ON PLAIN AND PEAK 



little winter moth is hovering aimlessly among the 

 branches of a fir-tree they and the squirrel are the 

 only signs of life. 



What's that ? Thunder ? Surely not in No- 

 vember not a cloud in the sky ; a thunder-storm 

 too absurd ! But there it is again ! " The signal 

 shots," whispers Wechselberger. 



Yes, there is another shot, faint and indistinct ; 

 and then conies a roll as of cannon, as the report is 

 echoed and re-echoed from every mountain chain. 



The drive has begun ! 



For an hour and a half we sit absolutely motion- 

 less, only our eyes moving as we eagerly scan ii 

 every direction our somewhat limited range of vision. 



The shots from the beaters grow nearer and 

 nearer, and the icy wind chills one through and 

 through, but still nothing comes. I steal a glance 

 at Wechselberger ; there is a decidedly depressed 

 look on his face evidently he thinks there is small 

 chance of anything coming now, and my spirits sink 

 to zero ! 



A hissing sound uttered by Wechselberger inter- 

 rupts my dismal forebodings. I follow the direction 

 of his glance, and there behold, far below us, a 

 brownish-blackish animal with a white face, pick- 

 ing its way up the steep slope, and stopping to gaze 

 around every few yards ! The white face is its most 

 striking feature. 



174 



