rHK END OF THE GREAT RED FOX 



By FRANK IF. MELOON 



OW the hounds are cours- 

 ing the Great Red Fox, 

 — there is but one of his 

 kind and none beside. 

 He, who is bigger than 

 any hound, laughs at dog 

 and gun and hunter alike ; 

 he laughs and preys still 

 upon the fat of the poul- 

 try yards, and even rends 

 young lambs in the sheep- 

 fold. Ah, but he is cunning, and there 

 is no other so cunning as he ! 



The hounds course him while we wait 

 with cocked rifles. We wait uselessly, 

 as I know, who would swear by the 

 way that the Great Red Fox will die 

 no death of dog or man, and no bullet 

 may touch him. 



Listen, they come toward us ! Never 

 more than a little ahead, he leaves them 

 utterly and brings pursuit to an end. I 

 know not why, but to-day I feel that 

 he must die. He is old ; yes, old, and 

 he, the Great Red Fox, the king of all 

 his kind, must die. 



Now he comes ; at his heels follow 

 the best hounds in New England. They 

 are trained to the chase and will never 

 cease to follow his trail until they drop 

 in their tracks from exhaustion, or he 

 baffles them with one of those tricks 

 for which he is famous. 



We may shoot at him as he passes, 

 but I tell you it is no use. Could he 

 avoid passing us, he would. The Great 

 Red Fox can sniff the scent of man or 

 powder a hundred yards against the 

 stiffest breeze that ever blew. You 

 laugh, but you do not know ; you are 

 young and you have much to learn. 

 For forty years I have hunted and 

 trapped and lived my life in Canada and 

 the north of your Maine and New 

 Hampshire, and there is no man who 

 can tell me aught of the woods or of 

 the lore of them. 



Flere he is, right upon us ! Ah, you 

 did not hit him, which is not to be 

 wondered at, since you shot without 

 taking aim, or did I, who was born a 

 marksman, with a rifle in my hands. 

 No bullet ever yet was cast to pierce 

 the vitals of the Great Red Fox, over 

 whom hangs always the charm of the 

 Moon ; the Moon, whose silver rays 

 protect her own and turn the hand of 

 the slayer ever so little, — a hair's 

 breadth, maybe, — but enough ! Else he 

 would have died ere this. 



Now he has a straight stretch of a 

 quarter of a mile. Let us not reload 

 our rifles, but watch him. Will he turn ? 

 Not he ; his delight is in that lightning 

 speed which now you see, though you 

 are the only one, save me, that has 

 watched him on that path. 



A seared streak — almost yellow — 

 over the green, and he is far away ! 

 The lightning bolt in the sky of a sum- 

 mer night is not so swift. Almost might 

 he outrun those bullets you and I sent 

 singing about his ears. He loves the 

 music of death as I the wind-harps wail- 

 ing through the limbs of the forest out 

 side the glow of the camp fire. 



Those hounds run well, friend. What 

 say you? Is any so fleet as the Great 

 Red Fox? The race is not always to 

 the fleetest, men say, but to his speed 

 of foot the Great Red Fox adds cun- 

 ning. There is nothing so great in the 

 forest as cunning. 



There he goes to the cover ! It will 

 be speed no more, but brain and cure 

 foot against brain and keen sense of 

 smell. He will turn, he will double. 

 They will lose him, and he will peer 

 out from his hiding with sharp eyes. 

 exulting, while they sniff in baffled 

 fashion. And, when they strike that 

 sinuous path he has laid for them he 

 will go on to do the same trick agnin. 

 He is too fond of the venture. He 



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