III. KAGAX 

 THE BLOODTHIRSTY. 



HIS is the story of one day, the 

 last one, in the life of Kagax 

 the Weasel, who turns white in winter, 

 and yellow in spring, and brown in 

 summer, the better to hide his villainy. 



It was early twilight when Kagax came 

 out of his den in the rocks, under the old 

 pine that lightning had blasted. Day and 

 night were meeting swiftly but warily, as 

 they always meet in the woods. The life 

 of the sunshine came stealing nestwards 

 and denwards in the peace of a long day and a full 

 stomach; the night life began to stir in its coverts, 

 eager, hungry, whining. Deep in the wild raspberry 

 thickets a wood thrush rang his vesper bell softly; 

 from the mountain top a night hawk screamed back 

 an answer, and came booming down to earth, where 

 the insects were rising in myriads. Near the thrush 

 a striped chipmunk sat chunk-a-chunking his sleepy 

 curiosity at a burned log which a bear had just torn 



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