242 IN BERKSHIRE FIELDS 



country, may be extremely terrifying to the igno- 

 rant or nervous. The illustrator of this book once 

 waked his ten-year-old son, a great lover of wild 

 animals and birds, to hear a fox which was scream- 

 ing on the edge of the woods behind the house. Al- 

 though he was told what the noise was, the little 

 fellow burst into sobs when he first heard it from the 

 close dark outside the door. It is a sound totally 

 unlike the rather canine bark of the fox, and quite 

 unlike a dog's howl, also. It is much more catlike. 

 Just what its significance is nobody seems certain. 

 It may be a male challenge call. But in mid- July 

 last summer I was awakened by it, or, rather, by 

 my wife, who bade me listen. I sat up in bed on 

 the sleeping-porch, and suddenly from the very 

 edge of the woods, not one hundred yards away, 

 came the most blood-curdling yell I ever want to 

 hear. The dog, who slept outside, was silent, and 

 we were so amazed at this that we went down-stairs. 

 It was a still, starry night. The dog, only mildly 

 excited, was standing with nose pointed toward the 

 woods, and tail swinging, as he might have done 

 had he seen a canine friend in the offing. The 

 scream came twice more from the shadows, and then 

 ceased. The next night we heard it again, farther 

 away and across the road in a swamp. Again the 

 dog did not even bark. The meaning of these 

 screams, and of the dog's almost complete indif- 

 ference to them, I do not attempt to explain. I only 

 know the incident happened in midsummer, not in 

 the mating or breeding season. 



There is one ridge of rock and scrub timber over- 

 looking the Housatonic Valley in northwestern Con- 



