lion for a pet, and may never have one again. I must confess I am
sorry for it; for I still retain my love for lions (four-footed
ones, I mean), to this day.




MY FIGHT WITH A CATAMOUNT

By Allen French


My guide, Alaric, and I had gone in after moose to the country
beyond Mud Brook, in Maine. There its watershed between the east
branch and the west is cut up into valleys, in one or another of
which a herd of moose, in winter, generally takes up quarters. It
was not yet yarding-time, for the snow was still only about four
inches deep, making it just right for the moose-hunter who is at
the same time a sportsman.

Our task was a slow one; we had to examine each valley for moose
tracks, tramping up one side and down the other, or as we usually
managed it, separating at the valley's mouth, each taking a side,
meeting at the end and then, if unsuccessful, taking the quickest
way back to camp.

And unsuccessful we were, since for three days we found no trail.
But Alaric was not in the least discouraged.

"You can never tell about moose," he said; "they travel so. There