PEPACTON 



pursuit. Both fox and dog now bleed, the dog 

 at his heels, the fox from his wounds. 



In a few minutes there came up from under the 

 mountain that long, peculiar bark which the hound 

 always makes when he has run the fox in, or when 

 something new and extraordinary has happened. 

 In this instance he said plainly enough, "The race 

 is up, the coward has taken to his hole, ho-o-o-le." 

 Plunging down in the direction of the sound, the 

 snow literally to our waists, we were soon at the 

 spot, a great ledge thatched over with three or four 

 feet of snow. The dog was alternately licking his 

 heels and whining and berating the fox. The 

 opening into which the latter had fled was partially 

 closed, and, as I scraped out and cleared away the 

 snow, I thought of the familiar saying, that so far 

 as the sun shines in, the snow will blow in. The 

 fox, I suspect, has always his house of refuge, or 

 knows at once where to flee to if hard pressed. 

 This place proved to be a large vertical seam in the 

 rock, into which the dog, on a little encouragement 

 from his master, made his way. I thrust my head 

 into the ledge's mouth, and in the dim light watched 

 the dog. He progressed slowly and cautiously till 

 only his bleeding heels were visible. Here some 

 obstacle impeded him a few moments, when he 

 entirely disappeared and was presently face to face 

 with the fox and engaged in mortal combat with 

 him. It is a fierce encounter there beneath the 

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