BLACK MARKS AND BIRCHINGS
Now came the critical time when the young foxes showed a disposition to
wander off and hunt by themselves; and at this stage of his education Red
Fox, whose quickness had hitherto saved him from any sharp discipline in
the school of Nature, came under the ferule more than once. Instinct
could not teach him everything. His mother was somewhat overbusy with the
other members of the family, who had shown themselves so much more in
need of her care. And so it came about that he had to take some lessons
from that rude teacher, experience.
The first of these lessons was about bumblebees. One afternoon, while he
was hunting field-mice in a little meadowy pocket half-way up the
hillside, his eager nose caught scent of something much more delicious
and enticing in its savour than mice. It was a smell of warmth and
sweetness, with a pungent tang; and instinct assured him confidently that
anything with a smell like that must be very good to eat. What instinct
forgot to suggest, however, was that anything so delectable was likely to
be expensive or hard to get. It is possible (though some say otherwise!)
to expect too much of instinct.
Field-mice utterly forgotten, his mouth watering with expectation, the
young fox went sniffing hungrily over the turf, following the vague
allurement hither and thither, till suddenly it steamed up hot and rich
directly under his nose. A big black and yellow bumblebee boomed heavily
past his ears, but he was too busy to notice it. His slim pink tongue
lolling out with eagerness, he fell to digging with all his might,
heedless of the angry, squeaking buzz which straightway began under his
paws.
The turf over the little cluster of comb was very thin. In a moment those
busy paws had penetrated it. Greedily Red Fox thrust his nose into the
mass of bees and honey. One taste of the honey, enchantingly sweet, he
got. Then it seemed as if hot thorns were being hammered into his nose.
He jumped backwards with a yelp of pain and astonishment; and as he did
so the bees came swarming about his eyes and ears, stinging furiously. He
ran for his life, blindly, and plunged into the nearest clumps of
juniper. It was the best thing he could do, for the stiff twigs brushed
off those bees which were clinging to him, and the rest, like all of
their kind, hated to take their delicate wings into the tangle of the
branches. They hummed and buzzed angrily for awhile outside the enemy’s
retreat, then boomed away to repair the damage to their dwelling. Within
his shelter, meanwhile, the young fox had been grovelling with hot
anguish, scratching up the cool, fresh earth and burying his face in it.
In a few minutes, finding this remedy insufficient, he crept forth and
slunk miserably down to the brook, where he could rub his nose and eyes,
his whole tormented head, indeed, in a chilly and healing mess of mud.
There was no better remedy in existence for such a hurt as his, and soon
the fever of the stings was so far allayed that he remembered to go home.
But he carried with him so strangely disfigured a countenance that the
rest of the family regarded him with disapproval, and he felt himself an
outcast.
For nearly two days Red Fox stayed at home, moping in the dark of the
burrow, and fasting. Then his clean young blood purged itself of the
acrid poison, and he came forth very hungry and bad-tempered. It was this
bad temper, and the recklessness of his unwonted hunger, that procured
him the second taste of Nature’s discipline.
It was late in the afternoon, and the rest of the family were not yet
ready to go a-hunting, so he prowled off by himself to look for a rabbit.
His appetite was quite too large to think of being satisfied with mice.
About a hundred yards above the den, as he crept stealthily through the
underbrush, he saw a black and white striped animal moving sluggishly
down a cattle path. It did not look at all formidable, yet it had an air
of fearlessness which at any other time or in any other mood would have
made so shrewd a youngster as Red Fox stop and think. Just now, however,
he was in no sort of humour to stop and think. He crouched, tense with
anticipation; waited till he could wait not another second; then bounded
forth from his hiding-place, and flung himself upon the deliberate
stranger.
[Illustration: “HE CROUCHED, TENSE WITH ANTICIPATION.”]
Red Fox, as we have seen, was extraordinarily quick. In this case his
rush was so quick that he almost caught the stranger unawares. His jaws
were almost about to snap upon the back of that striped neck. But just
before they could achieve this an astounding thing happened. The stranger
whirled as if for flight. His tail went up in the air with a curious
jerk. And straight in his eyes and nose and mouth Red Fox received a
volley of something that seemed to slap and blind and choke him, all
three at once. His eyes felt as if they were burnt out of his head. At
the same time an overpowering, strangling smell clutched his windpipe and
seemed almost to close up his throat in a paroxysm of repulsion. Gasping
desperately, sputtering and staggering, the unhappy youngster rushed
away, only to throw himself down and grovel wildly in the moss and
leaves, coughing, tearing at mouth and eyes with frantic paws, struggling
to rid himself of the hideous, throttling, slimy thing. And the skunk,
not turning to bestow even one scornful glance upon his demoralized
assailant, went strolling on indifferently down the cow-path, unafraid of
the world. As for the Red Fox, it was many minutes before he could
breathe without spasms. For a long time he rolled in the leaves and moss,
scrubbing his face fiercely, getting up every minute and changing his
place, till all the ground for yards about was impregnated with skunk.
Then he betook himself to a mound of dusty soil, and there repeated his
dry ablutions till his face was so far cleansed that he could breathe
without choking, and his scalded eyes were once more of some use to see
with. This accomplished, he went sheepishly home to the burrow,—to be
received this time with disgust and utter reprobation. His mother stood
obstinately in the doorway and snarled him an unequivocal denial.
Humiliated and heartsore, he was forced to betake himself to the hollow
under the juniper-bush above the den, where his valiant father had slept
before him. Not for three unhappy days was he allowed to enter the home
den, or even come very close to the rest of the family. Even then an
unprejudiced judge would have felt constrained to declare that he was
anything but sweet. But it really takes a very bad smell to incommode a
fox.
During the days when the curse of the skunk still lay heavy upon him, he
found that his adversity, like most others, had its use. His hunting
became distinctly easier, for the small wild creatures were deceived by
his scent. They knew that a skunk was always slow in movement, and
therefore they were very ready to let this unseen hunter, whose smell was
the smell of a skunk, come within easy springing distance. In this way,
indeed, Red Fox had his revenge for the grievous discomfiture which he
had suffered. For presently, it seemed, word went abroad through the
woods that some skunks were swift of foot and terrible of spring as a
wildcat; and thenceforth all skunks of the Ringwaak country found the
chase made more difficult for them.
In the meantime, the mother fox was beginning to get very nervous because
two of her litter were inclined to go foraging in the neighbourhood of
the farmhouse in the valleys. In some way, partly by example and partly
no doubt by a simple language whose subtleties evade human observation,
she had striven to impress upon them the suicidal folly of interfering
with the man-people’s possessions. Easy hunting, she conveyed to them,
was not always good hunting. These instructions had their effect upon the
sagacious brain of Red Fox. But to his brother and sister they seemed
stupid. What were ducks and chickens for if not to feed foxes; and what
were farmers for if not to serve the needs of foxes by providing chickens
and ducks? Seeing the trend of her offspring’s inclinations, the wise old
mother made up her mind to forsake the dangerous neighbourhood of the den
and lead her little family farther back into the woods, out of
temptation. Before she had quite convinced herself, however, of the
necessity of this move, the point was very roughly decided for her—and
Red Fox received another salutary lesson.
It came about in this way. One afternoon, a little before sundown, Red
Fox was sitting on a knoll overlooking the nearest farmyard, taking note
of the ways of men and of the creatures dependent upon men. He sat up on
his haunches like a dog, his head to one side, his tongue showing between
his half-open jaws, the picture of interested attention. He saw two men
working in the field just behind the little gray house. He saw the big
black and white mongrel romping in the sunny, chip-strewn yard with the
yellow half-breed, who had come over from a neighbouring farm to visit
him. He saw a flock of fat and lazy ducks paddling in the horse-pond
behind the barn. He saw, also, a flock of half-grown chickens foraging
carelessly for grasshoppers along the edge of the hay-field, and thought
wistfully what easy game they would be for even the most blundering of
foxes. In a vague way he made up his mind to study the man-people very
carefully, in order that he might learn to make use of them without too
great risk.
As he watched, he caught sight of a small red shape creeping stealthily
through the underbrush near the hay-field. It was his heedless brother;
and plainly he was stalking those chickens. Red Fox shifted uneasily,
frightened at the audacity of the thing, but sympathetically interested
all the same. Suddenly there was a rush and a pounce, and the small red
shape landed in the midst of the flock. The next moment it darted back
into the underbrush, with a flapping chicken swung over its shoulder;
while the rest of the flock, squawking wildly with terror, fled headlong
toward the farmyard.
At the sudden outcry, the dogs in the yard stopped playing and the men in
the field looked up from their work.
“That’s one o’ them blame foxes, or I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed one of
the men, the farmer-woodsman named Jabe Smith, whose knowledge of
wilderness lore had taught him the particular note of alarm which fowls
give on the approach of a fox. “We’ll make him pay dear for that chicken,
if he’s got one!” and the two hurried up toward the house, whistling for
the dogs. The dogs came bounding toward them eagerly, well knowing what
fun was afoot. The men got their guns from the kitchen and led the dogs
across the hay-field to the spot where the chickens had been feeding. In
five minutes the robber’s trail was picked up, and the dogs were in full
cry upon it. Red Fox, watching from his knoll behind the house, cocked
his ears as the musical but ominous chorus arose on the sultry air; but
he knew it was not he the dogs were hunting, so he could listen more or
less philosophically.
The reckless youngster who had stolen the chicken was terrified by the
outcry which he had excited at his heels; but he was plucky and kept hold
of his prize, and headed straight for the den, never stopping to think
that this was one of the deadliest sins on the whole of the fox kins’
calendar. Running for speed only, and making no attempt at disguising his
trail, he was nevertheless lucky enough to traverse a piece of stony
ground where the trail refused to lie, and then to cross the brook at a
point where it was wide and shallow. Here the pursuers found themselves
completely at fault. For a time they circled hither and thither, their
glad chorus hushed to an angry whimpering. Then they broke into cry
again, and started off madly down along the brook instead of crossing it.
They had a fresh fox trail; and how were they to know it was not the
trail of the fox which had taken the chicken?
[Illustration: “RED FOX, SITTING SOLITARY ON HIS KNOLL, HEARD THE NOISE
OF THE CHASE.”]
Red Fox, sitting solitary on his knoll, heard the noise of the chase
swerve suddenly and come clamouring in his direction. At first this did
not disturb him. Then all at once that subtle telepathic sense which
certain individuals among the wild kindreds seem to possess signalled to
him that the dogs were on a new trail. It was _his_ trail they were on.
_He_ was the hunted one, after all. And doom was scarcely a hundred yards
away. He fairly bounced into the air at the shock of this realization.
Then he ran, lengthened straight out and belly to the ground, a vivid
ruddy streak darting smoothly through the bushes.
It was not in the direction of home that Red Fox ran, but straight away
from it. For awhile the terror of the experience made his heart thump so
furiously that he kept losing his breath, and was compelled to slow up
from time to time. In spite of his bursts of great speed, therefore, he
was unable to shake off these loud-mouthed pursuers. The suddenness and
unexpectedness of it all were like a hideous dream; and added to his
panic fear was a sense of injury, for he had done nothing to invite this
calamity. When he reached the brook—which was shallow at this season and
split up into pools and devious channels—his sheer fright led him to
forget his keen aversion to a wetting, and he darted straight into it. In
midstream, however, as he paused on a gravelly shoal, inherited lore and
his own craft came timely to his aid. Instead of seeking the other shore,
he turned and kept on straight up mid-channel, leaping from wet rock to
rock, and carefully avoiding every spot which might hold his scent. The
stream was full of windings, and when the dogs reached its banks the
fugitive was out of sight. His trail, too, had vanished completely from
the face of the earth. Round and round in ever widening circles ran the
dogs, taking in both sides of the stream, questing for the lost scent;
till at last they gave up, baffled and disgusted.
Red Fox continued up the stream bed for fully a mile, long after he had
satisfied himself that pursuit was at an end. Then he made a long détour
to the rocky crest of the ridge, rested awhile under a bush, and
descended through the early moonlight to the home den in the bank. Here
he found his scatter-brained brother highly elated, having escaped the
dogs without difficulty and brought home his toothsome prize in triumph.
But his mother he found so anxious and apprehensive that she would not
enter the burrow at all, choosing rather to take her nap in the open,
under a juniper-bush, before setting out for the night’s hunting. Here
Red Fox curled up beside her, while the other two youngsters, ignorantly
reckless, stuck to the old home nest.
That night Red Fox contented himself with catching mice in the little
wild meadow up the slope. When he returned home, on the gray-pink edge of
dawn, his mother and sister were already back, and sleeping just outside
the door of the den, under the sheltering bush. But the triumphant young
chicken-hunter was still absent. Presently there floated up on the still,
fragrant air that baleful music of dogs’ voices, faint and far off but
unmistakable in its significance. The yellow half-breed and the black and
white mongrel were again upon the trail. But what trail? That was the
question that agitated the little family as they all sat upon their
brushes, and cocked their ears, and listened.
With astonishing rapidity the noise grew louder and louder, coming
straight toward the den. To the wise old mother there was no room to
mistake the situation. Her rash and headstrong whelp had once more got
the dogs upon his trail and was leading them to his home refuge. Angry
and alarmed, she jumped to her feet, darted into the burrow and out
again, and raced several times round and round the entrance; and first
Red Fox, and then his less quick-witted sister, followed her in these
tactics, which they dimly began to comprehend. Then all three darted away
up the hillside, and came out upon a well-known bushy ledge from which
they could look back upon their home.
They had been watching but a minute or two when they saw the foolish
fugitive run panting up the bank and dive into the burrow. At his very
heels were the baying and barking dogs, who now set up a very different
sort of chorus, a clamour of mingled impatience and delight at having run
their quarry at last to earth. The black and white mongrel at once began
digging furiously at the entrance, hoping to force his way in and end the
whole matter without delay. But the half-breed hound preferred to wait
for the men who would, he knew, soon follow and smoke the prisoner out.
He contented himself with sitting back on his haunches before the door,
watching his comrade’s futile toil, and every now and then lifting his
voice to signal the hunters to the spot. Meanwhile, the wise old mother
fox on the ledge above knew as well as he what would presently happen.
Having no mind to wait for the inevitable conclusion of the tragedy, she
slunk away dejectedly and led the two surviving members of her litter
over the ridge, across the next broad valley, and far up the slope of
lonely and rugged Ringwaak, where they might have time to mature in
strength and cunning before pitting their power against men.