NOTES BY THE WAY 



must have sowed himself broadcast as he went along, 

 and that his scent was so rank and heavy that it 

 settled in the hollows and clung tenaciously to the 

 bushes and crevices in the fence. I thought I ought 

 to have caught a remnant of it as I passed that way 

 some minutes later, but I did not. But I suppose it 

 was not that the light-footed fox so impressed him- 

 self upon the ground he ran over, but that the sense 

 of the hound was so keen. To her sensitive nose 

 these tracks steamed like hot cakes, and they would 

 not have cooled off so as to be undistinguishable for 

 several hours. For the time being, she had but 

 one sense: her whole soul was concentrated in her 

 nose. 



It is amusing, when the hunter starts out of a 

 winter morning, to see his hound probe the old 

 tracks to determine how recent they are. He sinks 

 his nose down deep in the snow so as to exclude 

 the air from above, then draws a long full breath, 

 giving sometimes an audible snort. If there remain? 

 the least effluvium of the fox, the hound will detect 

 it. If it be very slight, it only sets his tail wagging; 

 if it be strong, it unloosens his tongue. 



Such things remind one of the waste, the friction, 

 that is going on all about us, even when the wheels 

 of life run the most smoothly. A fox cannot trip 

 along the top of a stone wall so lightly but that he 

 will leave enough of himself to betray his course to 

 the hound for hours afterward. When the boys 

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