ONE WINTER’S NIGHT. 
ft ese old buck-rabbit stopped just within the 
entrance to his hole and stared out at 
the scene—at the white world of snow, at the 
still trees, at the gathering dusk. He kept 
there like that for about fifteen minutes. That 
was because he was a really old buck-rabbit ; 
a young one would not have had the experi- 
ence that taught him patience and caution. 
There were many rabbits already out on 
the white snow, adding their peculiar quad- 
ruple tracks—with the marks of the hindfeet 
in front of those of the forefeet, so that their 
owners appear to be going backwards—to the 
intricate lacework of tracks already there. 
They were vainly looking for food ; but they 
had eaten it all up—even the bark of trees— 
near the warren, and would have to journey 
far if they meant to find it that night. 
This the old buck knew. He also knew 
the risk. 
Suddenly he turned to stone. 
Thud! thud! went his paws on the ground 
—a noise you could plainly hear in the silence 
all across the woodland glade. 
Instantly every other rabbit turned to stone 
also—motionless, listening, smelling. 
8.W. b 
