THE LIFE OF A FOX 397 



we seldom give due thanks to the foxes. A vole 

 plague is no light infliction, and even a mild popu- 

 lation of the creatures means considerable loss, as 

 any one can see who digs up the winter hoard of one 

 of them, or marks the grass that is kept short by a 

 single small colony. The removal of a very slight 

 check would enable a sprinkling of voles to bound 

 into millions, and it is certain that on this account 

 we owe a good deal to the fact that Vulpes and his 

 friends have a sweet tooth for the " short-tailed field- 

 mouse." Even in the winter he used to get this 

 cherished dainty. When the snow was on the ground 

 we used to find yards of the surface scratched up, 

 and there or elsewhere unmistakable signs that the 

 hunting had not been in vain. 



It was when we were snow-bound with a crust of 

 frost on the top of the snow that Vulpes seemed to 

 be having his hardest time. One day Young 

 Hopeful, aged nine, met him in the orchard. Vulpes 

 was moping round, nosing the base of each tree, 

 in the hope of finding a wounded fieldfare or spent 

 redwing to stay his sharp hunger. He took scarcely 

 any notice of Young Hopeful, who appeared to be 

 unarmed, and the boy drew to within ten yards and 

 tweaked him with his catapult. Vulpes started, more 

 in anger than in pain, glared at the boy, so he says, 

 and then picked up his back trail towards the hill- 

 field and the woods. Through the hedge and up 

 over the smooth white bank he went at a pace just 

 over a walk, and the boy, tucking his catapult into 

 his pocket, followed, lumbering and panting, behind. 

 Of what he should do if he should catch up with the 

 fox he had not the slightest idea. Neither did 



