FOX-HUNTING IN NEW ENGLAND SI 



only sounds the strained ear catches. All about 

 rise the gray tree-trunks; overhead, against the 

 blue-gray sky is spread their net of branches, with 

 here and there a tuft of russet and golden and 

 scarlet leaves caught in its meshes. At your feet 

 on every side lie the fading and faded leaves, but 

 bearing still a hundred hues; and through them 

 rise tufts of green fern, brown stems of infant trees 

 and withered plants; frost-blackened beech-drops, 

 spikes of the dull azure berries of the blue cohosh, 

 and milk-white ones, crimson-stemmed, of the 

 white cohosh; scarlet clusters of wild turnip ber- 

 ries; pale asters and slender goldenrod, but all so 

 harmoniously blended that no one object stands 

 forth conspicuously. So kindly does Nature screen 

 her children that in this pervading gray and russet, 

 beast and bird, blossom and gaudy leaf, may lurk 

 unnoticed almost at your feet. The rising sun 

 begins to glorify the tree-tops. And now a red 

 squirrel startles you, rustling noisily through the 

 leaves. He scrambles up a tree, and with nervous 

 twitches of feet and tail snickers and scolds till 

 you feel almost wicked enough to end his clatter 

 with a charge of shot. A blue jay has spied you and 

 comes to upbraid you with his discordant voice. 

 A party of chickadees draws nigh, flitting close 

 about and pecking the lichened trunks and 

 branches almost within arm's length, satisfying 

 curiosity and hunger together. 



