March 4, 1911.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
329 
along a path which meanders northward a few 
feet above the water. The snow which fell two 
nights before is still soft and light, and every¬ 
where we see the dainty, interlacing trails of 
the white-footed mice, like delicate stitching, 
joining each rotted tree stump with every near¬ 
by brush pile or jumble of loose stones. Here 
and there much larger, more dashing tracks 
show where a red squirrel has scurried about 
in search of food, and on the sheltered side of 
a steep bank we find where his eager paws have 
scratched away the snow to reach some store 
hidden away in the damp leaves beneath. 
A turn of the path brings us close to the 
water, and as the tide is sufficiently low to ex¬ 
pose a narrow strip of stony beach, we leave 
the path and proceed along the shore, the bet¬ 
ter to observe the bird-life of the river. Every¬ 
where are the gulls, and soon the glasses re¬ 
veal a flock of a dozen or more old-squaws 
comfortably riding toward the sea on an ice floe 
far out in the middle of the river. Even at that 
distance the white necks and backs of the male 
birds are distinctly visible, and we watch them 
until their chilly conveyance has carried them 
nearly out of sight. 
A little further on two sheldrakes are sur¬ 
prised in an open cove where they were con¬ 
tentedly diving for food, and with a great spat¬ 
tering they rise and skim away close to the 
water, to resume their interrupted meal at a 
safe distance. Crows are common and their 
unmistakable footprints form a perfect net¬ 
work in the wet sand about the body of a dead 
fish left stranded by the falling water. 
In a sunny spot on the leeward side of a 
great rock we “boil the kettle,” and the hot 
tea and sandwiches are very welcome after the 
vigorous exercise in the open air. For an hour 
we bask by the little fire of driftwood, then con¬ 
tinue on along the shore for perhaps a mile to 
where a narrow trail zig-zags up a steep gorge 
toward the top of the cliffs. 
As we turn up this path into the straggling 
woods which cover the long talus slope, a new 
track is seen in the soft snow. At first glance 
it might be taken for that of a little dog, per¬ 
haps a fox-terrier. But look more closely; see 
how accurately the prints are spaced, each di¬ 
rectly in line with the others. No trotting dog 
would place his feet in just that way, and the 
manner in which the track leads on without 
break or variation over rough ground and 
smooth, leaves small room for doubt as to its 
maker’s identity. If further proof be needed, 
see here where the trail skirts an old brush 
pile. Under the brush a rabbit was crouching 
in its form, and the larger tracks seem to take 
on added caution as they approach the unsus¬ 
pecting victim. A yard away from the pile the 
even trail is broken in a scatter of disturbed 
snow, where the stalker sprang, while close be¬ 
side the trampled form the bloody remains of 
poor “bunny” bear silent witness to his sudden 
end. 
What! A fox so near Manhattan Island? 
Yes, a fox. There are plenty of them here, and 
they find pretty safe sanctuary in the caves and 
huge, loose piles of stone that lie between the 
river and the foot of the cliffs. Seldom are they 
seen, for they venture out principally at night, 
and when one, like the fellow whose track we 
have been following, goes hunting by daylight, 
he takes care to keep out of the way of visitors. 
Under cover of darkness, however, the foxes 
wander far and wide, and in a good tracking 
snow we find their trails in every direction, es¬ 
pecially in the woods and thickets at the top 
of the cliffs. Halfway to the summit the path 
fades away, and the rest of the distance is a 
hard scramble along a little brook which comes 
down over the rocks in an almost continuous 
waterfall. Green Brook, it is called, and in the 
summer when the thick moss on its rocks is 
shaded by the dense foliage of over-hanging 
trees, it well deserves the name. But what a 
change from the bright July day when we last 
were here! Then the stream was but a trickle 
of moisture, exhausted by the long drouth; now 
it is a great sheet of ice, ribbed and furrowed 
and mounded, the glistening particles coating 
each projecting stone and branch within the 
limits of the falling spray. One dead sapling 
that has lodged across the stream bears a fringe 
of ice a foot long, and we almost expect to see 
the stick break under the weight of its burden. 
The ground here is so steep that the snow has 
found scant lodgment, so we are fairly safe from 
sliding during the laborious climb to the top. 
On the level ground above the uppermost 
falls, where the brook leads back to its source, 
is an extensive swamp, a mink has been hunt¬ 
ing mice in an old windfall. His odd tracks, 
somewhat like a large cat s, neatly placed in 
pairs, wind in and out among the trunks and 
branches, finally bearing away through the 
woods on a route that may take their maker 
for miles before he stops to sleep again in some 
snug hole in rocks or bank. 
The lowering sun foretells the closing of the 
short winter day, so reluctantly we turn into 
the faint path that straggles southward close 
to the brink of the precipice. A flock of crows 
fly off with noisy cawings as we approach the 
dense clump of hemlocks where they have been 
tormenting an owl, and as we pass beneath the 
trees the victim himself slips away on silently 
fanning wings. At another place a stunted 
cedar clinging to the rocks at the very verge of 
the cliffs attracts the camera-man’s attention, 
and he stops to make the last exposure rOmain- 
SHORE ICE IN ONE OF THE COVES. 
Photograph by Robert S. Lemmon. 
