WINTER PICTURES. 247 



near. I am ready and just in the mood to make 

 a good shot. The fox stops just out of range and 

 listens for the hound. He looks as bright as an au- 

 tumn leaf upon the spotless surface. Then he starU 

 on, but he is not coming to me, he is going to the 

 other man. Oh, foolish fox, you are going straight 

 into the jaws of death ! My comrade stands just 

 there beside that tree. I would gladly have given 

 Reynard the wink, or signaled to him if I could. 

 It did seem a pity to shoot him, now he was out of 

 my reach. I cringe for him, when, crack goes the 

 gun ! The fox squalls, picks himself up, and plunges 

 over the brink of the mountain. The hunter has not 

 missed his aim, but the oil in his gun, he says, has 

 weakened the strength of his powder. The hound, 

 hearing the report, came like a whirlwind and was 

 off in hot pursuit. Both fox and dog now bleed, 

 the dog at his heels, the fox from his wounds. 



O ' 



In a few minutes there came up from under the 

 mountain that long, peculiar bark, which the hound 

 always makes when he has run the fox in, or when 

 something new and extraordinary has happened. In 

 this instance, he said plainly enough, " the race is up, 

 ihe coward has taken to his hole, ho-o-o-le." Plung- 

 ing down in the direction of the sound, the snow lit- 

 erally to our waists, we were soon at the spot, a great 

 ledge thatched over with three or four feet of snow. 

 The dog was alternately licking his heels, and whining 

 and berating the fox. The opening into which the 

 atter had fled was partially closed, and, as I scraped 



