no attention; but this cunning poacher must be laid by the heels, else there would not be a single rabbit left in the cover.  So Wayeeses, instead of hunting himself at twilight when the rabbits are stirring, would wait till midday, when the sun is warm and foxes are sleepy, and then come back to find the poacher’s trail and follow it to where Eleemos was resting for the day in a sunny opening in the scrub.  There Wayeeses would steal upon him from behind and put an end to his poaching; or else, if the fox used the same nest daily, as is often the case when he is not disturbed, the wolf would circle the scrub warily to find the path by which Eleemos usually came out on his night’s hunting.  When he found that out Wayeeses would dart away in the long, rolling gallop that carries a wolf swiftly over the roughest country without fatigue.  In an hour or two he would be back again with another wolf.  Then Eleemos, dozing away in the winter sunshine, would hear an unusual racket in the scrub behind him,—­some heavy animal brushing about heedlessly and sniffing loudly at a cold trail.  No wolf certainly, for a wolf makes no noise.  So Eleemos would get down from his warm rock and slip away, stopping to look back and listen jauntily to the clumsy brute behind him, till he ran plump into the jaws of the other wolf that was watching alert and silent beside the runway.

When the snows were deep and soft the wolves took to hunting the lynxes,—­big, savage, long-clawed fighters that swarm in the interior of Newfoundland and play havoc with the small game.  For a single lynx the wolves hunted in pairs, trailing the big prowler stealthily and rushing upon him from behind with a fierce uproar to startle the wits out of his stupid head and send him off headlong, as cats go, before he knew what was after him.  Away he would go in mighty jumps, sinking shoulder deep, often indeed up to his tufted ears, at every plunge.  After him raced the wolves, running lightly and taking advantage of the holes he had made in the soft snow, till a swift snap in his flank brought Upweekis up with a ferocious snarl to tear in pieces his pursuers.

Then began as savage a bit of fighting as the woods ever witness, teeth against talons, wolf cunning against cat ferocity.  Crouched in the snow, spitting and snarling, his teeth bared and round eyes blazing and long claws aching to close in a death grip, Upweekis waited impatient as a fury for the rush.  He is an ugly fighter; but he must always get close, gripping his enemy with teeth and fore claws while the hind claws get in their deadly work, kicking downward in powerful spasmodic blows and ripping everything before them.  A dog would rush in now and be torn to pieces; but not so the wolves.  Dancing lightly about the big lynx they would watch their chance to leap and snap, sometimes avoiding the blow of the swift paw with its terrible claws, and sometimes catching it on their heavy manes; but always a long red mark