IN THE CATSKILLS 



hound, but there are no tidings of him. After half 

 an hour's floundering and cautiously picking our 

 way through the woods, we emerge into a cleared 

 field that stretches up from the valley below, and 

 just laps over the back of the mountain. It is a 

 broad belt of white that drops down and down till 

 it joins other fields that sweep along the base of 

 the mountain, a mile away. To the east, through 

 a deep defile in the mountains, a landscape in an 

 adjoining county lifts itself up, like a bank of 

 white and gray clouds. 



When the experienced fox-hunter comes out upon 

 such an eminence as this, he always scrutinizes the 

 fields closely that lie beneath him, and it many 

 times happens that his sharp eye detects Reynard 

 asleep upon a rock or a stone wall, in which case, if 

 he be armed with a rifle and his dog be not near, the 

 poor creature never wakens from his slumber. The 

 fox nearly always takes his nap in the open fields, 

 along the sides of the ridges, or under the mountain, 

 where he can look down upon the busy farms be- 

 neath and hear their many sounds, the barking of 

 dogs, the lowing of cattle, the cackling of hens, the 

 voices of men and boys, or the sound of travel upon 

 the highway. It is on that side, too, that he keeps 

 the sharpest lookout, and the appearance of the 

 hunter above and behind him is always a surprise. 



We pause here, and, with alert ears turned 

 toward the Big Mountain in front of us, listen for 

 38 



