Red Fox 



cessful, beneath darkening skys, they were undoubtedly every 

 bit as weary as the fox they had been chasing. One bright 

 windy Sunday in February, a few years ago, a farmer of my 

 acquaintance happening to look out of the window saw a fox 

 stretching himself to his full height on two legs in order to 

 look through a crack into the hen-house. The farmer seized 

 his gun, and running to the door let fly both barrels, but be- 

 fore the shot could reach him, the fox had dodged behind a 

 corner of the building, and keeping it between himself and the 

 aiming, was quickly out of range. 



But the fox likes best to catch chickens in summer, when 

 the corn-fields, orchards and hedgerows furnish him safe am- 

 bush and effectually cover his retreat. One hot morning last 

 summer a fox chased some hens up across the new-mown 

 grass land to within one hundred feet of the open door where 

 we were standing, and catching the hindermost one, threw her 

 across his shoulders and started for the woods. I caught up a 

 rifle with one hand and shot-gun with the other, and thus 

 thoroughly equipped hurried to the rescue. 



I was too late to save the unfortunate hen, however; the 

 fox stopped when he reached the lower end of the field, and 

 stretching himself in the warm grass, held her down with his 

 paws, biting her tentatively to make sure she was dead. I 

 made a slight detour and crawled cautiously to the top of the 

 nearest knoll, but even then the fox was much too far away 

 for the shot-gun to reach him; so, resting on my elbow, I 

 attempted to get his range with the rifle, but only succeeded in 

 throwing some dust in his eyes, and away he went like an arrow. 



I have known a fox to kill three or four full-grown fowls 

 in an orchard close to a farm-house where the family were at 

 breakfast, and get away without being seen, carrying one of 

 his victims with him. 



On another occasion, quite recently, one of my neighbours 



had thirty pullets taken in a single night. Eighteen of them 



re found next morning in a heap at the foot of an oak tree. 



Another fanner tells me that he has lost one hundred and fifty 



in one season, all presumably going to the foxes. 



Yet. although the farmer and the fox are such inveterate 

 enemies, they manage to benefit each other in a great many 

 ways quite unintentionally. 



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