IN THE CATSKILLS 



iridescent, and seem the farthest possible remove 

 from the condition of a storm, the ghosts of 

 clouds, the indwelling beauty freed from all dross. 

 I see the hills, bulging with great drifts, lift them- 

 selves up cold and white against the sky, the black 

 lines of fences here and there obliterated by the 

 depth of the snow. Presently a fox barks away up 

 next the mountain, and I imagine I can almost see 

 him sitting there, in his furs, upon the illuminated 

 surface, and looking down in my direction. As I 

 listen, one answers him from behind the woods in 

 the valley. What a wild winter sound, wild and 

 weird, up among the ghostly hills ! Since the wolf 

 has ceased to howl upon these mountains, and the 

 panther to scream, there is nothing to be compared 

 with it. So wild! I get up in the middle of the night 

 to hear it. It is refreshing to the ear, and one de- 

 lights to know that such wild creatures are among 

 us. At this season Nature makes the most of every 

 throb of life that can withstand her severity. How 

 heartily she indorses this fox! In what bold relief 

 stand out the lives of all walkers of the snow ! The 

 snow is a great tell-tale, and blabs as effectually 

 as it obliterates. I go into the woods, and know 

 all that has happened. I cross the fields, and if 

 only a mouse has visited his neighbor, the fact is 

 chronicled. 



The red fox is the only species that abounds in 

 my locality; the little gray fox seems to prefer a 



