THE LYNX. 445 



But, nothing daunted, the writer and the engineer took 

 up the trail the following morning, while our companion 

 remained at camp to nurse a contused ankle, which he had 

 sustained while jumping from a huge log the previous day. 

 The hurt was painful, but not serious. 



The trail was readily picked up, but, being somewhat 

 old, was discarded for a new one which crossed it, and was 

 evidently but a few hours old. Though not large, it promised 

 good sport, and at least another pelt. This track crossed 

 much of the same ground as that of the day previous, but 

 went down to the lowland, into the green timber. Having 

 reason to believe that the Lynx had lingered, and was not a 

 great march ahead, we tramped leisurely on. 



Sundry grouse-feathers bestrewed the snow where he had 

 been feeding. Being a skillful fowler, the Lynx is seldom 

 at a loss for the staff of life here in the Cascade Range, where 

 birds are so abundant. Like a dog, he will scent his game. 

 Knowing how to proceed, from long experience and a con- 

 stant necessity of hustling for himself, he advances on his 

 unsuspecting victim, silently, noiselessly, and concealed, per- 

 haps, behind some mound of earth or tree-trunk, he sneaks 

 along, with his belly on the ground, till he is as near as he 

 can get without flushing the grouse. Strutting upon a log, 

 perchance, is the proud bird; every feather ruffled, the 

 black feathers around his neck puffed out, he paces majes- 

 tically to and fro, ever and anon emitting a slight ''cluck- 

 cluck," similar to that produced by moistening the lips, 

 holding them together, then separating them with a -snap; 

 or, if it be in the spring of the year, he drums and booms, 

 producing a sound similar to that produced by beating rap- 

 idly on an immense bass-drum. 



Or possibly the partridge is quietly feeding, pecking at 

 stray morsels of food, unconscious of the treacherous, crawl- 

 ing destroyer so near at hand. The bird' s head being turned 

 to one side for a second, there is a streak, a flash of fur. and 

 the next instant the cruel fangs pierce through feathers, 

 flesh, and bone, and the poor bird never knows what struck 

 him. 



