GREY LYNX'S LAST HUNTING 25 



sharply and just brushed the intruding muzzle. 

 With a spitting yowl, the lynx jumped back- 

 wards, two or three slender quills sticking 

 in her nose like pins in a cushion. Paw and 

 rub and wallow as she might, she could not 

 get them out, for their barbed edges held 

 inexorably. All she could do was break them, 

 and go on, with the points rankling like wasp- 

 stings in her tender muzzle. From time to 

 time she would plunge her face in the snow, 

 to allay the torment. And her temper was 

 by no means improved. 



All this, however, troubled Grey Lynx not 

 at all. To be sure, the mishap to his mate 

 had cooled his longing for porcupine meat, 

 and he had resumed his quest of safe hunting. 

 But concern for the female's sufferings never 

 entered into his savage heart. She was of 

 importance to him only if they should find 

 some big game a strayed sheep or a doe, for 

 instance which they could bring down more 

 surely and more quickly by acting in combina- 

 tion. There was none of that close and firm 

 intimacy which so often appears to exist 

 between the male and female wolf. 



In traversing an alley of big spruce stumps, 

 the two came close together, though they con- 

 tinued to pay each other not the slightest 

 attention. A light, dull pad pad struck their 



