tracking snow, and I was determined to trail the fox to her den. The
trail led down the old highway, but turned off to visit Solomon's
Orchard. This was a spot containing two ruined cellars, a large
clump of barberry-bushes, and some wild apple-trees, descendants of
a cultivated orchard. The fox did some foraging under the barberry
bushes, and a drop or two of blood on the snow indicated that she was
successful in capturing a wood-mouse. While I was looking for the trail
out of the orchard, I heard two hounds give tongue, and the tone
told me that they were hot on the trail. These hounds had come up the
old highway, and had struck the fox's trail just south of Solomon's
Orchard. Triplefoot had scented the hounds, and turned to the west,
into Magnolia Swamp. I pushed my way through the dense shrubbery, the
tracks of two dogs and a fox making a well-defined trail. The trail
led through the swamp and over the ridge to Wallace's Pond. The trail
crossed on the ice, and led me over Magnolia Avenue, just below the
lily-pond. I had come to the conclusion that Triplefoot was hunting
water, so as to throw the hounds of the scent. The cold weather was
against her. All the brooks and ponds were covered with ice. The trail,
after it crossed the road, led along the ridges to Mount Ann. From this
point the fox had shaped her course to Coffin's Beach. It was a long,
weary tramp, but I had enlisted and was bound to see it through.
[Illustration Triplefoot and Chickens]
When I had reached the sand-dunes of Coffin's Beach, I found the
snow had melted under the combined influence of sun and sand. Here
Triplefoot had thrown the hounds off, and had left me out of the hunt,
too. Not a track could be seen in the shifting white sand. It was an
old trick of the foxes, to resort to the sand-dunes, when there was a
dearth of water. There was one of two things for me to do; give up the
hunt and go home, or skirt the woods for Triplefoot's trail, where she
had left the beach. I decided on the latter course, and, as luck was
with me, found the trail in less than ten minutes. The fox returned by
way of Mount Ann and Dyke's Meadow, crossing Magnolia Swamp south of
Solomon's Orchard, and took to the ridges near the old quarry. The den
was under a big boulder, and, strange to tell, was only eight minutes'
walk from my cabin. It was dark when I found the den, so I had thrown
away a whole day looking for a thing that was in my own dooryard, so
to speak. Triplefoot reared a family during the season. In April she
stored two hens and a grouse in her den, so she would not have to hunt
when her cubs were born. I saw the feathers of the fowls, and knew that
the wise creature was putting food in cold storage for a day of need.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: TRIPLEFOOT'S DEN.]
When the fox cubs were old enough to come outside and play, I put in
many hours watching them with a good glass. There was no time that I
saw more than three, and I think that was the size of the family. There
was a flat boulder over the den, which sloped from the ground upward.
I was standing on this boulder one eve, when one of the cubs came out
of the den, and was in the act of climbing the ledge when he saw me. He
stopped, with his forepaws on the edge of the ledge, and coolly looked
me over. After he had satisfied his curiosity he went into the den, and
immediately returned with one of his mates. The little imp had probably
asked his brother to come out and name the comical two-legged beast.
The two cubs placed their feet on the ledge and looked at me for two
minutes. They were not over six feet from me, and looked as fat and
stocky as two young pigs.
[Illustration]
Triplefoot's life was one of worry and care, to say nothing about the
danger from mankind and the hounds. She had to find food for her hungry
cubs, and whichever way she turned, danger lurked on her trail. If she
hunted for wood-mice, the hounds were there to pick up her trail. Then
she had to seek water to throw them off. It would not do to go to the
den, where the hounds would soon dig out her little cubs, and shake the
life from their tender bodies. If she turned to some poultry-yard, the
chances were that she would find herself looking into the muzzle of
the farmer's shotgun. She was desperately wild, and so were the little
cubs when she was with them. A warning note from the mother worked like
magic. The little ones would crouch and creep to the mouth of the den,
and disappear as silently as three ghosts.
I saw Triplefoot return to the den one Sunday morning, empty-handed.
The cubs came out and whined pitifully when they missed the Sunday
breakfast. The old fox ordered them into the den, and then took the
path for Fresh Water Cove. I knew that a large flock of hens ran in
the bushes, near the highway, and Triplefoot knew it, too. In twenty
minutes she was back to the den with a large hen over her neck. She
called her cubs, and tore the hen to pieces, giving each cub a piece,
but reserving something for herself. The dining-room was about thirty
feet west of the den. It was under some small hemlocks, and the ground
was level and smooth. When all the foxes had had enough, there was a
small piece left. Triplefoot buried this piece under the oak leaves.
[Illustration Triplefoot and Chickens]
There was one thing that puzzled me in Triplefoot's way of hunting. I
could not understand why she did not go after poultry every day. East,
west, north, and south, there were flocks of fowls running at large,
and it would be a trifling exertion to snatch one from the bushes at
any hour of the day. Triplefoot may have reasoned that a fowl now and
then would not be missed, while a wholesale slaughter would attract
attention, and send the farmer to hunting for the den.
Triplefoot's cubs were killed that fall and winter, and she was left
childless. Her mate did not den in this locality, and without doubt was
shot, for Triplefoot did not rear a family the next spring. It happened
during my tramps in the woods that I often met Triplefoot. She soon
understood that I did not covet her glossy pelt, and she separated me
from mankind in general. I have known her to remain at the den when she
knew I was looking at her through a glass. She often led the hounds
through my dooryard, and, if I was about, the hounds got turned off the
trail.
[Illustration: "SHE STOPPED TO LOOK AROUND, AND SAW ME."]
[Illustration Triplefoot and Chickens]
I saw Triplefoot fool the hounds one fall. I was resting in the woods
when I heard the hounds in Magnolia Swamp. I understood what was going
on. Triplefoot was trying to throw them off, but the dogs had a good
scent, and all her efforts were useless. Near where I was sitting there
was a pine-tree turned up by the roots. The trunk of the tree was
about two feet from the ground, near the roots, but the ground fell
off rapidly, so the top, with the foliage, was over ten feet in the
air. While I was listening to the hounds, Triplefoot came in sight. She
passed close to the leaning pine, and kept on over the hill. There was
a small pond in the valley, below, and I thought Triplefoot was going
to the water to throw off the dogs. But I had erred. In a few minutes
she returned, doubling on her trail. When she had reached the pine, she
jumped to the tree, where it was four feet from the ground. She stopped
to look around, and saw me. The wind was against her, so she had to
be guided by sight. She seemed satisfied that the man was the hermit,
for she went into the thick foliage of the pine top and awaited the
hounds. The hounds passed by the tree without stopping, but returned
after following the trail to water. Both hounds passed by the tree, to
return in a few minutes. One hound had a suspicion that the tree might
harbor the fox. He put his paws on the tree-trunk, and smelt along as
far as he could reach, then gave it up. Triplefoot had been wise when
she jumped to the tree beyond the dog's reach. After the hounds left,
Triplefoot came out of the tree and circled around me. She wanted to
make sure that I was the hermit. I examined the pine-tree and found the
bark much scratched, where Triplefoot had jumped on to it. The evidence
showed that she had frequently resorted to the trick, to throw off the
hounds. I wish I might end the story of this little three-footed fox
in some happy way, but truth has ordered it otherwise. She was shot
when running before the hounds, but was not immediately killed. I found
her dead body while skirting Magnolia Swamp. She had crawled under a
boulder, and had slowly died from her wounds and exhaustion. I buried
her, and was glad that her beautiful robe and her mutilated body would
not be separated in death.
THE END.
[Illustration Triplefoot]
* * * * *
Transcriber Note
Minor typos corrected. Many of the blocks marked [Illustration] are
little cartoons added to delight the reader in the printed version.
Paragraphs split by illustrations were rejoined.