Natural History 387 



shelter — a snow house. They can hide in the shelter of 

 the snow. 



As the night comes, with the fearful frost and driving 

 clouds of white, the chickens dive into a snowdrift; 

 not on the open plain, for there the snow is hammered 

 hard by the wind, but on the edge of the woods, where 

 tall grass spears or scattering twigs stick up through 

 and keep the snow from packing. Deep in this the chickens 

 dive, each making a place for itself. The wind wipes out 

 all traces, levels off each hole and hides them well. There 

 they remain tiU morning, warm and safe, unless — and 

 here is the chief danger — some wild animal comes by 

 during the night, finds them in there, and seizes them before 

 they can escape. 



This chapter of grouse history was an old story to the 

 fox and coming near the woodland edge, his shortened 

 steps showed that he knew it for a Land of Promise. (Illus- 

 tration II, B.) 



At C he came to a sudden stop. Some wireless message 

 on the wind had warned him of game at hand. He paused 

 here with foot upraised. I knew it, for there was his record 

 of the act. The little mark there was not a track, but 

 the paw-tip's mark, showing that the fox had not set the 

 foot down, but held it poised in a pointer-dog pose, as 

 his nose was barkening to the tell-tale wind. 



Then from C to D he went slowly, because the steps 

 were so short, and now he paused: the promising scent 

 was lost. He stood in doubt, so said the tell-tale snow 

 in the only universal tongue. Then the hunter turned 

 and slowly worked toward E, while frequent broad 

 touches in the snow continued the guarantee that the 

 maker of these tracks was neither docked nor spindle- 

 tailed. 



From E to F the shortened steps, with frequent 



