THE SNOW-WALKERS 



that pretty brood. What has happened? Where 

 are they gone? That pickpocket, Sir Mephitis, 

 could solve the mystery. Quietly has he approached, 

 under cover of darkness, and one by one relieved 

 her of her precious charge. Look closely and you 

 will see their little yellow legs and beaks, or part 

 of a mangled form, lying about on the ground. Or, 

 before the hen has hatched, he may find her out, 

 and, by the same sleight of hand, remove every egg, 

 leaving only the empty blood-stained shells to wit- 

 ness against him. The birds, especially the ground- 

 builders, suffer in like manner from his plundering 

 propensities. 



The secretion upon which he relies for defense, 

 and which is the chief source of his unpopularity, 

 while it affords good reasons against cultivating him 

 as a pet, and mars his attractiveness as game, is by 

 no means the greatest indignity that can be offered 

 to a nose. It is a rank, living smell, and has none 

 of the sickening qualities of disease or putrefaction. 

 Indeed, I think a good smeller will enjoy its most 

 refined intensity. It approaches the sublime, and 

 makes the nose tingle. It is tonic and bracing, and, 

 I can readily believe, has rare medicinal qualities. 

 I do not recommend its use as eyewater, though an 

 old farmer assures me it has undoubted virtues when 

 thus applied. Hearing, one night, a disturbance 

 among his hens, he rushed suddenly out to catch 

 the thief, when Sir Mephitis, taken by surprise, and 

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