THE FACE OF THE FIELDS u" 



driven into the rough country here by an unusual 

 combination of circumstances. 



I have been both fox and hound ; I have run 

 the race too often not to know that both enjoy it 

 at times, fox as much as hound. Some weeks ago 

 the dogs carried a young fox around and around 

 the farm, hunting him here, there, everywhere, as 

 if in a game of hide-and-seek. An old fox would 

 have led them on a long coursing run across the 

 range. It was early fall and warm, so that at dusk 

 the dogs were caught and taken off the trail. The 

 fox soon sauntered up through the mowing field 

 behind the barn, came out upon the bare knoll 

 near the house, and sat there in the moonlight 

 yapping down at Rex and Dewy, the house dogs 

 in the two farms below. Rex is a Scotch collie, 

 Dewy a dreadful mix of dog-dregs. He had been 

 tail-ender in the pack for a while during the after- 

 noon. Both dogs answered back at the young fox. 

 But he could not egg them on. Rex was too fat, 

 Dewy had had enough; not so the young fox. 

 It had been fun. He wanted more. " Come on, 

 Dewy ! " he cried. " Come on, Rex, play tag again. 

 You 're still ' it.' " 



I was at work with my chickens one day when 



