246 WINTER PICTURES. 



" We have turned the fox ! " we both exclaim, 

 much put out. 



Sure enough, we have. The dog appears in sight, 

 is puzzled a moment, then turns sharply to the left, 

 and is lost to eye and to ear as quickly as if he had 

 plunged into a cave. The woods are, indeed, a kind 

 of cave, a cave of alabaster, with the sun shining 

 upon it. We take up positions and wait. These old 

 hunters know exactly where to stand. 



" If the fox comes back," said my companion, " he 

 will cross up there or down here," indicating two 

 points not twenty rods asunder. * 



We stood so that each commanded one of the run- 

 ways indicated. How light it was, though the sun 

 was hidden ! Every branch and twig beamed in the 

 Bun like a lamp. A downy woodpecker below me 

 kept up a great fuss and clatter, all for my benefit, 

 I suspected. All about me were great, soft mounds, 

 where the rocks lay buried. It was a cemetery of 

 drift bowlders. There ! that is the hound. Does his 

 voice come across the valley from the spur off against 

 us, or is it on our side down under the mountain ? 

 After an interval, just as I am thinking the dog is 

 going away from us along the opposite range, his 

 voite comes up astonishingly near. A mass of snow 

 falls from a branch, and makes one start ; but it is 

 Dot the fox. Then through the white vista below me 

 I catch a glimpse of something red or yellow, yel 

 lowish-red or reddish-yellow ; it emerges from th 

 lower ground and, with an easy, jaunty air, draw* 



