286 The Turkey Family 



meant plenty of muttered remarks which would 

 melt snow if all applied to one spot. 



But at last, mercifully, a change came. The 

 old boy pulled up and pointed at the snow. A 

 line of tracks, so fresh that the disturbed snow 

 was just settling, told the glad tidings. Four or 

 five turkeys were only a short distance away; 

 evidently, from the trend of the trail, in a long 

 snarl of thicket which bounded all one side of the 

 open. 



Now began the trailing in earnest. Twenty 

 yards apart, we stole forward, Joe on the trail, 

 with me steering by his course. For an hour we 

 drifted ahead, silent, ever ready, while eyes strove 

 to bore holes in the shadows under every log and 

 laden shrub. A red squirrel came out of his nest, 

 and the soft "prut" of the falling snow he dis- 

 lodged almost gave me heart-disease. Farther 

 on, a wad of snow fell through some dry leaves, 

 and the rustle of it nearly caused the pinching 

 flat of the gun-barrels in one fierce grip. 



We went on, and continued going on. So did 

 the turkeys, at least the tracks said they did. 



At half-past two Joe halted, pushed up his cap, 

 and spat out a much-chewed cud. Then he 

 passed the back of his hand across his mouth 

 and stared sorrowfully at me. I, too, pushed 

 back my cap, and as I did so a puff of steam 

 rose from it. 



