'— 
u u 
»(aT]jH 
1 
Reynard and the Pocket Rifle. 
If there is any one wild animal native to the 
North American woods more cunning and sly 
and resourceful than another, it is the fox. As 
far back as history goes, we hear of his cun¬ 
ning, and doubtless he will continue to try the 
wits of his human enemies for centuries still, 
for no matter how ardently the sportsman pur¬ 
sues him, his race does not seem to diminish 
materially. He seems to be able to take good 
care of himself. The Indian and the panther 
and the bear and the moose, children of the 
wilderness, are now pretty much gone before 
the steady advance of civilization, but Reynard 
is with us still, openly setting us at defiance 
with all our sciences and our arts. 
If you are a lover of the gun, and chance to 
know the whereabouts of one of these crafty 
animals, you have in store a fund of recreation 
which will entertain you half the season, if you 
will but go after him and make the attempt of 
matching your wit against his. Try it, by all 
means. 
Not long ago, I was staying at a farm in a 
retired section of country, with abundance of 
woodland and overgrown pasture and swamp¬ 
land at hand, just the place for foxes I felt sure, 
and consequently resolved to look around a bit to 
see if there were not some of them about. 
Anxiously I awaited the coming of the first 
snowstorm, and when it came and whitened the 
landscape far and wide, I took a stroll about 
the country to see what the tell-tale record of 
the snow would reveal. Sure enough, there 
were fox tracks about, and plenty of them, and 
not far from the farm, either. In fact, one fel¬ 
low, more daring than the rest, seemed to make 
a regular practice of circling the farm buildings, 
doubtless in the hope of finding something to 
plunder there, but the chickens were always 
carefully housed, and his hopes in this direc¬ 
tion were foiled. Nevertheless, I resolved that 
he was a bad fellow to have nosing about thus, 
and that I should take up his case without 
delay. 
Now at that time I had taken a fancy to a 
little pocket rifle which I had picked up. It had 
a fifteen-inch barrel and a skeleton stock, and 
weighed scarcely more than two pounds. It 
could be carried in the pocket without incon¬ 
venience, and consequently I had fallen into the 
habit of taking it with me when walking in the 
fields and woods. It was .32 caliber, center 
fire, and exceedingly accurate, and had furnished 
no end of amusement for target shooting at 
short range. So firm was my confidence in it 
that I decided to try it in my intended brush 
with that fox. To bring him to bag with such a 
diminutive arm would seem a double victory. 
I cleaned and oiled it, and polished its little 
barrel till it shone like silver in the firelight, then 
slipped it into my overcoat pocket, selected a 
handful of cartridges, and sallied forth. Taking 
the trail back of the barn, I followed it across 
the meadow, and down into the woods. In and 
out. this way and that, it led me along the ridges 
where the pines were the thickest, beside the 
brook for a mile or more, up ravines and across 
hollows and over ledges; but not a sign of Rey¬ 
nard was there anywhere to be seen, and at last 
I gave up and returned home, baffled for the 
first attempt. 
The second, and the third, .and other trials, 
resulted much the same way. Even when a 
light snow fell in the night, thus giving me the 
trail perfectly fresh in the morning, I was out¬ 
witted. for not once could I succeed in locating 
the quarry, or getting as much as a glimpse of 
him. 
But it is a long lane that has no turning, and 
at last, quite by accident, I hit upon a course 
which developed better results. One afternoon 
it became evident that a great snowfall was at 
hand. All the morning, the clouds had hung 
low and thick, and it grew darker and more 
threatening every hour, until at last the light 
was but little better than twilight; too dark to 
lead by comfortably without a light, while 
away along the edge of the horizon there was 
that dull, leaden aspect to the sky which tells 
of a vast amount of moisture accumulated. We 
were to have an unusually heavy snowstorm; 
that was certain. 
Now I always thoroughly enjoy being in the 
woods in the snow. Everything seems so 
strange and changed at such a time that it is 
almost as good as a trip to fairyland to be among 
the evergreens. The sky seems to rest on the 
very treetops above, while a great blanket of 
white is drawn about, shutting out the land¬ 
scape, and refashioning all anew. Just to be 
abroad at such a time is a memorable and in¬ 
spiring experience. 
As I looked out of the window and saw the 
threatening aspect of the weather, I could not 
resist the temptation to be out, so slipping my 
little rifle into my pocket, as much for com¬ 
panionship as anything else, I turned my steps 
toward my favorite walks among the pines. 
The storm gradually thickened about me as I 
went, the air finally becoming alive with the 
fast falling flakes. 
On and on I wandered thus, now stopping to 
admire some particularly symmetrical ever¬ 
green. adorned with wreaths of snow, now 
studying the pranks of the snow king, which he 
was already beginning to play with bush and 
shrub and tree, until at last I sat down to rest 
upon a fallen treetrunk on one of the familiar 
runways along which my old friend Reynard 
had led me, many a time. 
As I sat thus, holding the little rifle across my 
knee, musing upon how dark it was already 
growing in the woods and how the storm was 
settling down on all sides, I was astonished at 
seeing a dark form, clearly outlined against the 
white of the snow, coming slowly but lightly up 
the ridge. Every now and then it would stop to 
look cautiously this way and that, and then 
come on again. What! Could it be! Yes, it 
was Reynard, who had evidently thought him¬ 
self safe in venturing forth in the storm; so 
dim had the twilight already become, and so 
little likelihood was there of any one’s being 
abroad at such a time, to molest him! 
Here at last was the old fellow for whom I 
had searched so long, deliberately walking of 
his own accord into the trap which I had long 
desired to watch for him! What an oppor¬ 
tunity! ^ 
Slowly and cautiously I raised the little rifle 
to my shoulder while the crafty fox was look¬ 
ing the other way. Eortunately the wind, such 
little as there was, was favorable, so that he 
could not catch scent of me, and he had not 
as yet noticed me sitting on the log. Carefully 
I drew aim upon him, as best I could in the 
dim light. The sights of the little rifle barrel 
were clear and distinct, and I felt confident that 
my aim was true. 
And now my quarry was within thirty yards 
of me, and I dared not wait longer, but gently 
pressed the trigger. The report sounded like 
the mere crack of a whip in that heavy, 
smothered, snow-laden air, but the fox leaped 
into the air and fell. And that is how the 
craftiest old fox of all that region fell a victim 
to the little pocket rifle in one of the heaviest 
snowstorms New England has known in recent 
years. 
But how do I know that I had secured the 
particular fox that I was after so long? Be¬ 
cause not once again that winter were there any 
fox tracks around the barn and outbuildings. 
The Major. 
Arctic Club. 
The fifteenth annual dinner and reception of the 
Arctic Club will be given at the Hotel Marl¬ 
borough, Broadway and 36th street, on Satur¬ 
day evening, Jan. 23, 1909, at 8 o’clock sharp. 
Rear-Admiral W. S. Schley, U. S. N., newly 
elected President, will take the chair and several 
members of the Lieutenant A. W. Greely, U. 
S. A., Lady Eranklin Bay Expedition will be 
present. The official invitation will be sent out 
in due season. This will be an event of great 
interest to members of the club and prompt 
reply is requested to the invitations, so that the 
committee may make ample provision for oc- 
commodating members and guests. 
Ducks on Columbia River. 
St. Helens, Ore., Jan. 2. —Editor Forest and 
Stream: In your journal of Dec. 19, igo8, there 
is a sketch from Illinois (my old home) about 
the game there. 
Here is a note of one day’s duck shooting this 
season for three guns, on the Columbia River,- 
Oregon. We were in the blinds just six hours 
and got the limit, fifty birds, each. They were 
mallard, widgeon and sprigs. I wonder how 
those boys that got the sixteen rabbits would 
like to bump up against a bag like that? There 
have been days this season when we could have 
bagged 200 birds to the gun. J. H. S. 
