Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog 
The Buzzard, swinging lower, heard them, too. 
The sounds came nearer; Old Gray-coat of the 
cruel face sprang lightly from the fallen pine to the 
stump where once it grew; there with the wonderful 
art of the beast of prey he melted himself into 
the stump-—became nothing but a bump of bark. 
The sounds still grew. Plainly a host of crea- 
tures were coming down the game trail. The 
Wildcat gazed intently from his high lookout. The 
Razor-back with a brood of jostling, rustling, 
grunting, playful little Razor-backs behind her. 
Straying this way and that, then bounding to over- 
take mother, they made a little mob of roysterers; 
and sometimes they kept the trail, but sometimes 
wandered. Stringing along they came, and the 
bobtailed Tiger on the stump gazed still and tense, 
with teeth and claws all set, for here was a luscious 
meal in easy reach. The mother passed the stump 
with its evil-eyed watchman, and also the first and 
second of the rollicking crew. Then there was a 
gap in the little procession, and the Tiger gathered 
himself for a spring, but other sounds of feet and 
gruntings told that more were coming, and they 
rollicked after mother; another gap, and last and 
least of all, the runtie of the brood. 
Everything was playing the Tiger’s game. He 
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lesser cover moved, then out there stepped a mother — 
R 
