"Lucivee?" he asked, breathless with interest, laying his mittened hand on his little rifle under the blankets.
"Yes, lucivee! lynx!" answered the father.
"Let me take a shot at him," said the boy, removing the mitten from his right hand, and bringing out his weapon.
"Oh, what's the good o' killin' the beast Christmas times!" protested the father, gently. And the boy laid down the gun.
"What does he think he's follerin' us fer?" he inquired, a moment later.
"The moose-meat, maybe!" replied the man. "He smells it likely, an' thinks we're goin' to give it to him for a Christmas present!"
At this suggestion the boy laughed out loud. His clear young voice rang through the frosty shadows; and the lynx, surprised and offended, shrank back, and slunk away in another direction.
"Bloodthirsty varmints, them lucivees!" said the boy, who wanted a lynx-skin as a trophy. "Ain't it better to shoot 'em whenever one gits the chance?"
"Well," said the father, dubiously, "maybe so! But there's better times fer killin' than Christmas times!"
A little farther ahead, the road to Brine's Brook turned off. Here the going was very heavy. The road was little travelled, and in places almost choked up by drifts. Most of the time the horses had to walk; and sometimes the man and boy had to get out and tramp a path ahead of the discouraged team.