188 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



For just an instant I thought it was a weasel, 

 so swift and silent and gliding were its move- 

 ments, so set and cruel seemed its expression, so 

 sure, so inevitable its victory. 



Whether it ever caught the gray squirrel or 

 not, and what it would have done had it caught 

 the big fellow, I do not know. But I have seen 

 the chase often — the gray squirrel put to the last 

 extremity with fright and fatigue, the red squirrel 

 an avenging, inexorable fate behind. They tore 

 round and round us, then up over the hill, and 

 disappeared. 



One of the rarest prints for most snow-hunters 

 nowadays, but one of the commonest hereabouts, 

 is the quick, sharp track of the fox. In the spring 

 particularly, when my fancy young chickens are 

 turned out to pasture, I have spells of fearing that 

 the fox will never be exterminated here in this 

 untillable but beautiful chicken country. In the 

 winter, however, when I see Reynard's trail across 

 my lawn, when I hear the music of the baying 

 hounds, and catch a glimpse of the white-tipped 

 brush swinging serenely in advance of the com- 

 ing pack, I cannot but admire the capable, cun- 

 ning rascal, cannot but be glad for him, and marvel 



