d the snow. The air is
full of latent fire, and the cold warms me--after a different fashion
from that of the kitchen-stove. The world lies about me in a "trance of
snow." The clouds are pearly and iridescent, and seem the farthest
possible remove from the condition of a storm,--the ghosts of clouds,
the indwelling beauty freed from all dross. I see the hills, bulging
with great drifts, lift themselves up cold and white against the sky,
the black lines of fences here and there obliterated by the depth of the
snow. Presently a fox barks away up next the mountain, and I imagine I
can almost see him sitting there, in his furs, upon the illuminated
surface, and looking down in my direction. As I listen, one answers him
from behind the woods in the valley. What a wild winter sound,--wild and
weird, up among the ghostly hills. Since the wolf has ceased to howl
upon these mountains, and the panther to scream, there is nothing to be
compared with it. So wild! I get up in the middle of the night to hear
it. It is refreshing to the ear, and one delights to know that such wild
creatures are still among us. At this season Nature makes the most of
every throb of life that can withstand her severity. How heartily she
indorses this fox! In what bold relief stand out the lives of all
walkers of the snow! The snow is a great telltale, and blabs as
effectually as it obliterates. I go into the woods, and know all that
has happened. I cross the fields, and if only a mouse has visited his
neighbor, the fact is chronicled.

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 vigorous 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.[A] 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-coop. That sharp,
clear, nervous track,--there is no mistaking it for the clumsy
foot-print of a little dog. All his wildness and agility are
photographed in that track. 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