When Reynard sees his captor approaching, | night-walkers also, and the record they leave 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 nimibleness 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 about 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 coverlet of 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 travelling 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 "Hesperomys leucopus,' a very beautiful creature, nocturnal in his habits, with large ears, and large fine eyes full of a wild, harmless look. He leaps like a rabbit, and is daintily marked, with white feet and a white belly. It is he who, far up in the hollow trunk of some tree, lays by a store of beech-nuts 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 delicate and white as if put up by the most delicate hands-as they were. How long it must have taken the little animal to collect this quantity, to hull them one by one, and convey them up to his fifth-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 plough, 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 upon the snow is the main clue one has to their life and doings. The hare is nocturnal in his 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 choicehe 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 (Lepus sylvaticus); 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 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 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-grey in summer and white in winter. The sharp-rayed track of the partridge adds another figure to this fantastic embroidery upon the winter snow. Her course is a clear, strong line, sometimes quite wayward, but generally very direct, steering for the densest, most impenetrable places,-leading you over logs and through brush, alert and expectant, till, suddenly, she bursts up a few yards from you, and goes humming through the trees, the complete triumph of endurance and vigour. Hardy native bird, may your tracks never be fewer, or your visits to the birch-tree less frequent! The squirrel-tracks-sharp, nervous, and wiry, have their histories also. But who ever saw squirrels in winter? The naturalist says they are mostly torpid; yet evidently that little pocket-face depredator, the chipmunk, was not carrying buckwheat for so many days to his hole for nothing; was he anticipating a state of torpidity, or the demands of a very active appetite? Red and grey squirrels are more or less active all winter, though very shy, and, I am inclined to think, partially nocturnal in their habits. Here a grey one has just passed, came down that tree and went up this; there he dug for a beech-nut, and left the bur on the snow. In Fox-land. How did he know where to dig? During an His home is in the trunk of some old birch or maple, with an entrance far up amid the branches. In the spring he builds himself a summer-house of small leafy twigs in the top of a neighbouring beech, where the young are reared and much of the time passed. But the safer retreat in the maple is not abandoned, and both old and young resort thither in the fall, or when danger threatens. Whether this temporary residence amid the branches is for elegance or pleasure, or for sanitary reasons or domestic convenience, the naturalist has forgotten to mention. The track of the red squirrel may he known by its smaller size. He is more common and less dignified than the grey, and oftener guilty of petty larceny about the barns and grain-fields. He is most abundant in old bark-peelings, and low, dilapidated hemlocks, from which he makes excursions to the fields and orchards, spinning along the tops of the fences, which afford, not only convenient lines of communication, but a safe retreat if danger threatens. He loves to linger about the orchard; and, sitting upright on the topmost stone in the wall, or on the tallest stake in the fence, chipping up an apple for the seeds, his tail conforming to the curve of his back, his paws shifting and turning the apple, he is a pretty sight, and his bright, pert appearance atones for all the mischief he does. At home, in the woods, he is the most frolicsome and loquacious. The appearance of anything The elegant creature, so cleanly in its habits, unusual, if, after contemplating it a moment, he so graceful in its carriage, so nimble and daring concludes it not dangerous, excites his uubounded in its movements, excites feelings of admiration mirth and ridicule, and he snickers and chatters, akin to those awakened by the birds and the hardly able to contain himself; now darting up fairer forms of nature. His passage through the the trunk of a tree and squealing in derision, then trees is slmost a flight. Indeed, the flying-hopping into position on a limb and dancing to squirrel has little or no advantage over him, and the music of his own cackle, and all for your in speed and nimbleness cannot compare with special benefit. him at all. If he miss his footing and fall, he is sure to catch on the next branch; if the connection be broken, he leaps recklessly for the nearest spray or limb, and secures his hold, even if it be by the aid of his teeth. His career of frolic and festivity begins in the fall, after the birds have left us and the holiday spirit of nature has commenced to subside. How absorbing the pastime of the sportsman, who goes to the woods in the still October morning in quest of him! You step lightly across the threshold of the forest, and sit down upon the first log or rock to await the signals. It is so still that the ear suddenly seems to have acquired new powers, and there is no movement to confuse the eye. Presently you hear the rustling of a branch, and see it sway or spring as the squirrel leaps from or to it; or else you hear a disturbance in the dry leaves, and mark one running upon the ground. He has probably seen the intruder, and, not liking his stealthy movements, desires to avoid a nearer acquaintance. Now he mounts a stump to see if the way is clear, then pauses a moment at the foot of a tree to take his bearings, his tail, as he skims along, undulating behind him, and adding to the easy grace and dignity of his movements. Or else you are first advised of his proximity by the dropping of a false nut, or the fragments of the shucks rattling upon the leaves. Or, again, after contemplating you awhile unobserved, and making up his mind that you are not dangerous, an attitude on a branch, and he strikes to quack and bark, with an commences accompanying movement of his tail. Late in the afternoon, when the same stillness reigns, the same scenes are repeated. There is a black variety, quite rare, but mating freely with the grey, from which he seems to be distinguished only in colour, There is something very human in this apparent mirth and mockery of the squirrels. It seems to be a sort of ironical laughter, and implies self-conscious pride and exultation in the "What a ridiculous thing you are, to laugher. be sure!" he seems to say; "how clumsy and awkward, and what a poor show for a tail! Look at me!" and he capers about in his best style. Again, he would seem to teaze you and to provoke your attention; then suddenly assumes a tone of good-natured, childlike defiance and derision; that pretty little imp, the chipmunk, will sit on the stone above his den, and defy you, as You hurl a plainly as if he said so, to catch him before he can get into his hole if you can. stone at him, and "No you didn't" comes up from the depth of his retreat. In February upon the snow, another track appears slender and delicate, about a third larger than that of the grey squirrel, indicating no haste or speed, but, on the contrary, denoting the most imperturbable ease and leisure, the foot-prints so close together that the trail appears like a chain of curiouslycarved links. Sir Mephitis chinga, or, in plain English, the skunk, has woke up from his sixweeks nap, and come out into society again. He is a nocturnal traveller, very bold and impudent, coming quite up to the barn and outbuildings, and sometimes taking up his quarters for the season under the hay-mow. There is no He has such word as hurry in his dictionary, as you may see by his path upon the snow. a very sneaking, insinuating way, and goes creeping about the fields and woods, never once in a perceptible degree altering his gait, and, if a fence crosses his course, steers for a break or opening to avoid climbing. He is too indolent even to dig his own hole, but appropriates that of a woodchuck, or hunts out a crevice in the ground. Or, before the hen has hatched, he may find her out, and, by the same sleight of hand, remove every egg, leaving only the empty blood-stained shells to witness against him. The birds, especially the ground-builders, suffer in like manner from his plundering proensities. rocks, from which he extends his rambling in | part of a mangled form, lying obout on the all directions, preferring damp, thawy weather. He has very little discression or cunning, and holds a trap in utter contempt, stepping into it as soon as beside it, relying implicitly for defence against all forms of danger upon the unsavory punishment he is capaple of inflicting. He is quite indifferent to both man and beast, and will not hurry himself to get out of the way of either. Walking through the summer fields at twilight, I bave come near stepping upon him, and was much the more disturbed of the two. When attacked in the open fields he confounds the plans of his enemies by the unheardof tactics of exposing his rear rather than his front "Come if you dare," he says, and his attitude makes even the farm-dog pause. After a few encounters of this kind, and if you entertain the usua! hostility towards him, your mode of attack will speedily resolve itself into moving about him in a circle, the radius of which will be the exact distance at which you can hurl a stone with accuracy and effect. He has a secret to keep, and knows it, and is careful not to betray himself until he can do so with the most telling effect. I have known him to preserve his serenity even when caught in a steel trap, and look the very picture of injured innocence, manœuvring carefully and deliberately to extricate his foot from the grasp of the naughty jaws. Do not by any means take pity on him, and held a helping hand. How pretty his face and head! How fine and delicate his teeth, like a weasel's or cat's! When about a third grown, he looks so well that one covets him for a pet. He is quite precocious, however, and capable, even at this tender age, of making a very strong appeal to your sense of smell. No animal is more cleanly in its habits than he. He is not an awkward boy, who cuts his own face with his whip; and neither his flesh nor his fur hints the weapon with which he is armed. The most silent creature known to me, he makes no sound, so far as I have observed, save a diffuse, impatient noise, like that produced by beating your hand with a whisk-broom, when the farm-dog has discovered his retreat in the stone fence. He renders himself obnoxious to the farmer by his partiality for hens' eggs and young poultry. He is a confirmed epicure, and at plundering hen-roosts an expert. Not the full-grown fowls are bis victims, but the youngest and most tender. At night Mother Hen receives under her maternal wings a dozen newly-hatched chickens, and, with much pride and satisfaction, feels them all safely tucked away in her feathers. In the morning she is walking about disconsolately, attended by only two or three of all that pretty brood. What has happened? Where are they gone? That pickpocket, Sir Mephites, could solve the mystery. Quietly has he approached, under cover of darkness, and one by one, relieved her of her precfous charge. Look closely, and you will see their little yellow legs and beaks, or The secretion upon which he relies for defence, and which is the chief source of his unpopularity, while it affords good reasons against cultivating him as a pet, and mars his attractiveness as game, is by no means the greatest indignity that can be offered to a nose. It is a rank, living smell, and has none of the sickening qualities of desease or putrefaction. Indeed, I think a good smeller will enjoy its most refined intensity. It approaches the sublime, and makes the nose tingle. It is tonic and bracing, and, I can readily believe, has rare medicinal qualities. I do not recommend its use as eye-water, though an old farmer assures me it has undoubted virtues when thus applied. Hearing, one night, a disturbance among his hens, he rushed suddenly out to catch the thief, when Sir Mephitis, taken by surprise, and, no doubt, much annoyed at being interrupted, discharged the vials of his wrath full in the farmer's face, and with such admirable effect, that, for a few moments, he was completely blinded, and powerless to revenge himself upon the rogne; but he declared that afterwards his eyes felt as if purged by fire, and his sight was much clearer. In March, that brief summary of a bear, the raccoon comes out of his den in the ledges, and leaves his sharp, digitigrade track upon the snow -travelling not unfrequently in pairs, a lean hungry couple, bent on pillage and plunder. They have an unenviable time of it, feasting in the summer and fall, hibernating in winter, and starving in spring. In April have found the young of the previous year creeping about the fields, so reduced by starvation as to be quite helpless, and offering no resistance to my taking them up by the tail, and carrying them home. But with March our interest in these phases of animal life, which winter has so emphasized and brought out, begins to decline. Vague rumours are afloat in the air of a great and coming change. We are eager for winter to be gone, since he too is fugitive and cannot keep his place. Invisible hands deface his icy statuary; his chisel has lost its cunning. The drifts, so pure and exquisite, are now earthstained and weather-worn; the flutes and scallops, and fine, firm lines, all gone; and what was a grace and an ornament to the h. s is now a disfiguration. Like worn and unwashed linen appear the remains of that spotless robe with which he clothed the world as his bride. But he will not abdicate without a struggle. Day after day he rallies his scattered forces, and night after night pitches his white tents on the hills, and forges his spears at the eaves and by THE THEATRES, &c. THE QUEEN'S ("MORDEN GRANGE"); GAIETY ("UNCLE DICK'S DARLING"); ROYALTY (BURLESQUE ON "THE FLYING DUTCHMAN”). in love with her; and ill-luck follows them like their shadows. Meanwhile, villany runs riot, and rampant rascality is the order of the day. The baronet writhes in the gout, which is an ancestral bequest, and one which the present Several new pieces of the lighter description of comedietta and burlesque, and one full-sufferer, when in an ebullition of temper, fledged melodrama, have been produced since our last feuilleton; and their merits being of a rather mediocre nature, will not therefore re heartily desires to transmit to his offending sons. Throughout the story, they who "wait for the end" will discover that the bonds of quire very close analysis on our part. The kindred are continually disregarded, and people more important production, " Morden Grange," who ought to live peacefully together fly at each at the QUEEN's Theatre, has been withdrawn-other's throats, and hate one another like poison. we suppose temporarily-after a short run, and Brothers are at deadly feud; old friends are at Mr. Lovel's play of "The Fool's Revenge" daggers drawn; the father anathematises the ("Le Roi s'amuse") substituted, with Mr. and son; the son defies the father, and robs the Mrs. Rousby (provincial performers) as the able mother; the husband detests the wife; the wife supporters of the principal characters. Not- execrates the husband, and "leaves him to his withstanding the absence from the play-bill of fate" in his direst extremity; rogues fall out "Morden Grange," we think it deserves a with little benefit to honest folk, let the proverb notice at our hands, and therefore proceed to run as it may; a girl pursues with remorseless refer to its characteristics. Coming as it does rancour the man she loves, marries his brother from the pen of Mr. Mark Lemon (the Falstaf- for spite, and abbors an inoffensive rival; and a fian editor of Punch), the novel entitled "Wait couple of rollicking tramps, who have charge of for the End," on which the new drama has been the comic business, turn out to be detectives, founded, must be presumed to be a work of with handcuffs ready to clap upon all comers. merit; but as much may not be said for Mr. For most of these peculiarities it is not so much F. C. Burnand's adaptation, so true is it that a the dramatist as the novelist who is responsible, good novel may make a bad play—a fact so as the novel (" Wait for the End") is an essenoften demonstrated on the stage. A novel may tially melodramatic sort of work-a story written be an excellent one, and yet not possess the in the very best vein of the modernized "Mikind of structure suitable to the stage. Plot nerva press" style, and the production of a and situation are absolutely uecessary to the sexagenarian who had not before written anylatter, but are not indispensable to the former, thing else but melodramas, farces, and magaand hence it is that novels so seldom yield the zine tales and sketches. The reception of the proper materials for a drama. In the present rechauffée of Mr. Mark Lemon's artificial proplay dramatic portraiture degenerates almost duction (rendered still more artificial by the into caricature, and the incidents are complicated playwright's ingenious shifts and expedients to so ingeniously in the novelist's work that, when fit it for the boards) may be believed not to re-produced in a dramatic form, they seem have been enthusiastic. The piece, however, to defy comprehension. A young Cantab, the was well mounted and well acted by Mr. Belford second son of an English baronet, takes to as the jeune premier, Mr. Frank Matthews as gambling, and, breaking into his father's house the gouty baronet, Miss Georgiana Paunceford at night, steals his mother's diamond bracelet. as the "heroine of domestic tragedy," Miss His cousin witnesses the crime; but she allows Hodson as an ingenue, and Mr. Rider as the the guilty man to escape, and the consequences of villain of the scene en permanence. his guilt to fall upon his elder brother, whom his father curses and incontinently hands over to the police. The reason why the cousin holds her peace, when a word from her would have saved an honest man and brought a felon to confusion, is because the good brother won't fall in love with her, but prefers a farmer's daughter. During seven years (which are then supposed to elapse) the young lady in question shows her sympathy with virtue by marrying the thief, who treats her and her child disgracefully, and attempts suicide. The only wellbehaved people in the piece are the elder brother, his sweetheart, and a young farmer who is also A successful little piece of the simulated pathetic kind, made to contrast with a lowcomedy element, like the "Porter's Knot," for in stance, has been produced at the GAIETY. Its title is "Uncle Dick's Darling." It has beenwritten by Mr. H. J. Byron for Mr. J. L. Toole; and the latter has already played much in the piece in the provinces. Mr. Toole has at last reached London with this useful little dramatic vehicle, designed especially for the display of his style of humour as a comedian. With regard to its plot and characterisation, all we need say is, that, if any of our readers have read Charles Dickens's Christmas story of "Dr. |