Grey Lynx's Last Hunting 



LYNX went ahead. His mate, 

 almost as large as he, and even more 

 savage in her lightning ferocity, was at the 

 same time more shy of approaching the habi- 

 tations of man. Full of suspicions, but driven 

 by the pangs of midwinter famine, she fol- 

 lowed at a little distance, while Grey Lynx, 

 stealthily, crouching close to the snow, led the 

 way across the open to the low, snow-muffled 

 outbuildings of the lonely wilderness farm. 

 He was a strange, sinister figure, this great 

 Canadian lynx, a kind of gigantic, rough- 

 haired cat with the big, broad, disproportion- 

 ate pads of a half-grown Newfoundland pup, 

 and hind legs and haunches grotesquely over- 

 developed as if in imitation of a jack-rabbit. 

 His moon face, stiffly-whiskered, and with a 

 sort of turned-back ruff beneath the blunt, 

 strong jaws, was indescribably wild and 

 savage, lit as it was by a pair of round, un- 



