128 THE MOOSE 



of the North care for it. Things had come to a 

 grim pass with Carcajou. He was a beggar who 

 could not choose. 



The eagle owl sat poised on the tiny pinnacle 

 of ice, trying to bolt whole his fair-sized victim, 

 somewhat of a proposition for even so big an owl. 

 Over and over again the bird tried conclusions 

 with his supper, until, growing fearful of the 

 wolverine's shining eyes, he flew off" in swooping 

 circles, leaving his prey. 



Carcajou stepped in and finished the business, 

 cleaning up the remains, and wishing there was 

 more ; and then, too, the lynx, sniffing the new 

 blood, which ever drew him like a magnet, turned 

 his soft feet towards the scene. Blood always sent 

 Lucivee Berserk. 



The wolverine was greedily polishing off the 

 last of the pine-marten, fearing nothing. He had 

 enemies, of course, but none were afoot to-night. 

 Not a twig stirred ; the newly-fallen snow lay 

 without a hint of any spoor. Over him the gro- 

 tesquely branching trees drooped under the weight 

 of their heavy cloaks. 



Dragging himself soundlessly over the snow like 

 a snake, the ravenous cat moved rapidly across the 



