Moreover he must grip the
branch on which he sits more or less firmly with his claws, to keep from
falling; and the tense muscles, which flex the long claws to drive them
into the wood, soon grow weary and numb in the bitter frost. The wolves
meanwhile trot about to keep warm; while the stupid cat sits in one spot
slowly perishing, and never thinks of running up and down the tree to
keep himself alive. The feet grow benumbed at last, powerless to hold on
any longer, and the lynx tumbles off into the wolves' jaws; or else,
knowing the danger, he leaps for the nearest wolf and dies fighting.
Spite of the killing cold, the problem of keeping warm was to the wolves
always a simple one. Moving along through the winter night, always on a
swift, silent trot, they picked up what game came in their way, and
scarcely felt the eager cold that nipped at their ears, or the wind,
keen as an icicle, that strove to penetrate the shaggy white coats that
covered them. When their hunger was satisfied, or when the late day came
and found them still hunting hopefully, they would push their way into
the thick scrub from one of the numerous paths and lie down on a nest of
leaves, which even in midwinter were dry as if no snow or rain had ever
fallen.
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