Photograph by C. Reid, Wishaw, N.B. 
BADGERS AND FOXES IN SCOTLAND. 
By J. H. CrawrForp. 
HE badger is sometimes called our native bear, and he is the nearest approach 
left to us since the brown bear was stamped out some centuries ago. He plants 
the whole foot on the ground—for that matter, so do we—and in disposition and some 
of his habits he is not unbearlike. Certain other hints link him more closely with the 
martens and weasles, notably the gland near the tail, of which the pole-cat or foumart 
(foul marten) makes such vile use. In many ways he may be looked upon as an 
intermediate form, and somewhat of a survival. like the hedgehog and the mole he 
holds on by living mainly out of sight. 
Over the central lowlands and low eastern coasts of Scotland he is famly generally 
distributed, and, though unevenly reported, is probably very much more common than 
the man in the street or on the high road is aware of. Only night wanderers lke 
himself stumble on him and hear his grunts. “The sun went down, the mellow thrush 
was now silent, the wood-pigeon had uttered his last coo, the owl began his doleful 
and melancholy wail, the night-jar was still out with his spinning-wheel, and the 
lightsome roe, the pride of the lowland woods, was emitting his favourite night-bark. 
What could the hideous-looking monster be? He could not see clearly, for it had 
become dark, and the moon was not up yet. At length the animal gradually approached 
him. He now observed that it consisted of three large and full-grown badgers, one 
behind the other.” It was not the first time these hoary patriarchs had been abroad, 
but it may well have been the first time they were surprised—and the surprise was 
mutual. 
Some mild February day he crawls forth, stiff with long lying, and ravenous from 
his fast. “I have changed my opinion as to the harmlessness of the badger,” says one 
who for some years past has had a colony under close observation. Only he is such 
a slow, dull brute that what he takes must first come in his way, or be unable to 
get out of it. There is infinitely more mischief in an aggressive animal—a stoat, for 
instance—one-eighth of his size. In autumn he leads a life of immnocence, and even 
usefulness, on honey and the larve of imsects. “If he were encouraged he might be 
trusted to keep down the wasps,” writes another close observer of his ways. In 
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