Upon the mountain tops the cony, or Little Chief Hare, stacks hay each autumn.
The American cony lives on top of the world—on the crest of the continent.
A merchant named cony did more to wreck the Protectorate by a suit at law than did the Cavaliers by their armed insurrection.
The cony is found over a belt that extends from this altitude down to 9,500.
One probably was the owner of the little haystack—the other the cony from the wrecked home.
About all the cony has to do is to find the den and take possession.
Far up the mountainside I found and saw an account of a cony adventure written in the snow.
The cony appears something of a traveller, something of an explorer.
The weasel is agile, powerful, slender bodied, and can follow a cony into the smaller hiding places of the den and capture him.
But he clung to the cony and dragged it out of reach beneath a boulder.