 SA-1 From Squirrels and Other Furbearers Walking through the early October woods one day, I came upon a place where the ground was thickly strewn with very large, unopened chestnut burrs. On examination I found that every burr had been cut square off with about an inch of the stem at hearing, and not one had been left on the tree. It was not accident then, but design. Who's design? A squirrels. The fruit was the finest I had ever seen in the woods, and some wise squirrel had marked it for his own. The burrs were ripe and had just begun to divide. The squirrel that had taken all these pains had evidently reasoned with himself thus. Now these are extremely fine chestnuts, and I want them. If I wait till the burrs open on the tree, the crows and jays will be sure to carry off a great many of the nuts before they fall. Then, after the wind has rattled out what remained, there are the mice, the chipmunks, the red squirrels, the raccoons, the grouse, to say nothing of the boys and the pigs to come in for their share. So I will forstall events a little. I will cut off the burrs when they have matured, and a few days of this dry October weather will cause every one of them to open on the ground. I shall be on hand in the nick of time to gather up my nuts. The squirrel, of course, had to take the chances of a prowler, like myself, coming along. But he had fairly stolen a march on his neighbors. As I proceeded to collect and open the burrs, I was half prepared to hear an audible protest from the trees about, for I constantly fancy myself watched by shy but jealous eyes. It is an interesting inquiry how the squirrel knew the burrs would open if left to lie on the ground a few days. Perhaps he did not know, but thought the experiment worth trying. One reason doubtless why squirrels are so bold and reckless in leaping through the trees is that if they miss their hold and fall, they sustain no injury. Every species of tree squirrel seems to be capable of a sort of rudimentary flying, at least of making itself into a parachute, so as to ease or break a fall or a leap from a great height. The so-called flying squirrel does this the most perfectly. It opens its furry vestments, leaps into the air, and sails down the steep incline from the top of the one tree to the foot of the next as lightly as a bird. But other squirrels know the same trick. Only their coat skirts are not so broad. One day my dog treat a red squirrel in a tall hickory that stood in a meadow on the side of a steep hill. To see what the squirrel would do when closely pressed, I climbed the tree. As I drew near he took refuge in the topmost branch, and then as I came on he boldly leaped into the air, spread himself out upon it, and with a quick, tremulous motion of his tail and legs, descended quite slowly and landed upon the ground thirty feet below me, apparently none the worse for the leap. After he ran with great speed and alluding the dog took refuge in another tree. A recent American traveler in Mexico gives a still more striking instance of this power of squirrels, partially to neutralize the force of gravity when leaping or falling through the air. Some boys had caught a Mexican black squirrel, nearly as large as a cat. It had escaped from them once, and when pursued had taken a leap of sixty feet from the top of a pine tree down upon the roof of a house, without injury. This feat had led the grandmother of one of the boys to declare that the squirrel was bewitched, and the boys proposed to put the matter to further test by throwing the squirrel down a precipice six hundred feet high. Our traveler interfered to see that the squirrel had fair play. The prisoner was conveyed in a pillow slip to the edge of the cliff, and the slip opened so that he might have his choice, whether to remain a captive or to take the leap. He looked down the awful abyss, and then back and sidewise, his eyes glistening, his form crouching. Seeing no escape in any other direction, he took a flying leap into space, and fluttered rather than fell into the abyss below. His legs began to work like those of a swimming poodle dog, but quicker and quicker, while his tail, slightly elevated, spread out like a feather fan. A rabbit of the same weight would have made the trip in about twelve seconds. The squirrel protracted it in more than half a minute, and landed on a ledge of limestone where we could see him plainly squat on his hind legs, and smooth his ruffled fur. After which he made for the creek with the flourish of his tail, took a good drink, and scampered away into the willow thicket. The story at first blush seems incredible, but I have no doubt our red squirrel would have made the leap safely. Then why not the great black squirrel, since its parachute would be proportionately large? The tails of the squirrels are broad and long and flat, not short and small like those of gophers, chipmunks, woodchucks, and other ground rodents, and when they leap or fall through the air, the tail is arched and rapidly vibrates. A squirrel's tail, therefore, is something more than ornament, something more than a flag. It not only aids him in flying, but it serves as a cloak which he wraps about him when he sleeps. In making the flying leap I have described, the animals' legs are widely extended, their bodies broadened and flattened, the tail stiffened and slightly curved, and a curious tremulous motion runs through all. It is very obvious that a deliberate attempt is made to present the broadest surface possible to the air, and I think a red squirrel might leap from almost any height to the ground without serious injury. Our flying squirrel is in no proper sense a flyer. On the ground he is more helpless than a chipmunk, because less agile. He can only sail or slide down a steep incline from the top of one tree to the foot of another. The flying squirrel is active only at night, hence its large, soft eyes, its soft fur, and its gentle shrinking ways. It is the gentlest and most harmless of our rodents. A pair of them for two or three successive years had their nest behind the blinds of an upper window of a large, unoccupied country house near me. You could stand in the room inside and observe the happy family through the window-pane against which their nest pressed. There on the windowsill lay a pile of large, shining chestnuts, which they were evidently holding against a time of scarcity, as the pile did not diminish when I observed them. The nest was composed of cotton and wool, which they filched from a bed in one of the chambers, and it was always in mystery how they got into the room to obtain it. There seemed to be no other avenue but the chimney-flu. Red and gray squirrels are more or less active all winter, though very shy, and I am inclined to think, partially nocturnal, in their habits. Here a gray one has just passed, came down the tree, and went up this. There he dug for a beech-nut, and left the burr on the snow. How did he know where to dig? During an unusually severe winter I have known him to make long journeys to a barn in a remote field where wheat is stored. How did he know there was wheat there? In attempting to return the adventurous creature was frequently run down and caught in the deep snow. His home is in the trunk of an old birch or maple, with an entrance far up amid the branches. In the spring he builds himself a summer-house of small leafy twigs in the top of a neighboring beach where the young are reared and much of the time passed, but the safer the retreat in the maple is not abandoned, and both old and young resort thither in the fall, or when danger threatens. Whether this temporary residence amid the branches is for elegance or pleasure, or for sanitary reasons or domestic convenience the naturalist has forgotten to mention. The elegant creature so cleanly in its habits, so graceful in its carriage, so nimble and daring in its movements, excites feelings of admiration akin to those awakened by the birds in the fairer forms of nature. His passage through the trees is almost a flight. Indeed the flying squirrel has little or no advantage over him, and in speed and nimbleness cannot compare with him at all. If he miss his footing and fall he is sure to catch on the next branch. If the connection be broken he leaps recklessly for the nearest spray or limb, and secures his hold, even if it be by the aid of his teeth. His career of frolic and festivity begins in the fall, after the birds have left us and the holiday spirit of nature has commenced to subside. How much his presence adds to the pleasure of a saunter in the still October woods. You step lightly across the threshold of the forest, and sit down upon the first log or rock to await the signals. It is so still that the ear suddenly seems to have acquired new powers, and there is no movement to confuse the eye. Presently you hear the rustling of a branch, and see it sway or spring as the squirrel leaps from or to it. Or else you hear a disturbance in the dry leaves, and mark one running upon the ground. He has probably seen the intruder, and not liking his stealthy movements desires to avoid a nearer acquaintance. Now he mounts a stump to see if the way is clear. Then pauses a moment at the foot of a tree to take his bearings, his tail as he skims along undulating behind him, and adding to the easy grace and dignity of his movements. Or else you are first advised of his proximity by the dropping of a false nut, or the fragments of the shucks rattling upon the leaves. Or again, after contemplating you a while unobserved, and making up his mind that you are not dangerous, he strikes an attitude on a branch, and commences to quack and bark, with an accompanying movement of his tail. Late in the afternoon, when the same stillness rains, the same scenes are repeated. There is a black variety, quite rare, but mating freely with the gray, from which it seems to be distinguished only in color. The red squirrel is more common and less dignified than the gray, and often are guilty of petty larceny about the barns and grain fields. He is most abundant in mixed oak, chestnut, and hemlock woods, from which he makes excursions to the fields and orchards, spinning along the tops of the fences, which afford not only convenient lines of communication, but a safe retreat if danger threatens. He loves to linger about the orchard, and sitting upright on the topmost stone in the wall, or on the tallest stake in the fence, chipping up an apple for the seeds, his tail conforming to the curve of his back, his paws shifting and turning the apple, he is a pretty sight, and his bright purr appearance atones for all the mischief he does. At home in the woods he is very frolicsome and loquacious. The appearance of anything unusual, if after contemplating anything in a moment, he concludes it not dangerous, excites his unbounded mirth and ridicule, and he snickers and chatters, hardly able to contain himself, now darting up the trunk of a tree and squilling in derision, then hopping into position on a limb, and dancing to the music of his own cackle, and all for your special benefit. There is something very human in this apparent mirth and mockery of the squirrels. It seems to be a sort of ironical laughter, and implies self-conscious pride and exultation in the laughter. What a ridiculous thing you are, to be sure, he seems to say. How clumsy and awkward, and what a poor show for a tale. Look at me! Look at me! And he capers about in his best style. Again he would seem to tease you and provoke your attention, then suddenly assumes a tone of good-natured, childlike defiance and derision. That pretty little imp, the chipmunk, will sit on the stone above his den and defy you as plainly as if he said so, to catch him before he can to get into his hole. A hard winter affects the chipmunks very little. They are snug and warm in their burrows in the ground and under the rocks, with a bountiful store of nuts or grain. I have heard of nearly a half-bushel of chestnuts being taken from a single den. They usually hole up in November and do not come out again till March or April, unless the winter is very open and mild. Grey squirrels, when they have been partly domesticated in parks and groves near dwellings, are said to hide their nuts here and there upon the ground, and in winter to dig them up from beneath the snow, always hitting the spot accurately. The red squirrel lays up no stores like the Providence Chipmunk, but scours about for food in all weathers, feeding upon the seeds in the cones of the hemlock that still cling to the tree, upon sumac bobs, and the seeds of frozen apples. I have seen the ground under a wild apple tree that stood near the woods completely covered with the chonkings of the frozen apples, the work of the squirrels in getting at the seeds. Not an apple had been left, and apparently not a seed had been lost. But the squirrels in this particular locality evidently got pretty hard up before spring, for they developed a new source of food supply. A young bushy top sugar maple, about forty feet high, standing beside a stone fence near the woods, was attacked and more than half denuded of its bark. The object of the squirrel seemed to be to get at the soft, white, musilaginous substance, cambion layer, between the bark and the wood. The ground was covered with fragments of the bark, and the white naked stems and branches had been scraped by fine teeth. When the sap starts in the early spring, the squirrels add this to their scanty supplies. They perforate the bark of the branches of the maples with their chisel-like teeth, and suck the sweet liquid as it slowly oozes out. It is not much as food, but evidently it helps. I have said the red squirrel does not lay by a store of food for winter use, like the chipmunk and the woodmice. Yet in the fall he sometimes hoards in a tentative temporary kind of way. I have seen his savings, butternuts and black walnuts, stuck here and there in saplings and trees near his nest. Sometimes carefully inserted in the upright fork of a limb or twig. One day, late in November, I counted a dozen or more black walnuts put away in this manner in a little grove of locust, chestnuts, and maples by the roadside, and could but smile at the wise forethought of the rascally squirrel. His supplies were probably safer that way than if more elaborately hidden. They were well distributed, his eggs were not all in one basket, and he could go away from home without any fear that his storehouse would be broken into in his absence. The next week, when I passed that way, the nuts were all gone but two. I saw the squirrel that doubtless laid claim to them on each occasion. There is one thing the red squirrel knows unerringly that I do not. There are probably several other things. That is, on which side of the butt or nut the meat lies. He always gnaws through the shell so as to strike the kernel broadside, and thus easily extract it. While to my eyes there is no external mark or indication in the form or appearance of the nut, as there is in the hickory nut, by which I can tell whether the edge or the side of the meat is toward me. But examine any number of nuts that the squirrels have rifled, and as a rule you will find they always drill through the shell at the one spot where the meat will be most exposed. Occasionally one makes a mistake, but not often. It stands them in hand to know, and they do know. Doubtless, if butter-muts were a main source of my food, and I were compelled to gnaw into them, I should learn, too, on which side my bread was buttered. The cheeks of the red and gray squirrels are made without pockets, and whatever they transport is carried in the teeth. They are more or less active all winter, but October and November are their festal months. Invade some butter-nut or hickory grove on a frosty October morning, and hear the red squirrel beat the juba on a horizontal branch. It is a most lively jig, what the boys call a regular breakdown, interspersed with the squirrels and snickers and derisive laughter. The most noticeable peculiarity about the vocal part of it is the fact that it is a kind of a duet. In other words, by some ventral loquil tricks he appears to accompany himself, as if his voice split up, apart forming a low guttural sound, and apart a shrill nasal sound. End of essay one. Essay two from Squirrels and Other Fur Bears. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Squirrels and Other Fur Bears by John Burroughs. Essay two. The Chipmunk. The first chipmunk in March is a sure a token of the spring as the first bluebird or the first robin, and is quite as welcome. Some genial influence has found him out there in his burr, deep under the ground, and waked him up, and enticed him forth into the light of the day. The red squirrel has been more or less active all winter. His track has dotted the surface of every new fall and snow throughout the season. But the chipmunk retired from view early in December, and has passed the rigorous months in his nest, beside his horde of nuts, some feet underground, and hence, when he emerges in March, and is seen upon his little journeys along the fences, or perched upon a log or rock near his hole in the woods, it is another sign that spring is at hand. His store of nuts may or may not be all consumed. It is certain that he is no sluggard to sleep away these first bright warm days. Before the first crocus is out of the ground, you may look for the first chipmunk. When I hear the little downy woodpecker begin his spring drumming, then I know the chipmunk is due. He cannot sleep after that challenge of the woodpecker reaches his ear. Apparently the first thing he does on coming forth, as soon as he is sure of himself, is to go courting. So far as I have observed, the love-making of the chipmunk occurs in March. A single female will attract all the males in the vicinity. One early March day I was at work for several hours near a stone fence, where a female had apparently taken up her quarters. What a train of suitors she had that day! How they hurried up and down, often giving each other a spiteful slap or a bite as they passed. The young are born in May, four or five at birth. The chipmunk is quite a solitary creature. I have never known more than one to occupy the same den. Apparently no two can agree to live together. What a clean, pert, dapper, nervous little fellow he is. How fast his heart beats as he stands on the wall by the roadside, and with hands spread out upon his breast, regards you intently. A movement of your arm, and he darts into the wall with a saucy chipper, which has the effect of slamming the door behind him. On some still day in autumn, one of the nutty days, the woods will often be pervaded by an undertone of sound, produced by their multitudinous clucking, as they sit near their dens. It is one of the characteristic sounds of the fall. I was much amused one October in watching a chipmunk carry nuts and other food into his den. He had made a well-defined path from his door out through the weeds and dry leaves into the territory where his feeding-ground lay. The path was a crooked one. It dipped under weeds, under some large, loosely piled stones, under a pile of chestnut-post, and then followed the remains of an old wall. Going and coming, his motions were like clockwork. He always went by spurts and sudden sallies. He was never for one moment off his guard. He would appear at the mouth of his den, look quickly about, take a few steps to his tusk of grass, pause a breath with one foot raised, slip quickly a few yards over some dry leaves, pause again by a stump beside a path, rush across the path to the pile of loose stones, go under the first and over the second, gain the pile of post, make his way through that, survey his course a half a moment from the other side of it, then dart onto some other cover, and presently beyond my range where I think he gathered acorns, as there were no other nut-bearing trees than oak sneer. In four or five minutes I would see him coming back, always keeping rigidly to the course he took going out, pausing at the same spots, darting over or under the same objects, clearing at a bound the same pile of leaves. There was no variation in his manner of proceeding all the time I observed him. He was alert, cautious, and exceedingly methodical. He had found safety in a certain course, and he did not at any time deviate a hair's breadth from it. Something seemed to say to him all the time, beware, beware. The nervous, impetuous ways of these creatures are no doubt the result of the life of fear which they lead. My chipmunk had no companion. He lived all by himself in true hermit fashion, as is usually the case with this squirrel. Provident creature that he is, one would think that he would long ago have discovered that heat, and therefore food, is economized by two or three nesting together. One day in early spring a chipmunk that lived near me met with a terrible adventure, the memory of which will probably be handed down through many generations of its family. I was sitting in the summer house, with Nick the cat upon my knee, when the chipmunk came out of its den a few feet away, and ran quickly to a pile of chestnut-post about twenty yards from where I sat. Nick saw it, and was off my lap upon the floor in an instant. I spoke sharply to the cat, when she sat down and folded her paws under her, and regarded the squirrel, as I thought, with only a dreamy kind of interest. I fancied she thought it a hopeless case there amid the pile of post. That is not your game, Nick, I said, so spare yourself any anxiety. Just then I was called to the house where I was detained about five minutes. As I returned I met Nick coming to the house with the chipmunk in her mouth. She had the air of one who had won a wager. She carried the chipmunk by the throat, and its body hung limp from her mouth. I quickly took the squirrel from her and reproved her sharply. It lay in my hand as if dead, though I saw no marks on the cat's teeth upon it. Presently it gasped for its breath, then again and again. I saw that the cat had simply choked it. Quickly the film passed off its eyes, its heart began visibly to beat, and slowly the breathing became regular. I carried it back and laid it down in the door of its den. In a moment it crawled or kicked itself in. In the afternoon I placed a handful of corn there, to express my sympathy, and as far as possible make amends for Nick's cruel treatment. Not till four or five days had passed did my little neighbor emerge again from its den, and then only for a moment. That terrible black monster with the large green-yellow eyes it might still be lurking near. How the black monster had captured the alert and restless squirrel so quickly under the circumstances was a great mystery to me. Was not its eye as sharp as the cat's, and its movements as quick? Yet cats do have the secret of catching squirrels, and birds, and mice, but I have never yet had the luck to see it done. It was not very long before the chipmunk was going to and from her den as usual, though the dread of the black monster seemed ever before her, and gave speed and extra alertness to all her movements. In early summer four young chipmunks emerged from the den, and ran freely about. There was nothing to disturb them, for alas, Nick herself was now dead. One summer day I watched a cat for nearly a half hour trying her arts upon a chipmunk that sat upon a pile of stone. Evidently her game was to stalk them. She had cleared half the distance, or about twelve feet, that separated the chipmunk from a dense Norway spruce, when I chanced to become a spectator of the little drama. There sat the cat, crouched low on the grass, her big yellow eyes fixed upon the chipmunk, and there sat the chipmunk at the mouth of his den, motionless, with his eyes fixed upon the cat. For a long time neither moved. Will the cat bind him with her fatal spell, I thought? Sometimes her head slowly lowered and her eyes seemed to dilate, and I fancied she was about to spring. But she did not. The distance was too great to be successfully cleared in one bound. Then the squirrel moved nervously, but kept his eye upon the enemy. Then the cat evidently grew tired and relaxed a little, and looked behind her. Then she crouched again and riveted her gaze upon the squirrel. But the latter would not be hypnotized. He shifted his position a few times, and finally quickly entered his den, when the cat soon slunk away. In digging his hole it is evident that the chipmunk carries away the loose soil. Never a grain of it is seen in the front of his door. Those pockets of his probably stand him in good stead on such occasions. Only in one instance have I seen a pile of earth before the entrance to a chipmunk's den, and that was where the builder had begun his house late in November, and was probably too much hurry to remove this ugly mark from before his door. I used to pass this place every morning in my walk, and my eyes always fell upon the little pile of red freshly dug soil. A little later I used frequently to surprise the squirrel furnishing his house, carrying in dry leaves of the maple and plain tree. He would seize a large leaf, and with both hands stuff it into his cheek-pockets, and then carry it into his den. I saw him on several different days occupied in this way. I trust he had secured his winter-stores, though I am a little doubtful. He was hurriedly making himself a new home, and the cold of December was upon us while he was yet at work. It may be that he had moved the stores from his old quarters wherever they were, and again it may be that he had been dispossessed of both his house and preventer by some other chipmunk. I have been told by a man who says he has seen what he avers, that the reason why we do not find a pile of fresh earth beside the whole of the chipmunk is this. In making his den, the workman continues his course through the soil a foot or more under the surface for several yards, carrying out the earth in his cheek-pouches and dumping it near the entrance. Then he comes to the surface and makes a new hole from beneath, which is, of course, many feet from the first hole. This ladder is now closed up, and henceforth the new one alone is used. I have no doubt this is the true explanation. When nuts are grain or not to be had, these thrifty little creatures will find some substitute to help them over the winter. Two chipmunks near my study were occupied many days in carrying in cherry pits, which they gathered beneath a large cherry tree that stood ten or twelve rods away. As Nick was no longer about to molest them, they grew very fearless and used to spin up and down the garden path, too, and from their source of supplies, in a way quite unusual with these timid creatures. After they had got enough cherry pits, they gathered the seed of a sugar-maple that stood near. Many of the keys remained upon the tree after the leaves had fallen, and these the squirrels harvested. They would run swiftly out upon the ends of the small branches, reach out for the maple keys, snip off the winds, and deftly slip the nut or samara into their cheek-pockets. Day after day in late autumn, I used to see them thus occupied. As I have said, I have no evidence that more than one chipmunk occupied the same den. One March morning after a light fall of snow, I saw where one had come up out of his hole, which was in the side of our path to the vineyard, and after a moment's survey of the surroundings had started off on his travels. I followed the track to see where he had gone. He had passed through my wood-pile, then under the beehives, then around the study, and under some spruces and along the slope of the hole of a friend of his, about sixty yards from his own. Apparently he had gone in here, and then his friend had come forth with him, for there were two tracks leading from his doorway. I followed them to a third humble entrance, not far off, where the tracks were so numerous that I lost the trail. It was pleasing to see the evidence of their morning sociability, written there upon the new snow. One of the enemies of the chipmunk, as I discovered lately, is the weasel. I was sitting in the woods one day when I heard a small cry, and a rustling amid the branches of a tree, a few rods behind me. Looking thither, I saw a chipmunk fall through the air, and catch on a limb twenty or more feet from the ground. He appeared to have dropped from near the top of the tree. He secured his hold upon the small branch that had luckily intercepted his fall, and sat perfectly still. In a moment more I saw a weasel, one of the smaller red varieties, come down the trunk of the tree, and begin exploring the branches on a level with the chipmunk. I saw in a moment what had happened. The weasel had driven the squirrel from his retreat in the rocks and stones beneath, and had pressed him so closely that he had taken refuge in the top of a tree. But weasels can climb trees, too, and this one had tracked the frightened chipmunk to the topmost branch, where he had tried to seize him. Then the squirrel had, in horror, let go his hold, screamed, and fallen through the air, till he struck the branch as just described. Now his bloodthirsty enemy was looking for him again, apparently relying entirely upon his sense of smell to guide him to the game. How did the weasel know the squirrel had not fallen clear to the ground? He certainly did know, for when he reached the same tier of branches he began exploring them, the chipmunk sat transfixed with fear, frozen with terror, not twelve feet away, and yet the weasel saw him not. Round and round, up and down, he went on the branches, exploring them over and over. How he hurried lest the trail get cold. How subtle and cruel and fiendish he looked. His snake-like movements, his tenacity, his speed. He seemed baffled. He knew his game was near, but he could not strike the spot. The branch, upon the extreme end of which the squirrel sat, ran out and up from the tree seven or eight feet, and then turning a sharp elbow, swept down and out at right angles with its first course. The weasel would pause each time at his elbow and turn back. It seemed as if he knew that particular branch held his prey, and yet its crookiness each time threw him out. He would not give up, but went over his course again and again. One can fancy the feelings of the chipmunk sitting there in plain view a few feet away, watching his deadly enemy hunting for the clue. How his little heart must have fairly stood still each time the fatal branch was struck. Probably as a last resort he would again have let go his hold and fallen to the ground, where he might have eluded his enemy a while longer. In the course of five or six minutes the weasel gave over the search and ran hurriedly down the tree to the ground. The chipmunk remained motionless for a long time. Then he stirred a little as if hope were reviving. Then he looked nervously about him. Then he had recovered himself so far as to change his position. Presently he began to move cautiously along the branch to the bowl of the tree. Then, after a few moments delay, he plucked up courage to descend to the ground, where I hope no weasel has disturbed him since. One season a chipmunk had his den in the side of the terrace above my garden, and spent the mornings laying in a store of corn which he stole from a field ten or twelve rods away. In traversing about half this distance the little poacher was exposed. The first cover on the way from his den was a large maple, where he always brought up and took a survey of the scene. I would see him spinning along toward the maple, then from it by an easy stage to the fence adjoining the corn, then back again with his booty. One morning I paused to watch him more at my leisure. He came up out of his retreat and cocked himself up to see what my motions meant. His forepaws were clasped to his breast precisely as if they had been hands, and the tips of the fingers thrust into his vest pockets. Having satisfied himself with reference to me, he sped on toward the tree. He had nearly reached it when he turned tail and rushed for his hole with the greatest precipitation. As he neared it I saw some bluish object in the air closing in upon him with the speed of an arrow, and as he vanished within a shrike brought up in front of the spot and with spread wings and tails stood hovering a moment and looking in, then turned and went away. Apparently it was a narrow escape for the chipmunk, and I ventured to say he stole no more corn that the shrike is said to catch mice, but it is not known to attack squirrels. The bird certainly could not have managed the chipmunk, and I am curious to know what would have been the result had he overtaken him. Probably it was only a kind of brag on his part, a bold dash where no risk was run. He simulated the hawk, the squirrel's real enemy, and no doubt enjoyed the joke. The Sylvan folks seem to know when you are on a peaceful mission and are less afraid than usual. Did not that marmot today guess my errand did not concern him as he saw me approach there from his cover in the bushes, but when he saw me pause and deliberately seat myself on the stone wall immediately over his hole his confidence was much shaken. He apparently deliberated a while, for I heard the leaves rustle as if he were making up his mind when he suddenly broke cover and came from his hole full tilt. Any other animal would have taken to his hills and fled, but a woodchuck's hills do not amount to much for speed, and he feels his only safety is in his hole. On he came to the most obstinate and determined manner, and I dare say if I had sat down in his hole would have attacked me unhesitatingly. This I did not give him a chance to do, and he whipped into his den beneath me with a defiant snort. Farther on a saucy chipmunk presumed upon my harmless character to an unwanted degree also, I had paused to bathe my hands and face in a little trout-brook, and had set a tin cup, which I had partly filled with strawberries as I crossed the field, on a stone at my feet, which along came the chipmunk as confidently as if he knew precisely where he was going, and perfectly oblivious of my presence, cocked himself up on the rim of the cup, and proceeded to eat my choicest blueberries. I remained motionless and observed him. He had eaten but two when the thoughts seemed to occur to him that he might be doing better, and he began to fill his pockets. Two, four, six, eight of my berries quickly disappeared, and the cheeks of the little vagabond swelled. But all the time he kept eating, that not a moment might be lost. Then he hopped off the cup and went skipping from stone to stone, till the brook was passed, when he disappeared into the woods. In two or three minutes he was back again, and went to stuffing himself as before. Then he disappeared a second time, and I imagine told a friend of his, for in a moment or two along came a bobtailed chipmunk, as if in search of something, and passed up and down and around, but did not quite hit the spot. Shortly the first returned a third time, and had now grown a little fastidious, for he began to sort over my berries, and to bite into them as if to taste their quality. He was not long in loading up, however, and in making off again. But I had now got tired of the joke, and my berries were appreciably diminishing, so I moved away. What was most curious about the proceeding was that the little poacher took different directions each time, and returned from different ways. Was this to elude pursuit, or was he distributing the fruit to his friends and neighbors about, astonishing them with strawberries for lunch? On another occasion I was much amused by three chipmunks, who seemed to be engaged in some kind of game. It looked very much as if they were playing tag. Round and round they would go, first one taking the lead, then another, all good-natured and gleeful as schoolboys. There is one thing about a chipmunk that is peculiar. He is never more than one jump from home. Make a dive at him anywhere and in he goes. He knows where the hole is, even when it is covered up with leaves. There is no doubt also that he has his own sense of humor and fun, as what squirrel has not. I have watched two red squirrels for half an hour coursing through the large trees by the roadside where branches interlocked, and engaged in a game of tag as obviously as two boys. As soon as the pursuer had come up with the pursued, and actually touched him, the palm was his, and away he would go, taxing his wits and his speed to the utmost to elude his fellow. I have observed that any unusual disturbance in the woods near where the chipmunk has his den will cause him to shift his quarters. One October, for many successive days, I saw one carrying into his hole buckwheat, which he had stolen from a nearby field. The hole was only a few rods from where we were getting out stone, and as our work progressed and the racket and uproar increased, the chipmunk became alarmed. He ceased carrying in, and after much hesitating and darting about, and some prolonged absences, he began to carry out. He had determined to move. If the mountain fell, he, at least, would be away in time. So by mouthfuls or cheekfuls the grain was transferred to a new place. He did not make a bee to get it done, but carried it all himself, occupying several days and making a trip about every ten minutes. Squirrels and Other Fur Bears by John Burroughs SA3. The Woodchuck In the middle of the eastern states, our woodchuck takes the place, in some respects, of the English rabbit, burrowing in every hillside and under every stone wall and jetting ledge and large boulder, whence it makes raids upon the grass and clover, and sometimes upon the garden vegetables. It is quite solitary in its habits, seldom more than one inhabiting the same den, unless it be a mother and her young. It is not now so much a woodchuck as a fieldchuck. Occasionally, however, one seems to prefer the woods, and it is not seduced by the sunny slopes and the succulent grass, but feeds, as did his fathers before him, upon roots and twigs, the bark of young trees, and upon various wood plants. One summer day, as I was swimming across a broad, deep pool in the creek in a secluded place in the woods, I saw one of these silvan chucks amid the rocks, but a few feet from the edge of the water where I proposed to touch. He saw my approach, but doubtless took me for some waterfowl, or for some cousin of his of the muskrat tribe, for he went on with his feeding, and regarded me not till I paused within ten feet of him, and lifted myself up. Then he did not know me, having perhaps never seen Adam in his simplicity, but he twisted his nose around to catch my scent, and the moment he had done so, he sprang like a jumping jack, and rushed into his den with the utmost precipitation. The woodchuck is the true surf among our animals. He belongs to the soil, and savers of it. He is of the earth, earthy. There is generally a decided odor about his dens and lurking places, but it is not at all disagreeable in the clover scented air, and his shrill whistle, as he takes to his hole or defies the farm dog from the interior of the stone wall, is a pleasant summer sound. In form and movement the woodchuck is not captivating. His body is heavy and flabby. Indeed, such a flaccid, fluid, pouchy carcass I have never seen before. It has absolutely no muscular tension or rigidity, but is as baggy and shaky as a skin filled with water. The legs of the woodchuck are short and stout, and made for digging rather than running. The latter operation he performs by short leaps, his belly scarcely clearing the ground. For a short distance he can make very good time, but he seldom trusts himself far from his hole, and when surprised in that predicament makes little effort to escape, but grating his teeth looks the danger squarely in the face. I knew a farmer in New York who had a very large bob-tailed churn dog by the name of Cuff. The farmer kept a large dairy and made a great deal of butter, and it was the business of Cuff to spend nearly the half of each summer day treading the endless round of the churning machine. During the remainder of the day he had plenty of time to sleep and rest, and sit on his hips and survey this landscape. One day, sitting thus, he discovered a woodchuck about forty rods from the house on a steep side hill, feeding about near his hole, which was beneath a large rock. The old dog, forgetting his stiffness and remembering the fun he had had with woodchucks in his earlier days, started off at his highest speed, vainly hoping to catch this one before he could get to his hole, but the woodchuck, seeing the dog come laboring up the hill, sprang to the mouth of his den, and when his pursuer was only a few rods off whistled tauntingly and went in. This occurred several times, the old dog marching up the hill and then marching down again, having had his labor for his pains. I suspect that he revolved the subject in his mind while revolving the great will of the churning machine, and that some turn or other brought him a happy thought. For next time he showed himself a strategist. Instead of giving chase to the woodchuck, when first discovered, he crouched down to the ground, and resting his head on his paws watched him. The woodchuck kept working away from his hole, lured by the tender clover, but not unmindful of his safety, lifted himself up on his haunches every few moments and surveyed the approaches. Presently, after the woodchuck had let himself down from one of these attitudes of observation and resumed his feeding, Cuff started swiftly but stealthily up the hill, precisely in the attitude of a cat when she is stalking a bird. When the woodchuck rose up again, Cuff was perfectly motionless and half-hidden by the grass. When he again resumed his clover, Cuff sped up the hill as before, this time crossing a fence, but in a low place and so nimbly that he was not discovered. Again the woodchuck was on the outlook. Again Cuff was motionless and hugging the ground. As the dog neared his victim he was partially hidden by a swell in the earth, but still the woodchuck from his outlook reported all right. When Cuff, having not twice as far to run as the chuck, threw all stealthiness aside and rushed directly for the hole. At that moment the woodchuck discovered his danger, and seeing that it was a race for life, leaped as I never saw marmot leap before. But he was two seconds too late, his retreat was cut off, and the powerful jaws of the old dog closed upon him. The next season Cuff tried the same antics again with like success. But when the third woodchuck had taken up his abode at the fatal hole, the old churner's wits and strength had begun to fail him, and he was baffled in each attempt to capture the animal. The woodchuck usually burrows on a side hill. This enables him to guard against being drowned out by making the termination of the hole higher than the entrance. He digs in slantily for about two or three feet, then makes a sharp upward turn and keeps nearly parallel with the surface of the ground for a distance of eight or ten feet farther, according to the grade. Here he makes his nest and passes the winter, holding up in October or November, and coming out again in March or April. This is a long sleep, and is rendered possible only by the amount of fat with which the system has become stored during the summer. The fire life still burns, but very faintly and slowly, as with the drafts all closed and the ashes heaped up. Respiration is continued, but at longer intervals, and all the vital processes are nearly at a standstill. Dig one out during hibernation. Audubon did so, and you find it a mere inanimate ball that suffers itself to be moved and rolled about without showing signs of awakening, but bring it in by the fire, and it presently unrolls and opens its eyes, and crawls feebly about, and if left to itself will seek some dark hole or corner, roll itself up again, and resume its former condition. End of Essay 3. Essay 4. From Squirrels and Other Fur Bears. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Squirrels and Other Fur Bears by John Burroughs. Essay 4. The Rabbit and the Hair. With us, the hair is of the remote northern woods. The rabbit is of the fields and bushy margins of the woods. One retreats before man and civilization. The other follows in their wake. The rabbit is now common in parts of our state, New York, where in my boyhood only the hair was found. The rabbit evidently loves to be neighbor to man and profits by it. Nearly every winter one takes up her abode under my steady floor, and when the snow is deep and the weather is cold, she usually finds every night a couple of sweet apples on her threshold. I suppose she thinks they grow there, or are blown there by the wind like the snow. At such times she does not leave her retreat. The apples are good fortune enough. If I neglect to put them there, in the morning I see where she has gone forth over the lawn looking for them, or for some other food. I wonder if that fox chanced to catch a glimpse of her the other night, when he stealthily leaped over the fence nearby, and walked along between the study and the house. How clearly one could read that it was not a little dog that had passed there. There was something furtive in the track. It shied off away from the house and around it, as if eyeing it suspiciously. And then it had the caution and deliberation of the fox. Bold. Bold, but not too bold. Wearingness was in every footprint. If it had been a little dog that had chanced to wander that way, when he crossed my path he would have followed it up to the barn, and have gone smelling around for a bone. But this sharp, cautious track held straight across all the others, keeping five or six rods from the house, up the hill, across the highway toward a neighboring farmstead, with its nose in the air, and its eye and ear alert, so to speak. One summer a wild rabbit came up within a few feet of my neighbor's house, scooped out a little place in the turf, and reared her family there. I suppose she felt more secure from prowling cats and dogs than in the garden or vineyard. My neighbor took me out to let me into her secret. He pointed down to the ground a few feet in front of us and said, There it is. I looked and saw nothing but the newly mown turf with one spot the size of my two hands, where the grass was apparently dead. I see no rabbit, nor any signs of a rabbit, I replied. He stooped to this dry spot and lifted up a little blanket or carpet of matted dry grass and revealed one of the prettiest sights I had ever seen, and the only one of the kind I had ever looked upon. Four or five little rabbits, half the size of chipmunks, cuddled down in a dry fur-lined nest. They did not move or wink, and their ears were pressed down close to their heads. My neighbor let the coverlet fall back, and they were hidden again as by magic. They had been discovered a few days before when the lawn was mown, and one, as it sprung out from the nest, was killed by the mower, who mistook it for a young rat. The rest of them fled and disappeared through the grass, but the next morning they were back in the nest, where they remained for several days longer. Only at night, so far as was observed, did the mother visit and nurse them. There was no opening into the nest. The matted dry grass covered it completely, so that the mother, in her visits to them, must have lifted it up and crept beneath. It was a very pretty and cunning device. One might have stepped upon it in his walk, but surely his eyes alone would never have penetrated the secret. I am told by men, wise in the lore of the fields and woods, that the rabbit always covers her nest and young with a little blanket, usually made of fur plucked from her own breast. The rabbit seems to suffer very little from the deep snows and severe cold of winter. The deeper the snow, the nearer she is brought to the tops of the tender bushes and shoots. I see in my walks where she has cropped the tops of the small, bushy, soft maples, cutting them slantingly as you would with a knife, and quite as smoothly. Indeed, the mark was so like that of a knife that, not with standing the tracks, it was only after the closest scrutiny that I was convinced it was the sharp, chisel-like teeth of the rabbit. She leaves no chips, and apparently makes clean work of every twig she cuts off. The hare is nocturnal in its habits, and though a very lively creature at night, with regular courses and runways through the wood, is entirely quiet by day. Timid as he is, he makes little effort to conceal himself, usually squatting beside a log, stump, or tree, and seeming to avoid rocks and ledges where he might be partially housed from the cold and the snow, but where also, and this consideration undoubtedly determines his choice, he would be more apt to follow prey to his enemies. In this, as well as many other respects, he differs from the rabbit proper. He never burrows in the ground or takes refuge in a den or hole when pursued. If caught in the open fields, he is much confused and easily overtaken by the dog, but in the woods he leaves his enemy at a bound. In summer, when first disturbed, he beats the ground violently with his feet, by which means he would express to you his surprise or displeasure. It is a dumb way he has of scolding. After leaping a few yards, he pauses an instant, as if to determine the degree of danger, and then hurries away with much lighter tread. His feet are like great pads, and his track in the snow has little of the sharp, articulated expression of reynards, or of the animals that climb or dig. Yet it is very pretty, like all the rest, and tells its own tale. There is nothing bold or vicious or vulpine in it, and his timid, harmless character is published at every leap. He abounds in the dense woods, preferring localities filled with a small undergrowth of beach and search, upon the bark of which he feeds. Nature is rather partial to him, and matches his extreme local habits and character with a suit that corresponds with his surroundings. Reddish gray in summer, and white in winter. End of Essay 4 Essay 5 From Squirrels and Other Fur Bears This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Squirrels and Other Fur Bears by John Burroughs Essay 5 The Muscrat It sometimes looks as if the muskrat were weather-wise, and could forecast the coming season. I doubt if a long series of observations would bear out the truth of this remark, yet I have noticed that in his nest building he sometimes hits the mark with surprising accuracy. In the fall of 1878, I observed that he built unusually high and massive nests. I noticed them in several different localities. In a shallow, sluggish pond by the roadside, which I used to pass daily in my walk, two nests were in process of construction throughout the month of November. The builders worked only at night, and I could see each day that the work had visibly advanced. When there was a slight skim of ice over the pond, this was broken up about the nest, with trails through it in different directions where the material had been brought. The houses were placed a little to one side of the main channel, and were constructed entirely of a species of coarse wild grass that grew all about. So far as I could see, from first to last, they were solid masses of grass, as if the interior cavity or nest was to be excavated afterward, and doubtless it was. As they emerged from the pond, they gradually assumed the shape of a miniature mountain, very bold and steep on the south side, and running down a long gentle grade to the surface of the water on the north. One could see that the little architect hauled all his material up this easy slope, and thrust it out boldly around the other side. Every mouthful was distinctly defined. After they were two feet or more above the water, I expected each day to see that the finishing stroke had been given, and the work brought to a close. But higher yet, said the builder. December drew near. The cold became threatening, and I was apprehensive that winter would suddenly shut down upon these unfinished nest. But the wise muskrat seemed to know better than I did. Finally, about the sixth of December, the nest assumed completion. The northern incline was absorbed or carried up, and each structure became a strong, massive cone, three or four feet high, the largest nest of the kind I had ever seen. Does it mean a severe winter? I inquired. An old farmer said it meant high water, and he was right once, at least, for in a few days afterward we had the heaviest rainfall known in this section for half a century. The creeks rose to an almost unprecedented height. The sluggish pond became a seething turbulent water-course. Gradually the angry element crept up the sides of these lake dwellings, till when the rain ceased, about four o'clock, they showed above the flood no larger than a man's hat. During the night the channel shifted till the main current swept over them, and next day not a vestige of the nest was to be seen. They had gone downstream as had many other dwellings of a less temporary character. The rats had built wisely, and would have been perfectly secure against any ordinary high water, but who can foresee a flood? The oldest traditions of their race did not run back to the time of such a visitation. Nearly a week afterward another dwelling was begun, well away from the treacherous channel, but the architects did not work at it with much heart. The material was very scarce. The ice hindered, and before the basement story was fairly finished, winter had the pond under his lock and key. In other localities I noticed that where the nest were placed on the banks of streams they were made secure against the floods by being built amid a small clump of bushes. When the fall of 1879 came the muskrats were very tardy about beginning their house, laying the cornerstone, or the corner sod, about December 1st, and continuing the work slowly and indifferently. On the fifteenth of the month the nest was not yet finished. Maybe, I said, this indicates a mild winter. And sure enough the season was one of the mildest known for many years. The rats had little use for their house. Again in the fall of 1880 while the weather wise were wagging their heads, some forecasting a mild, some a severe winter, I watched with interest for a sign from my muskrats. About November 1st, a month earlier than the previous year, they began their nest and worked at it with a wheel. They appeared to have just got tidings of what was coming. If I had taken the hint so palpably given, my celery would not have been frozen up in ground, and my apples caught in unprotected places. When the cold wave struck us, about November 20th, my ford legged, I told you so's, had nearly completed their dwelling. It lacked only the ridge board, so to speak. It needed a little topping out to give it a finished look. But this it never got. The winter had come to stay, and it waxed more and more severe till the unprecedented cold of the last days of December must have astonished even the wise muskrats in their snug retreat. I approached their nest at this time, a white mound upon the white, deeply frozen surface of the pond, and wondered if there was any life in that apparent sepulcher. I thrust my walking stick sharply into it, when there was a rustle and a splash into the water, as the occupant made his escape. What a damp basement that house has, I thought, and what a pity to out a peaceful neighbor out of his bed in this weather, and into such a state of things as this. But the water does not wet the muskrat. His fur is charmed, and not a drop penetrates it. Where the ground is favorable, the muskrats do not build these mounds like nest, but burrow into the bank a long distance, and establish their winter quarters there. The muskrat does not hibernate like some rodents, but is pretty active all winter. In December I noticed in my walk where they had made excursions of a few yards to an orchard for frozen apples. One day, along a little stream, I saw a mink-track amid those of the muskrat. Following it up, I presently came to blood and other marks of strife upon the snow beside a stone wall. Looking in between the stones, I found the carcass of the luckless rat, with its head and neck eaten away. The mink had made a meal of him. End of Essay Five Essay Six of Squirrels and Other Fur Bears This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Squirrels and Other Fur Bears by John Burroughs. Essay Six, The Skunk In February, a new track appears upon the snow, slender and delicate, about a third larger than that of the gray squirrel, indicating no haste or speed, but, on the contrary, denoting the most imperturbable ease and leisure. The footprints so close together that the trail appears like a chain of curiously carved links. Sermaphitis mephitica, or in plain English, the skunk, has waked up from his six-week snap and come out into society again. He is a nocturnal traveler, very bold and impudent, coming quite up to the barn and out buildings, and sometimes taking up his quarters for the season under the haymow. There is no such word as hurry in his dictionary, as you may see by his path upon the snow. He has a very sneaking insinuating way, and goes creeping about the fields and woods, never once in a perceptible degree altering his gait, and, if a fence crosses his course, steers for a break or opening to avoid climbing. He is too indolent even to dig his own hole, but appropriates that of a woodchuck, or hunts out a crevice in the rocks, from which he extends his rambling in all directions, preferring damp, thawy weather. He has very little discretion or cunning, and holds a trap in utter contempt, stepping into it as soon as beside it, relying implicitly for defense against all forms of danger upon the unsavory punishment he is capable of inflicting. He is quite indifferent to both man and beast, and will not hurry himself to get out of the way, either. Walking through the summer fields at twilight, I have come near stepping upon him, and was much the more disturbed of the two. He has a secret to keep, and knows it, and is careful not to betray himself until he can do so with the most telling effect. I have known him to preserve his serenity even when caught in a still trap, and look the very picture of injured innocence, maneuvering carefully and deliberately to extricate his foot from the grasp of the naughty jaws. Do not, by any means, take pity on him, and lend him a helping hand. How pretty his face and head, how fine and delicate his teeth, like a weasel or a cat's. When about a third groan he looks so well that one covets him for a pet. My neighbor once captured a young one, which he kept every year, and which afforded him much amusement. He named it Muhammad. No animal is more cleanly in its habits than he. He is not an awkward boy who cuts his own face with his whip, and neither his flesh nor his fur hints the weapon with which he is armed. The most silent creature known to me he makes no sound so far as I have observed. Save a diffuse, impatient noise, like that produced by beating your hand with a whisk broom, when the farm dog has discovered his retreat in the stone fence. He renders himself obnoxious to the farmer by his partiality for hen's eggs and young poultry. He is a confirmed epicure, and at plundering hen roost an expert. Not the full groan fowls are his victims, but the youngest and most tender. At night mother hen receives under her maternal wings a dozen newly hatched chickens, and with much pride and satisfaction fills them all safely tucked away in her feathers. In the morning she is walking about disconsolately, attended by only two or three of all that pretty brood. What has happened? Where are they gone? That pickpocket, Sermaphitis, could solve the mystery. Quietly as he approached, under cover of darkness, and one by one relieved her of her precious charge. Look closely, and you will see their little yellow legs and beaks are part of a mangled form lying on the ground. Or before the hen has hatched he may find her out, and by the same sleight of hand remove every egg, leaving only the empty bloodstained shells to witness against him. The birds, especially the ground builders, suffer in light manner from his plundering propensities. The secretion upon which he relies for defense, and which is the chief source of his unpopularity, while it affords good reasons against cultivating him as a pet, and marrs his attractiveness as gain, is by no means the greatest indignity that can be offered to a nose. It is a rank living smell, and has none of the sickening qualities of disease or putrefaction. In fact, I think a good smeller will enjoy its most refined intensity. It approaches the sublime, and makes the nose tingle. It is tonic and bracing, and I can readily believe has rare medicinal qualities. I do not recommend its use as eye-water, though an old farmer assures me it has undoubted virtues when thus applied. Hearing, one night, a disturbance among his hens, he rushed suddenly out to catch the thief, when surmaphitis, taken by surprise, and no doubt much annoyed at being interrupted, discharged the vials of his wrath full in the farmer's face, and with such admirable effect that, for a few moments, he was completely blinded, and powerless to revenge himself upon the rogue, who embraced the opportunity to make good his escape. But he declared that afterwards his eyes felt as if purged by fire, and his sight was much clearer. The skunk has perfect confidence in the efficacy of his weapon. Late one March afternoon in my walk I saw one coming down through a field toward the highway. I thought I would intercept him and turn him back. I advanced to within fifteen or twenty yards of him, and as he did not check his course, judged it prudent to check mine. On he came toward me, with the most jaunty and frolicsome air, waving his tail high above his head and challenging me to the combat. I retreated, and he pursued, till I finally left him master of the field. End of Essay Six Essay Seven from Squirrels and Other Fur Bears This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Squirrels and Other Fur Bears by John Burroughs Essay Seven The Fox It has been many a long day since I heard a fox bark, but in my youth among the cat skills I often heard the sound, especially of a still moonlight night in midwinter. Perhaps it was more a cry than a bark, not continuous like the bang of a dog, but uttered at intervals. One feels that the creature is trying to bark, but has not yet learned the trick of it. But it is a wild, weird sound. I would get up any night to hear it again. I used to listen for it when a boy, standing in front of my father's house. Presently I would hear one way up on the shoulder of the mountain, and I imagined I could almost see him sitting there in his furs upon the illuminated surface and looking down in my direction. As I listened, maybe one would answer him from behind the woods in the valley, a fitting sound amidst the ghostly winter hills. The Red Fox was the only species that abounded in this locality. On my way to school in the morning after a fresh fall of snow I would see at many points where he had crossed the road. Here he had leisurely passed within rifle range of the house, evidently reconordering the premises with an eye to the hen-roost. That clear, sharp track there was no mistaking it for the clumsy footprint of a little dog. All his wildness and agility were photographed in it. Here he had taken fright or suddenly recollected an engagement, and in long graceful leaps barely touching the fence had gone careering up the hill as fleet is the wind. The usual gate of the Fox, unlike that of the dog, is at night at least a walk. On such occasions he is in quest of gain, and he goes through the woods and fields in an alert, stealthy manner, stepping about a foot at a time, and keeping his eyes and ears open. The wild, buoyant creature, how beautiful he is. I had often seen his dead carcass, and at a distance had witnessed the hounds drive him across the upper fields. But the thrill and excitement of meeting him in the wild freedom in the woods were unknown to me till, one cold winter day, drawn thither by the baying of a hound, I stood near the summit of the mountain, waiting a renewal of the sound, and I might determine the course of the dog and choose my position, stimulated by the ambition of all young Nimrods to bag some notable gain. Long I waited, impatiently, till chilled and benumbed I was about to turn back. When hearing a slight noise I looked up and beheld a most superb Fox, loping along with inimitable grace and ease, evidently disturbed, but not pursued by the hound, and so absorbed in his private meditations, that he fell to see me. Though I stood transfixed with amazement and admiration, not ten yards distant, I took his measure at a glance, a large male with dark legs and massive tail-tipped with white, a most magnificent creature, but so astonished and fascinated was I by this sudden appearance and matchless beauty, that not till I had caught the last glimpse of him, as he disappeared over an all, did I awake to my duty as a sportsman, and realized what an opportunity to distinguish myself I had unconsciously let slip. I clutched my gun, half angrily, as if it was to blame, and went home out of humor with myself and all Fox kind. But I have since thought better of the experience, and concluded that I bagged the game after all, the best part of it, and fleece-trainard of something more valuable than his fur, without his knowledge. This is thoroughly a winter sound, this voice of the hound upon the mountain, and one that is music to my ears. The long trumpet like bay heard for a mile or more, now faintly back to the deep recesses of the mountain, now distinct, but still faint, as the hound comes over some prominent point and the wind favors. A non-entirely lost in the gully, then breaking out again much nearer, and growing more and more pronounced as the dog approaches, till when he comes around the brow of the mountain, directly above you, the barking is loud and sharp. On he goes along the northern spur, his voice rising and sinking as the wind and the lay of the ground modify it, till lost to hearing. The Fox usually keeps half a mile ahead, regulating his speed by that of the hound, occasionally pausing a moment to divert himself with a mouse or to contemplate the landscape, or to listen for his partner. If the hound press him too closely, he leads off from mountain to mountain, and so generally escapes the hunter. But if the pursuit be slow, he plays about some ridge or peak, and falls a prey, though not an easy one, to the experienced sportsman. A most spirited and exciting chase occurs when the farm dog gets close upon one in the open field, as sometimes happens in the early morning. The Fox relies so confidently upon his superior speed, that I imagine he half-tempts the dog to the race. But if the dog be a smart one, and their course lies downhill, over smooth ground, Reynard must put his best foot forward, and then sometimes suffer the ignimony of being run over by his pursuer, who, however, is quite unable to pick him up, owing to the speed. But when they mount the hill or enter the woods, the superior nimbleness and agility of the Fox tell at once, and he easily leaves the dog far in his rear. For a cur less than his own size, he manifests little fear, especially if the two meet alone, remote from the house. In such cases I have seen first one turned tail, then the other. One of the most notable features of the Fox is his large and massive tail. Seeing running on the snow at a distance, his tail is quite as conspicuous as his body, and so far from appearing a burden seems to contribute to his lightness and buoyancy. It softens the outlines of his movements, and repeats her continues to the eye, the ease, and poise of his carriage. But pursued by the hound on a wet, thawy day, it often becomes so heavy and bedraggled, as to prove a serious inconvenience, and compels him to take refuge in his den. He is very loath to do this. Both his pride and the traditions of his race stimulate him to run it out, and win by fair superiority of wind and speed. And only a wound or a heavy and moppish tail will drive him to avoid the issue in this manner. To learn his surpassing shrewdness and cunning, attempt to take him with a trap. Rogue that he is he always suspects some trick, and one must be more of a Fox than he himself to overreach him. At first sight it would appear easy enough, with a parring indifference he crosses your path, or walks in your footsteps in the field, or travels along the beaten highway, or lingers in the vicinity of stacks and remote barns, carry the carcass of a pig or a fowl or a dog to a distant field in midwinter, and in a few nights his tracks cover the snow about it. The inexperienced country youth, misled by this seeming carelessness of renard, suddenly conceives a project to enrich himself with fur, and wonders that the idea has not occurred to him before, and to others. I knew a youthful yeoman of this kind, who imagined he had found a mine of wealth on discovering on a remote side hill, between two woods, a dead porker, upon which appeared all the foxes of the neighborhood, did nightly banquet. The clouds were burdened with snow, and as the first flakes commenced to eddy down, he set out, trap and broom in hand, already counting over any imagination the silver quarters he would receive for his first fox skin. With the utmost care and with a palpitating heart he removed enough of the trodden snow to allow the trap to sink below the surface. Then carefully sifting the light element over it and sweeping his tracks full he quickly withdrew, laughing exultingly over the little surprise he had prepared for the cunning rogue. The elements conspired to aid him, and the falling snow rapidly obliterated all vestiges of his work. The next morning at dawn he was on his way to bring in his fur. The snow had done its work effectually, and he believed had kept his secret well. Arrived inside of the locality he strained his vision to make out his prize lodged against the fence at the foot of the hill. Approaching nearer the surface was unbroken, and doubt usurped the place of certainty in his mind. A little mound marked the side of the porker, but there was no footprint near it. Looking up the hill he saw Rarynard had walked leisurely down toward his wanted bacon till within a few yards of it when he had wheeled, and with prodigious strides disappeared in the woods. The young trapper saw at a glance what a comment this was upon his skill in the art, and indignantly exhuming the iron he walked on with it, the stream of silver quarters suddenly setting in another direction. The successful trapper commences in the fall or before the first deep snow. In a field not too remote with an old axe he cuts a small place, say ten inches by fourteen, in the frozen ground, and removes the earth to the depth of three or four inches, then fills the cavity with dry ashes in which are placed bits of roasted cheese. Rarynard is very suspicious at first, and gives the place a wide berth. It looks like design, and he will see how the thing behaves before he approaches too near, but the cheese is savory, and the cold severe. He ventures a little closer every night, until he can reach and pick a piece from the surface. Emboldened by success, like other mortals, he presently digs freely among the ashes, and finding a fresh supply of the delectable morsels every night is soon thrown off his guard, and his suspicions quite lulled. After a week of baiting in this manner, and on the even of a light fall of snow, the trapper carefully conceals his trap in the bed, first smoking it thoroughly with him like vows to kill or neutralize all smell of the iron. If the weather favors and the proper precautions have been taken, he may succeed, though the chances are still greatly against him. Rarynard is usually caught very lightly, seldom more than the ends of his toes being between the jaws. He sometimes works so cautiously as to spring the trap without injury, even to his toes, or may remove the cheese night after night without even springing it. I knew an old trapper who, on finding himself outwitted in this manner, tied a bit of cheese to the pan, and next morning had poor rainard by the jaw. The trap is not fastened, but only encumbered with a clog, and is all the more sure in its hold by yielding to every effort of the animal to extricate himself. Rarynard sees his captor approaching. He would feign drop into a mouse-hole to render himself invisible. He crouches to the ground and remains perfectly motionless until he perceives himself discovered, when he makes one desperate and final effort to escape, but ceases all struggling as you come up, and behaves in a manner that stamps him a very timid warrior, cowering to the earth with a mingled look of shame, guilt, and humiliation. A young farmer told me of tracing one with his trap to the border of a wood, where he discovered the cunning rogue trying to hide by embracing a small tree. Most animals, when taken in a trap, show fight. But Rarynard has more faith in the nimbleness of his feet than in the terror of his teeth. I once spent a summer month in a mountainous district in the State of New York, where, from its earliest settlement, the Red Fox had been the standing prize for skill in the use of the trap and gun. At the house where I was stopping were two foxhounds, and a neighbor half a mile distant had a third. There were many others in the town ship, and in season they were well employed too. But the three foxhounds spoken of, attended by their owners, held high carnival on the mountains in the immediate vicinity, and many were the foxes that, winter after winter, fell before them, twenty-five having been shot, the season before my visit, on one small range alone. And yet the foxes were apparently never more abundant than they were that summer, and never bolder. Coming at night within a few rods of the house, and of the unchained alert hounds, and making havoc among the poultry. One morning a large, fat goose was found minus her head and otherwise mangled. Both hounds had disappeared, and as they did not come back till near night, it was inferred that they had cut short Reynard's repast and given him a good chase into the bargain. But next night he was back again, and this time got safely off with the goose. A couple of nights after he must have come with recruits, for next morning three large gosslings were reported missing. The silly geese now got it through their noodles that there was danger about, and every night thereafter came close up to the house to roost. A brood of turkeys, the old one tied to a tree, a few rods to the rear of the house, were the next objects of the attack. The predacious rascal came, as usual, in the latter half of the night. I happened to be awake and heard the helpless turkey cry, quit, quit, with great emphasis. Another sleeper on the floor above me, who it seems had been sleeping with one ear awake for several nights and apprehension for the safety of his turkeys, heard the sound also, and instantly divined its cause. I heard the window open and a voice summon the dogs. A loud bellow was the response, which caused Reynard to make himself off in a hurry. A moment more, and the mother turkey would have shared the fate of the geese. There she lay at the end of her tether, with extended wings, bitten and rumpled. The younger ones roosted in a row on the fence nearby, and had taken flight on the first alarm. Turkeys retaining many of their wild instincts are less easily captured by the fox than any other of our domestic fowls. On the slightest show of danger they take to wing, and it is not unusual in the locality of which I speak to find them in the morning perched in the most unwanted places, as on the peak of the barn or hay shed, or on the tops of the apple trees. Their tails spread, and their men are showing much excitement. Perchance one turkey is minus her tail, the fox having succeeded in getting only a mouthful of quills. As the brood grows and their wings develop, they wander far from the house in quest of grasshoppers. At such times they are all watchfulness and suspicion. Crossing the fields one day, attended by a dog that much resembled a fox, I came suddenly upon a brood about one third groan, which were feeding in a pasture just beyond a wood. It so happened that they caught sight of the dog, without seeing me, when instantly, with the celerity of wild game, they launched into the air, and while the old one perched upon a treetop, as if to keep an eye on the supposed enemy, the young went sailing over the trees toward home. The two dogs before referred to, accompanied by a curr dog, whose business it was to mine the farm, but who took as much delight in running away from the prosy duty as if he had been a schoolboy, would frequently still off and have a good hunt all by themselves, just for the fun of a thing, I suppose. I more than half suspect that it was a kind of taunt or retaliation that Reynard came and took the geese from under their very noses. One morning they went off and stayed till the afternoon of the next day. They ran the fox all day and all night, the hounds baying at every jump, the curr dog silent and tenacious. When the trio returned, they came dragging themselves along, stiff, foot sore, gaunt, and hungry. For a day or two afterward they lay about the kennels, seeming to dread nothing so much as having to move. The stolen hunt was their spree, and, of course, they must take time to get over it. Some old hunters think the fox enjoys the chase as much as the hound, especially when the latter runs slowly as the best hounds do. The fox will wait for the hound, will sit down and listen, or play about, crossing and recrossing and doubling upon his track, as if enjoying a mischievous conscientiousness of the perplexity he would presently cause his pursuer. It is evident, however, that the fox does not always have his share of the fun. Before a swift dog or in a deep snow or on a wet day when his tail gets heavy, he must put his best foot forward. As the last resort he holds up, sometimes he resorts to numerous devices to mislead and escape the dog altogether. He will walk in the bed of a small creek or on a rail fence. I heard of an instance of a fox, hard and long pressed, that took to a rail fence, and after walking some distance made a leap to one side to a hollow stump, in the cavity of which he snugly stowed himself. The rooze succeeded, and the dogs lost the trail. But the hunter, coming up, passed by chance near the stump, when out bounded the fox, his cunning availing him less than he deserved. On another occasion the fox took to the public road, and stepped with great care and precision into a sleigh-track. The hard polished snow took no imprint of the light foot, and the scent was no doubt less than it would have been on a rougher surface. Maybe also the rogue had considered the chances of another sleigh coming along, before the hound, and obliterating the trail entirely. Audubon tells of a fox which when started by the hounds, always managed to elude them at a certain point. Finally the hunter concealed himself in the locality, to discover if possible the trick. Presently along came the fox, and making a leap to one side, ran of the trunk of a fallen tree which had lodged some feet from the ground, and concealed himself in the top. In a few minutes the hounds came up, and in their eagerness passed some distance beyond the point, and then went still farther, looking for the lost trail. Then the fox hastened down, and taking his back-track, fooled the dogs completely. I was told of a silver gray fox in northern New York which, when pursued by the hounds, would run till it had hunted up another fox, or the fresh trail of one, when it would so maneuver that the hound would invariably be switched off on the second track. In cold dry weather the fox will sometimes elude the hound, at least delay him much, by taking to a bare, plowed field. The hard dry earth seems not to retain a particle of the scent, and the hound gives a loud, long, peculiar bark, to signify he has trouble. It is now his turn to show his wit, which he often does by passing completely around the field, and resuming the trail again where it crosses the fence or a strip of snow. The fact that any dry hard surface is unfavorable to the hound suggests, in a measure, the explanation of the wonderful faculty that all dogs, in a degree, possess of tracking an animal by the scent of the foot alone. Did you ever think why a dog's nose is always wet? Examine the nose of a fox hound, for instance. How very moist and sensitive! Cause this moisture to dry up, and the dog would be as powerless to track an animal as you are. The nose of the cat, you may observe, is but a little moist, and as you know, her sense of smell is far inferior to that of the dog. Moisten your own nostrils and lips, and the scents is plainly sharpened. The sweat of a dog's nose, therefore, is no doubt a vital element in its power, and without taking a very long logical stride, we now infer how a damp, rough surface aids him in tracking gang. A still hunt Rayler brings you inside of a fox, as his ears are much sharper than yours, and his tread much lighter. But if the fox is mousing in the fields, and you discover him before he does you, you may, the wind-favoring, call him within a few paces of you. Secret yourself behind the fence, or some other object, and squeak as nearly like a mouse as possible. Reynard will hear this sound at an incredible distance. Preaking up his ears, he gets the direction, and comes trotting along as suspiciously as can be. I have never had an opportunity to try the experiment, but I know perfectly reliable persons who have. One man in the pasture getting his cows called a fox which was too busy mousing to get the first sight, till it jumped upon the wall just over where he sat secreted. He then sprang up, giving a loud hoop at the same time, and the fox, I suspect, came as near being frightened out of his skin as a fox ever was. I have never been able to see clearly why the mother fox generally selects a burrow or hole in the open field in which to have her young, except it be, as some hunters maintain, for better security. The young foxes are wont to come out on a warm day, and play like puppies in front of the den. The view being obstructed on all sides by trees or bushes, in the cover of which danger might approach. They are less liable to surprise and capture. On the slightest sound they disappear in the hole. Those who have watched the gambles of the young foxes speak of them as very amusing, even more arch and playful than those of kittens, while a spirit profoundly wise and cunning seems to look out of their eyes. The parent fox can never be caught in the den with them, but is hovering near the woods, which are always at hand, and by her warning cry or bark telling them when to be on their guard. She usually has at least three dens, at no great distance apart, and moves stealthily in the night with her charge from one to the other, so as to mislead her enemies. Many a party of boys, and of men too, discovering the whereabouts of a litter, have gone with shovels and picks, and after digging away vigorously for several hours have found only an empty hole for their pains. The old fox, finding her secret had been found out, had waited for darkness in the cover of which to transfer her household to new quarters, or else some old fox hunter, jealous of the preservation of his game and getting word of the intended destruction of the litter, had gone at dusk the night before, and made some disturbance about the den, perhaps flashed some powder in its mouth, a hint which the shrewd animal knew how to interpret. The fox nearly always takes his nap during the day in the open fields, along the sides of the ridges or under the mountain, where he can look down upon the busy farms beneath and hear their many sounds, the barking of dogs, the lowing of cattle, the cackling of hens, the voices of men and boys, or the sound of travel upon the highway. It is on that side too that he keeps the sharpest look out, and the appearance of the hunter above and behind him is always a surprise. Foxes, unlike wolves, never go in packs or companies, but hunt singly. Many of the ways and manners of the fox, when tamed, are like the dogs. I once saw a young red fox exposed for sale in the market in Washington. A colored man had him, and said he had caught him out in Virginia. He led him by a small chain as he would a puppy, and the innocent young rascal would lie on his side and bask in sleep in the sunshine, amid all the noise and chaffering around him, precisely like a dog. He was about the size of a full-grown cat, and there was a bewitching beauty about him that I could hardly resist. On another occasion I saw a gray fox, about two-thirds grown, playing with a dog about the same size, and by nothing in the manners of either could you tell which was the dog and which was the fox.