HUNTING THE SNOW 181 



broken, ledgy, boulder-strewn, which accounts 

 for the swamps and woody hills that alternate with 

 small towns and cultivated fields all the way to 

 the Blue Hill Reservation, fifteen miles to the 

 westward. This whole region, this dooryard of 

 Boston, is one of Nature's own reservations, a pre- 

 serve that she has kept for her small and humble 

 folk, who are just as dear to her as we are, but 

 whom we have driven, except in such small 

 places as these, quite off the earth. 



Here, however, they are still at home, as this 

 hole of the skunk's under the stump proved. 

 But there was more proof. As we topped the 

 ridge on the trail of the skunk, we crossed an- 

 other trail, made up of bunches of four prints, 

 two long and broad, two small and roundish, 

 spaced about a yard apart. 



A hundred times, the winter before, we had 

 tried that trail in the hope of finding the form or 

 the burrow of its maker, the great Northern hare, 

 but it crossed and turned and doubled, and al- 

 ways led us into a tangle, out of which we never 

 got a clue. 



As this was the first tracking snow of the win- 

 ter, we were relieved to see the strong prints of 



