16 THE FALL OF THE YEAR 



near by, the wily creature went gliding swiftly down 

 the slope. 



The hound with absolute patience worked his 

 sure way up the hill to the circle and began to go 

 round and round, sniffling and whimpering to him- 

 self, as I now could hear ; sniffling and whimpering 

 with impatience, but true to every foot-print of the 

 trail. Round and round, in and out, back and forth, 

 he went, but each time in a wider circle, until the 

 real trail was picked up, and he was away with an 

 eager cry. 



I once again saw the trick played, so close to me, 

 and so deliberately, with such cool calculating, that 

 it came with something of a revelation to me of how 

 the fox may feel, of what may be the state of mind 

 in the wild animal world. 



It was a late October evening, crisp and clear, 

 with a moon almost full. I had come up from the 

 meadow to the edge of the field behind the barn, 

 and stood leaning back upon a short-handled hay- 

 fork, looking. It was at everything that I was look- 

 ing — the moonlight, the gleaming grass, the very 

 stillness, so real and visible it seemed at the falling 

 of this first frost. I was listening too, when, as far 

 away as the stars, it seemed, came the cry of the 

 hounds. 



You have heard at night the passing of a train 

 beyond the mountains? the sound of thole-pins 

 round a distant curve in the river? the closing of a 



