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, | 
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 
were found next morning in a heap at the foot of an oak tree. 
Another farmer 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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