WINTER PICTURES. 245 



mountain He is prowling about for chickadees, no 

 doubt, a troop of which I saw coming through the 

 wood. When pursued by the shrike, the chickadee 

 has been seen to take refuge in a squirrel-hole in a 

 tree. Hark ! Is that the hound, or doth expectation 

 mock the eager ear ? With open mouths and bated 

 breaths, we listen. Yes, it is old " Singer ; " he is 

 bringing the fox over the top of the range toward 

 Butt End, the Ultima Thule of the hunters' tramps 

 in this section. In a moment or two the dog is lost 

 to hearing again. We wait for his second turn ; then 

 for his third. 



" He "is playing about the summit," says my com- 

 panion. 



" Let us go there," say I, and we were off. 



More dense snow-hung woods beyond the clearing 

 where we begin our ascent of the Big Mountain, 

 a chief that carries the range up several hundred feet 

 higher than the part we have thus far traversed. 

 We are occasionally to our hips in the snow, but for 

 the most part the older stratum, a foot or so down, 

 bears us ; up and up we go into the dim, muffled soli- 

 tudes, our hats and coats powdered like millers. A 

 half hour's heavy tramping brings us to the broad, 

 level summit, and to where the fox and hound has 

 crossed and recrossed many times. As we are walk- 

 ing along discussing the matter, we suddenly hear 

 the dog coming straight on to us. The woods are 

 BO choked with snow that we do not hear him till he 

 breaks up from under the mountain within a hundred 

 yards Q us. 



