knows; hence their apparent consternation.  They have rushed wildly about over the snow, and, I doubt not, have given the piratical red squirrel a piece of their minds.  A few yards away the mice have a hole down into the snow, which perhaps leads to some snug den under the ground.  Hither they may have been slyly removing their stores while the squirrel was at work with his back turned.  One more night and he will effect an entrance:  what a good joke upon him if he finds the cavity empty!  These native mice are very provident, and, I imagine, have to take many precautions to prevent their winter stores being plundered by the squirrels, who live, as it were, from hand to mouth.

We see several fresh fox-tracks, and wish for the hound, but there are no tidings of him.  After half an hour’s floundering and cautiously picking our way through the woods, we emerge into a cleared field that stretches up from the valley below, and just laps over the back of the mountain.  It is a broad belt of white that drops down and down till it joins other fields that sweep along the base of the mountain, a mile away.  To the east, through a deep defile in the mountains, a landscape in an adjoining county lifts itself up, like a bank of white and gray clouds.

When the experienced fox-hunter comes out upon such an eminence as this, he always scrutinizes the fields closely that lie beneath him, and it many times happens that his sharp eye detects Reynard asleep upon a rock or a stone wall, in which case, if he be armed with a rifle and his dog be not near, the poor creature never wakens from his slumber.  The fox nearly always takes his nap in the open fields, along the sides of the ridges, or under the mountain, where he can look down upon the busy farms beneath and hear their many sounds, the barking of dogs, the lowing of cattle, the cackling of hens, the voices of men and boys, or the sound of travel upon the highway.  It is on that side, too, that he keeps the sharpest lookout, and the appearance of the hunter above and behind him is always a surprise.

  [Illustration:  The fox-hunter and his hound]

We pause here, and, with alert ears turned toward the Big Mountain in front of us, listen for the dog.  But not a sound is heard.  A flock of snow buntings pass high above us, uttering their contented twitter, and their white forms seen against the intense blue give the impression of large snowflakes drifting across the sky.  I hear a purple finch, too, and the feeble lisp of the redpoll.  A shrike (the first I have seen this season) finds occasion to come this way also.  He alights on the tip of a dry limb, and from his perch can see into the valley on both sides of the mountain.  He is prowling about for chickadees, no doubt, a troop of which I saw coming through the wood.  When pursued by the shrike, the chickadee has been seen to take refuge in a squirrel-hole in a tree.  Hark!  Is that the hound, or doth expectation mock the eager ear?  With open mouths and bated breaths we listen.  Yes, it is old “Singer;” he is bringing the fox over the top of the range toward Butt End, the Ultima Thule of the hunters’ tramps in this section.  In a moment or two the dog is lost to hearing again.  We wait for his second turn; then for his third.