426 



RECREATION. 



pasture. The fox had skipped from rock to 

 rock, along wind-swept ledges and into a 

 wood lot, where the pine needles made the 

 following almost impossible for the dog. 

 The dog and I were 2 or 3 hours untangling 

 that exasperating snarl. The sun was well 

 over into the West when we got to our 

 quarry, wheeling away to the North again; 

 but our blood was up and the fox had to 

 keep moving. Twice I nearly had him 

 cornered, and as often he escaped. He 

 bothered the hound considerably among the 

 pines and on the ledges, but Biz hung to the 

 track and would not stand for fooling. I 

 finally got ahead of the hunt and in a 

 period of listening marked a hot drive go- 

 ing toward the railway. 



Anticipating a move up an old runway, I 

 crossed the rails and took a position in a 

 cart road which had witnessed the death 

 of many a fox. The pursuit came straight 

 toward me, the music clear and sharp, only 

 to cease gradually and die out altogether. 

 After a time I hurried down to the railway 

 and found poor Biz tied up again. He 

 was circling in wide sweeps as I came in 

 sight, whining his disgust, and always 

 ranging back to where the fox had reached 

 the" cutting. I saw at once the trouble — 

 our game had taken to the rail. I had 

 heard of the trick, though it was a novelty 

 in my own experience. I thought I could 

 beat it, but I could not. I followed the rail 

 more than a mile before I found, in the ap- 

 proaching dusk, the spot where the cunning 

 brute had left it. Occasionally he had 

 slipped one padded foot on the snow by the 

 side of the rail, but these instances were 

 rare. Too late to start the hunt anew, I 

 hustled the dog along with me to the farm, 

 and we were soon bowling homeward, tired, 

 outwitted a second time. 



I had, at least, discovered Reynard's pet 

 trick, the one he had often used success- 

 fully, and I decided he should not play it 

 again if I could help it. It was a dangerous 

 fox, this, that could lead an eager hound to 

 where a passing train might pick him up 

 from behind and drop his bruised and life- 

 less carcass over the embankment. We 

 would settle this business, and the sooner 

 the better. 



I allowed 2 days to elapse before I made 

 a third and well considered attempt. I 

 reasoned that the fox's feet would be about 

 healed from the terrific run he had so late- 

 ly had. Still, he would not be keen for an 

 all day run and I felt I could outwit him. 



Again the weather was propitious as we 

 arrived on the territory of our friend. 



I am an utter novice in photography, but 

 I felt I was likely to have a rare chance to 

 get a photograph of a live fox on a rail, 

 and I thought it would come near lifting 

 the cup in a Recreation competition. So 



I borrowed a friend's 4x5 camera and 

 banked on the result. 



This time I put the dog in at a different 

 place, knowing surely he would work the 

 ground well over, while I grabbed gun and 

 camera and hustled for a pile of sleepers 

 half a mile distant on the railway embank- 

 ment. 



Biz worked the fox out of his home 

 haunts in less than half an hour, and again 

 Reynard made the mistake of trying to 

 lose the hound in the first rush. From my 

 snug little blind by the sleepers, I listened 

 to the melody of a snappy drive through 

 the brush until it passed far below me and 

 turned toward the track. Foxy had no 

 relish for the pace that Bizness was forcing 

 him to and swung for a pine growth that 

 would give him a few moments' respite. 

 His thoughts were on his burrow, in the 

 hillside. Soon all was quiet. Minutes flew 

 by and I knew the jig was up as far as 

 the hound was concerned. The time-worn, 

 still serviceable trick was being again re- 

 sorted to, for the last time, if I were any 

 prophet. 



I soon took a cautious peep around the 

 corner of the sleepers to meet a sight I 

 shall never forget. Quite a distance down 

 the track, on the rail farthest from me, 

 was the fox, headed for certain death, as 

 nearly as I could figure it. His gait was 

 most singular. He evidently could not ne- 

 gotiate the rail at his usually graceful lope 

 and had compromised on a sort of ludicrous 

 waddle, throwing his legs out and back like 

 a slack wire performer. His white tipped 

 brush flopped from side to side in the ef- 

 fort to maintain his equilibrium, adding a 

 sort of rhythmic accompaniment to the exhi- 

 bition. It was apparently a serious business 

 for him. There was no stopping to listen, 

 no glance to right or left. With head bent 

 forward, his whole attention seemed cen- 

 tered on the business in hand. 



I watched him as long as was prudent ; 

 then, dropping back, I grasped the camera, 

 hurriedly placed it in position, and waited 

 in breathless excitement for the critical 

 moment. As he came in sight almost in 

 front of me, I nervously pointed the little 

 black box, pushed the button, and made a 

 grab for the Lefever. Those sensitive, black 

 tipped ears had heard the snap of the 

 shutter and he was under way in almost 

 the same instant, but he pulled the throttle 

 of his little engine a trifle too wide open at 

 the start. For a fractional part of a second 

 his feet did not grip the snow clad ground, 

 and I knew, as the gun flew to my shoulder, 

 that his life was over. It was a fair wing 

 shot when the crack of the smokeless came, 

 for he was making a grand effort to escape, 

 but the load of No. i's that caught him 

 made a second barrel unnecessary. Biz 

 joined me, coming up the track at a 



