244 WINTER PICTURES. 



mile away. To the east, through a deep defile in the 

 mountains, a landscape in an adjoining county lifts 

 itself up, like a bank of white and gray clouds. 



When the experienced fox hunter comes out upon 

 such an eminence as this, he always scrutinizes the 

 fields closely that lie beneath him, and it many times 

 happens that his sharp eye detects Reynard asleep 

 upon a rock or a stone wall, in which case, if he be 

 armed with a rifle and his dog be not near, the poor 

 creature never wakens from his slumber. The fox 

 nearly always takes his nap in the open fields, along 

 the sides of the ridges, or under the mountain, where 

 he can look down upon the busy farms beneath and 

 hear their many sounds, the barking of dogs, the low- 

 ing of cattle, the cackling of hens, the voices of men 

 and boys, or the sound of travel upon the highway. 

 It is on that side, too, that he keeps the sharpest look- 

 out, and the appearance of the hunter above and be- 

 hind him is always a surprise. 



We pause here, and with alert ears turned toward 

 the Big Mountain in front of us, listen for the dog. 

 But not a sound is heard. A flock of snow-buntings 

 pass high above us, uttering their contented twitter, 

 and their white forms seen against the intense blue 

 give the impression of large snow-flakes drifting 

 Across the sky. I hear a purple finch, too, and the 

 feeble lisp of the red-pol. A shrike (the first I have 

 peen this season) finds occasion to come this waj 

 ulso. He alights on the tip of a dry limb, and frouc 

 els perch can see into the valley on both sides of tht 



