86 THE CAROLINA MOUNTAINS 
tracks that everywhere line the woods, usually ac- 
companied by the prints of a dog's foot, the dog him- 
self visible to your mind's eye in frantic but useless 
pursuit! How ridiculous Molly Cottontail can make 
poor doggy appear! In the woods you hear him 
barking excitedly as he runs — then across an open 
space drifts a fluff of fur. After it, some distance 
behind, comes the dog, not resembling in the least a 
fluff of fur, and not drifting. The contrast between 
the desperate efforts of the jointed dog, and the fleet 
farewell of the little vision floating off ahead, appar- 
ently without effort, makes one laugh in delight. 
All winter you can hear the whining cry of the hounds 
as they course about, hunting for their own amuse- 
ment or accompanied by a man with a gun. Other 
tracks in the snow are made by the birds : — here 
has passed quite a flock of quails, and here has gone 
hopping along — a robin, perhaps. 
You are still in a state of defense, waiting for and 
dreading the winter that comes, and yet does not 
come, when one day you find the alders in bloom! 
And then, walking in the woods, there comes a sud- 
den, cinnamon-like fragrance, sweet, spicy, and 
clean. You would say flowers were blooming some- 
where near. And there, indeed, under the trees is a 
little bunch of brown-capped, rosy blossoms — the 
Carolina pine-sap that scents the winter woods like 
a breath of spring. 
After this there will undoubtedly be cold days 
and cold storms that will drive you into the chimney 
corner, but between these short, cold spells how hot 
