THE NATURALIST DEVELOPING. 
WHEN the crust had melted, then came tracking hares on 
the snow, and here Pompey and I were better than Milo’s 
nose—for we could see the beautiful little triangles Molly left 
behind with her feet at each bound, laid as plain along the 
snow as three ink-marks on white paper. 
Out from the cabbage-patch or the nursery we would follow 
it, winding round and round, through the fences and by the 
briar-patch—across the fields and away towards the wood we 
would trail, bending down to look as we went, and keeping 
Milo back behind us. Now the edge of the wood is reached, 
and here the track gets all mixed up with others, and twisted 
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