It was well known that there was an old fox with his family living in
the neighborhood, but no one supposed them so near.
This fox had been called 'Scarface,' because of a scar reaching from his
eye through and back of his ear; this was supposed to have been given
him by a barbed-wire fence during a rabbit hunt, and as the hair came in
white after it healed it was always a strong mark.
The winter before I had met with him and had had a sample of his
craftiness. I was out shooting, after a fall of snow, and had crossed
the open fields to the edge of the brushy hollow back of the old mill.
As my head rose to a view of the hollow I caught sight of a fox trotting
at long range down the other side, in line to cross my course. Instantly
I held motionless, and did not even lower or turn my head lest I should
catch his eye by moving, until he went on out of sight in the thick
cover at the bottom. As soon as he was hidden I bobbed down and ran to
head him off where he should leave the cover on the other side, and
was there in good time awaiting, but no fox came forth. A careful look
showed the fresh track of a fox that had bounded from the cover, and
following it with my eye I saw old Scarface himself far out of range
behind me, sitting on his haunches and grinning as though much amused.
A study of the trail made all clear. He had seen me at the moment I saw
him, but he, also like a true hunter, had concealed the fact, putting
on an air of unconcern till out of sight, when he had run for his life
around behind me and amused himself by watching my still-born trick.
In the springtime I had yet another instance of Scarface's cunning.
I was walking with a friend along the road over the high pasture. We
passed within thirty feet of a ridge on which were several gray and
brown boulders. When at the nearest point my friend said:
"Stone number three looks to me very much like a fox curled up."
But I could not see it, and we passed. We had not gone many yards
farther when the wind blew on this boulder as on fur.