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Updated: September 15, 2025
Her eyes sparkled greedily. There were spatters of blood about the place, and she realized that here the lynx had buried, for a future meal, the remnant of his kill. Her keen nose speedily told her just where the treasure was hidden, and she fell to digging furiously with her short, powerful fore paws.
For in writing it is as in travelling. He spatters himself and his fellow-travellers at every step. All their thoughts, and wishes, and conversation turn entirely upon the subject of their journey's end, and at every splash, and plunge, and stumble they heartily wish one another at the devil.
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