In the Catskills | Page 6

it. I knew an old trapper
who, on finding himself outwitted in this manner, tied a bit of cheese to
the pan, and next morning had poor Reynard by the jaw. The trap is not
fastened, but only encumbered with a clog, and is all the more sure in
its hold by yielding to every effort of the animal to extricate himself.
When Reynard sees his captor approaching, he would fain drop into a
mouse-hole to render himself invisible. He crouches to the ground and

remains perfectly motionless until he perceives himself discovered,
when he makes one desperate and final effort to escape, but ceases all
struggling as you come up, and behaves in a manner that stamps him a
very timid warrior,--cowering to the earth with a mingled look of
shame, guilt, and abject fear. A young farmer told me of tracing one
with his trap to the border of a wood, where he discovered the cunning
rogue trying to hide by embracing a small tree. Most animals, when
taken in a trap, show fight; but Reynard has more faith in the
nimbleness of his feet than in the terror of his teeth.
Entering the woods, the number and variety of the tracks contrast
strongly with the rigid, frozen aspect of things. Warm jets of life still
shoot and play amid this snowy desolation. Fox-tracks are far less
numerous than in the fields; but those of hares, skunks, partridges,
squirrels, and mice abound. The mice tracks are very pretty, and look
like a sort of fantastic stitching on the coverlid of the snow. One is
curious to know what brings these tiny creatures from their retreats;
they do not seem to be in quest of food, but rather to be traveling about
for pleasure or sociability, though always going post-haste, and linking
stump with stump and tree with tree by fine, hurried strides. That is
when they travel openly; but they have hidden passages and winding
galleries under the snow, which undoubtedly are their main avenues of
communication. Here and there these passages rise so near the surface
as to be covered by only a frail arch of snow, and a slight ridge betrays
their course to the eye. I know him well. He is known to the farmer as
the "deer mouse," to the naturalist as the white-footed mouse,--a very
beautiful creature, nocturnal in his habits, with large ears, and large,
fine eyes, full of a wild, harmless look. He is daintily marked, with
white feet and a white belly. When disturbed by day he is very easily
captured, having none of the cunning or viciousness of the common
Old World mouse.
It is he who, high in the hollow trunk of some tree, lays by a store of
beechnuts for winter use. Every nut is carefully shelled, and the cavity
that serves as storehouse lined with grass and leaves. The
wood-chopper frequently squanders this precious store. I have seen half
a peck taken from one tree, as clean and white as if put up by the most

delicate hands,--as they were. How long it must have taken the little
creature to collect this quantity, to hull them one by one, and convey
them up to his fifth-story chamber! He is not confined to the woods, but
is quite as common in the fields, particularly in the fall, amid the corn
and potatoes. When routed by the plow, I have seen the old one take
flight with half a dozen young hanging to her teats, and with such
reckless speed that some of the young would lose their hold and fly off
amid the weeds. Taking refuge in a stump with the rest of her family,
the anxious mother would presently come back and hunt up the missing
ones.
The snow-walkers are mostly night-walkers also, and the record they
leave upon the snow is the main clew one has to their life and doings.
The hare is nocturnal in its habits, and though a very lively creature at
night, with regular courses and run-ways through the wood, is entirely
quiet by day. Timid as he is, he makes little effort to conceal himself,
usually squatting beside a log, stump, or tree, and seeming to avoid
rocks and ledges where he might be partially housed from the cold and
the snow, but where also--and this consideration undoubtedly
determines his choice--he would be more apt to fall a prey to his
enemies. In this, as well as in many other respects, he differs from the
rabbit proper: he never burrows in the ground, or takes refuge in a den
or hole, when pursued. If caught in the open fields, he is much
confused and easily overtaken by the dog; but in the woods, he leaves
him at a bound. In summer, when