the mood to make a good shot. The fox stops just out of range and
listens for the hound. He looks as bright as an autumn leaf upon the
spotless surface. Then he starts on, but he is not coming to me, he
is going to the other man. Oh, foolish fox, you are going straight
into the jaws of death! My comrade stands just there beside that
tree. I would gladly have given Reynard the wink, or signaled to
him, if I could. It did seem a pity to shoot him, now he was out of
my reach. I cringe for him, when crack goes the gun! The fox
squalls, picks himself up, and plunges over the brink of the
mountain. The hunter has not missed his aim, but the oil in his gun,
he says, has weakened the strength of his powder. The hound, hearing
the report, comes like a whirlwind and is off in hot pursuit. Both
fox and dog now bleed,--the dog at his heels, the fox from his
wounds.

In a few minutes there came up from under the mountain that long,
peculiar bark which the hound always makes when he has run the fox
in, or when something new and extraordinary has happened. In this
instance he said plainly enough, "The race is up, the coward has
taken to his hole, ho-o-o-le." Plunging down in the direction of the
sound, the snow literally to our waists, we were soon at the spot, a
great ledge thatched over with three or four feet of snow. The dog
was alternately licking his heels and whining and berating the fox.
The opening into which the latter had fled was partially closed,
and, as I scraped out and cleared away the snow, I thought of the
familiar saying, that so far as the sun shines in, the snow will
blow in. The fox, I suspect, has always his house of refuge, or
knows at once where to flee to if hard pressed. This place proved to
be a large vertical seam in the rock, into which the dog, on a
little encouragement from his master, made his way. I thrust my head