> when the snow is deep and the weather is cold she usually finds every

night a couple of sweet apples on her threshold. I suppose she thinks

they grow there, or are blown there by the wind like the snow. At such

times she does not leave her retreat; the apples are good fortune

enough. If I neglect to put them there, in the morning I see where she

has gone forth over the lawn looking for them, or for some other food.



I wonder if that fox chanced to catch a glimpse of her the other night

when he stealthily leaped over the fence near by and walked along

between the study and the house? How clearly one could read that it was

not a little dog that had passed there! There was something furtive in

the track; it shied off away from the house and around it, as if eyeing

it suspiciously; and then it had the caution and deliberation of the

fox,--bold, bold, but not too bold; wariness was in every footprint. If

it had been a little dog that had chanced to wander that way, when he

crossed my path he would have followed it up to the barn and have gone

smelling around for a bone; but this sharp, cautious track held straight

across all others, keeping five or six rods from the house, up the hill,

across the highway toward a neighboring farmstead, with its nose in the

air, and its eye and ear alert, so to speak.



One summer a wild rabbit came up within a few feet of my neighbor's

house, scooped out a little place in the turf, and reared her family

there. I suppose she felt more secure from prowling cats and dogs than

in the garden or vineyard. My neighbor took me out to let me into her

secret. He pointed down to the ground a few feet in front of us and

said, "There it is." I looked and saw nothing but the newly mown turf

with one spot the size of my two hands where the grass was apparently

dead. "I see no rabbit nor any signs of a rabbit," I replied. He

stooped to this dry spot and lifted up a little blanket or carpet of

matted dry grass and revealed one of the prettiest sights I had ever

seen, and the only one of the kind I had ever looked upon!--four or five

little rabbits half the size of chipmunks, cuddled down in a dry

fur-lined nest. They did not move or wink, and their ears were pressed

down close to their heads. My neighbor let the coverlet fall back, and

they were hidden again as by magic.



They had been discovered a few days before when the lawn was mown, and

one, as it sprang out from the nest, was killed by the mower, who

mistook it for a young rat. The rest of them fled and disappeared

through the grass, but the next morning they were back in the nest,

where they remained for several days longer. Only at night, so far as

was observed, did the mother visit and nurse them.



There was no opening into the nest, the mat of dried grass covered it

completely, so that the mother, in her visits to them, must have lifted

it up and crept beneath. It was a very pretty and cunning device. One

might have stepped upon it in his walk, but surely his eyes alone would

never have penetrated the secret. I am told by men wise in the lore of

the fields and woods that the rabbit always covers her nest and young

with a little blanket, usually made of fur plucked from her own breast.



The rabbit seems to suffer very little from the deep snows and severe

cold of winter. The deeper the snow, the nearer she is brought to the

tops of the tender bushes and shoots. I see in my walks where she has

cropped the tops of the small, bushy, soft maples, cutting them

slantingly as you would with a knife, and quite as smoothly. Indeed, the

mark was so like that of a knife that, notwithstanding the tracks, it

was only after the closest scrutiny that I was convinced it was the

sharp, chisel-like teeth of the rabbit. She leaves no chips, and

apparently makes clean work of every twig she cuts off.



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 his enemy

at a bound. In summer, when first disturbed, he beats the ground

violently with his feet, by which means he would express to you his

surprise or displeasure; it is a dumb way he has of scolding. After

leaping a few yards, he pauses an instant, as if to determine the degree

of danger, and then hurries away with a much lighter tread.



His feet are like great pads, and his track in the snow has little of

the sharp, articulated expression of Reynard's, or of animals that climb

or dig. Yet it is very pretty, like all the rest, and tells its own

tale. There is nothing bold or vicious or vulpine in it, and his timid,

harmless character is published at every leap. He abounds in dense

woods, preferring localities filled with a small undergrowth of beech

and birch, upon the bark of which he feeds. Nature is rather partial to

him, and matches his extreme local habits and character with a suit that

corresponds with his surroundings,--reddish gray in summer and white in

winter.