184 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



reason all along; you are pack-fellow to the 

 hound ; you hunt with him. 



Here the hound had thrust his muzzle into a 

 snow-capped pile of slashings, had gone clear 

 round the pile, then continued on his way. But 

 we stopped, for out of the pile, in a single, direct 

 line, ran a number of mice-prints, going and 

 coming. A dozen white-footed mice might have 

 traveled that road since the day before, when 

 the snow had ceased falling. 



We entered the tiny road (for in this kind of 

 hunting a mouse is as good as a mink), and found 

 ourselves descending the woods toward the gar- 

 den-patch below. Halfway down we came to a 

 great red oak, into a hole at the base of which, as 

 into the portal of some mighty castle, ran the 

 road of the mice. That was the end of it. There 

 was not a single straying footprint beyond the 

 tree. 



I reached in as far as my arm would go, and 

 drew out a fistful of pop-corn cobs. So here was 

 part of my scanty crop ! I pushed in again, and 

 gathered up a bunch of chestnut shells, hickory- 

 nuts, and several neatly rifled hazelnuts. This 

 was story enough. There was a nest, or family, 



