white, growing wall. At last it was over her 

 back, her long silken ears. Gently, gently, 

 she surged against it, till it arched whitely 

 over her shut her in safe from wind and 

 cold. 



She has not yet left her snow-chamber. 

 She supped full of buds before the fall be- 

 gan, and has so far 'scaped hunger. Her 

 warm breath has melted a tiny window in 

 the arched roof, and puffs out through it in 

 fairy clouds. It is those which betray her 

 hiding-place. Once it is sighted, your pot- 

 hunter falls flat upon it, with intent to seize 

 outright its furry occupant. 



Sometimes he is successful, and scrambles 

 up, holding high above his head the quaking, 

 four-footed thing, quavering out a piteous 

 cry. Oftener far, Mistress Molly slips safe 

 through his fingers, shakes the snow from 

 her hair, and goes away with great leaping 

 bounds that mark and dent darkly the white, 

 yielding surface. 



Bedlam breaks loose then. Once she is 

 thirty yards away, dogs are let slip and go 

 after her full cry, a yelling, shouting chorus 

 at their heels. The chase is not long. Fear 

 lends Mistress Cottontail speed, but strips 

 her of her cunning. Her line of flight is 

 straight-away. If she would but turn aside, 



