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THE LIFE OF A FOX
[Illustration: HUNTSMAN AND HOUNDS. BY J. A. WHEELER.
_Lent by Basil Dighton_.]
THE LIFE OF A FOX
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF
BY
THOMAS SMITH, ESQ.
Late Master of the Craven Hounds, and at present of the
Pytchley, Northamptonshire
A NEW EDITION WITH COLOURED PLATES AFTER
H. ALKEN AND OTHERS
AND AN INTRODUCTION BY
LORD WILLOUGHBY DE BROKE
LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
1920
[All Rights Reserved]
INTRODUCTION
BY
LORD WILLOUGHBY DE BROKE
No Master of Foxhounds, alive or dead, has a greater right to be heard
than Mr. Thomas Smith. “The proof of the pudding is in the eating,”
and though it is not altogether true that the proof of the ability
to show sport is the number of Foxes’ noses on the kennel door, the
fact that Mr. Smith killed ninety Foxes in ninety-one days’ hunting
in a Country which has no great reputation as a scenting country, is a
piece of evidence in favour of his knowledge of woodcraft, and of his
skill in applying it, which cannot be gainsaid, the more particularly
when we take into account the epoch during which this remarkable feat
was achieved. It is true that Mr. Smith hunted Hounds when the modern
system of getting away close behind the Fox, and trying to burst him,
had superseded the system that prevailed before 1750 of dragging up
to the Fox and trying to hunt him down at the end of a long chase with
Hounds that would have been beaten for pace in the first mile by those
of Mr. Osbaldiston and Mr. Smith. But much of the contemporary evidence
goes to show that Foxes were wilder in Mr. Smith’s time in the sense
that they probably had to travel long distances for their food, as
there were fewer small coverts than exist to-day. Consequently there
were fewer Foxes. It is true that these conditions were favourable
to the Hounds in that their chance of changing Foxes was diminished.
On the other hand the multiplication of small Fox coverts with
artificial earths that has proceeded in the last fifty years makes
the killing of a lot of Foxes, especially during the Cub-hunting, an
easier matter than in the days of Mr. Thomas Smith. If the artificial
earth is securely stopped late at night, and skilfully opened at the
right moment in a morning’s Cub-hunting, when the Cubs are beginning
to wonder what to do, they are sure to creep into the earth, and the
eating of one or more of them is reduced to a certainty. For this
reason the counting of noses is not in these days a supreme test of the
capacity of the Huntsman and the Hounds, unless all noses are written
off and not allowed to count until after November 1st, when there is
not so much opportunity for digging. But each of Mr. Smith’s ninety
Foxes brought to hand probably represented a really hard day’s work,
even though he omits to state how many he killed above ground at the
end of good runs. In this connection it should not be forgotten that in
these illuminating pages he has confessed himself, indirectly perhaps,
to be the complete Master of the use of the spade and the terrier.
But he was surely the complete Master of all other branches of
Foxhunting craft. In the work which is now republished by Mr. Edward
Arnold he puts into the mouth of various Foxes their experiences of
being hunted by various Hounds and Huntsmen. His method, perhaps a
trifle fanciful, is attractive in the highest degree to all lovers
of wild animals, and the careful reader will find the Fox himself
explaining the mistakes on the part of the Huntsman which allowed the
Fox to baffle him. We know of no writing that explains the point of
view of the Fox except this work, and that of Mr. Masefield. But it is
no disparagement of Mr. Masefield to say that his “Reynard the Fox”
is based upon his poetical talent and knowledge of the countryside,
while Mr. Smith’s fancy is based upon the lifelong experience of
an enthusiast who has carefully studied the whole Art of the Chase,
and thought out the application of the Science of Foxhunting to each
particular phase and incident of the run.
The story of each Fox is full of interest, and it is not possible
within the limits of this introduction to explore each situation.
There are, however, one or two remarks in “Pytchly’s Story” which
seem to extract the essence of the successful pursuit of the Fox.
Now this essence is contained in the physiological truth that the
vast majority of good runs are made, and stout Foxes killed, by the
Hounds following the line, first by their sense of smell, and secondly
by their power to run fast enough and long enough to catch the Fox,
provided he does not go to ground. Each moment the Hounds are not on
the line is a moment wasted, which at a later stage in the run will
probably develop into minutes, and ultimately spell defeat. Brilliant
victories, and much galloping and jumping may be achieved by means of
the Huntsman tearing off to a point without a scent, but ninety-nine
times out of a hundred this kind of speculation ends in disaster.
Mr. Smith contrives to criticize Mr. Osbaldiston’s Hounds through
the mouthpiece of “Pytchly” for overrunning the scent “owing to their
great courage, which, in breeding of them, seemed to have been more
attended to than the nose”; and “Pytchly” goes on to say:—“Luckily for
us (the Foxes) the hunters fell into the mistake of trying to make what
they called a flying pack....” Such Hounds as would not go the pace
without a good scent were always drafted, although, when there was a
good scent, this sort could puzzle even the fast riders to keep with
them. “Partly to this cause I attribute my having lived to my great
age.” “Pytchly” goes on to say that he often saved his life by going to
ground in a drain and the Hounds being carried past the drain by their
own mettle, and by their being too hardly pressed by the horsemen.
This good Fox also tells us that he saved his brush more than once by
the whole establishment posting forward for a view on his entering a
woodland in the course of a run, so much so that by this system men
seemed to imagine that a Fox could be run down by fast riding, and that
“whippers-in are nearly all that is wanted.” This practice, as well
as the practice of giving up the hunted Fox and going to find another,
was hailed by “Pytchly” as the means of his salvation. He describes his
alarm when he heard Mr. Smith who was hunting his own Hounds, say to
some gentleman who suggested that he should leave the cold scent, and
find another Fox:—“I shall hunt this as long as a Hound will own the
scent. We shall get up to him by and by and kill him too.” “Pytchly,”
with his charmed life eluded on this occasion even the great Mr. Smith
himself, by getting to ground and pushing past a fresh Fox who was
lying comfortably in the earth, and who was no doubt dug out and eaten
with “ten mile point honours.”
“Pytchly’s Story” reveals the very foundation of Foxhunting, which is
to stick to the line. There are indeed two opinions about nose. Some
Foxhounds may have, like some human beings, a more sensitive organ of
smell than others; if this can be discovered in a Foxhound, combined
with tongue, speed, intelligence, perseverance, and constitution, all
contained in a frame of sufficient symmetry, then that Foxhound should
be bred from freely. But the probability is, that while some Hounds
may have keener noses than others the vast majority have sufficiently
serviceable noses provided they are encouraged, or even allowed, to use
them. There is no doubt whatever that where the Fox scores against the
Hounds is by gaining time when he turns. It is the turn that tells.
If all Foxes that were found went straight ahead, many more would be
killed. The proof of this is that even on a day when scent is poor,
Hounds always run fast when the Fox goes straight to an earth or drain.
He knows the way. He goes straight through all his well-known smeuses
in the fences, and the leading Hounds have no difficulty, his scent
being in their faces all the way.
When he is not heading immediately for a drain, he is nearly sure
to turn sooner or later, and if when he turns, the horsemen ride the
Hounds past the point, and the Huntsman aggravates the difficulty by
picking up the Hounds and setting out on a casting experiment before
they have time to get their heads down, the most sensitive noses in
the world will be doing no more good than if they were plunged into
the oatmeal and flesh in the Kennel trough. The proper place for a
Foxhound’s nose is on the ground. No one knew this better than Mr.
Smith, and the lesson could not be expressed more tersely than it is in
this book by his friend “Pytchly.”
This does not mean to say that Hounds should never be handled at
all. If a pack of Hounds were literally left entirely to themselves
day after day they might gradually lose the faculty of trying for
themselves unless there was a good holding scent. Hounds take a very
great deal from the mere presence and moral support of their Huntsman,
and a certain point arrives when they need his actual guidance after
they have done trying for themselves. The Huntsman who can accurately
fix this point is the Huntsman they want.
After reading “Pytchly’s Story” it is impossible to believe that Mr.
Smith did not appreciate and act upon the moral that it points, but
actually went to the other extreme of trying to hunt the Fox himself
regardless of his Hounds. Yet Nimrod in his “Hunting Reminiscences”
would have us believe that he did. After characteristically beginning
his appreciation of Mr. Smith by describing his horsemanship, he then
goes on to say that as a Huntsman he was wild, and that there was too
much of the man, and too little of the Hounds to satisfy a lover of
hunting. He would go away, says Nimrod, with the leading Hounds, caring
nothing for the body of the pack, with his eye “forward to some point
which his intuitive knowledge of the line Foxes take induced him to
believe his had taken; and six times in ten he was right.” Frankly,
but with great respect to Nimrod, we do not believe it; and it should
be remarked that even Nimrod himself only credits Mr. Smith with six
correct flashes of intuition in every ten attempts. Invaluable as are
the writings of “Pomponius Ego” as “costume pieces,” even as historical
references, it is open to doubt if he was really a reliable critic of
the Huntsman’s Art. He certainly makes Mr. Osbaldiston do some queer
things in his imaginary description of a day with the Quorn Hounds in
1826, such, for instance, as view-holloaing with his finger in his ear
before a single Hound had opened in covert. But we will let that pass.
It is just possible that he may have been out with Mr. Smith on one of
those days when even the soundest of Huntsmen may appear to be taking
liberties with the Hounds; but it is quite certain that Mr. Smith could
not have consistently performed in the manner described by Nimrod
during the season when he killed ninety Foxes in ninety-one days’
hunting. Six to ten is a different ratio.
The phrase “the intuitive knowledge of the run of a Fox” has been
somewhat freely used by more than one writer. Does any man really
possess it? Can the human intelligence really get inside the instincts
of the Fox and perceive exactly what he is thinking about, except on
occasions which are obvious to us all? The probability is that when the
Huntsman does something which is set down to his intuitive knowledge
of the run of a Fox he is acting naturally and almost, if not quite
unconsciously, upon a mass of accumulated experience that many seasons’
hunting has fixed upon his brain, which he can produce on demand when
the situation arises. Knowledge, experience, memory, and the power of
drawing on them and applying them may very likely pass for what people
call intuition.
Those who would understand the Science of Foxhunting cannot do
better than read _The Life of a Fox_ in conjunction with _The Diary
of a Huntsman_ by the same Author. Professor Huxley said somewhere
that Science is Organized Commonsense. The Science of Foxhunting is
eminently a matter of Commonsense, and there is no wiser exponent
of it than Mr. Thomas Smith. So far from relying on “intuition” he
has the unique distinction of being the only writer who has put upon
paper a definite recipe for a cast in the form of a Map, together
with the whole process of reasoning by which it is justified. _The
Diary of a Huntsman_, in which this Map appears, is a vindication of
the importance of following certain rules. The departure from these
rules on the part of various Huntsmen is the cause of the satisfaction
expressed at the symposium of “Wily,” “Pytchly,” “Warwick,” “Sandy” and
all the other Foxes who appear in this Volume.
TO THE RIGHT HON.
CHARLES, EARL OF HARDWICKE,
etc. etc. etc.
My Lord,—It is customary in a Dedication to use the language of
fulsome adulation, even in cases where the writer and the person
addressed affect an equal abhorrence of it. Adopting a more simple,
straightforward course, and one more worthy of my name, for few foxes
have run more straight, I will candidly inform your Lordship that the
love I bear you is much the same as that borne to myself by the most
venerable hen now cackling in your farmyard, whose half-fledged brood
I have often thinned. But, my Lord, although I openly acknowledge my
aversion to the unfeathered biped species to which you belong, yet the
kinds and degrees of hatred are various as the characters of those
towards whom we entertain it; and while some, affecting to treat my
persecuted race as noxious vermin, destroy us by day and by night with
snare, trap, gun, and every other engine which their ingenuity can
devise, we have always found in your Lordship a fair and open enemy,
and one who disdained to have recourse to the cowardly contrivances
above referred to. It is on this account, my Lord, that I have done you
the honour to dedicate to you the following narrative of my eventful
life.
Many are the happy hours that I have spent, some years since, in the
neighbourhood of your Lordship’s hen-roost in Hampshire, and latterly
many a tender rabbit, etc., have I carried home from the plantations
and fields which you now so handsomely preserve for the use of myself
and my kindred at Wimpole; this conduct on your part would have ensured
my lasting gratitude, could I forget how frequently I have been driven
by hound and horn from those treacherous coverts. Although, from the
above reasons, there cannot be friendship between us, there may, I
trust there does, exist some feeling of mutual respect; you and your
brethren are not insensible to those merits in our species which you
affect to depreciate. Fabulists and other writers, in all languages,
have quoted the sayings and doings of my ancestors, as lessons of
instruction for youth; while the craft and cunning of your ablest
statesmen have been, in many instances, entirely derived from our
acknowledged principles and practice. Our heroism in the endurance of a
violent and cruel death is equalled only by our dexterity in avoiding
it. It was only last winter that a cousin of mine led a gallant field
of two hundred horsemen over thirty miles of the finest country in
England; and when at length overtaken by twenty couple of his enemies,
each one larger and stronger than himself, he died amid their murderous
fangs, without suffering a yell or cry to escape him! Yet do the poets
of your race celebrate as a hero, one Hector, _a timid biped_, who,
after a miserable run round the walls of Troy, suffered himself to be
overtaken and killed by a single opponent!
Such, my Lord, is the justice of historic fame in this world, wherein
thousands of men have written; whilst I alone of my tribe have been
endowed with the power of thus using the quills of that excellent bird,
which has been for centuries the favourite object of pursuit amongst
the brave and skilful of my race.
However determined I still may be to trespass upon your Lordship’s
preserves, I will do so no longer upon your time. Our walks in life are
different; ’tis yours to ride, ’tis mine to run; ’tis yours to pursue,
’tis mine to be pursued; we shall meet again in the field, the horn
will sound the alarm, my appearance will be greeted with a view-halloo
that shall set the blood of hundreds in motion! Whether after that day
of trial I shall again sit amongst my listening cubs, and relate to
them how many peers, parsons, and squires lay prostrate on the turf,
and were soused in the brook while pursuing my glorious course, or
whether my brush shall at length adorn your Lordship’s hat, fate must
decide.—Meanwhile I remain, your Lordship’s obliged friend,
WILY.
MAIN EARTH, _6th June, 1843_.
ADVERTISEMENT TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION
This little book may be looked upon as a curious manifestation of
the movement among Foxes. The Editor ventures to send it forth, for
an agreeable reminiscence to many who assisted in scenes which it
describes; for some little instruction to sportsmen who have had less
experience than himself; and for the common entertainment of all who
like to listen to the way of the world in the woods.
HILL HOUSE, HAMBLEDON,
_10th June, 1843_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION. _By Lord Willoughby de Broke_ v
DEDICATION xi
ADVERTISEMENT xv
THE LIFE OF A FOX 1
WILY’S STORY 3
COCK-TAIL’S STORY 50
CRAVEN’S STORY 54
PYTCHLY’S STORY 60
DORSET’S STORY 70
WARWICK’S STORY 79
CHESTER’S STORY 86
DEVONIAN’S STORY 92
BERKSHIRE’S STORY 97
SANDY’S STORY 102
CONCLUSION 125
ILLUSTRATIONS
HUNTSMAN AND HOUNDS. _By J. A.
Wheeler_ _Frontispiece_
WILY PENNING HIS STORY. _By T.
Smith_ _Facing page_ 1
WILY ADDRESSING HIS FRIENDS. _By
T. Smith_ _Facing page_ 2
BREAKING COVER. _By S. Howitt_ _Facing page_ 18
STOPPING HOUNDS. _By S. Howitt_ _Facing page_ 22
FULL CRY. _By S. Alken_ _Facing page_ 42
THE CRAVEN HOUNDS IN SAVERNAKE
FOREST. _By T. Smith_ _Facing page_ 58
GONE AWAY. _By Henry Alken_ _Facing page_ 70
BAGGING THE FOX. _By C. Loraine
Smith_ _Facing page_ 76
HUNTING IN COVER. _By Henry Alken_ _Facing page_ 82
THE DEATH OF THE FOX. _By R. B.
Davis_ _Facing page_ 108
EVERY HOUND HAS GOT A FOX. _By
T. Smith_ _Facing page_ 113
NOTE.—The Coloured Illustrations are from contemporary prints
and paintings by HENRY ALKEN, S. HOWITT, and other well-known
sporting artists, kindly lent by Mr. BASIL DIGHTON. The Black and White
Illustrations are facsimile reproductions from the originals by TOM
SMITH in the old Edition.
[Illustration: WILY’S STORY.]
THE LIFE OF A FOX
A faithful history of the life even of a Fox may be not without its
interest, for, to the wise, nothing in nature is mean, and truth is
never insignificant. I was prompted to write this account of myself
by overhearing one day, as I lay in a covert by the roadside, the
following remarks by one of a party who were passing by on their return
home from hunting a fox, which, as it appeared, the hounds had failed
to kill.
“Well, I’d give a good deal to know what became of our fox,—how was it
he could have beaten us? There is nothing I should like better than to
invite to supper all the foxes that have escaped from packs by which
they have been respectively hunted to-day, and then persuade them
to declare to what cause they owed their escape. To tempt them there
should be rabbits at top, rabbits at bottom and sides, rabbits curried,
fricasseed, and rabbits dressed in every imaginable way, by the best
French cook.”
The thought pleased me, and resolving to gratify my own curiosity,
I invited all of my friends who had at any time beaten some pack of
repute.
It was a fine moonlight night, in the middle of summer, when ten of
my guests, besides an interloper, a stranger to us all, arrived at the
place appointed, beneath an old oak tree in the New Forest.
For the foundation of my feast, nothing could be better than the
bill of fare projected by the hospitable hunter; but as I knew that
my friends would prefer everything _au naturel_, I dispensed with
the services of M. Soyer, and merely added, for the sake of variety,
some fine rats and mice, a profusion of beetles, and a bird or two
for the few whose taste might be depraved enough to choose them. Our
repast being over, it was agreed, that for our mutual instruction and
entertainment, each in his turn should with scrupulous fidelity relate
by what arts and stratagems, or by what effort of strength and courage,
he had eluded and baffled those ruthless disturbers of our repose, the
huntsman and his hounds. I was first called on to tell the story of my
life, and thus began.
[Illustration: WILY ADDRESSING HIS FRIENDS.
_T. Smith, Esq., del._
_page 2._]
WILY’S STORY
I am descended from the ancient family of the Wilys, and was born
on the 25th day of March, in the year ——. Within three or four weeks
from that day of the year every fox of us in this country is probably
brought forth; and it seems especially designed that the female should
thus produce her only litter in the year at a season when our favourite
food, young rabbits, are most abundant. The spot in which I first
drew breath was a breeding-earth, carefully chosen by my mother, in a
well-known covert, called Park Coppice, situated in the centre of the
Hampshire Hunt. It was not until the tenth day after my birth that I
first saw light, or acquired sufficient strength to crawl with safety
to any little distance round our nest. Had I earlier possessed the use
of sight, I might have strayed beyond my warm shelter, and for want
of sufficient strength to return to it, have perished with cold. Thus
Nature goes on to care for us. I had two brothers and two sisters, and
we all throve and grew rapidly with the nourishment of our mother’s
milk alone, until we were six weeks old, when she began to supply us
with other food, such as rabbits, and rats and mice, which she tore to
pieces and divided amongst us in equal shares, not however so much to
our satisfaction as to prevent our snarling and quarrelling with each
other thus early over our meals. That part of the earth where we lodged
was between two and three feet square, with several passages just
large enough for our mother to crawl along; several of these crossed
each other, and of two that terminated outwards one only was used by
our mother, who stopped up the other for times of emergency. In these
several passages we daily amused ourselves with chasing each other
round and round. On one occasion we were interrupted in the midst of
our gambols by the sudden entrance of our mother, who seized us with
her sharp teeth, and carried us to the back of the earth. It seemed
that she had been watching outside, for immediately after this we were
alarmed by a sound hitherto unheard by us. It was the voice of a man
crying out, “Eloo in, Viper! fetch ’em out! hie in there, hie in!” The
light was instantly shut out by the intrusion of a dog in a low and
narrow part of the passage, which compelled him to crawl along with
his head to the bottom. Our mother waited for him, where she had the
advantage of higher space, and as he approached with his head thus low,
she fixed her teeth across the upper part of his nose and pinned him to
the bottom of the passage, where she held him so that he could not bite
her, which he would have done had she attacked him after he had got
beyond the lower part, when he might have raised his head up.[1] Whilst
bleeding and howling with agony, he drew her backwards to the opening,
where she let him go. It was in vain that the man tried to make him go
in again, and so he left the place, declaring his conviction that there
were cubs within, and that he would have them out another day. He was,
however, disappointed, for our mother that night took us one by one to
a large earth in a neighbouring wood. We were now two months old, and
ceased to draw our mother’s milk, which we no longer needed, as we were
able to kill a rabbit or pluck the feathers of a fowl when she brought
it to us, as well as she. Some of these feathers, which in our frolics
we had carried to the mouth of the earth, once betrayed us to a couple
of poachers, who had been lurking about the wood, and who noticing
them, procured a long stick and thrust it into the earth, nearly
breaking the ribs of one of my brothers. When they pulled it out again,
they found the end of it covered with his hairs. This satisfied them,
and leaving us scrambling and huddling together up to the back of the
earth, they went away, resolving to come back next day with tools to
unearth us, and expecting, as they said, to sell us for half-a-guinea
apiece.
“’Twas a ’nation pity,” added one of them, “we hadn’t brought my little
terrier, Vick; she would have fetched ’em out alive in her mouth,
without our having the trouble of digging, though they was as big as
the old ’un.”
“Mind,” said the other, “we beant seen, or else the squire will gie us
notice to keep off.”
Their intentions were defeated; for our mother, who had been all the
time watching their goings on, anxiously waited for their departure,
and no sooner had night set in than she again removed us to a
gorse-covert hard by, and placed us in a nicely-sheltered spot, where
she herself had often lain before. Here we were safe from poaching
kidnappers, as it would have been impossible for them to find us
without being found out themselves whilst searching for us. Let every
mother lay up her cubs in gorse, or close and thick coverts, rather
than in large earths, which are sure to be well known to the fox-taker.
We were now three months old, and living upon young rabbits and mice,
with which such coverts abound, feeding also upon other food, such as
black beetles; rabbits, however, were our favourite food, and if we
could find them, we cared for little else. They are fruitful breeders,
particularly at this season of the year; and a female has been known
to carry two distinct broods of young at the same time, and to bring
them forth three weeks after one another. This astonishing fact I have
witnessed myself, and I have heard that the same thing has occurred
with the female hare. The usual time of bearing is twenty-eight days.
We now began to venture out of the covert at night-fall, or even
before, being warned by our mother, whenever there was danger, with
a peculiar noise that she made, like “keck, keck”; which we no sooner
heard than we were out of sight in the covert, where we stayed until
all was still again.
As we grew older we grew more bold and more cunning; and being four
months old, ventured farther abroad, even in the day-time, entering the
fields of standing corn, until it was cut down, when the deeds we did
there were suddenly brought to light.
“Why, John,” says the farmer, “there must be some young foxes
hereabouts; look at the rabbits’ feet lying about; and what’s the
meaning of all these white feathers? This comes of not locking up the
fowls o’ nights. Never blame the foxes, poor craturs; but just go to
the kennel, and tell Foster, the huntsman, as soon as the corn is off,
to bring his hounds.”
“Very well, sir.”
“But mind, he ain’t to kill more than one of ’em, or else be hanged if
ever I takes care of another litter.”
All this was explained to me afterwards, for at the time I did not
understand much about it. I only knew that the speaker was a very
nice sort of man, and never doubted that he meant everything that is
pleasant; although I must say that his outward looks, the first time I
saw him, did not at all take my fancy. There appeared to me something
so ungainly and unnatural—something so very absurd, to see an animal
reared up on end, and walking about on his hind legs; to say nothing of
what seemed his hide which hung about him in such a loose and uncouth
fashion, as if nature had been sick of her job, and refused to finish
it.
A few evenings after this I was crossing a field, and watching some
young rabbits, with which I longed to become more nearly acquainted,
when suddenly a large black dog and an ugly beast called a gamekeeper,
jumped over a hedge. I immediately lay flat on the ground, hoping that
I should not be seen; when, however, I found them coming within a few
yards of me, I started off, closely pursued by the villainous dog, and
seeing that I should soon be overtaken, turned round, and slipt away
between his legs. I then made towards the hedge, and the dog springing
after me, I suddenly turned round again, when he, trying to do the
same, tumbled heels over head, and nearly broke his precious neck. My
comfort was to think that he was certainly born to be hanged, for he
followed me again as if nothing was the matter, and soon overtaking
me, wearied as I was with the sport (I think they call it), he seized
me by the back of the neck, and jogged away with me in his mouth to
his master, who clapped me into his enormous pocket, and carried me
home. I was kept there in a dark and dirty place, where all sorts of
animals had been kept before. There I remained, who by nature am the
cleanliest of animals, with my hairs all clotted with mire and filthy
moisture, and should certainly have perished of a certain loathsome
sickness, had not another gamekeeper luckily seen me, and told my owner
the certain consequence of keeping me so. I was then taken out and put
into a hamper out of doors, ready to be carried by the night-coach to
London for sale. After trying in vain to gnaw a hole for my escape, I
set about making all the noise I could, which, the night being still,
reached the ears of my mother, who quickly came and helped me with her
teeth to finish the work which I had begun, and so I got out and away.
Having thus suffered for my boldness, I scarcely ever ventured out of
the covert till dark, or nearly so; generally, indeed, I remained in
my kennel the whole of the day, unless I had not been fortunate in
procuring food the night before. I have seen a female fox, when she
had young ones, moving about earlier in the afternoon; otherwise it is
contrary to our habits to do so. Night is more dear to us than day, and
the tempest suits our plans; for man is then disposed to keep quiet,
and we venture more boldly to approach his dwellings in search of stray
poultry, which are to be found abroad, not having been driven into the
hen-roost, owing to the neglect of their owners.
I resolved to accompany my mother in future as much as possible in her
excursions, that I might profit by her prudence and observe her ways.
She seldom went abroad till night, though sometimes she would venture
in the dusk of evening. Upon one occasion I was much amused with an
example of her engaging tricks. It was a bright moonlight night when I
saw her go into a field, in which many rabbits and hares were feeding.
On first seeing her, some of them ran away for a few yards, some sat
up on their hind legs and gazed at her, and some squatted close to
the ground. My mother at first trotted on gently, as if not observing
them; she then lay down and rolled on her back, then got up and shook
herself; and so she went on till the simple creatures, cheated by a
show of simplicity, and never dreaming she could be bent on anything
beyond such harmless diversion, fell to feeding again, when she quietly
leaped amongst them and carried off an easy prey.
We were now fully able to gain our own subsistence, but not the less
would she watch over our safety. One of my brothers having found a
piece of raw meat had begun to devour it, which she observing ran
forwards, and as if in anger drove him away from it. He became sick
and lost all his hairs, owing to poison, which I afterwards learnt
had been put in the meat. It was fortunate for us that we had left the
breeding-earth, for we must otherwise have all been infected with the
same noisome disease, the mange. By first smelling it, and then turning
away, she taught us in future to avoid anything of the kind that had
been touched by the human hand. Thus when we happened to be smelling
with our noses to a bait covered over with leaves, moss, grass, or
fine earth, she would caution us to let it alone by her manner of
looking about, as if she were alarmed and expected to see our enemy the
keeper. Sometimes the iron trap would be seen; and then she would lead
us to look at and smell it. Our noses, however, would not always be a
safeguard, for after the trap has been laid some days, particularly
if washed by rain, the taint of the evil hand would be gone, and
though we ourselves, thanks to the watchfulness of our mother, escaped
the danger, hundreds of others, led on by hunger, have fallen into
the snare, losing either leg or toes. Baits for catching stoats and
weasels, set upon a stick some fourteen inches above the ground, we
carried away without mischief from the trap below. At about six months
old we were three parts grown, I and my brothers being something larger
than our sisters, whose heads were thinner and more pointed. The white
tip of the brush was not, let me remark, peculiar to either sex of us.
I and one of my brothers, and also one of my sisters, had it whilst
the other sister and the other brother were altogether without it,
not having a single white hair. That brother has been known to profit
by the exemption, when on being viewed in the spring of the year the
hounds have been stopped with the remark, “It’s a vixen; there is no
white on her brush.” I have since observed that old male foxes are of
a much lighter colour on the back than are the old female ones, which
are commonly of a dark reddish brown; and so it was with my parents.
Our sire never helped to furnish us with food, although I have reason
to think that I often saw him prowling about with my mother at night;
instances, however, have been known where the sire has discharged such
an office after the young had lost their mother. For a few weeks we
went on living a rollicking kind of life, and fancied ourselves masters
of the coverts.
There was a coppice of no more than two years’ growth, which enabled
me to enjoy the beams of the sun as I lay in my kennel. This kind of
shelter we all of us choose, especially when there are no trees of a
large growth to be dripping down upon us in wet weather. Here as I lay
one morning, early in October, I was roused from a sound sleep by the
noise of voices, and of dogs rushing towards me. Away I ran, and had
not gone above twenty yards before I heard the report of a gun, and
instantly received a smart blow on my side, which nearly knocked me
down, breaking however none of my bones, and causing only a little pain
and loss of blood. “Ponto!—curse that dog; he’s after him,” cried a
voice, when the dog turned back, or else he must certainly have caught
me, as I had only power to run a short distance into some thick bushes,
where I lay down and listened to the following rebuke.
“You young rascal, how dared you to shoot at a fox—here, too, above
all places? Don’t you know that this is the very centre of the hunt?
Had you killed him, you would have been a lost man, an outcast from the
society of all good people, a branded vulpicide. Who do you think that
has the slightest regard for his own character would have received you
after that?”
“I really,” replied the offending youth, “mistook him for a hare.”
“Yes, and if you had killed such a hare, you should have eaten him, and
without currant jelly too.”
Now, if an humble individual of a fox may venture to give an opinion
upon such a momentous question, I will say that the practice of
destroying our breed for the purpose of preserving the quantity of
game, is, where it prevails, equally selfish and short-sighted. For
every fox thus destroyed hundreds of men are deprived of a day’s sport,
and sometimes more than that; and if none of us were spared, those
hundreds of hunters would become so many keen shooters—how could the
game preserver then keep up his stock as he did before? And where would
the wealthy capitalist rent his manor? After this unlucky adventure I
resolved in future to sleep with one eye open, and not without reason.
I had scarcely recovered from the injuries which I had suffered, and
had just settled in my kennel one morning about daybreak, coiling
myself up for the usual snooze all day, and sticking my nose into the
upper part of the root of my brush—the reason by the bye why the hairs
there are generally seen to be standing on end or turned backwards—when
I was startled by the voice of John Foster, whose name has been
mentioned before: “Eloo in; e-dhoick, e-dhoick, in-hoick, in-hoick.”
Disturbed by the unaccustomed sounds, I rose upon my fore-legs, and
pricking up my ears listened for a moment or two, when I heard the
rustling of the hounds running straight towards me, being led on by the
scent that was left in the track of my feet, which parts, especially
when heated by running, seem to leave more scent than any other part
of the body. Thus the same organ becomes at once the means of inviting
pursuit, and of escaping it. Off I went—the awful tongue of an old
hound ringing in my ear, and having about it surely some charm; for
no sooner had he opened than a score or two others of the pack came
rushing from all sides towards him, and then such a horrible din as
there was behind me. I ran—I flew, I knew not whither—I crossed a road
in the wood—and then such frantic screaming and shouting—“Tally-ho!
tally-ho!” mixed with the blast of Foster’s horn, that I was almost
mad with fright, and must have fallen a victim to my savage pursuers,
had not my brothers and sisters been disturbed by the clamour, and
consequently been the cause of the pack being divided into several
parts, thus enabling me to steal away towards the opposite side of the
wood, where I remained. My state was such that I could not be still,
as I ought, and I kept moving backwards and forwards and away from the
cry of the hounds, which at times hunted us in several packs, then all
together as they crossed each other, and then again separated. This had
gone on for nearly half an hour when, to my great joy, they all went
away with a frightful yell, leaving the wood and me miles behind them.
I was congratulating myself on my escape, and listening to hear if they
were returning, when I was startled by the sound of steps approaching,
and a panting, as of some animal in distress; it was one of my
brothers, evidently more beaten and terrified than myself, and who, on
hearing something move and not knowing it was I, ran back out of sight
in a moment, and I saw no more of him then. I remained where I was
hidden until I had partly recovered from my fears, and not hearing the
noise of hounds, had crept into some thick bushes, where I lay quiet,
when to my horror I again heard the halloo of the huntsman, who seemed
to be taking the hounds round the wood, with now and then the tongue
of a single hound; then, all on a sudden the deep voice of Sawyer,
the whipper-in, calling, “Tally-ho! there he goes; ’tis a mangy cub!”
In a minute every hound was after him, and in full cry for a quarter
of an hour; suddenly the noise ceased, and the fatal halloo, “Whoop!”
was often repeated by the men with “Tear him, boys; whoop! whoop!” And
that was the end of my poor, mangy brother. They then, not having seen
any other of us for some time, thought we were gone to ground, and
went away. Happy was I to hear that horn, which had before caused me
such terror, calling away the hounds, that, to judge from their loud
breathing as they passed near me, were not loath to go, for it was
nearly ten o’clock, and the heat most oppressive. They were mistaken
in thinking we were all gone away, although my brother and sisters had
taken advantage of the hounds running in the open, and had gone across
to the gorse-covert, from which my unfortunate brother just killed had
often, in consequence of his mangy state, been driven by our mother.
Again we had to thank that mother for our safety, for at the time
when we were all nearly dead with toil and alarm, it seems she took an
opportunity of running across the wood in front of the hounds, which
soon got on her scent, and followed her as she led them away for some
miles out of the covert. The huntsman then, convinced that they had got
on an old fox, as soon as the men could stop the hounds, immediately
brought them back to the covert where they had left us, hoping to kill
one of us young ones.
[Illustration: BREAKING COVER. BY S. HOWITT.]
It was not till some time after this memorable day that we ventured to
take up our quarters in the wood again. Our mother thought it right to
take us away to a covert about two miles distant, where, as the hounds
only hunted cubs at this early part of the season, there were no young
foxes; consequently, for that time, we were left undisturbed, and soon
began to feel as much at home as in the covert which we had left. Had
it not been for the shooters who frequently came with their spaniels,
we should have even preferred it; and they so frequently moved us that
we soon took little notice of them, except by going from one part of
the wood to the other. Indeed, we were rather benefited by them than
otherwise, for we occasionally picked up a wounded or dead bird, hare,
or rabbit, and after eating as much as we could, we always buried the
remainder, scratching a hole in the ground with our claws, and covering
it over with earth. Even this made us enemies; for when by accident
the dogs smelt it, and drew it out, the keepers immediately told their
master that if they were not allowed to kill the foxes, there would not
be a head of game left.
Constant disturbance after this induced us to return to the strong
gorse where we had previously been, and which was nearly impenetrable
by shooters; but we had not been here more than a few days, when,
about ten o’clock in the morning, towards the end of October, I was
again alarmed by hearing Foster the huntsman’s now well-known voice:
“Sawyer, get round the other side of the covert; if an old fox breaks
away, let him go, stop the hounds, and clap them back into the covert
again, and then they will get settled to a cub. In-hoick! e-dhoick!
e-dhoick!” I listened with breathless fear, and soon heard the rustling
of hounds on every side of me, then a solitary slight whimpering, and
Foster’s cheer, “Have at him, Truemaid; hoick! hoick!” These sounds,
frightful in my ears, sent every hound to the same spot; and I started
from my kennel, and got as fast as I could to the other side of the
gorse. I soon gladly returned, and meeting an old dog-fox that at
first I mistook for a hound, dashed away on one side before the pack
had crossed my line. They ran by me, and continued following the old
fox, till I heard “Tally-ho! gone away”; with a smacking of whips,
and “Hoick back, hoick back”; then for a few minutes all silent; and
then again the same terrible tongues drove me from my quarters. They
were not in pursuit of me in particular, but running after either
my mother or one of the rest or all of us, divided as they were into
different lots. One of these at last got fast on my track, and away
I went straight to the earth where we were born; but to my surprise
and disappointment I found it stopped up with a bundle of sticks,
and covered over with fresh earth; for it was not in that state when
I passed by it the night before. I waited for a few moments, and
tried to scratch an opening; but hearing the hounds hunting towards
me, I returned to the gorse, where they shortly followed me. Owing
to my being smaller than they were, I could easily run a good pace
in it, where they were obliged to go slowly; and running in the most
unfrequented tracks, I contrived to keep out of their way. At times
they were all quite silent, and could not hunt my scent at all, owing
probably to the ground and covert where the hounds had been running so
often being stained. This dreadful state of things went on for a length
of time, till at last I heard them halloo “Tally-ho! tally-ho! gone
away.” Shortly after this the hounds left the covert, hunting after
the fox which was seen to go away, and which again happened to be our
mother. The men soon found out their mistake; and as they were some
time absent, they must have had difficulty in stopping them, which at
first I heard them trying to do.
[Illustration: STOPPING HOUNDS. BY S. HOWITT.]
Meanwhile I had been flattering myself that I was safe, and that once
more I had escaped; but quickly I heard them coming back very quietly,
as if intending again to hunt me. Previously to this I had found a
rabbits’ burrow, into which I crept. I was luckily, as it happened,
too much distressed and too heated to remain there, and left it, and
went to the opposite side of the covert. At this time a cold storm of
wind and rain came on, notwithstanding which an old hound or two got on
my line of scent, and hunted it back the contrary way to that which I
had gone, till they came to the rabbit burrow, where they stopped, and
began baying and scratching with their feet at the entrance.
There can be little doubt that hounds have a language well understood
by each other, and I never can forget the noise made by the whole pack
as they all immediately came to the spot; the men hallooed “Whoop!
whoop! have at him, my lads”; and one was ordered to fetch a terrier,
and tools for digging. During the time they were at this, I stole away
from the covert in another direction, and so saved my life. It seems
they soon found out that I had left the earth, tried the covert over
again, and then went home, vowing my destruction another day.
This was warning enough to prevent my remaining longer in or near this
covert for the present. Venturing farther abroad, I returned to that in
which I had been disturbed by the shooters, and there frequently picked
up more wounded birds; I also found, in a field close by, part of a
dead sheep, which a shepherd had left for his dog. Some of this I took
away and buried. I was returning for another bit, when the rough dog,
which had just arrived, suspecting that I had purloined his meat, flew
at me the instant he saw me with such fury that he knocked me over and
over again without getting hold of me. He then turned, and was in the
act of securing me with his teeth, when I gripped one of his legs and
bit it through; the pain which he suffered prevented him from more than
mumbling me with his teeth; so I got off, and made the best of my way
to the covert that evening.
I felt next day that, bruised as I was, I could not have escaped
for ten minutes from a pack of hounds had they found me; I therefore
lost no time in reaching a main earth, into which I got before the
earth-stopper had put to; but I had scarcely done so when he came at
daylight, and to my great dismay stopped it up. I remained there all
day and till late at night, and no one came to open it, and had I
not contrived to scratch my way out, I know not how long I might have
remained there, for I have reason to know that many of us are stopped
up in rocky earths and drains for weeks, and starved to death, owing to
the forgetfulness or sheer cruelty of the stoppers. I have heard such
sad tales as—but just now it would interrupt my story to tell them.
It so happened, my friends, that for some time I was not hunted by
hounds, and contrived to extend my rambles till I was acquainted with
a great part of the country. Occasionally lying in my kennel, if in
an open covert, and hearing a pack of hounds in full cry near, I moved
off in an opposite direction, but sometimes not without being seen by
some of the wide and skirting hunters, who lost their day’s sport in
riding after me and hallooing “Tally-ho!” but I always kept quiet in my
kennel when I heard hounds in full cry if I happened to be in a strong
gorse-covert. Thus passed off the greater part of the first winter of
my life.
On one occasion I was lying in rather an exposed place by the side of a
pit, in the middle of a field, when I saw a man pass by on horseback,
who, on seeing me, stopped, and after looking a short time, rode on.
Till the noise of his horse’s feet was out of hearing I listened,
and then stole away, which was most fortunate, for in the course of a
few hours the hounds were brought to the pit, the man having told the
huntsman where he had seen me, as he thought, asleep; though we foxes,
however it may seem, are seldom otherwise than wide awake.
When the month of February arrived, I showed my gallantry by going
and visiting an interesting young friend of mine of the other sex in a
large covert some distance off, and there, to my chagrin, I met no less
than three rivals.