The wind blew down the valley from the north.  The snow-horses went racing over the wrinkled ice, over the Don Flats, and over the marsh toward the lake, white, for they were driven snow, but on them, scattered dark, were riding plumy fragments of partridge ruffs—­the famous rainbow ruffs.  And they rode on the wind that night, away, away to the south, over the dark lake, as they rode in the gloom of his Mad Moon flight, riding and riding on till they were engulfed, the last trace of the last of the Don Valley race.

For no partridge is heard in Castle Frank now—­and in Mud Creek Ravine the old pine drum-log, unused, has rotted in silence away.

RAGGYLUG

THE STORY OF A COTTONTAIL RABBIT

Raggylug, or Rag, was the name of a young cottontail rabbit.  It was given him from his torn and ragged ear, a life-mark that he got in his first adventure.  He lived with his mother in Olifant’s swamp, where I made their acquaintance and gathered, in a hundred different ways, the little bits of proof and scraps of truth that at length enabled me to write this history.

Those who do not know the animals well may think I have humanized them, but those who have lived so near them as to know somewhat of their ways and their minds will not think so.

Truly rabbits have no speech as we understand it, but they have a way of conveying ideas by a system of sounds, signs, scents, whisker-touches, movements, and example that answers the purpose of speech; and it must be remembered that though in telling this story I freely translate from rabbit into English, I repeat nothing that they did not say.

I

The rank swamp grass bent over and concealed the snug nest where Raggylug’s mother had hidden him.  She had partly covered him with some of the bedding, and, as always, her last warning was to ’lay low and say nothing, whatever happens.’  Though tucked in bed, he was wide awake and his bright eyes were taking in that part of his little green world that was straight above.  A bluejay and a red-squirrel, two notorious thieves, were loudly berating each other for stealing, and at one time Rag’s home bush was the centre of their fight; a yellow warbler caught a blue butterfly but six inches from his nose, and a scarlet and black ladybug, serenely waving her knobbed feelers, took a long walk up one grassblade, down another, and across the nest and over Rag’s face—­and yet he never moved nor even winked.

[Illustration:  ‘Mammy, Mammy!’ he screamed, in mortal terror.]

After awhile he heard a strange rustling of the leaves in the near thicket.  It was an odd, continuous sound, and though it went this way and that way and came ever nearer, there was no patter of feet with it.  Rag had lived his whole life in the swamp (he was three weeks old) and yet had never heard anything like this.  Of course his curiosity was greatly aroused.  His mother had cautioned him to lay low, but that was understood to be in case of danger, and this strange sound without footfalls could not be any to fear.