clattering handle. With true lynx cunning, 

 which is always more than half stupidity, he 

 had carried it off and started to climb the 

 biggest tree he could find. Near the top the 

 handle had wedged among the branches, and 

 while he tried to dislodge it net and fish had 

 swung clear of the trunk. In the bark below 

 the handle I found where he had clung to 

 the tree boll and tried to reach the swinging 

 trout with his paw; and on a branch above 

 the bow were marks which showed where he 

 had looked down longingly at the fish at the 

 bottom of the net, just below his hungry 

 nose. From this branch he had either 

 fallen or, more likely, in a fit of blind 

 rage had leaped into the net, 

 which closed around him and 

 held him more effectually than 

 bars of iron. When I came under the tree 

 for the first time, following his trail, he was 

 probably crouched on a limb over my head 

 watching me steadily; and when I came 

 back the second time he was dead. 



That was all that one could be sure 

 about. But here and there, in a torn 



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