IN THE CATSKILLS 



for the most part the older stratum, a foot or so 

 down, bears us ; up and up we go into the dim, 

 muffled solitudes, our hats and coats powdered like 

 millers'. A half-hour's heavy tramping brings us 

 to the broad, level summit, and to where the fox 

 and hound have crossed and recrossed many times. 

 As we are walking along discussing the matter, 

 we suddenly hear the dog coming straight on to us. 

 The woods are so choked with snow that we do not 

 hear him till he breaks up from under the mountain 

 within a hundred yards of us. 



"We have turned the fox!" we both exclaim, 

 much put out. 



Sure enough, we have. The dog appears in sight, 

 is puzzled a moment, then turns sharply to the left, 

 and is lost to eye and to ear as quickly as if he 

 had plunged into a cave. The woods are, indeed, 

 a kind of cave, a cave of alabaster, with the sun 

 shining upon it. We take up positions and wait. 

 These old hunters know exactly where to stand. 



"If the fox comes back," said my companion, 

 "he will cross up there or down here," indicating 

 two points not twenty rods asunder. 



We stood so that each commanded one of the 

 runways indicated. How light it was, though the 

 sun was hidden! Every branch and twig beamed 

 in the sun like a lamp. A downy woodpecker below 

 me kept up a great fuss and clatter, all for my 

 benefit, I suspected. All about me were great, soft 

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