Vixen 137 



for several days, but it was all in plain view 

 from the house across the river. My uncle, 

 impatient at the daily loss of hens, went out 

 himself, sat on the open knoll, and when old 

 Scarface trotted to his lookout to watch the 

 dull hound on the river flat below, my uncle 

 remorselessly shot him in the back, at the very 

 moment when he was grinning over a new 

 triumph. 



But still the hens were disappearing. My 

 uncle was wrathy. He determined to con- 

 duct the war himself, and sowed the woods 

 with poison baits, trusting to luck that our 

 own dogs would not get them. He indulged 

 in contemptuous remarks on my by-gone 

 woodcraft, and went out evenings with a gun 

 and the two dogs, to see what he could de- 

 stroy. 



Vix knew right well what a poison bait was ; 

 she passed them by or else treated them with 

 active contempt, but one she dropped down 

 the hole of an old enemy, a skunk, who was 

 never afterward seen. Formerly old Scarface 

 was always ready to take charge of the dogs, 

 and keep them out of mischief. But now that 

 Vix had the whole burden of the brood, she 



