The Bossier banner. [volume] (Bellevue, Bossier Parish, La.) 1859-1952, 1921-06-09

came out Of his brush-covert when the |
moon rose. 1t was not his usual rising |
time. Ordinarily he found his best |
hunting In the eerie light of the twi-
light hour; but for certain reasons,
his knowledge Of which would be ex-
tremely difficult to explain. he let this
time go by In slumber. Whisperfoot !
had slept almost since dawn. 1t is a
significant quality in the felines that
they simply cannot keep in condition
without hours and hours Of sleep. In
this matter Of sleeping, they are In q
direct contrast to the wolves, who
seemingly never sleep at all, unless 1t
is with one eye open, and In still
greater contrast to the king of all
beasts, the elephant, who is said to
slumber less per night than That great
electrical wizard whom all men know
and praise.
The great cat came out yawning, as
graceful thing as treads upon the
earth. He was almost nine feet long
from the tip of his nose to the end OF
his tail, and he weighed as much as
many full-grown man. He stood and
yawned insolently, for all the forest
world to see. He rather hoped that
the chipmunk, staring with beady eyes
from his doorway. did see him. He
would just as soon that Woof's little
son, the bear cub, should see him too.
But he wasn't so particular about
Wool himself, or the wolf pack whose
song had just wakened him. And
above all things, he wanted to keep
out of the sight of men.
For when all thugs are said and
done, there were few bigger towards
In the whole wilderness world than
Whisperfoot. A good many people
think that Graycoat the coyote
could take lessons from rim in this
respect. But others, knowing how a
hunter is brought in occasionally with
almost all human resemblance gone
his death agony, think this is unfair
to the larger animal. And 1t is true
that a full-grown cougar will some
times attack horned cattle, something
that no American animal cares to do
unless he wants good fight on his
paws and OF which the very thought
would throw Graycoat into a spasm;
and there have been even stranger
stories. II one could quite believe
them. A certain measure of respect
must be extended to any animal that
will hunt the great bull elk, for to
miss the stroke and get caught be-
meath the churning, flashing, s1ashing,
razor-edged front hoofs is simply
death, painful and without delay. But
the difficulty lies in the fact that these
things are not done in the ordinary,
rational blood of hunting. What an
animal does In its death agony, or to
protect its young, what great game 1t
follows in the starving times Of win
ter. can be put to neither its debit
nor its credit. A coyote will charge
when mad. A raccoon will put up
wicked fight when cornered. A hen
will peck ut the hand that robs her
nest. When hunting was fairly good,
Whisperfoot avoided the elk and steer
almost as punctiliously as he avoided
men, which is saying very much in
deed: and any kind of terrier could
usually drive him straight up tree.
But he did like to pretend to be
very great and terrible among the
smaller forest creatures. And he was
~ ~ haspa
hunter who would kill two deer
week for fifty-two weeks would be
called much uglier name than poach-
err; but yet this had been Whisper
foot's record. on and off. ever since
his second year. Many great buck
wore the scar Of the full stroke aft
er which Whisperfoot had lost his
hold. Many fawn had crOuched
painting with terror in the thickets at
just tawny light on the gnarled limb
Of pine. Many a doe would grow
great-eyed and terrified at just his
strange. pungent smell on the wind.
He yawned again. and his fangs
looked white and abnormally large in
the moonlight. His great. green eyes
were still clouded and languorous
from sleep. Then he began to steal
up the ridge toward his hunting
grounds. 1t was curious thing that
he walked straight in the face of the
soft wind that came down from the
snow fields. and yet there wasn't
weathercock to be seen anywhere. And
neither had the chipmunk seen him
wet paw and hold 1t up. after the
approved fashion OF holding up a fin
ger He had better why Of knowing
Ia chill at the end Of his whiskers.
The little, GREATNESS night sounds
In the brush around him seemed to
madden him. They made a song to
him. strange. wild melody that even
such frontiersmen as Dan and Len
nox could not experience A thousand
smells brushed down to him on the
wind, more potent than any wine or
lust. He began to. tremble all over
with rapture and excitement. But I'M
like Cranston's trembling, no wilder
ness ear was keen enough to hear the
leaves rustling beneath him.
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