ALONG THE HIGHWAY OF THE FOX 19 



and every jump forward is like a plunge overboard. 

 His red coat is longer than the short, close hair of 

 the hound, and his big brush of a tail, heavy with 

 water, must be a dragging weight over the long 

 hard course of the hunt. If wet fur to him means 

 the same as wet clothes to us, then the narrow es- 

 cape I witnessed a short time ago is easily explained. 

 It happened in this way : 



I was out in the road by the brook when I caught 

 the cry of the pack ; and, hurrying up the hill to 

 the " cut," I climbed the gravel bank for a view 

 down the road each way, not knowing along which 

 side of the brook the chase was coming, nor where 

 the fox would cross. 



Not since the Flood had there been a wetter 

 morning. The air could not stir without spilling ; the 

 leaves hung weighted with the wet ; the very cries 

 of the hounds sounded thick and choking, as the 

 pack floundered through the alder swamp that lay 

 at the foot of the hill where I was waiting. 



There must be four or five dogs in the pack, I 

 thought ; and surely now they are driving down the 

 old runway that crosses the brook at my meadow. 



I kept my eye upon the bend in the brook and 

 just beyond the big swamp maple, when there in 

 the open road stood the fox. 



He did not stand ; he only seemed to, so suddenly 

 and unannounced had he arrived. Not an instant had 

 he to spare. The dogs were smashing through the 



