WINTER PICTURES 221 



fox stops just out of range and listens for the 

 hound. He looks as bright as an autumn leaf upon 

 the spotless surface. Then he starts on, but he is 

 not coming 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 Rey- 

 nard 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, came like 

 a whirlwind and was off in hot 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 

 jspot, 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 



