Ways of Wood Folk | Page 2

THE HORNETS 161 XIII.
SNOWY VISITORS 167 XIV. A CHRISTMAS CAROL 181 XV.
MOOWEEN THE BEAR 187

WAYS OF WOOD FOLK.

I. FOX-WAYS.
[Illustration]
Did you ever meet a fox face to face, surprising him quite as much as
yourself? If so, you were deeply impressed, no doubt, by his perfect
dignity and self-possession. Here is how the meeting generally comes
about.
It is a late winter afternoon. You are swinging rapidly over the upland

pastures, or loitering along the winding old road through the woods.
The color deepens in the west; the pines grow black against it; the rich
brown of the oak leaves seems to glow everywhere in the last soft light;
and the mystery that never sleeps long in the woods begins to rustle
again in the thickets. You are busy with your own thoughts, seeing
nothing, till a flash of yellow passes before your eyes, and a fox stands
in the path before you, one foot uplifted, the fluffy brush swept aside in
graceful curve, the bright eyes looking straight into yours--nay, looking
through them to read the intent which gives the eyes their expression.
That is always the way with a fox; he seems to be looking at your
thoughts.
Surprise, eagerness, a lively curiosity are all in your face on the instant;
but the beautiful creature before you only draws himself together with
quiet self-possession. He lifts his head slightly; a superior look creeps
into his eyes; he seems to be speaking. Listen--
"You are surprised?"--this with an almost imperceptible lift of his
eyebrows, which reminds you somehow that it is really none of your
affair. "O, I frequently use this road in attending to some matters over
in the West Parish. To be sure, we are socially incompatible; we may
even regard each other as enemies, unfortunately. I did take your
chickens last week; but yesterday your unmannerly dogs hunted me. At
least we may meet and pass as gentlemen. You are the older; allow me
to give you the path."
Dropping his head again, he turns to the left, English fashion, and trots
slowly past you. There is no hurry; not the shadow of suspicion or
uneasiness. His eyes are cast down; his brow wrinkled, as if in deep
thought; already he seems to have forgotten your existence. You watch
him curiously as he reenters the path behind you and disappears over
the hill. Somehow a queer feeling, half wonder, half rebuke, steals over
you, as if you had been outdone in courtesy, or had passed a gentleman
without sufficiently recognizing him.
Ah, but you didn't watch sharply enough! You didn't see, as he circled
past, that cunning side gleam of his yellow eyes, which understood
your attitude perfectly. Had you stirred, he would have vanished like a

flash. You didn't run to the top of the hill where he disappeared, to see
that burst of speed the instant he was out of your sight. You didn't see
the capers, the tail-chasing, the high jumps, the quick turns and plays;
and then the straight, nervous gallop, which told more plainly than
words his exultation that he had outwitted you and shown his
superiority.
Reynard, wherever you meet him, whether on the old road at twilight,
or on the runway before the hounds, impresses you as an animal of
dignity and calculation. He never seems surprised, much less frightened;
never loses his head; never does things hurriedly, or on the spur of the
moment, as a scatter-brained rabbit or meddling squirrel might do. You
meet him, perhaps as he leaves the warm rock on the south slope of the
old oak woods, where he has been curled up asleep all the sunny
afternoon. (It is easy to find him there in winter.) Now he is off on his
nightly hunt; he is trotting along, head down, brows deep-wrinkled,
planning it all out.
"Let me see," he is thinking, "last night I hunted the Draper woods.
To-night I'll cross the brook just this side the old bars, and take a look
into that pasture-corner among the junipers. There's a rabbit which
plays round there on moonlight nights; I'll have him presently. Then I'll
go down to the big South meadow after mice. I haven't been there for a
week; and last time I got six. If I don't find mice, there's that chicken
coop of old Jenkins. Only"--He stops, with his foot up, and listens a
minute--"only he locks the coop and leaves the dog loose ever since I
took the big rooster. Anyway I'll take a look round there. Sometimes
Deacon Jones's hens get to roosting in the next orchard. If I can find
them up an apple tree, I'll bring a couple down with a good trick I know.
On the way--Hi,