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The Fox

It has been many a long day since I heard a fox bark, but in my youth

among the Catskills I often heard the sound, especially of a still

moonlight night in midwinter. Perhaps it was more a cry than a bark, not

continuous like the baying of a dog, but uttered at intervals. One feels

that the creature is trying to bark, but has not yet learned the trick

of it. But it is a wild, weird sound. I would get up any night to hear

> it again. I used to listen for it when a boy, standing in front of my

father's house. Presently I would hear one away up on the shoulder of

the mountain, and I imagined I could almost see him sitting there in his

furs upon the illuminated surface and looking down in my direction. As I

listened, maybe one would answer him from behind the woods in the

valley, a fitting sound amid the ghostly winter hills.

The red fox was the only species that abounded in this locality. On my

way to school in the morning, after a fresh fall of snow, I would see

at many points where he had crossed the road. Here he had leisurely

passed within rifle-range of the house, evidently reconnoitring the

premises with an eye to the hen-roost. That clear, sharp track,--there

was no mistaking it for the clumsy footprint of a little dog. All his

wildness and agility were photographed in it. Here he had taken fright,

or suddenly recollected an engagement, and in long, graceful leaps,

barely touching the fence, had gone careering up the hill as fleet as

the wind.

The usual gait of the fox, unlike that of the dog, is, at night at

least, a walk. On such occasions he is in quest of game and he goes

through the woods and fields in an alert, stealthy manner, stepping

about a foot at a time, and keeping his eyes and ears open.

The wild, buoyant creature, how beautiful he is! I had often seen his

dead carcass, and at a distance had witnessed the hounds drive him

across the upper fields; but the thrill and excitement of meeting him in

his wild freedom in the woods were unknown to me till, one cold winter

day, drawn thither by the baying of a hound, I stood near the summit of

the mountain, waiting a renewal of the sound, that I might determine the

course of the dog and choose my position,--stimulated by the ambition of

all young Nimrods to bag some notable game. Long I waited, and

patiently, till, chilled and benumbed, I was about to turn back, when,

hearing a slight noise, I looked up and beheld a most superb fox, loping

along with inimitable grace and ease, evidently disturbed, but not

pursued by the hound, and so absorbed in his private meditations that he

failed to see me, though I stood transfixed with amazement and

admiration, not ten yards distant. I took his measure at a glance,--a

large male, with dark legs, and massive tail tipped with white,--a most

magnificent creature; but so astonished and fascinated was I by this

sudden appearance and matchless beauty, that not till I had caught the

last glimpse of him, as he disappeared over a knoll, did I awake to my

duty as a sportsman, and realize what an opportunity to distinguish

myself I had unconsciously let slip. I clutched my gun, half angrily, as

if it was to blame, and went home out of humor with myself and all

fox-kind. But I have since thought better of the experience, and

concluded that I bagged the game after all, the best part of it, and

fleeced Reynard of something more valuable than his fur, without his


This is thoroughly a winter sound,--this voice of the hound upon the

mountain,--and one that is music to many ears. The long trumpet-like

bay, heard for a mile or more,--now faintly back to the deep recesses of

the mountain,--now distinct, but still faint, as the hound comes over

some prominent point and the wind favors,--anon entirely lost in the

gully,--then breaking out again much nearer, and growing more and more

pronounced as the dog approaches, till, when he comes around the brow of

the mountain, directly above you, the barking is loud and sharp. On he

goes along the northern spur, his voice rising and sinking as the wind

and the lay of the ground modify it, till lost to hearing.

The fox usually keeps half a mile ahead, regulating his speed by that of

the hound, occasionally pausing a moment to divert himself with a mouse,

or to contemplate the landscape, or to listen for his pursuer. If the

hound press him too closely, he leads off from mountain to mountain, and

so generally escapes the hunter; but if the pursuit be slow, he plays

about some ridge or peak, and falls a prey, though not an easy one, to

the experienced sportsman.

A most spirited and exciting chase occurs when the farm-dog gets close

upon one in the open field, as sometimes happens in the early morning.

The fox relies so confidently upon his superior speed, that I imagine

he half tempts the dog to the race. But if the dog be a smart one, and

their course lies down hill, over smooth ground, Reynard must put his

best foot forward, and then sometimes suffer the ignominy of being run

over by his pursuer, who, however, is quite unable to pick him up, owing

to the speed. But when they mount the hill, or enter the woods, the

superior nimbleness and agility of the fox tell at once, and he easily

leaves the dog far in his rear. For a cur less than his own size he

manifests little fear, especially if the two meet alone, remote from the

house. In such cases, I have seen first one turn tail, then the other.

One of the most notable features of the fox is his large and massive

tail. Seen running on the snow at a distance, his tail is quite as

conspicuous as his body; and, so far from appearing a burden, seems to

contribute to his lightness and buoyancy. It softens the outline of his

movements, and repeats or continues to the eye the ease and poise of his

carriage. But, pursued by the hound on a wet, thawy day, it often

becomes so heavy and bedraggled as to prove a serious inconvenience, and

compels him to take refuge in his den. He is very loath to do this; both

his pride and the traditions of his race stimulate him to run it out,

and win by fair superiority of wind and speed; and only a wound or a

heavy and moppish tail will drive him to avoid the issue in this manner.

To learn his surpassing shrewdness and cunning, attempt to take him with

a trap. Rogue that he is, he always suspects some trick, and one must be

more of a fox than he is himself to overreach him. At first sight it

would appear easy enough. With apparent indifference he crosses your

path, or walks in your footsteps in the field, or travels along the

beaten highway, or lingers in the vicinity of stacks and remote barns.

Carry the carcass of a pig, or a fowl, or a dog, to a distant field in

midwinter, and in a few nights his tracks cover the snow about it.

The inexperienced country youth, misled by this seeming carelessness of

Reynard, suddenly conceives a project to enrich himself with fur, and

wonders that the idea has not occurred to him before, and to others. I

knew a youthful yeoman of this kind, who imagined he had found a mine of

wealth on discovering on a remote side-hill, between two woods, a dead

porker, upon which it appeared all the foxes of the neighborhood did

nightly banquet. The clouds were burdened with snow; and as the first

flakes commenced to eddy down, he set out, trap and broom in hand,

already counting over in imagination the silver quarters he would

receive for his first fox-skin. With the utmost care, and with a

palpitating heart, he removed enough of the trodden snow to allow the

trap to sink below the surface. Then, carefully sifting the light

element over it and sweeping his tracks full, he quickly withdrew,

laughing exultingly over the little surprise he had prepared for the

cunning rogue. The elements conspired to aid him, and the falling snow

rapidly obliterated all vestiges of his work. The next morning at dawn

he was on his way to bring in his fur. The snow had done its work

effectually, and, he believed, had kept his secret well. Arrived in

sight of the locality, he strained his vision to make out his prize

lodged against the fence at the foot of the hill. Approaching nearer,

the surface was unbroken, and doubt usurped the place of certainty in

his mind. A slight mound marked the site of the porker, but there was no

footprint near it. Looking up the hill, he saw where Reynard had walked

leisurely down toward his wonted bacon till within a few yards of it,

when he had wheeled, and with prodigious strides disappeared in the

woods. The young trapper saw at a glance what a comment this was upon

his skill in the art, and, indignantly exhuming the iron, he walked home

with it, the stream of silver quarters suddenly setting in another


The successful trapper commences in the fall, or before the first deep

snow. In a field not too remote, with an old axe he cuts a small place,

say ten inches by fourteen, in the frozen ground, and removes the earth

to the depth of three or four inches, then fills the cavity with dry

ashes, in which are placed bits of roasted cheese. Reynard is very

suspicious at first, and gives the place a wide berth. It looks like

design, and he will see how the thing behaves before he approaches too

near. But the cheese is savory and the cold severe. He ventures a little

closer every night, until he can reach and pick a piece from the

surface. Emboldened by success, like other mortals, he presently digs

freely among the ashes, and, finding a fresh supply of the delectable

morsels every night, is soon thrown off his guard and his suspicions

quite lulled. After a week of baiting in this manner, and on the eve of

a light fall of snow, the trapper carefully conceals his trap in the

bed, first smoking it thoroughly with hemlock boughs to kill or

neutralize all smell of the iron. If the weather favors and the proper

precautions have been taken, he may succeed, though the chances are

still greatly against him.

Reynard is usually caught very lightly, seldom more than the ends of his

toes being between the jaws. He sometimes works so cautiously as to

spring the trap without injury even to his toes, or may remove the

cheese night after night without even springing it. I knew an old

trapper who, on finding himself outwitted in this manner, tied a bit of

cheese to the pan, and next morning had poor Reynard by the jaw. The

trap is not fastened, but only incumbered with a clog, and is all the

more sure in its hold by yielding to every effort of the animal to

extricate himself.

When Reynard sees his captor approaching, he would fain drop into a

mouse-hole to render himself invisible. He crouches to the ground and

remains perfectly motionless until he perceives himself discovered, when

he makes one desperate and final effort to escape, but ceases all

struggling as you come up, and behaves in a manner that stamps him a

very timid warrior,--cowering to the earth with a mingled look of shame,

guilt, and humiliation. A young farmer told me of tracing one with his

trap to the border of a wood, where he discovered the cunning rogue

trying to hide by embracing a small tree. Most animals, when taken in a

trap, show fight; but Reynard has more faith in the nimbleness of his

feet than in the terror of his teeth.

I once spent a summer month in a mountainous district in the State of

New York, where, from its earliest settlement, the red fox has been the

standing prize for skill in the use of the trap and gun. At the house

where I was stopping were two foxhounds, and a neighbor half a mile

distant had a third. There were many others in the township, and in

season they were well employed, too; but the three spoken of, attended

by their owners, held high carnival on the mountains in the immediate

vicinity. And many were the foxes that, winter after winter, fell before

them, twenty-five having been shot, the season before my visit, on one

small range alone. And yet the foxes were apparently never more abundant

than they were that summer, and never bolder, coming at night within a

few rods of the house and of the unchained alert hounds, and making

havoc among the poultry.

One morning a large, fat goose was found minus her head and otherwise

mangled. Both hounds had disappeared, and, as they did not come back

till near night, it was inferred that they had cut short Reynard's

repast, and given him a good chase into the bargain. But next night he

was back again, and this time got safely off with the goose. A couple of

nights after he must have come with recruits, for next morning three

large goslings were reported missing. The silly geese now got it

through their noddles that there was danger about, and every night

thereafter came close up to the house to roost.

A brood of turkeys, the old one tied to a tree a few rods to the rear of

the house, were the next objects of attack. The predaceous rascal came,

as usual, in the latter half of the night. I happened to be awake, and

heard the helpless turkey cry "Quit, quit," with great emphasis. Another

sleeper, on the floor above me, who, it seems, had been sleeping with

one ear awake for several nights in apprehension for the safety of his

turkeys, heard the sound also, and instantly divined its cause. I heard

the window open and a voice summon the dogs. A loud bellow was the

response, which caused Reynard to take himself off in a hurry. A moment

more, and the mother turkey would have shared the fate of the geese.

There she lay at the end of her tether, with extended wings, bitten and

rumpled. The young ones roosted in a row on the fence near by, and had

taken flight on the first alarm.

Turkeys, retaining many of their wild instincts, are less easily

captured by the fox than any other of our domestic fowls. On the

slightest show of danger they take to wing, and it is not unusual, in

the locality of which I speak, to find them in the morning perched in

the most unwonted places, as on the peak of the barn or hay-shed, or on

the tops of the apple-trees, their tails spread and their manners

showing much excitement. Perchance one turkey is minus her tail, the fox

having succeeded in getting only a mouthful of quills.

As the brood grows and their wings develop, they wander far from the

house in quest of grasshoppers. At such times they are all watchfulness

and suspicion. Crossing the fields one day, attended by a dog that much

resembled a fox, I came suddenly upon a brood about one third grown,

which were feeding in a pasture just beyond a wood. It so happened that

they caught sight of the dog without seeing me, when instantly, with the

celerity of wild game, they launched into the air, and, while the old

one perched upon a treetop, as if to keep an eye on the supposed enemy,

the young went sailing over the trees toward home.

The two hounds before referred to, accompanied by a cur-dog, whose

business it was to mind the farm, but who took as much delight in

running away from prosy duty as if he had been a schoolboy, would

frequently steal off and have a good hunt all by themselves, just for

the fun of the thing, I suppose. I more than half suspect that it was as

a kind of taunt or retaliation that Reynard came and took the geese

from under their very noses. One morning they went off and stayed till

the afternoon of the next day; they ran the fox all day and all night,

the hounds baying at every jump, the cur-dog silent and tenacious. When

the trio returned they came dragging themselves along, stiff, foot-sore,

gaunt, and hungry. For a day or two afterward they lay about the

kennels, seeming to dread nothing so much as the having to move. The

stolen hunt was their "spree," and of course they must take time to get

over it.

Some old hunters think the fox enjoys the chase as much as the hound,

especially when the latter runs slowly, as the best hounds do. The fox

will wait for the hound, will sit down and listen, or play about,

crossing and recrossing and doubling upon his track, as if enjoying a

mischievous consciousness of the perplexity he would presently cause his

pursuer. It is evident, however, that the fox does not always have his

share of the fun: before a swift dog, or in a deep snow, or on a wet day

when his tail gets heavy, he must put his best foot forward. As a last

resort he "holes up." Sometimes he resorts to numerous devices to

mislead and escape the dog altogether. He will walk in the bed of a

small creek, or on a rail-fence. I heard of an instance of a fox, hard

and long pressed, that took to a rail-fence, and, after walking some

distance, made a leap to one side to a hollow stump, in the cavity of

which he snugly stowed himself. The ruse succeeded, and the dogs lost

the trail; but the hunter, coming up, passed by chance near the stump,

when out bounded the fox, his cunning availing him less than he

deserved. On another occasion the fox took to the public road, and

stepped with great care and precision into a sleigh-track. The hard,

polished snow took no imprint of the light foot, and the scent was no

doubt less than it would have been on a rougher surface. Maybe, also,

the rogue had considered the chances of another sleigh coming along,

before the hound, and obliterating the trail entirely.

Audubon tells of a fox, which, when started by the hounds, always

managed to elude them at a certain point. Finally the hunter concealed

himself in the locality, to discover, if possible, the trick. Presently

along came the fox, and, making a leap to one side, ran up the trunk of

a fallen tree which had lodged some feet from the ground, and concealed

himself in the top. In a few minutes the hounds came up, and in their

eagerness passed some distance beyond the point, and then went still

farther, looking for the lost trail. Then the fox hastened down, and,

taking his back-track, fooled the dogs completely.

I was told of a silver-gray fox in northern New York, which, when

pursued by the hounds, would run till it had hunted up another fox, or

the fresh trail of one, when it would so manoeuvre that the hound would

invariably be switched off on the second track.

In cold, dry weather the fox will sometimes elude the hound, at least

delay him much, by taking to a bare, ploughed field. The hard, dry earth

seems not to retain a particle of the scent, and the hound gives a loud,

long, peculiar bark, to signify he has trouble. It is now his turn to

show his wit, which he often does by passing completely around the

field, and resuming the trail again where it crosses the fence or a

strip of snow.

The fact that any dry, hard surface is unfavorable to the hound

suggests, in a measure, the explanation of the wonderful faculty that

all dogs in a degree possess of tracking an animal by the scent of the

foot alone. Did you ever think why a dog's nose is always wet? Examine

the nose of a fox-hound, for instance; how very moist and sensitive!

Cause this moisture to dry up, and the dog would be as powerless to

track an animal as you are! The nose of the cat, you may observe, is

but a little moist, and, as you know, her sense of smell is far inferior

to that of the dog. Moisten your own nostrils and lips, and this sense

is plainly sharpened. The sweat of a dog's nose, therefore, is no doubt

a vital element in its power, and, without taking a very long logical

stride, we may infer how a damp, rough surface aids him in tracking


A still hunt rarely brings you in sight of a fox, as his ears are much

sharper than yours, and his tread much lighter. But if the fox is

mousing in the fields, and you discover him before he does you, you may,

the wind favoring, call him within a few paces of you. Secrete yourself

behind the fence, or some other object, and squeak as nearly like a

mouse as possible. Reynard will hear the sound at an incredible

distance. Pricking up his ears, he gets the direction, and comes

trotting along as unsuspiciously as can be. I have never had an

opportunity to try the experiment, but I know perfectly reliable persons

who have. One man, in the pasture getting his cows, called a fox which

was too busy mousing to get the first sight, till it jumped upon the

wall just over where he sat secreted. He then sprang up, giving a loud

whoop at the same time, and the fox, I suspect, came as near being

frightened out of his skin as a fox ever was.

I have never been able to see clearly why the mother fox generally

selects a burrow or hole in the open field in which to have her young,

except it be, as some hunters maintain, for better security. The young

foxes are wont to come out on a warm day, and play like puppies in front

of the den. The view being unobstructed on all sides by trees or bushes,

in the cover of which danger might approach, they are less liable to

surprise and capture. On the slightest sound they disappear in the hole.

Those who have watched the gambols of the young foxes speak of them as

very amusing, even more arch and playful than those of kittens, while a

spirit profoundly wise and cunning seems to look out of their young

eyes. The parent fox can never be caught in the den with them, but is

hovering near the woods, which are always at hand, and by her warning

cry or bark telling them when to be on their guard. She usually has at

least three dens, at no great distance apart, and moves stealthily in

the night with her charge from one to the other, so as to mislead her

enemies. Many a party of boys, and of men, too, discovering the

whereabouts of a litter, have gone with shovels and picks, and, after

digging away vigorously for several hours, have found only an empty hole

for their pains. The old fox, finding her secret had been found out,

had waited for darkness, in the cover of which to transfer her household

to new quarters; or else some old fox-hunter, jealous of the

preservation of his game, and getting word of the intended destruction

of the litter, had gone at dusk the night before, and made some

disturbance about the den, perhaps flashed some powder in its mouth,--a

hint which the shrewd animal knew how to interpret.

The fox nearly always takes his nap during the day in the open fields,

along the sides of the ridges, or under the mountain, where he can look

down upon the busy farms beneath and hear their many sounds, the barking

of dogs, the lowing of cattle, the cackling of hens, the voices of men

and boys, or the sound of travel upon the highway. It is on that side,

too, that he keeps the sharpest lookout, and the appearance of the

hunter above and behind him is always a surprise.

Foxes, unlike wolves, never go in packs or companies, but hunt singly.

Many of the ways and manners of the fox, when tamed, are like the dog's.

I once saw a young red fox exposed for sale in the market in Washington.

A colored man had him, and said he had caught him out in Virginia. He

led him by a small chain, as he would a puppy, and the innocent young

rascal would lie on his side and bask and sleep in the sunshine, amid

all the noise and chaffering around him, precisely like a dog. He was

about the size of a full-grown cat, and there was a bewitching beauty

about him that I could hardly resist. On another occasion, I saw a gray

fox, about two thirds grown, playing with a dog, about the same size,

and by nothing in the manners of either could you tell which was the dog

and which was the fox.