88 



Fox- Hunting in New England. 



beguile him into any unseemly gambols ; but when you cross the 

 fence which bounds the pasture lying along the foot of the hill, where 

 the rank grass, mixed with last year's growth, is ankle deep, and 

 where grass and innumerable stumps and logs afford harbor for col- 

 onies of field-mice, you find "there is life in the old dog yet." He 

 halts for an instant and snuffs the air; 

 draws toward a tuft of grass and noses 

 it carefully ; his sensitive nostrils dilate ; 

 his staid and sober tail begins, not to 



wag, but to describe circles ; the 

 serious lines of his brow become 

 a frown ; he mounts that log and 

 snuffs it from end to end and back 

 again with studious care. Now his 

 loud, eager snuffing has grown to a suppressed challenge, and every 

 muscle seems strained to its utmost tension, as he leaves the log and 

 makes a few lopes toward the woods, stops for an instant as if turned 

 to stone, raises his good gray muzzle skyward, and awakens all the 

 woods and hills with his deep, sonorous voice ! That way has Rey- 

 nard gone, and that bugle-note has perhaps given him premonition 

 of his doom. This note has recalled the young dog from his wild 

 ranging, and he joins his older and wiser companion, without bring- 

 ing much aid, however, for, catching the scent, he proclaims his 

 discovery till long after he has overrun it, now and then slightly 

 disconcerting the old truth-teller ; but the veteran soon learns to 



