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Red Fox — Part 3
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When the fox first hears the hounds baying in the distance he listens anxiously, and can soon tell by the course they are following whether they are on his trail or that of another fox; in the latter case he simply goes to sleep again, or watches the course of the hunt at a safe distance. But if he finds that the hounds are on his track, he stretches himself and starts off leisurely, planning all sorts of stratagems to throw off the scent.
It does not worry him in the least to have the dogs close on his heels; he knows that they are afraid to touch him, and that he can easily leave them miles behind whenever he cares to
I have more than once seen a fox turn and drive the hounds back when they got too close; so he trots along at his leisure, husbanding his strength and scheming to keep out of the way of the hunter. From time to time he will go back in his own footsteps for a distance, and then leap away to one side and go off in a new direction. Again he runs along on top of a rail fence or stone wall, or over the wet stones of a shallow brook.
One of his favourite tricks is to cross over deep water on thin ice just strong enough to bear him, knowing that in all probability the hounds will break though, and perhaps be swept under the ice if the current is strong enough; more than one valuable dog has been drowned in this manner, but I have never known a fox to miscalculate the strength of the ice and break through himself. If the stream is not wholly frozen over, he runs along at the very edge of the deep water, where the ice is thin and treacherous, until he comes to a place where he can jump across to the thin ice that reaches out from the opposite bank.
Then away he goes across the meadows, headed for some sheltered nook he knows of, where he may curl up in the sun on the warm pine needles and sleep until the noisy hounds, footsore and apparently all but exhausted, come panting up to awake him. When the snow is very light and dry, and just deep enough to make it harder for the fox than for the hounds, he has a much worse time of it; but it much oftener happens that while the hounds plunge in up to their breasts at every step, he skips off over the white surface without breaking through. Although he knows of three or four dens within easy reach, it is only when wounded or tired out by a long run in light snow that an old fox ever takes to earth, though last season's cubs sometimes become frightened when the hounds get too close, and allow themselves to be driven in.
Except in very rough weather, foxes prefer to sleep in the open air, in cool weather choosing the south side of a hill away from the wind.
While they do most of their hunting in the morning and evening twilight, they are up and about more or less at all hours of the day and night, and are frequently to be seen out after game at high noon in the hottest part of the summer, or sitting on their haunches dog-fashion in the middle of a meadow, listening for mice. Two years ago, in September, I was going through a piece of low, swampy woodland where every leaf dripped and shimmered from the late shower. The blue jays and thrushes were scolding at a hawk somewhere among the trees, and in order to find out what it was that disturbed them I imitated the cry of a young bird in distress as well as I could. In a few minutes a Cooper's hawk appeared and alighted in a low tree not far away; but he was not the only hunter that I had deceived, for while I was watching the hawk I caught sight of a young fox coming from another direction and already within three or four rods of me. The woods were fairly free from underbrush just there, and he was walking leisurely along over the wet leaves, looking about eagerly on all sides and then up at the blue jays that were screeching overhead. He looked as if just waked up from his nap, and kept shutting his eyes and yawning until his jaws stood at right angles with each other. Although but little more than half-grown, he had lost all trace of the fat, woolly appearance of a fox-cub; his new autumn coat of red fur was as bright and smooth and his legs as black as anything could be. He was absolutely unconscious of my presence, and for a few moments I saw the woods as they should be seen, and forgot that I myself was there; but only the fox and the yellow-eyed hawk and the blue jays and the wet leaves after the rain; all grouped to be seen once so clearly as to never grow indistinct in memory.