Returning, I climbed by the narrow, winding 

 path through the pines, out into the corner of 

 my pasture. It was a bright moonlight night, 

 and leaning back upon the short-handled fork, 

 I stopped in the shadow of the pines to look out 

 over the softly lighted field. 



Off in the woods a mile away sounded the 

 deep, mellow tones of two foxhounds. Day and 

 night all summer long I had heard them, and 

 all summer long I had hurried to this knoll 

 and to that for a shot. But the fox always 

 took the other knoll. 



The echoing cries of the dogs through the 

 silent woods were musical. Soon they sounded 

 sharp and clear— the hounds were crossing an 

 open stretch leading down to the meadow be- 

 hind me. As I leaned, listening, I heard near 

 by a low, uneasy murmuring from a covey of 

 quails sleeping in the brush beside the path, and 

 before I had time to think what it meant, a fox 

 trotted up the path I had just climbed, and 

 halted in the edge of the shadows directly at 

 my feet. 



I stood as stiff as a post. He sniffed at my 

 dew- wet boots, backed away, and looked me over 

 [37] 



