The red fox is the only species that abounds in my locality; the
little gray fox seems to prefer a more rocky and precipitous
country, and a less rigorous climate; the cross fox is occasionally
seen, and there are traditions of the silver gray among the oldest
hunters. But the red fox is the sportsman's prize, and the only
fur-bearer worthy of note in these mountains.[1] I go out in the
morning, after a fresh fall of snow, and see at all points where he
has crossed the road. Here he has leisurely passed within
rifle-range of the house, evidently reconnoitring the premises with
an eye to the hen-roost. That clear, sharp track,--there is no
mistaking it for the clumsy footprint of a little dog. All his
wildness and agility are photographed in it. Here he has taken
fright, or suddenly recollected an engagement, and in long, graceful
leaps, barely touching the fence, has gone careering up the hill as
fleet as the wind.

[Footnote 1: A spur of the Catskills.]

The wild, buoyant creature, how beautiful he is! I had often seen
his dead carcass, and at a distance had witnessed the hounds drive
him across the upper fields; but the thrill and excitement of
meeting him in his wild freedom in the woods were unknown to me
till, one cold winter day, drawn thither by the baying of a hound, I
stood near the summit of the mountain, waiting a renewal of the
sound, that I might determine the course of the dog and choose my
position,--stimulated by the ambition of all young Nimrods to bag
some notable game. Long I waited, and patiently, till, chilled and
benumbed, I was about to turn back, when, hearing a slight noise, I
looked up and beheld a most superb fox, loping along with inimitable
grace and ease, evidently disturbed, but not pursued by the hound,