Ways of Wood Folk | Page 7

certain old pastures and clearings, long since run wild, in which the
young foxes love to meet and play on moonlight nights, much as
rabbits do, though in a less harum-scarum way. When well fed, and
therefore in no hurry to hunt, the heart of a young fox turns naturally to
such a spot, and to fun and capers. The playground may easily be found
by following the tracks after the first snowfall. (The knowledge will not
profit you probably till next season; but it is worth finding and
remembering.) If one goes to the place on some still, bright night in
autumn, and hides on the edge of the open, he stands a good chance of
seeing two or three foxes playing there. Only he must himself be still as
the night; else, should twenty foxes come that way, he will never see
one.
It is always a pretty scene, the quiet opening in the woods flecked with
soft gray shadows in the moonlight, the dark sentinel evergreens
keeping silent watch about the place, the wild little creatures playing
about among the junipers, flitting through light and shadow, jumping
over each other and tumbling about in mimic warfare, all unconscious
of a spectator as the foxes that played there before the white man came,
and before the Indians. Such scenes do not crowd themselves upon one.
He must wait long, and love the woods, and be often disappointed; but
when they come at last, they are worth all the love and the watching.
And when the foxes are not there, there is always something else that is
beautiful.--
Now squeak like a mouse, in the midst of the play. Instantly the fox

nearest you stands, with one foot up, listening. Another squeak, and he
makes three or four swift bounds in your direction, only to stand
listening again; he hasn't quite located you. Careful now! don't hurry;
the longer you keep him waiting, the more certainly he is deceived.
Another squeak; some more swift jumps that bring him within ten feet;
and now he smells or sees you, sitting motionless on your boulder in
the shadow of the pines.
[Illustration]
He isn't surprised; at least he pretends he isn't; but looks you over
indifferently, as if he were used to finding people sitting on that
particular rock. Then he trots off with an air of having forgotten
something. With all his cunning he never suspects you of being the
mouse. That little creature he believes to be hiding under the rock; and
to-morrow night he will very likely take a look there, or respond to
your squeak in the same way.
It is only early in the season, generally before the snow blows, that one
can see them playing; and it is probably the young foxes that are so
eager for this kind of fun. Later in the season--either because the cubs
have lost their playfulness, or because they must hunt so diligently for
enough to eat that there is no time for play--they seldom do more than
take a gallop together, with a playful jump or two, before going their
separate ways. At all times, however, they have a strong tendency to
fun and mischief-making. More than once, in winter, I have surprised a
fox flying round after his own bushy tail so rapidly that tail and fox
together looked like a great yellow pin-wheel on the snow.
When a fox meets a toad or frog, and is not hungry, he worries the poor
thing for an hour at a time; and when he finds a turtle he turns the
creature over with his paw, sitting down gravely to watch its awkward
struggle to get back onto its feet. At such times he has a most humorous
expression, brows wrinkled and tongue out, as if he were enjoying
himself hugely.
Later in the season he would be glad enough to make a meal of toad or
turtle. One day last March the sun shone out bright and warm; in the

afternoon the first frogs began to tune up, _cr-r-r-runk,
cr-r-runk-a-runk-runk_, like a flock of brant in the distance. I was
watching them at a marshy spot in the woods, where they had come out
of the mud by dozens into a bit of open water, when the bushes parted
cautiously and the sharp nose of a fox appeared. The hungry fellow had
heard them from the hill above, where he was asleep, and had come
down to see if he could catch a few. He was creeping out onto the ice
when he smelled me, and trotted back into the woods.
Once I saw him catch a frog. He crept down to where Chigwooltz, a fat
green bullfrog, was sunning himself by a lily pad, and very cautiously
stretched out