and she had had many. But at first, of course, they were rather
insignificant-looking--just two little balls of reddish-brown fur that
turned over once in a while and mewed for their dinner. Some of the
scientific men say that a new-born baby has no mind, but only a blank
something that appears to be capable of receiving and retaining
impressions, and that may in certain cases have tendencies. There is
reason for thinking that the baby lynxes had tendencies. But imagine, if
you can, what their first impressions were like. And remember that they
were blind, and that if their ears heard sounds they certainly did not
comprehend them. Sometimes they were cold and hungry and lonesome, and
that was an impression of the wrong sort. They did not know what the
trouble was, but something was the matter, that was certain, and they
cried about it, like other babies. Then would come a great, warm,
comforting presence, and all would be right again; and that was a very
pleasant impression, indeed. I don't suppose they knew exactly what had
been done to them. Probably they were not definitely aware that their
empty stomachs had been filled, or that their shrinking, shivering
little bodies were snuggled down in somebody's thick fur coat, or that
somebody's warm red tongue was licking and stroking and caressing them.
Much less could they have known how that big, strong, comforting
somebody came to be there, or how many harmless and guiltless little
lives had been snuffed out to give her life and to enable her to give it
to them. But they knew that all was well with them, and that everything
was just as it should be--and they took another nap.
[Illustration: "_The hole was suddenly darkened, and a round, hairy face
looked in._"]
By and by they began to look about for impressions, and were no longer
content with lying still and taking only what came to them. They seemed
to acquire a mental appetite for impressions that was almost as ravenous
as their stomachs' appetite for milk, and their weak little legs were
forced to lift their squat little bodies and carry them on exploring
expeditions around the inside of the hollow tree, where they bumped
their heads against the walls, and stumbled and fell down over the
inequalities of the floor. They got a good many impressions during these
excursions, and some of them were mental and some were physical. And
sometimes they explored their mother, and went scrambling and
sprawling all over her, probably getting about as well acquainted with
her as it is possible to be with a person whom one has never seen. For
their eyes were still closed, and they must have known her only as a
big, kind, loving, furry thing, that fed them, and warmed them, and
licked them, and made them feel good, and yet was almost as vague and
indefinite as something in a dream. But the hour came at last when for
the first time they saw the light of day shining in through the hole in
the side of their tree. And while they were looking at it--and probably
blinking at it--a footstep sounded outside, the hole was suddenly
darkened, and a round, hairy face looked in--a face with big, unwinking
eyes, pointed, tufted ears, and a thick whisker brushed back from under
its chin. Do you suppose they recognized their mother? I don't believe
they did. But when she jumped in beside them, then they knew her, and
the impression they gained that day was one of the most wonderful of
all.
In looks, these kittens of the woods were not so very different from
those of the backyard, except that they were bigger and perhaps a little
clumsier, and that their paws were very large, and their tails very
short and stubby. They grew stronger as the days went on, and their
legs did not wobble quite so much when they went travelling around the
inside of the tree. And they learned to use their ears as well as their
eyes. They knew what their mother's step meant at the entrance, and they
liked to hear her purr.
Other sounds there were which they did not understand so well, and to
most of which they gave little heed--the scream of the rabbit when the
big gray cat leaps on him from behind a bush; the scolding of the red
squirrel, disturbed and angry at the sight, and fearful that he may be
the next victim; the bark of the fox; the rasping of the porcupine's
teeth; and oftenest of all the pleasant rustling and whispering of the
trees, for by this time the sun and the south wind had come back and
done their work, and the voice of the leaves was heard in the land. All
these noises of the woods, and many others besides, came to them from
outside the walls of the tree, from a vast, mysterious region of which
as yet they knew nothing except that their mother often went there. She
was beginning to think that they were big enough and old enough to learn
something more about it, and so one day she led them out of the hole,
and they saw the sunshine, and the blue of the sky, and the green of
the trees, and the whiteness of the sailing clouds, and the beauty of
the Glimmerglass. But I don't think they appreciated the wonder and the
glory of it all, or paid as much attention to it as they ought. They
were too much interested in making their legs work properly, for their
knees were still rather weak, and were apt to give out all of a sudden,
and to let a fellow sit down when he didn't want to. And the dry leaves
and little sticks kept sliding around under one's feet so that one never
knew what was going to happen next. It was very different from the
hollow tree, and they were glad when their mother picked them up one at
a time by the back of the neck, carried them home, gave them their
supper, and told them to lie still and take a nap while she went after
another rabbit.
But they had really done very well, considering that it was their first
day out. One of them in particular was very smart and precocious, and
she had taken much pleasure in watching the independent way in which he
went staggering about, looking for impressions. And the other was not
far behind him. Her long hours of still-hunting had brought their rich
reward, and her babies were all that she could ask.
She was in the habit of occasionally bringing something home for them to
play with--a wood-mouse, perhaps, or a squirrel, or a partridge, or even
a larger animal; and they played with it with a vengeance, shaking and
worrying it, and spitting and growling and snarling over it in the most
approved fashion. And you should have seen them the first time they saw
their mother catch a rabbit. They did not try to help her, for she had
told them not to, but they watched her as if it was a matter of life and
death--as, indeed, it was, but not to them. The rabbit was nibbling some
tender young sprouts. The old lynx crept up behind him very quietly and
stealthily, and the kittens' eyes stuck out farther and farther as they
saw her gradually work up within leaping distance. They nearly jumped
out of their skins with excitement when at last she gave a bound and
landed with both forepaws on the middle of his back. And when the rabbit
screamed out in his fright and pain, they could not contain themselves
any longer, but rushed in and helped finish him. They seemed to
understand the game as perfectly as if they had been practising it for
years. I suppose that was where their tendencies came in.
A few days later they had another experience--or at least one of them
did. Their mother happened to see two little wood-mice run under a
small, half-decayed log, and she put her forefeet against it and rolled
it half-way over; and then, while she held it there, the larger
Kitten--the one who had made the better record the day they first left
the den--thrust his paw under and grabbed one of them. The other mouse
got away, but I don't think the Kitten cared very much. He had made his
first kill, and that was glory enough for one day.
From wood-mice the kittens progressed to chipmunks, and from them to
larger game. With use and exercise their soft baby muscles grew hard and
strong, and it was not long before they were able to follow the old lynx
almost anywhere, to the tops of the tallest trees, over the roughest
ground, and through the densest thickets. And they learned other things
besides how to walk and climb and hunt. Their mother was a good teacher
and a rather rigid disciplinarian, and very early in life they were
taught that they must obey promptly and without question, and that on
certain occasions it was absolutely necessary to keep perfectly still
and not make the slightest sound. For instance, there was the time when
the whole family lay sprawled out on a limb of a tree, fifteen or
twenty feet up from the ground, and watched the land-looker go by with
his half-axe over his shoulder, his compass in his hand, and a note-book
sticking out of his pocket. They were so motionless, and the grayish
color of their fur matched so well with the bark of the tree, that he
never saw them, although for a moment they were right over his head, and
could have leaped to his shoulders as easily as not.
In short, the kittens were learning to take care of themselves, and it
was well that they were, for one day their mother was taken from them in
a strange, sad way, and there was nothing they could do but cry, and try
to follow her, and at last see her pass out of sight, still looking back
and calling to them pitifully. It was the river that carried her off,
and it was a floating saw-log that she rode upon, an unwilling
passenger. The trouble began with a steel trap, just as it did in their
father's case. Traps are not nearly as much to be feared in summer or
early fall as in winter, for the simple reason that one's fur is not as
valuable in warm weather as in cold. The lynx's, for instance, was
considerably shorter and thinner than it had been in the preceding
December, when she and her mate first met, and it had taken on a
reddish tinge, as if the steel had begun to rust a trifle. But the
killing machines are to be found occasionally at all seasons of the
year, and somebody had set this one down by the edge of the water--not
the Glimmerglass, but a branch of the Tahquamenon River--and had chained
it to a log that had been hung up in last spring's drive. When she first
felt its grip on her leg she yelled and tore around just as her mate had
done, while the kittens looked on in wonder and amazement. They had seen
their mother in many moods, but never in one like this. But by and by
she grew weary, and a little later it began to rain. She was soon
soaking wet, and as the hours dragged on every ounce of courage and
gumption seemed to ooze out of her. If the trapper had come then he
would have found her very meek and limp. Possibly she would have been
ready to fight him for her children's sakes, but nothing else could have
nerved her to it. But she was not put to any such test; the trapper did
not come.
It rained very hard, and it rained very long. In fact it had been
raining most of the time for two or three days before the lynx found the
trap, and in a few more hours the Great Tahquamenon Swamp was as full
of water as a soaked sponge, and the river was rising rapidly. The lynx
was soon lying in a puddle, and to get out of it she climbed upon the
log and stretched herself out on the wet, brown bark. Still the river
rose, and by and by the log began to stir in its bed, as if it were
thinking of renewing its voyage. At last, when she had been there nearly
twenty-four hours, and was faint with hunger, as well as cold and wet,
it quietly swung out into the current and drifted away down the stream.
She was an excellent swimmer, and she promptly jumped overboard and
tried to reach the shore, but of course the chain put a stop to that.
Weakened by fasting, and borne down by the weight of the trap, she came
very near drowning before she could scramble up again over the end of
the log and seat herself amidships.
The kittens were foraging among the bushes, but she called to them in a
tone which told them plainly enough that some new trouble had befallen
her, and they hurried down to the water's edge, and stood there, mewing
piteously. She implored them to follow her, and after much persuasion
the bigger and bolder of the two plunged bravely in. But he didn't get
very far. It was very cold and very wet, and he wasn't used to
swimming. Besides, the water got into his nose and made him sneeze,
which distracted his attention so that for a moment he forgot all about
his mother, and just turned around and hustled back to the shore as fast
as he could go. After that he, contented himself with following along
the bank and keeping as near her as he could. Once the log drifted in so
close that she thought she could jump ashore, and the Kitten watched
eagerly as she gathered herself for the spring. But the chain was too
short, and she fell into the water. Her forepaw just grazed the
grass-tuft where the Kitten was standing, and for an instant she felt
the blades slipping between her toes; but the next moment she was
swimming for the log again, and the Kitten was mewing his sympathy at
the top of his voice.
They journeyed on for nearly an hour longer, she on her prison-ship, and
he on land; and then, before either of them knew just what had happened,
the little tributary had emptied itself into the main stream of the
Tahquamenon, and they suddenly realized that they were much farther
apart than they had been at any time before. This new river was several
times as broad as the one on which the voyage had begun, and the wind
was steadily carrying her away from the shore, while the current bore
her resistlessly on in its long, slow voyage to Lake Superior. She was
still calling to him, but her voice was growing fainter and fainter in
the distance, and so, at last, she passed out of his sight and hearing
forever.
[Illustration: "_He was a very presentable young lynx._"]
And then, for the first time, he missed his brother. The other kitten
had always been a trifle the slower of the two, and in some way he had
dropped behind. Our friend was alone in the world.
But the same river that had carried his mother away brought him a little
comfort in his desolation, for down by the water's edge, cast up on the
sand by a circling eddy, he found a dead sucker. He ate it with relish,
and felt better in spite of himself. It made a very large meal for a
lynx of his size, and by the time he had finished it he began to be
drowsy, so he picked out the driest spot he could find, under the thick
branches of a large hemlock, and curled himself up on the brown needles
and went to sleep.
The next day he had to hustle for a living, and the next it was the
same, and the next, and the next. As the weeks and the months went by
there was every indication that life would be little else than one long
hustle--or perhaps a short one--and in spite of all he could do there
were times when he was very near the end of the chapter. But his
mother's lessons stood him in good stead, and he was exceedingly well
armed for the chase. It would have been hard to find in all the woods
any teeth better adapted than his to the work of pulling a
fellow-creature to pieces. In front, on both the upper and lower jaws,
were the chisel-shaped incisors. Flanking them were the canines, very
long and slender, and very sharply pointed, thrusting themselves into
the meat like the tines of a carving-fork, and tearing it away in great
shreds. And back of the canines were other teeth that were still larger,
but shorter and broader, and shaped more like notched knife-blades.
Those of the lower jaw worked inside those of the upper, like shears,
and they were very handy for cutting the large chunks into pieces small
enough to go down his throat. By the time he got through with a
partridge there was not much left of it but a puddle of brown feathers.
His claws, too, were very long and white, and very wickedly curved; and
before starting out on a hunt he would often get up on his hind legs
and sharpen those of his forefeet on a tree-trunk, just as your
house-cat sharpens hers on the leg of the kitchen-table. When he wasn't
using them he kept them hidden between his toes, so that they would not
be constantly catching and breaking on roots and things; but all he had
to do when he wanted them was to pull certain muscles, and out they
came, ready to scratch and tear to his heart's content. They were not by
any means full grown as yet, but they bade fair to equal his father's
some day. He was warmly and comfortably clothed, of course, and along
his sides and flanks the hair hung especially thick and long, to protect
his body when he was obliged to wade through light, fluffy snow. When
there was a crust he didn't need it, for his paws were so big and broad
and hairy that at such times they bore him up almost as well as if they
had been two pairs of snow-shoes.
But, well armed, well clad, and well shod though he was, it was
fortunate for the Kitten that his first winter was a mild one--mild,
that is, for the Glimmerglass country. Otherwise things might have gone
very hard with him, and they were none too easy as it was. There were
days when he was even hungrier than his mother had been the night she
serenaded the land-looker, and it was on one of these occasions that he
found a porcupine in a tree and tried to make a meal of him. That was a
memorable experience. The porky was sitting in a crotch, doing nothing
in particular, and when the Kitten approached he simply put his nose
down and his quills up. The Kitten spat at him contemptuously, but
without any apparent effect. Then he put out a big forepaw and tapped
him lightly on the forehead. The porcupine flipped his tail, and the
Kitten jumped back, and spat and hissed harder than ever. He didn't
quite know what to make of this singular-looking creature, but he was
young and rash, besides being awfully, awfully hungry, and in another
minute he pitched in.
The next thing they knew, the porcupine had dropped to the ground, where
he lit in a snow-bank, and presently picked himself up and waddled off
to another tree, while the Kitten--well, the Kitten just sat in the
crotch and cried as hard as ever he could cry. There were quills in his
nose, and quills in his side, and quills in both his forepaws; and every
motion was agony. He himself never knew exactly how he got rid of them
all, so of course I can't tell you. A few of those that were caught only
by their very tips may possibly have dropped out, but it is probable
that most of them broke off and left their points to work deeper and
deeper into the flesh until the skin finally closed over them and they
disappeared. I have no doubt that pieces of those quills are still
wandering about in various parts of his anatomy, like the quart of lead
that "Little Bobs" carries around with him, according to Mr. Kipling. It
was weeks before he ceased to feel the pain of them.
For several days after this mishap it was impossible for him to hunt,
and he would certainly have starved to death if it had not been for a
cougar who providentially came to the Glimmerglass on a short visit. The
Kitten found his tracks in the snow the very next day, and cautiously
followed them up, limping as he went, to see what the big fellow had
been doing. For a mile or more the large, round, shapeless
footprints--very much like his own, but on a bigger scale--were spaced
so regularly that it was evident the cougar had been simply walking
along at a very leisurely gait, with nothing to disturb his frame of
mind. But after a while the record showed a remarkable change. The
footprints were only a few inches apart, and his cougarship had carried
himself so low that his body had dragged in the snow and left a deep
furrow behind. The Kitten knew what that meant. He had been there
himself, though not after the same kind of prey. And then the trail
stopped entirely, and for a space the snow lay fresh and virgin and
untrodden. But twenty feet away was the spot where the cougar had come
down on all-fours, only to leap forward again like a ricochetting
cannon-ball; and twenty-five feet farther lay the greater part of the
carcass of a deer.
The Kitten stuffed himself as full as he could hold, and then climbed a
tree and watched. About midnight the cougar appeared, and after he had
eaten his fill and gone away again the Kitten slipped down and ate some
more. He was making up for lost time. For four successive nights the
cougar came and feasted on venison, but after that the Kitten never saw
him or heard of him again. There was still a goodly quantity of meat
left, and it seems somewhat curious that he did not return for it, but
he was a stranger in those parts, and it is probable that he went back
to his old haunts, up toward Whitefish Point, perhaps, or the Grand
Sable. Anyhow, it was very nice for the Kitten, for that deer kept him
in provisions until he was able to take up hunting once more.
He had one rather exciting experience during this period. One day, just
as he was finishing a very enjoyable meal of venison tenderloin, he
heard the tramp of snow-shoes on the crust, and in a moment more that
same land-looker came pacing down a section line and halted squarely in
front of him. Now there are trappers who say that a Canada lynx is a
fool and a coward, that he will run from a small dog, and that he makes
his living entirely by preying on animals that are weaker and more
poorly armed than he. I admit, of course, that the majority of lynxes do
not go ramming around the woods with chips on their shoulders, looking
for hunters armed with bowie-knives and repeating rifles. You wouldn't,
either--not as long as there were rabbits to be had for the stalking.
But on this occasion the Kitten's conduct certainly savored of
recklessness, if not of real bravery. Being entirely unacquainted with
the land-looking profession, he naturally supposed that the man had come
for his deer. And he didn't propose to let him have it. He considered
that that venison belonged to him, and he took his stand on the carcass,
laid his ears back, showed his white teeth, made his eyes blaze, and
spit and growled and snarled defiantly. The land-looker didn't quite
know what to do. His section line lay straight across the deer's body,
and he did not want to leave it for fear of confusing his reckoning, but
the Kitten, though only half grown, looked uncommonly business-like. He
had no gun, nor even a revolver, for he was hunting for pine, not fresh
meat. He had left his half-axe in camp, and when he felt in his pocket
for his jack-knife it was not there. Then he looked about for a club. He
had been told that lynxes always had very thin skulls, and that a light
blow on the back of the head was enough to kill the biggest and fiercest
of them, let alone a kitten. But he couldn't even find a stick that
would answer his purpose.
"Well," he said, when they had stared at each other a minute or two
longer without coming to any understanding, "I suppose if you won't turn
out for me, I'll have to turn out for you"; and he made a careful
circuit at a respectful distance, picked up his line again, and went on
his way.
The winter dragged on very slowly, with many ups and downs, but it was
gone at last. Summer was easier, if only because he was not obliged to
use up any of his vitality in keeping warm. Sometimes, indeed, he was
really too warm for comfort, so he presently changed his coat and put
on a thinner one. People like to talk about the coolness of the deep
woods, but the truth is that there isn't any place much hotter and
stuffier than a dense growth of timber, where the wind never comes, and
where the air is heavy and still. And then there are the windfalls and
the old burnings, where the sun beats fiercely down among the fallen
trees till the blackened soil is hot as a city pavement, and where dead
trunks and half-burned logs lie thrown together in the wildest
confusion--places which are almost impassable for men, and which even
the land-lookers avoid whenever they can, but which a cat will thread as
readily as the locomotive follows the rails. These were the localities
which the Kitten was most fond of frequenting, and here his youth
slipped rapidly away. He was fast becoming an adult lynx.
The summer passed, and half the autumn; the first snow came and went,
and again the Kitten put on his winter coat of gray, with the white
underneath, and the dark trimmings up and down his legs and along his
back. What with his mustachios, and his whiskers, and the tassels on his
ears, he was a very presentable young lynx. It would be many years
before he could hope to be as large and powerful as his father, but,
nevertheless, he was making remarkably good progress. And the time was
at hand when he would need both his good looks and his muscle.
Since his mother had left him he had seen only two or three lynxes, and
those were all much older and larger than he, and not well suited to be
his companions. But history repeats itself. One Indian-summer afternoon
he was tramping along the northern bank of the Glimmerglass, just as his
father had done two years before, and as he rounded a bend in the path
he came face to face with someone who was enough like him to have been
his twin sister. And they did as his parents had done, stood still for a
minute or two and looked at each other as if they had just found out
what they were made for. After all, life is something more than hustling
for a living, even in the woods.