THE LIFE AND DEATH OF LUCY 111 
dabs at them with her powerful paw. They were 
taught to climb a tree, and to conceal themselves 
amid the branches. They were taught, by watch- 
ing their mother, how to lie out on a fallen log 
across the deep brown pool in the brook at the 
foot of the slope, motionless as a statue, and make 
a sudden plunge with one paw, claws out and 
curled upward, as a trout came past, catching it 
‘under the belly and tossing it to the bank. They 
learned, too, how to creep up on partridges sitting 
on their nests, or sleeping; how to crouch behind 
a bush along the rabbit paths and wait patiently 
till a cottontail came by, or even, in favorable 
spots, how to lie out along a limb over the path 
and drop on the rabbit from above. They learned 
how to run through the forest, too, as well as 
how to wait, always zigzagging, nose near the 
ground, ready to pounce on any deer-mouse that 
might be there. At night, as their mother went 
hunting through the woods, she would every now 
and then raise her head and emit the startling, 
raspy, snarling yell—meow—yang-yang-yang— 
which often caused some sleepy animal or bird to 
start in fright and betray its hiding place. Lucy 
