Wally--but no; Wally had the "rheumatiz," and was out of the
running. Ill-wind blew the deer good that time; else he would
long ago have run them down on snowshoes and cut their throats,
as if they were indeed his "tarnal sheep" that had run wild in
the woods.

At the southern end of a great hardwood ridge I found the first
path of their yard. It was half filled with snow, unused since
the last two storms. A glance on either side, where everything
eatable within reach of a deer's neck had long ago been cropped
close, showed plainly why the path was abandoned. I followed it a
short distance before running into another path, and another,
then into a great tangle of deer ways spreading out crisscross
over the eastern and southern slopes of the ridge.

In some of the paths were fresh deer tracks and the signs of
recent feeding. My heart jumped at sight of one great hoof mark.
I had measured and studied it too often to fail to recognize its
owner. There was browse here still, to be had for the cropping. I
began to be hopeful for my little flock, and to feel a higher
regard for their leader, who could plan a yard, it seemed, as
well as a flight, and who could not be deceived by early
abundance into outlining a small yard, forgetting the late snows
and the spring hunger.

I was stooping to examine the more recent signs, when a sharp
snort made me raise my head quickly. In the path before me stood
a doe, all a-quiver, her feet still braced from the suddenness
with which she had stopped at sight of an unknown object blocking
the path ahead. Behind her two other deer checked themselves and