Ways of Wood Folk | Page 4

to the dogs, or run round a
swamp before he gets there. Sit on the wall in plain sight; make a post
of yourself; keep still, and keep your eyes open.
Once, in just such a place, I had a rare chance to watch him. It was on
the summit of a great bare hill. Down in the woods by a swamp, five or
six hounds were waking the winter echoes merrily on a fresh trail. I
was hoping for a sight of Reynard when he appeared from nowhere, on
a rock not fifty yards away. There he lay, his nose between his paws,
listening with quiet interest to the uproar below. Occasionally he raised
his head as some young dog scurried near, yelping maledictions upon a
perfect tangle of fox tracks, none of which went anywhere. Suddenly he
sat up straight, twisted his head sideways, as a dog does when he sees
the most interesting thing of his life, dropped his tongue out a bit, and

looked intently. I looked too, and there, just below, was old Roby, the
best foxhound in a dozen counties, creeping like a cat along the top rail
of a sheep-fence, now putting his nose down to the wood, now
throwing his head back for a great howl of exultation.--It was all
immensely entertaining; and nobody seemed to be enjoying it more
than the fox.
One of the most fascinating bits of animal study is to begin at the very
beginning of fox education, i.e., to find a fox den, and go there some
afternoon in early June, and hide at a distance, where you can watch the
entrance through your field-glass. Every afternoon the young foxes
come out to play in the sunshine like so many kittens. Bright little
bundles of yellow fur they seem, full of tricks and whims, with pointed
faces that change only from exclamation to interrogation points, and
back again. For hours at a stretch they roll about, and chase tails, and
pounce upon the quiet old mother with fierce little barks. One climbs
laboriously up the rock behind the den, and sits on his tail, gravely
surveying the great landscape with a comical little air of importance, as
if he owned it all. When called to come down he is afraid, and makes a
great to-do about it. Another has been crouching for five minutes
behind a tuft of grass, watching like a cat at a rat-hole for some one to
come by and be pounced upon. Another is worrying something on the
ground, a cricket perhaps, or a doodle-bug; and the fourth never ceases
to worry the patient old mother, till she moves away and lies down by
herself in the shadow of a ground cedar.
As the afternoon wears away, and long shadows come creeping up the
hillside, the mother rises suddenly and goes back to the den; the little
ones stop their play, and gather about her. You strain your ears for the
slightest sound, but hear nothing; yet there she is, plainly talking to
them; and they are listening. She turns her head, and the cubs scamper
into the den's mouth. A moment she stands listening, looking; while
just within the dark entrance you get glimpses of four pointed black
noses, and a cluster of bright little eyes, wide open for a last look. Then
she trots away, planning her hunt, till she disappears down by the brook.
When she is gone, eyes and noses draw back; only a dark silent hole in
the bank is left. You will not see them again--not unless you stay to

watch by moonlight till mother-fox comes back, with a fringe of
field-mice hanging from her lips, or a young turkey thrown across her
shoulders.
One shrewd thing frequently noticed in the conduct of an old fox with
young is that she never troubles the poultry of the farms nearest her den.
She will forage for miles in every direction; will harass the chickens of
distant farms till scarcely a handful remains of those that wander into
the woods, or sleep in the open yards; yet she will pass by and through
nearer farms without turning aside to hunt, except for mice and frogs;
and, even when hungry, will note a flock of chickens within sight of
her den, and leave them undisturbed. She seems to know perfectly that
a few missing chickens will lead to a search; that boys' eyes will
speedily find her den, and boys' hands dig eagerly for a litter of young
foxes.
Last summer I found a den, beautifully hidden, within a few hundred
yards of an old farmhouse. The farmer assured me he had never missed
a chicken; he had no idea that there was a fox within miles of his large
flock. Three