THE FOX 



den impulse he has coursed to fresh 

 fields, you see him, a dusky phantom, 

 gliding with graceful undulations of 

 lithe body and brush over the snowy 

 stretches ; or, halting to wistfully sniff, 

 as a wolf a sheepfold, the distant hen- 

 roost ; or, where a curious labyrinth of 

 tracks imprint the snow, you have a 

 vision of him dallying with his tawny 

 sweetheart under the stars of February 

 skies ; or, by this soft mould of his furry 

 form on a snow-capped stump or boulder, 

 you picture him sleeping off the fatigue 

 of hunting and love-making, with all 

 senses but sight still alert, unharmed by 

 the nipping air that silvers his whiskers 

 with his own breath. 



All these realities of his actual life 

 you may not see except in such pictures 

 as your fancy makes ; but when the 

 woods are many-hued or brown in au- 

 tumn, or gray and white in winter, and 

 stirred with the wild music of the 

 hounds, your blood may be set tingling 

 by the sight of him, his coming an- 

 nounced by the rustle of leaves under 

 his light footfalls. Perhaps unheralded 

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