in the middle of the field, apparently to listen. The two trails are here a few feet apart, and one can see how the two foxes stopped simultaneously and listened. What was it they heard? Whatever it was it frightened them; something alarmed them, for they sprang to one side and went off, full gallop, to the covert.

Here, their fright forgotten, they began to hunt, searching bushes and briers systematically, evidently for a rabbit; but, tired of following what is now an in-and-out trail, I turn to the footprints of other creatures.

First there are some small marks, a trail not unlike that of a rat, but each set of impressions widely spaced, indicating a creature that had sprung along in wide leaps. The footprints lead from one tree to another, and are those of an adventurous squirrel that has been exploring this snowy world. Books tell us that the squirrel hibernates during bad weather, but, looking up, I see among the gleaming, dazzling white-decked branches a touch of red-brown, and some powdery snow comes floating down as the squirrel scuttles along a bough.

Books also tell us that the badger lies up when conditions are wintry, but many a time have I tracked it in the snow, and now I am off to see if the storm has been too much for the badgers in the big earth, noting as I go the many tiny footprints that denote wee mice have been abroad. Tiny trails are these, barely breaking the delicate surface of the snow, and crossing and recrossing until they are like a tracery of fine lace. Lines drawn between the feet marks show it was long-tailed mice which ran about so busily, their long tails trailing in the snow and making the lines referred to. Again there is a squirrel's track, also leading to a tree, and looking up to see if the squirrel is above, I spy something moving, but it is only a couple of blue tits, little blue and grey-green balls of puffed-out feathers flitting through the glittering tracery of the trees. Life is chill and cold for them in these snow-muffled woods. Cold, too, is it for a robin, that hops, his red breast making a spot of colour, out from a patch of fern and regards me with the indomitable perkiness of his kind. A little wren, moving like a brown mouse beneath a bush, adds another touch of life; but the woods are quiet-strangely, uncannily quiet as I trudge on towards the badgers' earth.

It is situated on a bank beneath a fir-tree, and faces south-east, the spot being a cheerful, lively one, where tits abound, a pair of great spotted woodpeckers have their headquarters, and many small birds are usually in evidence.

66

To-day not a thing stirs, but written in the snow before the entrances to the sett" is the story I came to read. The badgers were abroad in the night. Not only are there footprints going in and out of all the holes, but there is a broad trail leading away down the wood. There is nothing small or dainty about this track; you can see it from afar, a broad, unmistakable mark upon the snow, where Brock went trotting out upon his night's journey. Query, where did he go?

I step down the bank prepared to follow the trail, but have not followed it far before I come to some rabbit-holes, and something, I know not what, makes me pause; at which moment, from behind a bush hops out a rabbit. He, for it is obviously an old buck, sits up, not three yards off, and looks at me. What a war-scarred old veteran he is! A great A great piece has been bitten or torn from one ear, no doubt in combat with some rival male, and his broad head has an ancient, time-worn look; yet he is no decrepit old-age pensioner, for as I gaze at him, keeping as motionless as a statue, he sits up, his nose bobbing alertly, and in turn regards me with a steady stare. His dark eyes are anxious, suspicion quivers from his whiskers, but a thing which keeps still is not definitely alarming, so he drops on all fours, and with his fluffy button of a tail tucked down, so that only the dark part shows, glides gently into the burrow.

On I go, led by the badger's trail; down the bank, under the trees, across an open space, to the woodland stream. Black and cheerless looking, its chilly waters race between snow-clad banks-banks that are fringed here and there with "cat's ice," but only fringed, for these tumbling waters run too swiftly to freeze over. Did the badger cross? It seems so, for the footprints lead to the stream-side and reappear upon the farther bank. Brock does not mind damping his feet, and will always wade through a shallow brook. There is an open expanse of snow between the stream and a bush and fern clad slope, and upon this fair stretch I see written the record not only of the passing of my badger, but of several others, to say nothing of the trail of a fox and of sundry minor creatures.

Among the latter is a curious track, a narrow ribbonlike mark across the snow. For a second the latter puzzles me, then I know what it is. A mole has been out exploring this strange world. The little miner has left its underground tunnels to emerge on the snow. Here is where it came out and scuttled along for three or four yards upon

the surface, ploughing through the snow and making the most peculiar trail, like, as said before, an embroidered ribbon, dotted and dotted with the impressions of its little hind-feet and broad fore-paws, ere it dived again into the snow and sank through it to regain its underground world.

What, I wonder, did that mole think of the snow ? Accustomed to the comforting smell of the friendly earth, it must have thought the snow cheerless, scentless stuff, and as it ploughed its blind, sightless way across it, it must have considered the night a scentless, smell-less void, which it hastened to leave for its comfortable odoriferous shafts and tunnels.

Passing on, I breast the slope, pushing between the snowladen bushes and following pathways already trodden by the badgers, until I come to the earth whither these paths lead.

Now what about badgers lying up in wintry weather! There are badger footprints on all sides, and before the holes the snow is not only beaten flat, but is stained red with clay from many feet. Here is a place where a badger has been scratching in the snow, and there, at the other entrance to the earth, is a bundle of fern and grass, an old bed that has been drawn out and thrown away. On all sides are signs of activity, and the snow shows that there must have been much going and coming, to say nothing of playful scampering, while the moon was shining down upon the snowy scene.

I have long suspected that the badger does not really hibernate, for I have found abundant evidence of its activity throughout the winter, and tame badgers that I have had never showed any disposition to sleep. I do not dispute that badgers, under adverse circumstances, lie up for a while, say for a week or so-for instance, a captive badger, offended at a change of quarters, curled himself up in a corner of his new place and did not come out, or eat, for a week. Keepers, who usually, and without any good reason, wage war on poor Brock, will also supply instances of badgers, when traps have been set before the mouths of their holes, staying indoors for surprisingly long periods. In fact, when there is reason for doing so, a badger can stay at home and fast without being much inconvenienced thereby; but it is my experience that cold weather is not a matter which keeps him at home. It certainly had not kept this family in the previous night; in fact, they seemed to have indulged in "high jinks" in the snow-now, no doubt, they were sleeping far under the warm shelter of

several yards of rock and clay, while above the sun shone on their footsteps, and the usual inquisitive robin, which always appears if you stay long to look at anything, came flitting around.

It cast a dark bright eye up at me, as I turned to descend once more into the peaceful snowbound dingle, and I left it, the only thing moving upon the bank, searching hopefully among the badgers' litter for any overlooked grubs-a robin's life on a winter day is one long search for food from dawn to dark.

Back to the stream I go, anxious now to learn something of the doings of another wanderer of the night, namely that river fisherman, the otter. Did he fish in this brook last night? For a little while I do not get any answer to my query; the hurrying water, tumbling over its stony bed, tells no tales, and the snowy banks are unmarked save for the faint trails of mice and little birds, with here and there the footprints of a rabbit that has come hopping down, to spring to a mid-stream stone and on to the other side. No rabbit, if it can help it, damps its dainty toes, but uses one of the well-known crossing places which the woodland people frequent, where convenient boulders make stepping-stones for it, the fox, and others who like to pass over the stream dry-shod.

But of friend otter there is no sign whatever; yet it does not follow that he did not pass this way, for he will often travel far up a stream without leaving the water, so I go on hopefully and still scan the snow. What is that

upon the snow of that mid-stream rock? Undoubtedly the impression of an otter's foot! So the fisherman did go this way, paddling up the current, just a dark shadow gliding through the dark waters while the moon shone down upon him through the snow-burdened boughs overhead. Perhaps that moon saw him playing in the rapids, springing from the water in porpoiselike leaps and splashing silver spray far and wide. However that may have been, here is his trail again, now upon the bank of the stream and taking a short cut overland across a bend in the brook. An otter, when hunting, follows every turn and twist of the watercourse, but the same otter, when travelling and anxious to reach his journey's end, leaves the stream and goes as straight as possible overland. In this case the fisherman was only cutting off a bend, slipping down the bank in a beautiful glissade to the water once more, and leaving a mark in the snow like that of a small snow-plough. Otters love sliding in the snow, as an examination of a trail will

speedily show: at the slightest slope they fling themselves flat on their chests, and, pushing off with their feet, slide down it. I have seen my pet otters go all across a field "slithering," as the children say, between every few steps, their progress consisting of " One, two, three-slither " the " one, two, three" representing a short run to gain momentum, and the "slither" a slide of two or three yards or more. My tame ones also love rolling and rubbing in the snow, a taste, judging by their trails, shared by the wild ones. Besides this, the otter is a short-legged animal, and in deep snow has to push through it; so, what with one thing and another, an otter's trail in the snow is by no means difficult to follow.

66

The one in question has left tracks that are conspicuous enough, and when, a little farther upstream, I come to the spot where he landed again, there is no doubt about the fact that he left the stream and went exploring in the wood. Up the dingle side goes the trail, and on to a path that winds upwards. The broad outline of his body, his footprints, and a streak which shows where his thick pole hit the snow, are all there as plainly as if he has only just gone by; but he is almost certainly home by now, sleeping off the night's adventures in a snug holt somewhere on the wide Severn's banks. There are many otters on the river (among them no doubt my old friend Aaron, who ran away to enjoy its delights), whence they travel up the tributaries, covering many miles in a night.

The activities of an otter are surprising, and the one whose trail I am following must have been all over the wood. That broad smudge in the snow leads away through the covert; under snow-laden bushes, that powder me with white as I try to creep beneath; to rabbit-holes, into which the otter has evidently looked; into dingles, down in the depths of which it investigated trickling streams; and out again to explore once more the bushes and undergrowth. Far and wide had that otter rambled, in the untiring activity of its kind, affording evidence too that the otter is not so entirely an aquatic creature as the general public believes. As a matter of fact, quite a good proportion of its hunting is done on dry land, where it makes the best use of its opportunities and captures anything that may come in its way, from a moorhen to a rabbit. Back at last to the stream goes the otter's trail. I see where the otter slid down the bank, making a streak in the snow that ends at the water's edge, and whence, no doubt, it swam off down the current to journey home to the

VOL. LXXXVII

7