r
of the fox, Laura, that wanted to cross a river, and lay down on the
bank pretending that he was dead, and a countryman came along, and,
thinking he had a prize, threw him in his boat and rowed across, when
the fox got up and ran away?"

"Now, uncle," said Miss Laura, "you're laughing at me. That couldn't be
true."

"No, no," said Mr. Wood, chuckling; "but they're mighty cute at
pretending they're dead. I once shot one in the morning, carried him a
long way on my shoulders, and started to skin him in the afternoon, when
he turned around and bit me enough to draw blood. At another time I dug
one out of a hole in the ground. He feigned death. I took him up and
threw him down at some distance, and he jumped up and ran into the
woods."

"What other animals did you catch when you were a boy?" asked Mr.
Maxwell.

"Oh, a number. Otters and beavers we caught them in deadfalls and in
steel traps. The mink we usually took in deadfalls, smaller, of course,
than the ones we used for the bears. The musk-rat we caught in box traps
like a mouse trap. The wild-cat we ran down like the loup cervier."

"What kind of an animal is that?" asked Mr. Maxwell.

"It is a lynx, belonging to the cat species. They used to prowl about
the country killing hens, geese, and sometimes sheep. They'd fix their
tusks in the sheep's neck and suck the blood. They did not think much
of the sheep's flesh. We ran them down with dogs. They'd often run up
trees, and we'd shoot them. Then there were rabbits that we caught,
mostly in snares. For musk-rats, we'd put a parsnip or an apple on the
spindle of a box trap. When we snared a rabbit, I always wanted to
find it caught around the neck and strangled to death. If they got half
through the snare and were caught around the body, or by the hind legs,
they'd live for some time, and they'd cry just like a child. I like
shooting them better, just because I hated to hear their pitiful cries.
It's a bad business this of killing dumb creatures, and the older I get,
the more chicken-hearted I am about it."

"Chicken-hearted I should think you are," said Mrs. Wood. "Do you know,
Laura, he won't even kill a fowl for dinner. He gives it to one of the
men to do."

"'Blessed are the merciful,'" said Miss Laura, throwing her arm over her
uncle's shoulder. "I love you, dear Uncle John, because you are so kind
to every living thing."

"I'm going to be kind to you now," said her uncle, "and send you to bed.
You loo