42 The Naturalist in La Plata. 
and shrug their shoulders, when told of a comrade’s 
death ; “so many beautiful horses die!” I asked 
him if he had ever killed a puma, and he replied 
that he had killed only one and had sworn never to 
kill another. He said that while out one day with 
another gaucho looking for cattle a puma was 
fourd. It sat up with its back against a stone, and 
did not move even when his companion threw the 
noose of his lasso over its neck. My informant 
then dismounted, and, drawing his knife, advanced 
to kill it: still the puma made no attempt to free 
itself from the lasso, but it seemed to know, he 
said, what was coming, for it began to tremble, the 
tears ran from its eyes, and it whined in the most 
pitiful manner. He killed it as it sat there unre- 
sisting before him, but after accomplishing the 
deed felt that he had committed a murder. It was 
the only thing he had ever done in his life, he 
added, which filled him with remorse when he 
remembered it. This I thought a rather startling 
declaration, as I knew that he had killed several 
individuals of his own species in duels, fought 
with knives, in the fashion of the gauchos. 
All who have killed or witnessed the killing of 
the puma—and I have questioned scores of hunters 
on this point—agree that it resigns itself in this 
unresisting, pathetic manner to death at the hands 
of man. Claudio Gay, in his Natural History of 
Chili, says, “ When attacked by man its energy and 
daring at once forsake it, and it becomes a weak, 
inoffensive animal, and trembling, and uttering 
piteous moans, and shedding abundant tears, it 
gcems to implore compassion from a generous 

