ALONG THE HIGHWAY OF THE FOX 17 



barn door somewhere down the valley ? Strange it 

 may seem to one who has never listened, but the far- 

 off cry of the hounds is another such friendly and 

 human voice, calling across the vast of the night. 



They were coming. How clear their tones, and 

 bell-like ! How mellow in the distance, ringing on 

 the rim of the moonlit sky, as round the sides of a 

 swinging silver bell. Their clanging tongues beat 

 all in unison, the sound rising and falling through 

 the rolling woodland, and spreading like a curling 

 wave as the pack broke into the open over the level 

 meadows. 



I waited. Rounder, clearer, came the cry. I be> 

 gan to pick out the individual voices as now this 

 one, now that, led the chorus across some mighty 

 measure of The Chase. 



Was it a twig that broke ? Some brittle oak leaf 

 that cracked in the path behind me? A soft sound 

 of feet ! Something breathed, stopped, came on — 

 and in the moonlight before me stood the fox ! 



The dogs were coming, but I was standing still. 

 And who was I, anyway? A stump? A post? No, 

 he saw instantly that I was more than an ordinary 

 post. How much more ? 



The dogs were coming ! 



" Well," said he, as plainly as anything was ever 

 said, " I don't know what you are. But I will find 

 out." And up he came and sniffed at my shoes. " This 

 is odd," he went on, backing carefully off and sitting 



