THE NATURALIST DEVELOPING. 55 
back upon itself, so that for a long time we cannot make it 
out—but Pompey strikes a circuit round in the wood, and 
after awhile he shouts— 
“Here he am, Massa Chas.! Got her agin !—soon find dat 
hollow, now !” 
Away we tramp again—Pompey as eager on the new trail 
as any hound—crashing through hazel thickets—falling over 
buried logs and grape vines—to be up and scramble on again 
until—“Ha!—that great old oak tree! That’s the place— 
see, the tracks go right into the hollow at its root.” 
“We've got her! we've got her !” 
Matches were not known in those days, but we had a little 
steel and flint, with some “punk” between us, and now soon 
we had scraped away the snow to get at the dry leaves, and 
broken off all the dead boughs and twigs we could find around 
for a heap—a great heap at the mouth of the hole. 
It was very hard to keep Milo’s nose out, for snuff and 
snuff he would in spite of us, when we turned our backs. 
Now the punk burns—the pile is fired, and then we throw on 
damp leaves to make a great smoke to rise up the hollow. 
Milo stands by, looking on now with a very wise expectation 
—but Pompey kneels by his side, and holds him round the 
neck tight. A little while! we hear snuff! snuff! and scram- 
bling inside the hollow! Now she comes! thump! sneeze! 
There she bursts through the smoking pile stifling and help- 
less. I seize her quickly. 
“ Down, Milo! down! Hold him, Pomp!” as I wheel round 
and round to escape him, swinging poor Molly above my head. 
Now she has got her breath again. Quai! quai! quai! How 
gad her wail is! But, after a desperate struggle, Milo is beat 
off, and she is saved ! 
By the time the snow was gone, my attic had become popu- 
lous enough; but when the busy, gay and glowing spring had 
come, and the carolling out of doors, and the warm, deepen- 
ing green, and the faint odors of the youngest flowers came 
