It is he who, high in the hollow trunk of some tree, lays by a store of beechnuts 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 clean and white as if put up by the most delicate hands,—­as they were.  How long it must have taken the little creature to collect this quantity, to hull them one by one, and convey them up to his fifth-story 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 plow, 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 night-walkers also, and the record they leave upon the snow is the main clew one has to their life and doings.  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 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 gray in summer and white in winter.