled at the top
of his voice, and jumped and tore around as if he was crazy. But, of
course, that sort of thing did him no good, and after a while he quieted
down and took things a little more calmly. Instead of being made fast
to a tree, the trap was bound by a short chain to a heavy wooden clog,
and he found that by pulling with all his might he could drag it at a
snail's pace through the snow. So off he went on three legs, hauling the
trap and clog by the fourth, with the blood oozing out around the steel
jaws and leaving a line of bright crimson stains behind him. The strain
on his foot hurt him cruelly, but a great fear was in his heart, and he
knew that he must go away or die. So he pushed on, hour after hour,
stopping now and then to rest for a few minutes in a thicket of cedar or
hemlock, but soon gathering his strength for another effort. How he
growled and snarled with rage and pain, and how his great eyes flamed as
he looked ahead to see what was before him, or back along his trail to
know if the trapper was coming!
It was a terrible journey that he made that night, and the hours dragged
by slow as his pace and heavy as his clog. He was heading toward the
hollow tree by the Glimmerglass that he and his mate called home, but he
had not made more than half the distance, and his strength was nearly
gone. Half-way between midnight and dawn he reached the edge of a steep
and narrow gully that lay straight across his path. The moon had risen
some time before, and the white slopes gleamed and shone in the frosty
light, all the whiter by contrast with the few bushes and trees that
were scattered up and down the little valley. The lynx stood on the
brink and studied the proposition before him. It would be hard, hard
work to climb the farther side, dragging that heavy clog, but at least
it ought to be easy going down. He scrambled over the edge, hauling the
clog after him till it began to roll of its own accord. The chain
slackened, and he leaped forward. It was good to be able to jump again.
But he jumped too far, or tried to, and the chain tightened with a jerk
that brought him down head-first in the snow. Before he could recover
himself the clog shot past him, and the chain jerked again and sent him
heels over head. And then cat, trap, and clog all went rolling over and
over down the slope, and landed in a heap at the bottom. All the breath
and the spirit were knocked out of him, and for a long time he could do
nothing but lie still in the snow, trembling with weakness and pain, and
moaning miserably. It must have been half an hour before he could pull
himself together again, and then, just as he was about to begin the
climb up the far side of the gully, he suddenly discovered that he was
no longer alone. Off to the left, among some thick bushes, he saw the
lurking form of a timber-wolf. He looked to the right, and there was
another. Behind him was a third, and he thought he saw several others
still farther away, slinking from bush to bush, and gradually drawing
nearer. Ordinarily they would hardly have dreamed of tackling him, and,
if they had mustered up sufficient courage to attempt to overpower him
by mere force of numbers, he would simply have climbed a tree and
laughed at them. But now it was different.
The lynx cowered down in the snow and seemed to shrink to half his
normal size; and then, as all the horror and the hopelessness of it came
over him, he lifted up his voice in such a cry of abject fear, such a
wail of utter agony and despair, as even the Great Tahquamenon Swamp had
very seldom heard. I suppose that he had killed and eaten hundreds of
smaller animals in his time, but I doubt if any of his victims ever
suffered as he did. Most of them were taken unawares, and were killed
and eaten almost before they knew what was coming; but he had to lie
still and see his enemies slowly closing in upon him, knowing all the
time that he could not fight to any advantage, and that to fly was
utterly impossible. But when the last moment arrived he must have braced
up and given a good account of himself. At least that was what the
trapper decided when he came a few hours later to look for his trap. The
lynx was gone--not even a broken bone of him was left--but there in the
trodden and blood-stained snow was the record of an awful struggle.
There must have been something heroic about him, after all.
For the rest of the winter his widow had to hunt alone. This was not
such a great hardship in itself, for they had frequently gone out
separately on their marauding expeditions--more often, perhaps, than
they had gone together. But now there was never anyone to curl up beside
her in the hollow tree and help her keep warm, or to share his kill with
her when her own was unsuccessful. And when the spring should come and
bring her a family of kittens, she would have to take on her own
shoulders the whole burden of parental responsibility. Or, rather, the
burden was already there, for if she did not find enough meat to keep
herself in good health the babies would be weak and wizened and
unpromising, with small chance of growing up to be a credit to her or a
satisfaction to themselves. So she hunted night and day, and, on the
whole, with very good results. To tell the truth, I think she was rather
more skilful in the chase than her mate had been, and this seems to be a
not uncommon state of things in cat families. Perhaps feminine fineness
of instinct and lightness of tread are better adapted to the still-hunt
than the greater clumsiness and awkwardness of masculinity. Or, is there
something deeper than that? Has something whispered to these savage
mothers that on their success depends more than their own lives, and
that it is their sacred duty to kill, kill, kill? However that may be,
she proved herself a mighty huntress before the Lord. Her eye was keen,
and her foot was sure, and she made terrible havoc among the rabbits and
partridges.
And yet there were times when even she was hungry and tired and
disheartened. Once, on a clear, keen, cold winter night when all the
great white world seemed frozen to death, she serenaded a land-looker
who had made his bed in a deserted lumber-camp and was trying to sleep.
She had eaten almost nothing for several days, and she knew that her
strength was ebbing. That very evening she had fallen short in a flying
leap at a rabbit, and had seen him dive head-first into his burrow,
safe by the merest fraction of an inch. She had fairly screeched with
rage and disappointment, and as the hours went by and she found no other
game, she grew so blue and discouraged that she really couldn't contain
herself any longer. Perhaps it did her good to have a cry. For two hours
the land-looker lay in his bunk and listened to a wailing that made his
heart fairly sink within him. Now it was a piercing scream, now it was a
sob, and now it died away in a low moan, only to rise again, wilder and
more agonized than ever. He knew without a doubt that it was only some
kind of a cat--knew it just as well as he knew that his compass needle
pointed north. Yet there had been times in his land-looking experience
when he had been ready to swear that the needle was pointing
south-southeast; and to-night, in spite of his certain knowledge that
the voice he heard was that of a lynx or a wild-cat or cougar, he
couldn't help being almost dead sure that it came from a woman in
distress, there was in it such a note of human anguish and despair.
Twice he got half-way out of bed to go to her assistance, and then lay
down again and called himself a fool. At last he could stand it no
longer, and taking a burning brand from the broken stove that stood in
the centre of the room, he went to the door and looked out. The great
arc-light of the moon had checkered the snow-crust with inky shadows,
and patches of dazzling white. The cold air struck him like needles, and
he said to himself that it was no wonder that either a cat or a woman
should cry if she had to stay out in the snow on such a night. The
moaning and wailing ceased as he opened the door, but now two round
spots of flame shone out of a black shadow and stared at him
unwinkingly. The lynx's pupils were wide open, and the golden-yellow
tapeta in the backs of her eyeballs were glowing like incandescent
lamps. It was no woman. No human eyes could ever shine like that. The
land-looker threw the brand with all his might; an ugly snarl came from
the shadow, and he saw a big gray animal go tearing away across the
hard, smooth crust in a curious kind of gallop, taking three or four
yards at a bound, coming down on all four feet at once, and spring
forward again as if she was made of rubber. He shut the door and went
back to bed.
That was the end of the concert, and, as it turned out, it was also the
end of the lynx's troubles, at least for the time being. Half an hour
later, as she was loping along in the moonlight, she thought she heard a
faint sound from beneath her feet. She stood still to listen, and the
next minute she was sure. During the last heavy snow-storm three
partridges had dived into a drift for shelter from the wind and the
cold, and such a thick, hard crust had formed over their heads that they
had not been able to get out again. She resurrected them in short order
and reinterred them after a fashion of her own, and then she went home
to her hollow tree and slept the sleep of those who have done what
Nature tells them to, and whose consciences are clear and whose stomachs
full.
That was her nearest approach to starvation. She never was quite so
hungry again, and in the early spring she had a great piece of luck. Not
very far from her hollow tree she met a buck that had been mortally
wounded by a hunter. He had had strength enough to run away, and to
throw his pursuer off his track, but there was very little fight left in
him. In such a case as this she was quite ready to attack, and it did
not take her long to finish him. Probably it was a merciful release, for
he had suffered greatly in the last few days. Fortunately no wolves or
other large animals found him, and he gave her meat till after the
kittens had come and she had begun to grow well and strong again.