cts, often stretches out his limbs in death in the dark
ravines of the forest--the victim of his enemy's superior intelligence.

Obliged during the day to hide himself in the most solitary parts of the
woods, he finds there only those animals whose rapid flight enables them
to escape his clutches. Sometimes, however, after the exercise of
prodigious patience on his part, by lying in wait the whole day, at a
spot where he knows they will be certain to pass when the sun goes down,
a defenceless roebuck will occasionally fall into his jaws.

This chance on the sly producing nothing, when night has set in he seeks
the open country, approaches the farms, attacks the sheepfolds,
scratches his way under the doors, and entering wild with rage, puts
everything to death--for, to his infernal spirit, destruction is as
great a pleasure as the satisfaction of his hunger.

When the dogs growl in an under tone, when they are restless and
agitated, and snuff the wind as it drives in eddies through the
shutters, "The wolf is abroad," say the peasants.

If these runs in the open country by the light of the moon afford no
supper, he returns to the depths of his lair, or takes up the scent of
some roebuck, tracks it like a hound, and though his hope is small
indeed of ever catching it, he perseveringly follows the trail, trusting
that some other wolf, famished like himself, will head the timid animal
in its flight, and seize it as it passes, and that, like staunch
friends, they will afterwards divide the spoil between them.

But the reverse more often occurs,--and foiled and disappointed, he then
becomes, though naturally a dastard and full of fear, absolutely
courageous; the fire of hunger consumes his stomach, he fears nothing,
and braves every danger; all prudence is forgotten, and his natural
ferocity is wound up to such a pitch, that he hesitates not to meet
certain destruction, attacks the animals that are actually under the
care of man, man himself,--throws himself suddenly upon the poor
benighted traveller, and gliding slowly and softly, with the stealthy
movements of a serpent, seizes and carries off with him to the depth of
the forest the infant sleeping in its cradle, or the little, helpless,
innocent child which, ignorant of danger, laughs and plays at the
cottage-door.

Unsociable as well as savage, with a heart harder than the ball which
drills the ghastly hole in his side, loving only himself and his dark
solitudes, th