Ways of Wood Folk | Page 6

the attacks of the rest of the flock, which followed him screaming
vengeance.
A strong enmity exists between crows and foxes. Wherever a crow
finds a fox, he sets up a clatter that draws a flock about him in no time,
in great excitement. They chase the fox as long as he is in sight, cawing
vociferously, till he creeps into a thicket of scrub pines, into which no
crow will ever venture, and lies down till he tires out their patience. In
hunting, one may frequently trace the exact course of a fox which the
dogs are driving, by the crows clamoring over him. Here in the snow
was a record that may help explain one side of the feud.
From the same white page one may read many other stories of
Reynard's ways and doings. Indeed I know of no more interesting
winter walk than an afternoon spent on his last night's trail through the
soft snow. There is always something new, either in the track or the
woods through which it leads; always a fresh hunting story; always a
disappointment or two, a long cold wait for a rabbit that didn't come, or
a miscalculation over the length of the snow tunnel where a partridge
burrowed for the night. Generally, if you follow far enough, there is
also a story of good hunting which leaves you wavering between
congratulation over a successful stalk after nights of hungry, patient
wandering, and pity for the little tragedy told so vividly by converging
trails, a few red drops in the snow, a bit of fur blown about by the wind,

or a feather clinging listlessly to the underbrush. In such a tramp one
learns much of fox-ways and other ways that can never be learned
elsewhere.
* * * * *
The fox whose life has been spent on the hillsides surrounding a New
England village seems to have profited by generations of experience.
He is much more cunning every way than the fox of the wilderness. If,
for instance, a fox has been stealing your chickens, your trap must be
very cunningly set if you are to catch him. It will not do to set it near
the chickens; no inducement will be great enough to bring him within
yards of it. It must be set well back in the woods, near one of his
regular hunting grounds. Before that, however, you must bait the fox
with choice bits scattered over a pile of dry leaves or chaff, sometimes
for a week, sometimes for a month, till he comes regularly. Then
smoke your trap, or scent it; handle it only with gloves; set it in the
chaff; scatter bait as usual; and you have one chance of getting him,
while he has still a dozen of getting away. In the wilderness, on the
other hand, he may be caught with half the precaution. I know a little
fellow, whose home is far back from the settlements, who catches five
or six foxes every winter by ordinary wire snares set in the rabbit paths,
where foxes love to hunt.
In the wilderness one often finds tracks in the snow, telling how a fox
tried to catch a partridge and only succeeded in frightening it into a tree.
After watching a while hungrily,--one can almost see him licking his
chops under the tree,--he trots off to other hunting grounds. If he were
an educated fox he would know better than that.
When an old New England fox in some of his nightly prowlings
discovers a flock of chickens roosting in the orchard, he generally gets
one or two. His plan is to come by moonlight, or else just at dusk, and,
running about under the tree, bark sharply to attract the chickens'
attention. If near the house, he does this by jumping, lest the dog or the
farmer hear his barking. Once they have begun to flutter and cackle, as
they always do when disturbed, he begins to circle the tree slowly, still
jumping and clacking his teeth. The chickens crane their necks down to

follow him. Faster and faster he goes, racing in small circles, till some
foolish fowl grows dizzy with twisting her head, or loses her balance
and tumbles down, only to be snapped up and carried off across his
shoulders in a twinkling.
But there is one way in which fox of the wilderness and fox of the town
are alike easily deceived. Both are very fond of mice, and respond
quickly to the squeak, which can be imitated perfectly by drawing the
breath in sharply between closed lips. The next thing, after that is
learned, is to find a spot in which to try the effect.
Two or three miles back from almost all New England towns are