WINTER PICTURES 219 



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 sec- 

 tion. In a moment or two the dog is lost to hear- 

 ing again. We wait for his second turn; then for 

 his third. 



"He is playing about the summit," says my 

 companion. 



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



More dense snow-hung woods beyond the clear- 

 ing 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 solitudes, 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 have crossed and recrossed many times. 

 As we are walking along discussing the matter, we 

 suddenly hear the dog coming straight on to us. 

 The woods are so choked with snow that we do not 

 hear him till he breaks up from under the mountain 

 within a hundred yards of us. 



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

 much put out. 



