Hunting the Lynx 2 j 



the gulch forming the western boundary of Pasadena. 

 As I write, two minutes' walk from its fragrant edge, over 

 which I can see the tops of its trees from my lawn, I hear 

 the melody of a hound calling, O-O-o-o, telling me that 

 somewhere in its green heart the foot-cushions of a lynx 

 have left their imprint on the yielding sand. I some- 

 times go down in the afternoon and smooth it over in 

 the middle of the moist stream-bed, then visit it in 

 the morning to read the story. Here are quail tracks, the 

 long foot of a cottontail, the sinuous trail of a snail, the 

 big print of a dog some hound hunting for pleasure, 

 and the round footprint of the lynx, with that of a 

 raccoon or possibly a fox. Indeed, the casual stroller 

 through this green arroyo in winter might never see an 

 animal larger than a quail or rabbit, yet the sandy trails 

 tell of a diversity of game that walks abroad o' nights or 

 comes down the dry green river from the mountains to 

 visit the haunts of man. 



Nearly every cafton in Southern California has its 

 quota of lynxes, generally of two kinds. Those leading 

 from the main range are most frequented, but in nearly 

 every arroyo of any size where there is underbrush and 

 trees there will be found the gamy and savage enemy of 

 the rancher. 



All along the Sierra Madre, from San Luis Obispo 

 to San Diego, the sport may be had, and several well- 

 known packs of hounds are kept in California nota- 

 bly the Kentucky pack of thoroughbreds of Mr. William 

 G. Burns, of the Pasadena Country Club. These hounds 



