218 PEP ACTON 



When the experienced fox-hunter comes out upon 

 such an eminence as this, he always scrutinizes the 

 fields closely that lie beneath him, and it many 

 times happens that his sharp eye detects Reynard 

 asleep upon a rock or a stone wall, in which case, 

 if he be armed with a rifle and his dog be not 

 near, the poor creature never wakens from his slum- 

 ber. The fox nearly always takes his nap in the 

 open fields, along the sides of the ridges, or under 

 the mountain, where he can look down upon the 

 busy farms beneath and hear their many sounds, the 

 barking of dogs, the lowing of cattle, the cackling 

 of hens, the voices of men and boys, or the sound 

 of travel upon the highway. It is on that side, 

 too, that he keeps the sharpest lookout, and the 

 appearance of the hunter above and behind him is 

 always a surprise. 



We pause here, and, with alert ears turned toward 

 the Big Mountain in front of us, listen for the dog. 

 But not a sound is heard. A flock of snow bunt- 

 ings pass high above us, uttering their contented 

 twitter, and their white forms seen against the 

 intense blue give the impression of large snowflakes 

 drifting across the sky. I hear a purple finch, too, 

 and the feeble lisp of the redpoll. A shrike (the 

 first I have seen this season) finds occasion to come 

 this way also. He alights on the tip of a dry limb, 

 and from his perch can see into the valley on both 

 sides of the mountain. He is prowling about for 

 chickadees, no doubt, a troop of which I saw com- 

 ing through the wood. When pursued by the 



