"Oh, yes; a rabbit."
"And this one?"
"A fox," said I, doubtfully.
"Yes, indeed. See the shape and size of the foot. Yes, that's a fox."
"And this one?"
"Oh, that's a kitty." (A cat, he meant to say.) "Strange how many cats are prowling about this country at night," he continued. "I have caught two this season, and C has caught two."
"Do you skin them?"
"Yes," with a laugh.
Here were red-squirrel tracks, and here a big dog's, and here again a fox's. At another point a bevy of quail had crossed the road. "One, two, three," my farmer began to count. "Yes; there were twelve." I had remarked, just before, that I had n't seen a quail for I didn't know how long. "And look here," he said, as we approached the farm on our return. He led the way to a diminutive chicken-coop sitting by itself in the orchard. A single hen, which had been ailing, was confined in it, he said. A fox had gone round and round it in the night,
