share his kill with
her when her own was unsuccessful. And when the spring should come and
bring her a family of kittens, she would have to take on her own
shoulders the whole burden of parental responsibility. Or, rather, the
burden was already there, for if she did not find enough meat to keep
herself in good health the babies would be weak and wizened and
unpromising, with small chance of growing up to be a credit to her or a
satisfaction to themselves. So she hunted night and day, and, on the
whole, with very good results. To tell the truth, I think she was rather
more skilful in the chase than her mate had been, and this seems to be a
not uncommon state of things in cat families. Perhaps feminine fineness
of instinct and lightness of tread are better adapted to the still-hunt
than the greater clumsiness and awkwardness of masculinity. Or, is there
something deeper than that? Has something whispered to these savage
mothers that on their success depends more than their own lives, and
that it is their sacred duty to kill, kill, kill? However that may be,
she proved herself a mighty huntress before the Lord. Her eye was keen,
and her foot was sure, and she made terrible havoc among the rabbits and
partridges.

And yet there were times when even she was hungry and tired and
disheartened. Once, on a clear, keen, cold winter night when all the
great white world seemed frozen to death, she serenaded a land-looker
who had made his bed in a deserted lumber-camp and was trying to sleep.
She had eaten almost nothing for several days, and she knew that her
strength was ebbing. That very evening she had fallen short in a flying
leap at a rabbit, and had seen him dive head-first into his burrow,
safe by the merest fraction of an inch. She had fairly screeched with
rage and disappointment, and as the hours went by and she found no other
game, she grew so blue and discouraged that she really couldn't contain
herself any longer. Perhaps it did her good to have a cry. For two hours
the land-looker lay in his bunk and listened to a wailing that made his
heart fairly sink within him. Now it was a piercing scream, now it was a
sob, and now it died away in a low moan, only to rise again, wilder and
more agonized than ever. He knew without a doubt that it was only some
kind of a cat--knew it just as well as he knew that his compass needle
pointed north. Yet there had been times in his land-looking experience
when he had been ready to swe