The Adventures of Fleetfoot and Her Fawns Part 7

The next instant the Old Man gave one of his blood-curdling screeches, by which he so often paralyzed his prey with fright. Then he dropped to the branch just above, claws out for Frisky Fox.

But the very instant his heavy form touched the tangled vines, they gave way beneath him, and he, too, went cras.h.i.+ng down in a net-work that held him fast. And, what's more, his huge weight loosed the vines that held Frisky prisoner.

But wait! With his great steel claws the giant cat wrenched himself free. Frisky made for a clump of greenbriar, for his leg had gone to sleep, and he couldn't run right till it had had time to wake up.

Was Old Man Lynx to get him after all?

There was only one reason why he didn't-he had no great fondness for brambles. Cats, wild and tame, are mighty fond of their own skins, and Old Man Lynx was no exception. He'd have to be mighty hungry before he'd either scratch his fur out or get it wet.

While Old Man Lynx thought it over, Frisky Fox was certainly not standing still. Not Frisky! He was struggling so hard to tear himself free that the brambles were all trimmed up with little tufts of his tawny coat.

That the gray form crouched so near him meant to spring he could easily guess, and his heart thumped so loudly in his furry chest that he could hardly breathe. Eyes straining wide with fright, as he tugged this way and that, (for he was really caught fast again), he suffered far more from terror than from the pain of the brambles. His leg was awake now, and with one last twinge he wrenched himself loose.

At the same instant the great gray cat launched itself almost upon him.

But Frisky was too quick for it. By the time Old Man Lynx had reached the spot, Frisky was tearing down the slope.

Now lynxes have poor eyesight. Following their nose is their one best guide. Of this Frisky was aware, as his mother had told him so.

He could hear the great cat scrambling after him at a terrific pace. But he was going too fast to try any dodges, for one stumble and the other would be upon him. If it had been Mother Red Fox, she could have laughed at her pursuer. But Frisky was only a pup, remember, and his short legs had all they could do to keep ahead of such a big fellow.

Just as he was beginning to wonder how long this would keep up, he recalled something else his mother had taught him. Lynxes cannot swim.

At least, they won't. The river was just off to the left, and with a quick turn and a sidewise leap that might or might not throw the Old Man off his scent, he dashed for the water.

On the very brink of the moonlit current, he suddenly remembered one thing more. The last time he had tried that swim he had let his tail get so wet and heavy that he had only reached the other bank by hanging on to his father's brush. Now there was no one to tow him. Should he risk it, or was he safer where he was?

To cross or not to cross, that was the question before him.

If he trusted his fate to the current, he might drown. And if he remained on the same side with Old Man Lynx, he might meet another fate.

There was but a heart's beat to decide.

Ah! What was that dark object just upstream? Could it be a log? What luck! Frisky veered to the right, his long agile leaps once more outdistancing the merciless form behind him.

He reached the log. Alas, it reached only half way across! But he raced that half. Then one of his powerful forward leaps and he had landed within easy swimming distance of the other sh.o.r.e!

Old Man Lynx stood raging on the bank he had left, afraid to risk it.

His disappointed screech sent s.h.i.+vers along Frisky's spine, but he knew he was safe.

Pup-like, no sooner was his mind relieved of worry than he burrowed into an old gopher hole and fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER XI.-SPECKLED TROUT.

The still warmth of Indian summer pa.s.sed, with its dreamy days and its crisp nights ablaze with twinkling stars.

And Fleet Foot left the fawns to s.h.i.+ft more and more for themselves,-though they still followed her about. At first they were puzzled and a little hurt by her growing indifference. Then, as they began to feel the strength of their coming buck-hood, they began to enjoy their taste of freedom.

Indeed, the little rascals even began to watch the bucks, (their big cousins and uncles), who were returning in little bands from their summer's wanderings. Someday they, too, would have those lordly antlers, and they, too, could join their bachelor explorations, while the does and younger fawns remained safely behind in the low-lands.

Now no longer could they hear Vesper Sparrow trilling in the meadows and locusts tw.a.n.ging in the tree-tops. The brook beds were drying, 'and the deer now pastured along the sedgy sh.o.r.e-line of Lone Lake or splashed knee-deep in the shallows, while here and there the scarlet of a maple told of approaching winter.

No longer did the gabbling of countless ducks fill their ears when the pink sunsets tinted the Lake. Instead, there were many V-shaped flocks constantly migrating to the Southland, where the waters would not freeze.

Now it was that the speckled trout, whom all summer long they had watched flas.h.i.+ng silvery through the shallows, began putting on their coats of many colors.-At least the bride-grooms did. The prospective brides remained a quiet brown, for reasons the fawns were soon to learn.

(For October is the month when trout start housekeeping together.)

In the early summer the fawns had watched these same finny fellows racing and leaping up the water-falls to the rapids. With the long, hot days, they had taken to the deep, shadowy pools-those watery caverns that afford such peaceful coolness everywhere along Beaver Brook.

Now as the woods turned red and gold, the trout changed their cream colored vests to the most vivid orange, which looked gay enough with their red and white fins.

Their coats were still olive-green, mottled with darker splotches, and on their sides the green melted into yellow, with the little red spots and speckles that give the trout their name.

Their thousands of tiny scales were like suits of mail,-which came in very handy when they fought, as you shall see.

Now the fawns noticed that the larger and brighter colored fish were prospecting around in the shallows, where the water ran fastest, shoveling the gravel about with their bony noses, aided by their tails.

Each trout soon had a little nest scooped out in the stream bed, and over it he stood guard, (or perhaps we ought to say swam guard), defending his homestead against all comers.

Sometimes a larger trout would come by and try to steal the nest of a smaller fish; and then what a fight they had! How they b.u.t.ted each other about, ramming each other's soft sides, and even, at times, biting each other on the lip. It must have hurt dreadfully, because each trout had a mouthful of the sharpest teeth, that turned backward, so that when they caught a worm he was hooked as surely as he would be on the end of a fish-line.

In trout-land, you know, it is the father of the family that makes the nest. He it is who wears the gayest clothing, too,-because if the mother were too bright colored, her enemies could see her on her nest.

Once the nests were ready the mother trout came swimming upstream and promptly set to work filling them with leathery yellow-brown eggs, which they covered with gravel so that no pike or other cannibal of the river's bottom could find and make a breakfast off of them.

The fawns marveled as they watched, day after day, till at last the trout all went back into deep water for the winter, leaving the eggs behind them. And Fleet Foot explained how, next spring, each leathery brown egg that had escaped the cannibal fish and the muskrats would be burst open by the baby trout inside, and out would wiggle the teeniest, weeniest troutlet you can possibly imagine!

CHAPTER XII.-THE VICTOR.

One evening when the frost lay glittering in the moonlight, the fawns were suddenly awakened, in their soft beds of drifted leaves, by a loud belling down on the lake sh.o.r.e; and wide-eyed, they tip-toed down to see what it meant.

There on the muddy beach-stamped with long lines of little cloven hoof prints-stood a handsome buck, with polished antlers, dancing about as if too full of energy to stand still.

Now the fawns had never seen their father, for he had been killed by a hunter. And the other bucks of the herd had been rambling about all summer in the higher hills.

They now saw Fleet Foot mince daintily down to inspect the new-comer, who was belling his greeting at the top of his lungs.