“YOU had foxes up in Maine, I suppose Mr. Wood, hadn't you?” asked Mr.
Maxwell.
“Heaps of them. I always want to laugh when I think of our foxes, for
they were so cute. Never a fox did I catch in a trap, though I'd set
many a one. I'd take the carcass of some creature that had died, a
sheep, for instance, and put it in a field near the woods, and the foxes
would come and eat it. After they got accustomed to come and eat and
no harm befell them, they would be unsuspecting. So just before a
snowstorm, I'd take a trap and put it this spot. I'd handle it with
gloves, and I'd smoke it, and rub fir boughs on it to take away the
human smell, and then the snow would come and cover it up, and yet those
foxes would know it was a trap and walk all around it. It's a wonderful
thing, that sense of smell in animals, if it is a sense of smell. Joe
here has got a good bit of it.”
“What kind of traps were they, father?” asked Mr. Harry.
“Cruel ones steel ones. They'd catch an animal by the leg and sometimes
break the bone. The leg would bleed, and below the jaws of the trap it
would freeze, there being no circulation of the blood. Those steel traps
are an abomination. The people around here use one made on the same
principle for catching rats. I wouldn't have them on my place for any
money. I believe we've got to give an account for all the unnecessary
suffering we put on animals.”
“You'll have some to answer for, John, according to your own story,”
said Mrs. Wood.
“I have suffered already,” he said. “Many a night I've lain on my bed
and groaned, when I thought of needless cruelties I'd put upon animals
when I was a young, unthinking boy and I was pretty carefully brought
up, too, according to our light in those days. I often think that if I
was cruel, with all the instruction I had to be merciful, what can be
expected of the children that get no good teaching at all when they're
young.”
“Tell us some more about the foxes, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Maxwell.
“Well, we used to have rare sport hunting them with fox-hounds. I'd
often go off for the day with my hounds. Sometimes in the early morning
they'd find a track in the snow. The leader for scent would go back and
forth, to find out which way the fox was going. I can see him now. All
the time that he ran, now one way and now another on the track of the
fox, he was silent, but kept his tail aloft, wagging it as a signal to
the hounds behind. He was leader in scent, but he did not like bloody,
dangerous fights. By-and-by, he would decide which way the fox had gone.
Then his tail, still kept high in the air, would wag more violently. The
rest followed him in single file, going pretty slow, so as to enable us
to keep up to them. By-and-by, they would come to a place where the fox
was sleeping for the day. As soon as he was disturbed he would leave his
bed under some thick fir or spruce branches near the ground. This flung
his fresh scent into the air. As soon as the hounds sniffed it, they
gave tongue in good earnest. It was a mixed, deep baying, that made the
blood quicken in my veins. While in the excitement of first fright, the
fox would run fast for a mile or two, till he found it an easy matter
to keep out of the way of the hounds. Then he, cunning creature, would
begin to bother them. He would mount to the top pole of the worm fence
dividing the fields from the woods. He could trot along here quite a
distance and then make a long jump into the woods. The hounds would
come up, but could not walk the fence, and they would have difficulty in
finding where the fox had left it. Then we saw generalship. The hounds
scattered in all directions, and made long detours into the woods and
fields. As soon as the track was lost, they ceased to bay, but the
instant a hound found it again, he bayed to give the signal to the
others. All would hurry to the spot, and off they would go baying as
they went.
“Then Mr. Fox would try a new trick. He would climb a leaning tree, and
then jump to the ground. This trick would soon be found out. Then
he'd try another. He would make a circle of a quarter of a mile in
circumference. By making a loop in his course, he would come in behind
the hounds, and puzzle them between the scent of his first and following
tracks. If the snow was deep, the hounds had made a good track for him.
Over this he could run easily, and they would have to feel their way
along, for after he had gone around the circle a few times, he would
jump from the beaten path as far as he could, and make off to other
cover in a straight line. Before this was done it was my plan to get
near the circle; taking care to approach it on the leeward side. If the
fox got a sniff of human scent, he would leave his circle very quickly,
and make tracks fast to be out of danger. By the baying of the hounds,
the circle in which the race was kept up could be easily known. The last
runs to get near enough to shoot had to be done when the hounds' baying
came from the side of the circle nearest to me. For then the fox would
be on the opposite side farthest away. As soon as I got near enough
to see the hounds when they passed, I stopped. When they got on the
opposite side, I then kept a bright lookout for the fox. Sometimes when
the brush was thick, the sight of him would be indistinct. The shooting
had to be quick. As soon as the report of the gun was heard, the hounds
ceased to bay, and made for the spot. If the fox was dead, they enjoyed
the scent of his blood. If only wounded, they went after him with all
speed. Sometimes he was overtaken and killed, and sometimes he got into
his burrow in the earth, or in a hollow log, or among the rocks.
“One day, I remember, when I was standing on the outside of the circle,
the fox came in sight. I fired. He gave a shrill bark, and came toward
me. Then he stopped in the snow and fell dead in his tracks. I was a
pretty good shot in those days.”
“Poor little fox,” said Miss Laura. “I wish you had let him get away.”
“Here's one that nearly got away,” said Mr. Wood. “One winter's day, I
was chasing him with the hounds. There was a crust on the snow, and
the fox was light, while the dogs were heavy. They ran along, the fox
trotting nimbly on the top of the crust and the dogs breaking through,
and every few minutes that fox would stop and sit down to look at the
dogs. They were in a fury, and the wickedness of the fox in teasing
them, made me laugh so much that I was very unwilling to shoot him.”
“You said your steel traps were cruel things, uncle,” said Miss Laura.
“Why didn't you have a deadfall for the foxes as you had for the bears?”
“They were too cunning to go into deadfalls. There was a better way to
catch them, though. Foxes hate water, and never go into it unless they
are obliged to, so we used to find a place where a tree had fallen
across a river, and made a bridge for them to go back and forth on. Here
we set snares, with spring poles that would throw them into the river
when they made struggles to get free, and drown them. Did you ever hear
of the fox, Laura, that wanted to cross a river, and lay down on the
bank pretending that he was dead, and a countryman came along, and,
thinking he had a prize, threw him in his boat and rowed across, when
the fox got up and ran away?”
“Now, uncle,” said Miss Laura, “you're laughing at me. That couldn't be
true.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Wood, chuckling; “but they're mighty cute at
pretending they're dead. I once shot one in the morning, carried him a
long way on my shoulders, and started to skin him in the afternoon, when
he turned around and bit me enough to draw blood. At another time I dug
one out of a hole in the ground. He feigned death. I took him up and
threw him down at some distance, and he jumped up and ran into the
woods.”
“What other animals did you catch when you were a boy?” asked Mr.
Maxwell.
“Oh, a number. Otters and beavers we caught them in deadfalls and in
steel traps. The mink we usually took in deadfalls, smaller, of course,
than the ones we used for the bears. The musk-rat we caught in box traps
like a mouse trap. The wild-cat we ran down like the loup cervier.”
“What kind of an animal is that?” asked Mr. Maxwell.
“It is a lynx, belonging to the cat species. They used to prowl about
the country killing hens, geese, and sometimes sheep. They'd fix their
tusks in the sheep's neck and suck the blood. They did not think much
of the sheep's flesh. We ran them down with dogs. They'd often run up
trees, and we'd shoot them. Then there were rabbits that we caught,
mostly in snares. For musk-rats, we'd put a parsnip or an apple on the
spindle of a box trap. When we snared a rabbit, I always wanted to
find it caught around the neck and strangled to death. If they got half
through the snare and were caught around the body, or by the hind legs,
they'd live for some time, and they'd cry just like a child. I like
shooting them better, just because I hated to hear their pitiful cries.
It's a bad business this of killing dumb creatures, and the older I get,
the more chicken-hearted I am about it.”
“Chicken-hearted I should think you are,” said Mrs. Wood. “Do you know,
Laura, he won't even kill a fowl for dinner. He gives it to one of the
men to do.”
“'Blessed are the merciful,'” said Miss Laura, throwing her arm over her
uncle's shoulder. “I love you, dear Uncle John, because you are so kind
to every living thing.”
“I'm going to be kind to you now,” said her uncle, “and send you to bed.
You look tired.”
“Very well,” she said, with a smile. Then bidding them all good-night,
she went upstairs. Mr. Wood turned to Mr. Maxwell. “You're going to stay
all night with us, aren't you?”
“So Mrs. Wood says,” replied the young man, with a smile.
“Of course,” she said. “I couldn't think of letting you go back to the
village such a night as this. It's raining cats and dogs but I mustn't
say that, or there'll be no getting you to stay. I'll go and prepare
your old room next to Harry's.” And she bustled away.
The two young men went to the pantry for doughnuts and milk, and Mr.
Wood stood gazing down at me. “Good dog,” he said; “you look as if you
sensed that talk to-night. Come, get a bone, and then away to bed.”
He gave me a very large mutton bone, and I held it in my mouth, and
watched him opening the woodshed door. I love human beings; and the
saddest time of day for me is when I have to be separated from them
while they sleep.
“Now, go to bed and rest well, Beautiful Joe,” said Mr. Wood, “and
if you hear any stranger round the house, run out and bark. Don't be
chasing wild animals in your sleep, though. They say a dog is the only
animal that dreams. I wonder whether it's true?” Then he went into the
house and shut the door.
I had a sheepskin to lie on, and a very good bed it made. I slept
soundly for a long time; then I waked up and found that, instead of rain
pattering against the roof, and darkness everywhere, it was quite light.
The rain was over, and the moon was shining beautifully. I ran to the
door and looked out. It was almost as light as day. The moon made it
very bright all around the house and farm buildings, and I could look
all about and see that there was no one stirring. I took a turn around
the yard, and walked around to the side of the house, to glance up at
Miss Laura's window. I always did this several times through the night,
just to see if she was quite safe. I was on my way back to my bed, when
I saw two small, white things moving away down the lane. I stood on the
veranda and watched them. When they got nearer, I saw that there was a
white rabbit hopping up the road, followed by a white hen.
It seemed to me a very strange thing for these creatures to be out this
time of night, and why were they coming to Dingley Farm? This wasn't
their home. I ran down on the road and stood in front of them.
Just as soon as the hen saw me, she fluttered in front of the rabbit,
and, spreading out her wings, clucked angrily, and acted as if she would
peck my eyes out if I came nearer.
I saw that they were harmless creatures, and, remembering my adventure
with the snake, I stepped aside. Besides that, I knew by their smell
that they had been near Mr. Maxwell, so perhaps they were after him.
They understood quite well that I would not hurt them, and passed by
me. The rabbit went ahead again and the hen fell behind. It seemed to me
that the hen was sleepy, and didn't like to be out so late at night, and
was only following the rabbit because she thought it was her duty.
He was going along in a very queer fashion, putting his nose to the
ground, and rising up on his hind legs, and sniffing the air, first on
this side and then on the other, and his nose going, going all the time.
He smelled all around the house till he came to Mr. Maxwell's room at
the back. It opened on the veranda by a glass door, and the door stood
ajar. The rabbit squeezed himself in, and the hen stayed out. She
watched for a while, and when he didn't come back, she flew upon the
back of a chair that stood near the door, and put her head under her
wing.
I went back to my bed, for I knew they would do no harm. Early in the
morning, when I was walking around the house, I heard a great shouting
and laughing from Mr. Maxwell's room. He and Mr. Harry had just
discovered the hen and the rabbit; and Mr. Harry was calling his mother
to come and look at them. The rabbit had slept on the foot of the bed.
Mr. Harry was chaffing Mr. Maxwell very much, and was telling him that
any one who entertained him was in for a traveling menagerie. They had
a great deal of fun over it, and Mr. Maxwell said that he had had that
pretty, white hen as a pet for a long time in Boston. Once when she had
some little chickens, a frightened rabbit, that was being chased by
a dog, ran into the yard. In his terror he got right under the hen's
wings, and she sheltered him, and pecked at the dog's eyes, and kept
him off till help came. The rabbit belonged to a neighbor's boy, and
Mr. Maxwell bought it from him. From the day the hen protected him, she
became his friend, and followed him everywhere.
I did not wonder that the rabbit wanted to see his master. There was
something about that young man that made dumb animals just delight in
him. When Mrs. Wood mentioned this to him he said, “I don't know why
they should I don't do anything to fascinate them.”
“You love them,” she said, “and they know it. That is the reason.”