The Boy and the Lynx 
born and bred in the backwoods of Canada, 
had lost nothing of the spirit that makes the 
Irish blood a world-wide synonym of heartiness 
and wit. 
Corney was the eldest son of a large family. 
The old folks lived at Petersay, twenty-five 
miles to the southward. He had taken up a 
“claim” to carve his own home out of the 
woods at Fenebonk, and his grown sisters, 
Margat, staid and-reliable, and Loo, bright and 
witty, were keeping house for him. Thorburn 
Alder was visiting them. He had just recov- 
ered from a severe illness and had been sent to 
rough it in the woods in hope of winning some 
of the vigor of his hosts. Their home was of 
unhewn logs, unfloored, and roofed with sods, 
which bore a luxuriant crop of grass and weeds. 
The primitive woods around were broken in 
two places: one where the roughest of roads 
led southward to Petersay; the other where 
the sparkling lake rolled on a pebbly shore 
and gave a glimpse of their nearest neighbor’s 
house—four miles across the water. 
Their daily round had little change. Corney 
was up at daybreak to light the fire, call his 
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