68 WINTER SUNSHINE 



enough to drive and scare every fox from the coun 

 try. But not so. Indeed, I am almost tempted to 

 say, the more hounds, the more foxes. 



I recently spent a summer month in a moiintain- 

 ous district in the State of New York, where, from 

 its earliest settlement, the red fox has been the 

 standing prize for skill in the use of the trap and 

 gun. At the house where I was stopping were two 

 foxhounds, and a neighbor half a mile distant had 

 a third. There were many others in the township, 

 and in season they were well employed, too; but 

 the three spoken of, attended by their owners, held 

 high carnival on the mountains in the immediate 

 vicinity. And many were the foxes that, winter 

 after winter, fell before them, twenty-five having 

 been shot, the season before my visit, on one small 

 range alone. And yet the foxes were apparently 

 never more abundant than they were that summer, 

 and never bolder, coming at night within a few rods 

 of the house, and of the unchained alert hounds, 

 and making havoc among the poultry. 



One morning a large, fat goose was found minus 

 her head and otherwise mangled. Both hounds had 

 disappeared, and, as they did not come back till near 

 night, it was inferred that they had cut short Rey 

 nard's repast, and given him a good chase into the 

 bargain. But next night he was back again, and 

 this time got safely off with the goose. A couple 

 of nights after he must have come with recruits, for 

 next morning three large goslings were reported 

 missing. The silly geese now got it through their 



