No wild animal dies of old age. Its life has soon or late a tragic end.
It is only a question of how long it can hold out against its foes. But
Rag's life was proof that once a rabbit passes out of his youth he is
likely to outlive his prime and be killed only in the last third of
life, the downhill third we call old age.
The Cottontails had enemies on every side. Their daily life was a
series of escapes. For dogs, foxes, cats, skunks, coons, weasels, minks,
snakes, hawks, owls, and men, and even insects were all plotting to kill
them. They had hundreds of adventures, and at least once a day they had
to fly for their lives and save themselves by their legs and wits.
More than once that hateful fox from Springfield drove them to taking
refuge under the wreck of a barbedwire hog-pen by the spring. But once
there they could look calmly at him while he spiked his legs in vain
attempts to reach them.
Once or twice Rag when hunted had played off the hound against a skunk
that had seemed likely to be quite as dangerous as the dog.
Once he was caught alive by a hunter who had a hound and a ferret to
help him. But Rag had the luck to escape next day, with a yet deeper
distrust of ground holes. He was several times run into the water by the
cat, and many times was chased by hawks and owls, but for each kind
of danger there was a safeguard. His mother taught him the principal
dodges, and he improved on them and made many new ones as he grew older.
And the older and wiser he grew the less he trusted to his legs, and the
more to his wits for safety.
Ranger was the name of a young hound in the neighborhood. To train him
his master used to put him on the trail of one of the Cottontails. It
was nearly always Rag that they ran, for the young buck enjoyed the runs
as much as they did, the spice of danger in them being just enough for
zest. He would say:
"Oh, mother! here comes the dog again, I must have a run to-day."
"You are too bold, Raggy, my son!" she might reply. "I fear you will
run once too often."
"But, mother, it is such glorious fun to tease that fool dog, and it's
all good training. I'll thump if I am too hard pressed, then you can
come and change off while I get my second wind."
On he would come, and Ranger would take the trail and follow till Rag
got tired of it. Then he either sent a thumping telegram for help, which
brought Molly to take charge of the dog, or he got rid of the dog by
some clever trick. A description of one of these shows how well Rag had
learned the arts of the woods.
He knew that his scent lay best near the ground, and was strongest when
he was warm. So if he could get off the ground, and be left in peace for
half an hour to cool off, and for the trail to stale, he knew he
would be safe. When, therefore, he tired of the chase, he made for the
Creekside brier-patch, where he 'wound'--that is, zig-zagged--till he
left a course so crooked that the dog was sure to be greatly delayed in
working it out. He then went straight to D in the woods, passing one hop
to windward of the high log E. Stopping at D, he followed his back trail
to F; here he leaped aside and ran toward G. Then, returning on his
trail to J, he waited till the hound passed on his trail at I. Rag then
got back on his old trail at H, and followed it to E, where, with a
scentbaulk or great leap aside, he reached the high log, and running to
its higher end, he sat like a bump.
Ranger lost much time in the bramble maze, and the scent was very poor
when he got it straightened out, and came to D. Here he began to circle
to pick it up, and after losing much time, struck the trail which ended
suddenly at G. Again he was at fault, and had to circle to find the
trail. Wider and wider circles, until at last, he passed right under the
log Rag was on. But a cold scent, on a cold day, does not go downward
much. Rag never budged nor winked, and the hound passed.
Again the dog came round. This time he crossed the low part of the log,
and stopped to smell it. 'Yes, clearly it was rabbity,' but it was a
stale scent now; still he mounted the log.
It was a trying moment for Rag, as the great hound came sniff-sniffing
along the log. But his nerve did not forsake him; the wind was right; he
had his mind made up to bolt as soon as Ranger came half way up. But he
didn't come. A yellow cur would have seen the rabbit sitting there, but
the hound did not, and the scent seemed stale, so he leaped off the log,
and Rag had won.