220 PEPACTON 



Sure enough, we have. The dog appears in 

 sight, is puzzled a moment, then turns sharply to 

 the left, and is lost to eye and to ear as quickly as 

 if he had plunged into a cave. The woods are, 

 indeed, a kind of cave, — a cave of alabaster, with 

 the sun shining upon it. We take up positions 

 and wait. These old hunters know exactly where 

 to stand. 



"If the fox comes back," said my companion, 

 "he will cross up there or down here," indicating 

 two points not twenty rods asunder. 



We stood so that each commanded one of the 

 runways indicated. How light it was, though the 

 sun was hidden! Every branch and twig beamed 

 in the sun like a lamp. A downy woodpecker 

 below me kept up a great fuss and clatter, — all for 

 my benefit, I suspected. All about me were great, 

 soft mounds, where the rocks lay buried. It was 

 a cemetery of drift bowlders. There! that is the 

 hound. Does his voice come across the valley from 

 the spur off against us, or is it on our side down 

 under the mountain? After an interval, just as I 

 am thinking the dog is going away from us along 

 the opposite range, his voice comes up astonishingly 

 near. A mass of snow falls from a branch, and 

 makes one start; but it is not the fox. Then 

 through the white vista below me I catch a' glimpse 

 of something red or yellow, yellowish red or red- 

 dish yellow ; it emerges from the lower ground, and, 

 with an easy, jaunty air, draws near. I am ready 

 and just in the mood to make a good shot. The 



