Forest and Stream 
VOL. LXXXIII. 
December 26, 1914 
No. 26 
The Wood Hollow Days 
VII.—On The Trail of Sly Reynard 
By Robert Page Lincoln. 
Time wore itself along with lingering foot¬ 
steps and winter eventually laid its hand upon 
the earth. The dreary and barren days, of leaf¬ 
less trees and naked undergrowth marked the 
last days of autumn after that beautiful lapse 
known as Indian Summer. Came other days 
and the northwind blew strong. The ther¬ 
mometer registered a dismal mark; and soon 
the snow 'was piling down out of the overcast 
heavens till the landscape was tucked in from 
horizon to horizon with one unrelieved coverlet 
of pure white. Winter’s tale had 'been writ only 
too plainly. From now until spring would come 
with its universal spirit of warmth and rejuvena¬ 
tion this same blanket of white would stay; the 
brooks would be sealed and the fireside would 
claim its victims, though in what we cannot but 
know as supreme cheerfulness. With the coming 
of the snow my heart turned northward to a 
certain Wood Hollow cabin. The ushering in 
of this new season served as a reminder of my 
promise to comrade Daniel that I would be 
there to enjoy with him the silence of wood 
and stream and hollow; and then, too, in the 
midst of my pausing reflections and deliberations 
I remembered that there were red fox to be 
considered. Red fox! I lit a cigar thoughtfully 
and considered this with both eyes of my con¬ 
sciousness. Red fox! I sat more than ever erect 
in my hair. I could see now out of the memory 
book those trails leading over the pure white- 
Ah, trails in the snow. Suppose it was a morn¬ 
ing after a snowfall. You will go out then 
and here and there are written the unblemished 
tales of night wanderings in the vital kingdom 
of Nature. Here the white-footed mice trails; 
here the weazel, as, in his zig-zagging fashion 
he has been questing for their blood; here the 
rabbit trails; and here a partridge has left his 
tell-tale marks to tell of his presence; and there, 
further on, the trail, well-defined of that un¬ 
relenting pillager, the red fox. Now such 
thoughts filled my brain. I looked about me. 
There was work to be done, sad to relate, and 
I could not possibly see my way clear to go. 
And yet the more I reveried the more came 
over me the desire to be off and away. 1 
yearned irresistibly for the cosy silence of that 
protected cabin; I hungered to put my feet out to 
its kindly fireside; and I wanted to see Daniel 
and his ruddy face more than ever. However, 
to wish is often exasperating when you do not 
see your way clear to more than prepare for 
eventual accomplishments. I bore more antici¬ 
pations and expectations during those days than 
I feel called upon to tell but I thrust them man¬ 
fully aside and tackled the work on hand with 
a superhuman ambition that was more than 
fathered by the thought of what I should soon 
realize. Such moments come rarely in a life, 
when so much work can be done, and when one 
can remain unstung and perfectly cool, un¬ 
tried at its finish. In a week’s time I was 
advanced two-thirds upon my road to the finish 
—then I got a letter from Daniel. It was hard 
to decipher those la'borously accomplished hiero¬ 
glyphics 'but having read copy before I suc¬ 
ceeded—eventually. Daniel said that he was ex¬ 
pecting me any time; that he was trapping full 
blast; and that he had noted several suspicious 
In Season. 
8ll 
