for we, which now behold these present days,

have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

sonnet cvi.

not all the joy, and not all the glory,

must fade as leaves when the woods wax hoary.

swinburne.

here is a sigh in the passing breeze as the autumn days steal on—a sigh for the summer fled. i hear the change, the admonitory whisper of the leaves, almost ere the transition becomes perceptible, for nature as yet has scarcely altered her outward garb.

yet daily the shadows lengthen, the haze deepens, mellower grow the evening skies, until, no longer vacillating between summer and autumn, the first frost smites the low-lands, and the division line of the seasons is visibly proclaimed.

“we hope in the spring, only to regret in the fall.” but shall i regret the vanished 87summer? will not yonder hillside glow as all the summer meadows have never glowed? these yellowing woods outshine the sunshine of spring? suddenly, through my windows, i note where the first fires have begun to burn. i watch the flames creep stealthily along the hills, smoldering, perchance, in a distant hollow, anon riding the higher crests, illuming sumac-sentineled ravines, invading the brier patches, and lighting sproutland and swamp with living fire. high on the uplands the splendor hangs, low in the valleys the glory falls. steeped and flooded with its color, the landscape gleams like an opal beneath the autumn sun. what poet, what prose painter, what cunning artificer of phrase can depict the tidal wave of beauty of the latter year?

shall i regret the summer with the october carnival at hand, when the woodcock whistles from the alder thicket and the grouse bursts through the painted covert? it is for this the sportsman has longed and waited during the lingering months of summer. stanchly as he is drawn upon the covey, i am sure the spanish pointer, in the old print above the writing-desk, feels the advent of the season, and thinks, with the latter-day philosopher, that “the preacher who declared that all is vanity, never looked at a fall woodcock over the rib of a good gun.”

88always on his point on the knoll, the pointer’s riveted attitude now has an added meaning. his eye still fixed upon the quarry, he nevertheless moves unceasingly in his frame. there is no deception, no optical illusion; he moves—not forward or backward, but with an oscillating, sideward motion, as if the constant strain on his powerful tendons had caused them to relax. rigid as a statue has he stood throughout the summer, the blue blood of generations of pointers holding him unflinchingly upon the game. perhaps now the scent has grown cold. or has he wearied of waiting for the volley of the barrels, and, looking up for a moment at the crimsoning copse, bethought him that a fresh season has dawned, and there are fresh coveys to spring? the grim lion by barye, in the etching that hangs above him, remains motionless. though you would dread to meet the beast of prey on the desert where he is stalking, he shows no signs of animation on the wall whence he looks down upon you. only the old pointer moves unceasingly in his frame. is the movement of the picture due to the furnace heat behind the partition wall? to you, perhaps. to me he is plainly motioning to the covers.

methinks, also, that my good irish terrier, who is often by my side, looks up at the fox’s pelt more intently as autumn 89draws on apace. the fox may suggest the covers and its denizens to him, as the motion of the pointer suggests them to me—the fleet forms that haunt their mazy fastnesses, the hares and rabbits and vanishing shadows his steel sinews are eager to pursue. surely his sharply pointed ears, his quivering muscles, and his glittering hazel eyes are in sympathy with the movements of the pointer, and second his invitation to the woods.

musing upon the ancient print, with its rolling background of hill and dale, i sometimes picture the scene of desolation which would ensue were the woods and waters stripped of their native tenants—the game which is at once their glory and their joy. fancy the landscape denuded of the wild life that is as indigenous as its flora, that is nurtured upon its mast, and derives sustenance from the very twigs and leaves of its vegetation. conceive, if it be possible, streams with no trout to people their pools and shallows, waters that never mirrored the wood-drake’s mail, and lakes unruffled by the web of wild fowl.

imagine the woodlands with no grouse to beat the reveille of spring, no hares to thread their shaded labyrinths, no fox to prowl through their coverts. silence the scream of the hawk, and the voice of the owl, crow, and jay, and instantly the 90landscape would be deprived of half its beauty, its innate beauty of sound. game is the essence of the woods and free, uncivilized nature—the division line that separates the wild from the tame—and he whose nerves have never tingled at the electric whir of a game-bird’s wing and the responsive boom of the double-barrel, has remained insensible to one of the most inspiring exhilarations of the senses. just as the library refreshes and stimulates the mind, so do the woods, the streams, and the stubbles become a field of health for the body, and by the invigorating and elevating recreation they yield do field sports serve to strengthen both mind and body. enough for me that autumn is here; i must accept the invitation of the old pointer, and examine for myself what the woods have in store.

brilliant as they are in the flush of their october splendor, they will lose but little of their beauty as autumn wanes. the bare trees extend and expand the landscape for me, contributing enchantments of distance that only denuded vegetation may reveal. then, with the weather in a gracious mood, i obtain effects that the green entanglement of summer never knew. the purple bloom upon my hills is never half so exquisite as when a thaw has freed them temporarily from their coverlet of snow, 91disclosing their russet slopes and leafless trees. a new palette of color is presented in these subtle gradations of umber and ochre, of drab and of bronze, that drape the withered stubbles. sere and faded in the latter year, the lonely marsh is yet glorious with subdued hues when touched by the afternoon splendor. the hush which broods upon the landscape, too, has a charm of its own, in harmony with the quiet tones of the slumbering woods. the very lisp of the chickadee and solemn tap of the nut-hatch only intensify the repose of nature; and i question if the combined glories of the midsummer twilight, when the bat and night-hawk raced upon the evening sky, yielded anything so radiantly beautiful as the slant november sunlight streaming through the trees of the lowland, its vivid crimsons reflected in the pools below.

the airy spray of the beech i may admire only during winter, and only when it stands divested of its summer garniture may i behold the marvelous framework of the elm. attractive as it is when robed in the bloom and leafage of summer, the thorn develops a new beauty in its gnarled and naked branches and the hoariness of its gray antiquity. loveliest, too, are the birch and hemlock in midwinter; whilst the swamp, ablaze with the scarlet fruit of the prinos and smooth winterberry, presents its most 92vivid life above the snow. from it, likewise, i catch the gleam of the golden willow, with purple rufous lights that smolder amid the twigs and branchlets of the shrubs which seek its cool and solitude. again, when the snow comes sifting down from the pallid sky, what magical effects do i not obtain amid the dark mysterious depths of the hemlock woods! even then my hills and woods offer a glorious excuse for an outing. for have i not long pictured in imagination the shadowy vistas where i know the big white hares are in waiting?

it is worth scaling a dozen hillsides to breathe such air and obtain such views. no play of sunlight on an english south down could be finer, and no lines of beauty fairer than those revealed by distant table-land and wide-extending vale. a silence, broken only by the roar of far-off railroad trains or the ring of the woodsman’s axe, rests like a benediction over all, a sleep of nature—peaceful, deep, profound.

within the shelter of the wood, beneath the refuge of the evergreens and undergrowth, it is warm; without, the gale may rave, and, above, the tree-tops wail a requiem for the departing year; but here below it is protected as within the walls of a building. on either hand extend the green arcades of the hemlocks, like the nave and transepts of a cathedral. the downy woodpecker 93and titmouse are here, ever present as choristers; the wild life of the woods is here, the companionship of bird and beast and dormant vegetable life. there is life beating beneath the mold, beneath the snowy mantle—the ermine with which nature keeps her treasures warm. there is life—nimble, fleet, and stirring—above the tell-tale snow.

that is a fox’s track leading to his den on the hillside, the return trail of reynard whose sortie toward the barn-yards you previously noticed. when he started on his foray his pace was a walk, as his footsteps close together reveal. warily he was proceeding under cover of the darkness, planning the best means of ingress to his gallinaceous goal. all the caution of a skilled general on the eve of a decisive battle is apparent in his skulking foot-prints. his dreaded enemies are well known. only yesterday the hounds were hot in his pursuit, and the echoes reverberated with the volley of barbarous vulpicides, which happily fell wide of its mark. but he will outwit them all! his trained cunning has taught him the danger of traps and gins; his fleet foot has long borne him through many a loop-hole of escape. the stork’s invitation to dine must needs be deftly perfumed and framed on an unusually tempting card to induce him to take his claret out of 94long-necked carafes or his pâté de foie gras from metal tureens.

the tracks leading back from the farmyard show him to have been jogging along at a more rapid gait. the prints are the same, except that they are farther apart, one following directly behind the other, indian filewise, in an almost straight line. his object accomplished, there was no further need of extreme caution or dalliance. from a safe distance he had watched the lights in the farm-house till one by one they were extinguished, had waited until all was silent, and his keen scent apprised him that danger was past. it was then an easy matter to pounce upon and bear off the unsuspecting prey. along his return trail there are feathers strewed here and there, attesting conclusively that his raid was successful.

lightly he tripped along with elevated brush, the booty slung over his shoulder, to the safeguard of his den. obviously before reaching his haven he has been startled by something. the tracks, still in a straight line, become much farther apart; the trot has given place to a canter for a few rods, when his former gait is resumed. the baying of a hound, perchance, from his kennel on the farther hillside, or the bark of a fellow-vulpine freebooter, has quickened his pace for the moment. where he 95struck into a gallop the prints of his nails are visible; these do not show when he progresses on his customary trot or walk, so well are his feet protected for extended predations by the thick fur padding between the toes. his long sweeping brush never once touched the snow, burdened though he was by his plunder. this he carries well up, knowing the increased weight it would engender should he get it wet. a cat is not more careful of her dainty feet than is sly reynard of his precious tail.

in general, a fox that has acquired a taste for poultry is considered rather an undesirable subject for the chase proper. a poultry fox always makes his headquarters near the farmsteads. his daily beat, therefore, is limited as to distance compared with his brethren who subsist by foraging in the woods, and whose nightly rounds embrace a very much larger territory. usually a poultry fox, if started, does not take a straight line very far, but, after leading a short distance, commences to circle, coming round to the place of starting after the manner of the hare. a fox who subsists on game knows all the fat covers of the neighborhood where the most game lies. his extended tramps give him wind, fleetness, and endurance, while his familiarity with every rod of the covers stands him in excellent stead when hotly pursued.

96a round glittering eyeball, bright as a coal of fire, is scrutinizing you from beneath a pile of brushwood at the edge of the cover. scarcely is the gun discharged ere a small covey of quail spring close at hand. investigation is needless to reveal the baffled assassin; the tell-tale tracks upon the snow, round like those of a fox, but smaller, and the distance between considerably less, divulge the nature of the trespasser. it is none other than a cat, the petted tabby of the farmstead, that spends a large portion of its time in stalking game—a poacher scarcely less destructive than its fierce wild congener. when once a taste for game has been formed, pursuit is thenceforward continual and relentless, till the offender usually ends by adopting a permanent woodland abode, where it thrives lustily, increasing in size and acquiring a heavy coat of fur.

look at this much-traveled esplanade, where the tracks show so thickly upon the snow. overnight the hares and rabbits have been browsing upon the young beech, maple, and hemlock buds, with an occasional sally into the brier patches. the numerous trails indicate they have availed themselves of the bright moonlight to continue their feeding longer than usual. on moonlight nights the leporidæ always travel most; on cold, blustering nights they seldom leave their forms. birds and animals 97dislike to venture out during stormy weather unless impelled by hunger. at such times a wood throbbing with animate life seems entirely deserted by its furred and feathered population. vainly, then, the pointer or setter may quarter the ground; the game lies concealed and apparently scentless beneath the brush and hiding-places, refusing to leave its refuge unless almost stepped upon. an apparently similar disappearance of game is often noticeable when the weather is fair immediately preceding a storm. the squirrels are warmly housed in their nests within the trees. many of the grouse seek shelter amid the dense hemlocks, sitting close to the trunks on the leeside of the storm, protected by the thick foliage and their own matting of feathers. the closest of beating then goes for little, so that in a wood where you know game exists in comparative abundance it appears a mystery whither all its wild life has fled.

the white hare and rabbit tracks—if the smaller lepus may be referred to as a rabbit—which strew the ground are identical save in size. there are first the marks of the hind feet, side by side, followed by those of the fore feet, one behind the other. thus it is seen the gait is always a lope or bound, and that in springing the hare brings up with his hind feet nearest the head, alighting, however, on all fours at once. his 98long, powerful hind-quarters seem made of rubber sinews, the crooked stifles and great strength of thigh acting as levers to the supple body framed with special regard to speed—his sole protection. in reaching for the buds and young shoots of the undergrowth during the deep snows, he is materially aided by his long hind legs.

under the beeches the squirrels have been busy scratching for the mast; these appear to be the most restless foragers of the wood, their trails being by far the most numerous. like the hare’s and rabbit’s, their gait is a lope. as he lands from his spring, the hind feet of the squirrel touch the ground nearest the head, as in the case of the hare and rabbit, but the two forward feet, instead of striking one before the other, strike nearly side by side, like a single footfall. occasionally, not often, he prints similarly to the rabbit in the position of the feet, although always smaller and somewhat less pointed. the large blacks and grays are persecuted by the smaller pugnacious reds, which frequently drive them entirely out of a wood, first pilfering their nests of the shack they have stored.

here master reynard has been mousing, seated on a stump intently watching, his flowing brush clear of the snow; the air is tainted with his strong odor. where he made a leap his footmarks are distinctly 99visible amid the numerous tracks of the field-mice—a dainty of which he is extremely fond. yonder is the scene of an oft-enacted woodland tragedy, with reynard in his great title rôle of slayer. there, beneath the shelter of an uprooted beech, a grouse had repaired for his nightly slumber, his head screened from the moonlight under his protecting wings. the impress of his form is clearly molded upon the snow. but, alas! his now tattered plumage and a prowling fox’s foot-prints attest his grim awakening when his relentless foe discovered his retreat. for this had his wings so often rung defiance to the double-barrel; to this ignominious end had he come at last! were the ghosts of murdered grouse to haunt the scenes of their earthly sojourn, they might rattle their featherless wings in triumph to know that on this self-same hillside, but a few rods from the scene of the tragedy, master reynard met his fate, a week afterward, in the jaws of clamorous hounds.

it requires a very warm day in winter to tempt a coon from his hibernacle. to-day his large flat prints and zigzag course are not observable; he is snugly clad in his fur overcoat within the fastness of a sheltering tree. the ground-hog is sealed in his burrow outside the wood, having “pulled his hole in after him”; this he covers up 100with leaves and earth, until, after his protracted slumber, he emerges to view his shadow in the spring.

that was an owl which skimmed the air so silently, on wings soft as eider-down, noiseless as a butterfly, and stealthy as a fox’s tread. it is not often one sees an owl, however; in the day-time he usually sleeps, seldom leaving his retreat till dusk, unless during gloomy weather. the little or screech owls are more frequently seen by day than the larger species. with the hawk, crow, jay, skunk, and fox, the owl is extremely destructive to eggs and young birds during the nesting season, large owls not hesitating to pounce upon full-grown hares, and sharing with the fox a great fondness for poultry. the skunk leaves a print similar to that of the fox and cat, barring its reduced size. there are invariably numbers of these threading the runways and leading to and from the farmsteads.

there is a murmur like unto many voices in the woods’ mysterious depths, as if pan and his train of oreads were holding a revel within. it is a combination of numerous sounds that produces these ceaseless whispers of the woods. you hear them in summer when the insect choirs are chanting an aërial melody and the hermit-thrush sings as if he had a soul; you hear them in winter when the wind sobs amid the needles of 101the pines, and the woodpecker’s hammer resounds unceasingly from hollow trees; you hear them now, on every hand, a chorus of voices, the forest’s pulsations—a palpable part and portion of its solitude. how weird the cry of the blue jay, the loon of the woods, whose startling scream sounds like that a faun might utter in despair! his sapphire coronet is not for you, however; he jeers at you in strident tones from his stronghold in the tree-tops, keeping close watch of you, but taking care to remain well out of range. like his clamorous friend the crow, he has scented f. f. f. powder before. at intervals the airy treble of the tree-sparrow swells the sylvan choir—a minor but most melodious addition to the chorus. when the powdery snow patters upon the withered leaves and the stillness is otherwise almost unbroken, you may hear his carillon while he feeds on the tender buds of the sweet birch. “a merry heart goes all the day” is his motto and the tenor of his blithe refrain.

there are grouse tracks also that have left their reflection in winter’s mirror—the roving feet of the brown forest hermit, the daintiest print upon the snow. unless disturbed, the ruffed-grouse will travel a great distance on foot through the woods in quest of food. a single bird will leave a surprising number of tracks in the course of his 102protracted wanderings, so that one is often puzzled at the comparative scarcity of birds. but even on the snow he is extremely difficult to detect, so closely does he blend with his surroundings. not until he springs with sonorous pinions close at your side are you made aware of his precise location, when you wonder you had not observed him before. all game is alike in this respect—difficulty of detection—even to the brilliantly marked trout, which assume the general color of the bottom of streams in which they lie.

should you shoot a crow amid your rambles, a swarm of mourners will quickly be in attendance on the remains. within a few minutes every ebon inhabitant of the neighborhood, apprised by the alarm of its companions, may be seen winging its way thereto with loud cawings. it can not be the sense of sight alone that locates the dead, for the discovery will not unfrequently occur in thick cover or open glade.

one of the numerous runways of the hares, within gunshot of which you have taken position, extends through a glade, affording ample opportunity to observe the game. the eager hounds have struck the scent leading to a form in a thicket of brier where the quarry lies concealed. the startled hare leaps from his covert, with the hounds in full cry coming directly toward 103you, until, turning into another runway, the music recedes in the distance. amid the frenzy of pursuit two other hares have been started, the deep baying indicating the course of the divided pack. round and round the fleet hares circle, one of them after a prolonged flight approaching your standpoint. his agile dash for liberty has left his pursuers in the rear, and he pauses—a white silhouette of living beauty, and the embodiment of nimble speed—for a survey. he sits upon his great hind legs—his only safeguard—turning his long clean-cut ears forward and backward, each one singly, to focus the sound. the music swells into a grand crescendo, the twigs crackle beneath the trampling of many feet, and the hare is off again with the speed of the racer. the baying of the pack indicates the direction of pursuit, whether the game is coming or going. a hare always circles, returning sooner or later to the place he started from; he never “holes,” like the rabbit, unless in a log when exhausted. to baffle the dogs he will sometimes imitate his wily master, reynard, by taking his back track for quite a distance, and then, leaping aside, to strike out on a fresh course; by this means he gains a breathing-spell and puzzles his foes.

so the sport progresses, and the bag mounts with the lengthening shadows. an 104owl is sounding his lone “tu-whoo!” when the hounds come in with lolling tongues and trembling flanks from the prolonged excitement of the chase. the last hare has carmined the snow with his life-blood, and the heavy spoils are harled and strung. the flaming fires of sunset are smoldering into ashen embers in the soft southwest; the tender violets of the remote table-lands chill to colder purples with day’s decline; the marshaled ranks of the skeleton trees stand out upon the hills as if limned in india ink; the mellow hyemal twilight deepens over woodland and valley, till the perfect winter day merges into the moonlit winter night and the vale of the sport.