The Weber Literary Journal of the trapped man. A sensation of hunger made him writhe. But this was soon forgotten as a fresh flow of blood indicated that the trap had cut deeper into his arms. For a long time he lay as if unconscious. The Frenchman moved closer, but the man never stirred. Then with a desperate leap he threw himself against the Frenchman, knocked him to the ground, and fastened a death grip around him with his huge legs. Crash! the butt of a gun struck him between the eyes. He sank quietly to the ground, a large gash in his head. The flow of blood made his face a deep scarlet, but the wound was soon frozen by the intense cold. All that night he lay as if dead, only his magnificent strength and health permitting him to last even that long. The next morning the frost on the trap was like iron filings on a magnet, but the man still lived. Once during the morning he roused himself, looked around dully, and then lapsed into a red unconsciousness from which he never wakened. His great heart gradually ceased to beat until he lay entirely quiet, and stillness reigned over the valley once more. The Frenchman packed his things together and would have left but the snow was falling too heavily. A blizzard delayed him all that day and by the time he left on the morrow, the last trail was seen no more. For the first time since he had come to the country, the Frenchman found the "Devil's Roost" empty when he entered. He stamped his snowy feet heavily on the floor and the echoes sent a queer foreboding thru him. Where was the gang? He wanted to drink to his success loudly, boastfully, triumphantly, for had he not won Marie? He would go to her house immediately. He knew he could handle her. He had done away with her lover, the strongest man in the North, and she would be as nothing in his path. On his way to her house he was stopped and told that the gang had turned rescue party and had not returned. "Rescue party?" he ejaculated, and another queer feeling smote him. "Rescue party for whom?" 18 The Weber Literary Journal "Why, for Marie. She got anxious over that lover of hers and started out in the blizzard to find him. No one could stop her. She had some fool idea he was in danger. She hadn't returned this morning so the guys turned out to look for her body. Of course she hadn't a chance to survive in the storm." I awoke with a start and sat up. It was still dark. The only sound was the faint moaning of the wind in the trees. To my distraught mind it was the sound of that skeleton in the trap. Even now in the land of law and liberty, I awake from my sleep and think I hear a horrifying shriek. It is only the moving of the dry limbs of a tree, yet it still conveys that mournful sound from "North of 63." Sonnet to a Cat Oh love, that I might fitly give you praise, Your marvelous beauty truly make me show, Then would I feel my efforts full repaid, And thrill with the sweet pride that lovers know. Your grace of form no one can comprehend Until you glide upon your feet so small, Your smile in sweetness sugar cannot lend Your eyes of topaz hold me in their thrall', Your tiny teeth gleam white and sweetly keen, Your tongue transcends the hue of reddest blood; But all these charms compare as small, I ween, Beside your tresses' glorious ebon flood. Ah lovely puss, if women could achieve Your excellence, they'd all be cats, indeed. 19