THE LESSONS OF THE WILD
Night after night, for several weeks, the high, shrill barking of a she
fox was heard persistently along the lonely ridges of the hills. The
mother fox was sorrowing for her mate. When he came no more to the den,
she waited till night, then followed the broad, mingled trail of the
chase till she found out all that had happened. She was too busy,
however—too much driven by the necessities of those five blind sprawlers
in the musky depths of the burrow—to have much time for mourning. But
when the softly chill spring night lay quiet about her hunting, her
loneliness would now and then find voice.
[Illustration: “NIGHT AFTER NIGHT, . . . THE HIGH SHRILL BARKING OF A SHE
FOX WAS HEARD.”]
Her hunting was now carried on with the utmost caution. For a time, while
her puppies were still blind, she lay in her den all day long, nursing
them, and never stirring abroad till the piping of the frogs in the
valley pools proclaimed the approach of twilight. Then she would mount
the hill and descend into the next valley before beginning to hunt. She
would take every precaution to disguise her tracks while in the
neighbourhood of her den. Wherever possible, she would steal through the
pungent-scented, prickly dwarf-juniper bushes, whose smell disguised her
own strong scent, and whose obstinate sharpness was a deterrent to
meddlesome and inquisitive noses. Not until she had passed through a belt
of particularly rough, stony ground near the top of the hill would she
allow her attention to be absorbed in the engrossing labours of the hunt.
Once in what she held a safe region, however, she flung her precautions
aside and hunted vehemently. The cubs as yet being entirely dependent
upon her milk, it was her first care that she herself should be well fed.
Her chief dependence was the wood-mice, whose tiny squeaks she could
detect at an astonishing distance. Next in abundance and availability to
these were the rabbits, whom she would lie in wait for and pounce upon as
they went by. Once in awhile an unwary partridge afforded her the relish
of variety; and once in awhile, descending to the marshy pools, she was
cunning and swift enough to capture a wild duck. But the best and easiest
foraging of all was that which, just now when she most needed it, she
least dared to allow herself. The hens, and ducks, and geese, and turkeys
of the scattered backwoods farms were now, with the sweet fever of spring
in their veins, vagrant and careless. But while she had the little ones
to consider, she would not risk drawing to herself the dangerous
attention of men. She did permit herself the luxury of a fat goose from a
farmyard five miles away in the other valley. And a couple of pullets she
let herself pick up at another farm half a mile beyond. But in her own
valley, within a couple of miles of her lair, all the poultry were safe
from tooth of hers. She would pass a flock of waddling ducks, near home,
without condescending to notice their attractions. Notoriety, in her own
neighbourhood, was the last thing she desired. She had no wish to
advertise herself.
Thanks to this wise caution, the slim red mother saw no menace approach
her den, and went on cherishing her little ones in peace. For a time she
heard no more of that ominous hunting music down in the plain, for the
hound’s well-bitten joint was long in healing. He could not hunt for the
soreness of it; and the black and white mongrel did not care to hunt
alone, or lacked the expertness to follow the scent. When at length the
baying and barking chorus once more came floating softly up to her
retreat, somewhat muffled now by the young leafage which had burst out
greenly over the hillside, she was not greatly disturbed. She knew it was
no trail of hers that they were sniffing out. But she came to the door of
her den, nevertheless, and peered forth. Then she emerged altogether, and
stood listening with an air of intense hostility, untouched by the
philosophic, half-derisive interest which had been the attitude of her
slaughtered mate. As she stood there with bared fangs and green-glinting,
narrowed gaze, a little group of pointed noses and inquiring ears and
keen, mischievous, innocently shrewd eyes appeared in the doorway of the
den behind her. The sound was a novel one to them. But their mother’s
attitude showed plainly that it was also a dangerous and hateful sound,
so they stayed where they were instead of coming out to make
investigations. Thus early in their lives did they hear that music which
is the voice of doom to so many foxes.
As spring ripened toward summer over the warm lowlands and windy uplands,
and the aerial blue tones of far-off Ringwaak deepened to rich purples
with the deepening of the leafage, the little foxes spent more and more
of their time outside the door of their den, and took a daily widening
interest in the wonderful, radiant, outer world. Though they little knew
it, they were now entering the school of life, and taking their first
lessons from the inexorable instructress, Nature. Being of keen wits and
restless curiosity, they were to be counted, of course, among Nature’s
best pupils, marked out for much learning and little castigation. Yet
even for them there was discipline in store, to teach them how sternly
Nature exacts a rigid observance of her rules.
In mornings, as soon as the sun shone warm upon the face of the bank, the
mother would come forth, still sluggish from her night’s hunting, and
stretch herself out luxuriously on the dry turf a few paces below the
mouth of the den. Then would come the cubs, peering forth cautiously
before adventuring into the great world. As the mother lay there at full
length, neck and legs extended and white-furred belly turned up to the
warmth, the cubs would begin by hurling themselves upon her with a chorus
of shrill, baby barking. They would nip and maul and worry her till
patience was no longer a virtue; whereupon she would shake them off,
spring to her feet with a faint mutter of warning, and lie down again in
another place. This action the puppies usually accepted as a sign that
their mother did not want to play any more. Then there would be, for some
minutes, a mad scuffle and scramble among themselves, with mock rages and
infantile snarlings, till one would emerge on top of the rolling heap,
apparently victor. Upon this, as if by mutual consent, the bunch would
scatter, some to lie down with lolling tongues and rest, and some to set
about an investigation of the problems of this entertaining world.
All five of these brisk puppies were fine specimens of their kind, their
woolly puppy coats of a bright rich ruddy tone, their slim little legs
very black and clean, their noses alertly inquisitive to catch everything
that went on, their pale yellow eyes bright with all the crafty sagacity
of their race. But there was one among them who always came out on top of
the scramble; and who, when the scramble was over, always had something
so interesting to do that he had no time to lie down and rest. He was
just a trifle larger than any of his fellows; his coat was of a more
emphatic red; and in his eyes there was a shade more of that intelligence
of glance which means that the brain behind it can reason. It was he who
first discovered the delight of catching beetles and crickets for himself
among the grass stems, while the others waited for their mother to show
them how. It was he who was always the keenest in capturing the mice and
shrews which the mother would bring in alive for her little ones to
practise their craft upon. And he it was alone of all the litter who
learned how to stalk a mouse without any teaching from his mother,
detecting the tiny squeak as it sounded from under a log fifty feet or
more from the den, and creeping up upon it with patient stealth, and
lying in wait for long minutes absolutely motionless, and finally
springing triumphantly upon the tiny, soft, gray victim. He seemed to
inherit with special fulness and effectiveness that endowment of
ancestral knowledge which goes by the name of instinct. But at the same
time he was peculiarly apt in learning from his mother, who was tireless
in teaching her puppies, to the best of her ability, whatever it behoved
small foxes to know and believe.
[Illustration: “THE PUPPY FLUNG HIMSELF UPON IT WITHOUT A SIGN OF FEAR.”]
At this stage in their development she brought in the widest variety of
game, large and small, familiarizing the puppies with the varied
resources of the forest. But large game, such as rabbits and woodchucks,
she brought in dead, because a live rabbit might escape by one of its
wild leaps, and a woodchuck, plucky to the last gasp and armed with
formidable teeth, might kill one of its baby tormentors. Partridges, too,
and poultry, and all strong-winged and adult birds, she brought in with
necks securely broken, lest they should escape by timely flight. It was
only young birds and very small animals that were allowed the privilege
of helping along the education of the red fox litter.
One day she brought in a black snake, holding its head in her mouth
uncrushed, while its rusty, writhing body twined about her head and neck.
At her low call the cubs came tumbling eagerly from the burrow, wondering
what new game she had for them. But at the sight of the snake they
recoiled in alarm. At least, they all but one recoiled. The reddest and
largest of the family rushed with a baby growl to his mother’s
assistance, and tried to tear the writhing coils from her neck. It was a
vain effort, of course. But when the old fox, with the aid of her fore
paws, wrenched herself free and slapped the trailing length upon the
ground, the puppy flung himself upon it without a sign of fear and
arrested its attempt at flight. In an instant its tense coils were
wrapped about him. He gave a startled yelp, while the rest of the litter
backed yet farther off in their dismay. But the next moment, remembering
probably how he had seen his mother holding this strange and unmanageable
antagonist, he made a successful snap and caught the snake just where the
neck joined the head. One savage, nervous crunch of his needle-like young
teeth, and the spinal cord was cleanly severed. The tense coils relaxed,
fell away. And proudly setting both fore paws upon his victim’s body, the
young conqueror fell to worrying it as if it had been a mere mouse. He
had learned how to handle a snake of the non-poisonous species. As there
were no rattlers or copperheads in the Ringwaak country, that was really
all he needed to know on the subject of snakes. Emboldened by his easy
victory, and seeing that the victim showed no sign of life except in its
twitching tail, the other four youngsters now took a hand in the game,
till there was nothing left of the snake but scattered fragments.
As the young foxes grew in strength and enterprise, life became more
exciting for them. The mother still did her hunting by night, and still
rested by day, keeping the youngsters still close about the door of the
burrow. In her absence they kept scrupulously out of sight, and silent;
but while she was there basking in the sun, ready to repel any dangerous
intruder, they felt safe to roam a little, along the top of the bank and
in the fringes of the thickets.
One day toward noon, when the sky was clear and the shadows of the leaves
lay small and sharp, a strange, vast shadow sailed swiftly over the face
of the bank, and seemed to hover for an instant. The old fox leaped to
her feet with a quick note of warning. The big red puppy, superior to his
brothers and sisters in caution no less than in courage, shot like a
flash under the shelter of a thick juniper-bush. The others crouched
where they happened to be and looked up in a kind of panic. In what
seemed the same instant there was a low but terrible rushing sound
overhead, and the great shadow seemed to fall out of the sky. One of the
little foxes was just on top of the bank, crouching flat, and staring
upward in terrified amazement. The mother, well understanding the fate
that impended, sprang toward him with a screeching howl, hoping to
frighten away the marauder. But the great goshawk was not one to be
scared by noise. There was a light blow, a throttled yelp, a sudden
soundless spread of wide wings, then a heavy flapping; and just as the
frantic mother arrived upon the spot the huge bird sprang into the air,
bearing a little, limp, red form in the clutch of his talons. When he was
gone the rest of the puppies ran shivering to their mother,—all but Red
Fox himself, who continued to stare thoughtfully from the covert of his
juniper-bush for some minutes. For a long time after that experience he
never failed to keep a sharp watch upon the vast blue spaces overhead,
which looked so harmless, yet held such appalling shapes of doom.
It was not long after this event, and before the mother had begun to take
her young ones abroad upon the serious business of hunting, that the Fate
of the wood kindreds struck again at the little family of the burrow. It
was just in the most sleepy hour of noon. The old fox, with one of the
puppies stretched out beside her, was dozing under a bush some distance
down the bank. Two others were digging fiercely in a sandy spot on top of
the bank, where they imagined perhaps, or merely pretended to imagine,
some choice titbit had been buried. A few paces away Red Fox himself,
busy, and following his own independent whim as usual, was intent upon
stalking some small creature, mouse or beetle or cricket, which had set a
certain tuft of grains twitching conspicuously. Some live thing, he knew,
was in that tuft of grains. He would catch it, anyway; and if it was good
to eat he would eat it.
Closer and closer he crept, soundless in movement as a spot of light. He
was just within pouncing distance, just about to make his pounce and pin
down the unseen quarry, when a thrill of warning ran through him. He
turned his head,—but fortunately for him he did not wait to see what
danger threatened him. Being of that keen temperament which can act as
swiftly as it can think, even as he was turning his head he made a
violent lightning-swift leap straight down the bank, toward his mother’s
side. At the same instant he had a vision of a ghostly gray, crouching,
shadowy form with wide green eyes glaring upon him from the embankment.
The very next moment a big lynx came down upon the spot which he had just
left.
Startled from their work of digging in the sand, the two puppies looked
up in wonder. They saw their enterprising brother rolling over and over
down the bank. They saw their mother leaping toward them with a fierce
cry. They sprang apart, with that sound impulse to scatter which Nature
gives to her weak children. Then upon one of them a big muffled paw,
armed with claws like steel, came down irresistibly, crushing out the
small, eager life. He was snatched up by a pair of strong jaws; and the
lynx went bounding away lightly over the bushes with his prize. Finding
himself savagely pursued by the mother fox, he ran up the nearest tree, a
spreading hemlock, and crouched in the crotch of a limb with his victim
under one paw. As the mother circled round and round below, springing up
against the trunk in voiceless rage, the lynx glared down on her with
vindictive hissings and snarlings. He was really more than a match for
her, both in weight and weapons; but he had no desire for a battle with
her mother-fury. For perhaps ten minutes she raged against the base of
the impregnable trunk. Then realizing her impotence, she turned
resolutely away and went back to her three remaining little ones.
For some days now the fox family was particularly cautious. They kept
close beside their mother all the time, trembling lest the flame-eyed
terror should come back.
Among the wild kindreds, however, an experience of this sort is soon
forgotten, in a way. Its lesson remains, indeed, but the shock, the panic
fear, fades out. In a little while the green summer world of the hillside
was as happy and secure as ever to the fox family, except that a more
cunning caution, now grown instinctive and habitual, was carried into
their play as into their work.
[Illustration: “HE RAN UP THE NEAREST TREE.”]
Work, in fact, now began to enter the lives of the three little foxes,
work which to them had all the zest of play. Their mother began to take
them hunting with her, in the moonlight or the twilight. They learned to
lie in wait beside the glimmering runways, and pounce unerringly upon the
rabbit leaping by. They learned to steal up and catch the brooding
partridge, which was a task to try the stealth of the craftiest stalker.
They learned to trace the grassy galleries of the meadow mice, and locate
the hidden scurriers by their squeaks and faint rustlings. And they
learned to relish the sweet wild fruits and berries beginning to ripen in
the valleys and on the slopes. The youngsters were now losing the woolly
baby look of their fur, and beginning to show a desire of independence
which kept their mother busy watching lest they should get themselves
into mischief. With their independence came some unruliness and
overconfidence, natural enough in men or foxes when they first begin to
realize their powers. But of the three, Red Fox, who surpassed his
brother and sister no less in stature and intelligence than in the vivid
colouring of his young coat, was by far the least unruly. It was no small
part of his intelligence that he knew how much better his mother knew
than he. When she signalled danger, or caution, or watchfulness, he was
all attention instantly to find out what was expected of him; while the
other two were sometimes wilful and scatter-brained. Taking it all in
all, however, the little family was harmonious and contented, and
managed, for all its tragedies, to get an immense amount of fun out of
its life in the warm summer world.
[Illustration: “LEARNED TO STEAL UP AND CATCH THE BROODING PARTRIDGE.”]