WINTER PICTURES 



mounds, where the rocks lay buried. It was a ceme- 

 tery of drift boulders. 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 some- 

 thing red or yellow, yellowish red or reddish 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 fox stops 

 just out of range and listens for the hound. He 

 looks as bright as an autumn leaf upon the spot- 

 less surface. Then he starts on, but he is not com- 

 ing to me, he is going to the other man. Oh, foolish 

 fox, you are going straight into the jaws of death! 

 My comrade stands just there beside that tree. 

 I would gladly have given Reynard the wink, or 

 signaled to him, if I could. It did seem a pity to 

 shoot him, now he was out of my reach. I cringe 

 for him, when crack goes the gun ! The fox squalls, 

 picks himself up, and plunges over the brink of 

 the mountain. The hunter has not missed his aim, 

 but the oil in his gun, he says, has weakened the 

 strength of his powder. The hound, hearing the 

 report, comes like a whirlwind and is off in hot 

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