III. KAGAX THE BLOODTHIRSTY.
[Illustration: Kagax]
This is the story of one day, the last one, in the life of Kagax the
Weasel, who turns white in winter, and yellow in spring, and brown in
summer, the better to hide his villainy.
It was early twilight when Kagax came out of his den in the rocks,
under the old pine that lightning had blasted. Day and night were
meeting swiftly but warily, as they always meet in the woods. The life
of the sunshine came stealing nestwards and denwards in the peace of a
long day and a full stomach; the night life began to stir in its
coverts, eager, hungry, whining. Deep in the wild raspberry thickets a
wood thrush rang his vesper bell softly; from the mountain top a night
hawk screamed back an answer, and came booming down to earth, where
the insects were rising in myriads. Near the thrush a striped chipmunk
sat chunk-a-chunking his sleepy curiosity at a burned log which a bear
had just torn open for red ants; while down on the lake shore a
cautious _plash-plash_ told where a cow moose had come out of the
alders with her calf to sup on the yellow lily roots and sip the
freshest water.
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