Ways of Wood Folk | Page 8

one paw under water. Then with a quick fling he tossed
his game to land, and was after him like a flash before he could
scramble back.
On the seacoast Reynard depends largely on the tides for a living. An
old fisherman assures me that he has seen him catching crabs there in a
very novel way. Finding a quiet bit of water where the crabs are
swimming about, he trails his brush over the surface till one rises and
seizes it with his claw (a most natural thing for a crab to do),
whereupon the fox springs away, jerking the crab to land. Though a fox
ordinarily is careful as a cat about wetting his tail or feet, I shall not be
surprised to find some day for myself that the fisherman was right.
Reynard is very ingenious, and never lets his little prejudices stand in
the way when he is after a dinner.
His way of beguiling a duck is more remarkable than his fishing. Late
one afternoon, while following the shore of a pond, I noticed a
commotion among some tame ducks, and stopped to see what it was
about. They were swimming in circles, quacking and stretching their
wings, evidently in great excitement. A few minutes' watching
convinced me that something on the shore excited them. Their heads
were straight up from the water, looking fixedly at something that I
could not see; every circle brought them nearer the bank. I walked
towards them, not very cautiously, I am sorry to say; for the farmhouse
where the ducks belonged was in plain sight, and I was not expecting
anything unusual. As I glanced over the bank something slipped out of

sight into the tall grass. I followed the waving tops intently, and caught
one sure glimpse of a fox as he disappeared into the woods.
The thing puzzled me for years, though I suspected some foxy trick, till
a duck-hunter explained to me what Reynard was doing. He had seen it
tried successfully once on a flock of wild ducks.--
When a fox finds a flock of ducks feeding near shore, he trots down
and begins to play on the beach in plain sight, watching the birds the
while out of the "tail o' his ee," as a Scotchman would say. Ducks are
full of curiosity, especially about unusual colors and objects too small
to frighten them; so the playing animal speedily excites a lively interest.
They stop feeding, gather close together, spread, circle, come together
again, stretching their necks as straight as strings to look and listen.
Then the fox really begins his performance. He jumps high to snap at
imaginary flies; he chases his bushy tail; he rolls over and over in
clouds of flying sand; he gallops up the shore, and back like a
whirlwind; he plays peekaboo with every bush. The foolish birds grow
excited; they swim in smaller circles, quacking nervously, drawing
nearer and nearer to get a better look at the strange performance. They
are long in coming, but curiosity always gets the better of them; those
in the rear crowd the front rank forward. All the while the show goes on,
the performer paying not the slightest attention apparently to his
excited audience; only he draws slowly back from the water's edge, as
if to give them room as they crowd nearer.
They are on shore at last; then, while they are lost in the most
astonishing caper of all, the fox dashes among them, throwing them
into the wildest confusion. His first snap never fails to throw a duck
back onto the sand with a broken neck; and he has generally time for a
second, often for a third, before the flock escapes into deep water. Then
he buries all his birds but one, throws that across his shoulders, and
trots off, wagging his head, to some quiet spot where he can eat his
dinner and take a good nap undisturbed.
When with all his cunning Reynard is caught napping, he makes use of
another good trick he knows. One winter morning some years ago, my

friend, the old fox-hunter, rose at daylight for a run with the dogs over
the new-fallen snow. Just before calling his hounds, he went to his
hen-house, some distance away, to throw the chickens some corn for
the day. As he reached the roost, his steps making no sound in the snow,
he noticed the trail of a fox crossing the yard and entering the coop
through a low opening sometimes used by the chickens. No trail came
out; it flashed upon him that the fox must be inside at that moment.
Hardly had he reached this conclusion when a wild cackle arose that
left no doubt about it. On the instant he whirled