Wild animals I have known : and 200 drawings

or)

neye

peaee hace
we FY

503

Ti

s

a0

we

ee ee
£4) arg

. of
re es

ey

a: Pie oe Ay ra Jae aL age eT aa Y ee Pe
“48 nd = - ‘i . ir ok ae ity fee ire ws
, : Foner te F ‘ ene sg el
see rou? a vee een, J Ta
yay fo Fs eS “| ae oe he ey, '
It clad y ay L Bee z) <r 1pm 3
Ley yea re oe % Fig tA WI arte ‘ z eRe ye
u soa pet pe y SER - ae ae fH i eae
4 i 7} 3 ‘ 5 3 F; eerie
Nae LS) , i {so : ; . Mae Cugyynrtt %' 32
n# pee 9 re ; ; eee ia act
a oe ‘ i7e:? soe sad
1 he ne .

. , a a vai ; . se ve FOR

4 ari bd GN TE RS car vein FS
F id th ‘ “gc ,

pe ht = se a i , . mae
“oe wud oe

a ge | -and-200-Drawinos- |
q
ErnesteSetonalhompson

NATURALIST’ T®:T HE-G vie
MENT: OF: MANITOBA AUTH®R- °F
BIRDS -°F-MANITOBA #44:

: :
l SH =
P.

ra

it

\ SS :
YS
NN!

i} \
eS TANS
iu AY]

SNe )

MAMMALS -F MANIT BA ae ,
ART-ANATOM ¥:°F-ANIMALS. '
f
Beingthe Personal Histories of
7 obo
Silverspet |
Rappylup
Bingo
The Sprinpfield Fox
‘The Pacinp Mustanp
Wdull oe aad
and Redruff >
‘ hard —
‘a

Copyright, 1898, by
Ernest Seton Chompson

- =,

—™
v

,
r/
'

bt 2,

«
«
+

<-> Q
€

en

ofr ' ¢ N (

a
ait
ee
«
«
‘

~.
eo @) \
Cc. r \
oO *
~— eo
5 Rik
‘

Te Jim

This Book
is Dedicated

A List of the Stories in this Book
And their Full-page Drawings

Page
Lobo, tiz King of Currumpaw. . - - 15

Lobo Showing the Pack How to Kill
“2 EE). 0 a 2 eRe a am aa Na

~~ Tannerey, with his Dogs, came Gallop-
Merete Canon @— s F
Bebe exposing the Traps - . . . . 38
eee Blanes 5 | Se
Monee Crrrampe . 2, es 5S
Silverspot, the Story of a Crow . . . 57
PERU i, eS BE

The Handle of a China-cup, the Gem
M@ecwaiccion 2... 93
Roost in a Row, like Big Folks. . . 78
The Track ofthe Murderer. . . . 85
See een ot ollyetspot =. . =. . . 89

5

A List of the Stories in this Book

Page

Raggylug, the Story of a Cottontail
Rabbit . C = gt

Face to Face with an Enormous Black

Se@GMeN Gs = (tn eee \ . (eee
Rag Followed the Snow-white Beacon 118
The Hound came Sniffing along the

Log. 26.0 3 ee ee

No Chance-to: Turn Now > 333 eeae

Bingo, the Story of My Dog. . . . 145
Frank Retreated Each Time the Wolf

dburned me ea scar . 5h Se ae

Bingo and the She-wolf. . . . 167

Bingo Watched while Curley Feasted 172
Tail-piece“. 33. «21 ee

The Springfield Fox A) Root ae 185
They Tussled and Fought, while their
Mother Looked On with Fond De-

HOE 6 aes )5, cae 196

Vix Shows the Cubs How to Catch Mice 202
There She had Lain—and Mourned . 218
Vix 2°30. 6 leis 05 ee

A List of the Stories in this Book

Page
Ghe Pactng Mustang . . - - - . 227
Away Went the Mustang at his Famous
eee ies eh ieee meh cy em Ye. or ODOT
Gully, the Story of a Yaller Dog . . 273
mone three Maroons .°.*—- ge ag
Once more a Sheep- pe in Charg of
PEMOCK Meee ans Sie uae oy,
Wally. Studied ‘her Calm Face. . 299
Redruff, the Story of the Don a
Partridge. . . . : 305
Mmmerne Moonlight ©2502 ys 331
Redrit, saving Runtie . . 2. 6.2 340
WENO eae Os ib

ahe @housht- (Vail-piecé) .° 2 2. 3509

Note to the Reader

THESE STORIES are true. Although I
have left the strict line of historical truth in
many places, the animals in this book were all
real characters. ‘They lived the lives I have
depicted, and showed the stamp of heroism and
personality more strongly by far than it has been
‘in the power of my pen to tell.

I believe that natural history has lost much
by the vague general treatment that is so com-
mon. What satisfaction would be derived from
a ten-page sketch of the habits and customs of
Man? How much more profitable it would be
to devote that space to the life of some one
great man. ‘This is the principle I have en-
deavored to apply to my animals. The real
personality of the individual, and his view of
life are my theme, rather than the ways of the

9

Note to the Reader

race in general, as viewed by a casual and hos-
tile human eye.

This may sound inconsistent in view of my
having pieced together some of the characters,
but that was made necessary by the fragmentary
nature of the records. There is, however, al-
most no deviation from the truth in Lobo, Bin-
go, and the Mustang.

Lobo lived his wild romantic life from 1889
to 1894 in the Currumpaw region, as the ranch-
men know too well, and died, precisely as re-
lated, on January 31, 1894.

Bingo was my dog from 1882 to 1888, in
spite of interruptions, caused by lengthy visits
to New York, as my Manitoban friends will re-
member. And my old friend, the owner of
Tan, will learn from these pages how his dog
really died.

The Mustang lived not far from Lobo in the
early nineties. The story is given strictly as it
occurred, excepting that there is a dispute as to
the manner of his death. According to some
testimony he broke his neck in the corral that

IO

Note to the Reader

e

he was first taken to. Old Turkeytrack is where
he cannot be consulted to settle it.

Wully is, in a sense, a compound of two dogs ;
both were mongrels, of some collie blood, and
were raised as sheep-dogs. The first part of
Wully is given as it happened, after that it was
known only that he became a savage, treacher-
ous sheep-killer. The details of the second part
belong really to another, a similar yaller dog,
who long lived the double life—a faithful sheep-
dog by day, and a bloodthirsty, treacherous
monster by night. Such things are less rare
than-is supposed, and since writing these stories
i have heard of another double-lived sheep-dog
that added to its night amusements the crown-
ing barbarity of murdering the smaller dogs of
the neighborhood. He had killed twenty, and
hidden them in asand-pit, when discovered by
his master. He died just as Wully did.

Redruff really lived in the Don Valley north
of Toronto, and many of my companions will
remember him. He was killed in 1889, be-
tween the Sugar Loaf and Castle Frank, by a

II

Wote to the Reader

creature whose name I have withheld, as it is
the species, rather than the individual, that I
Wish to expose.

Silverspot, Raggylug, and Vixen are founded

on real characters. Though I have ascribed to

them the adventures of more than one of their
_ kind, every incident in their biographies is from
life.

The fact that these stories are true is the rea-
son why all are tragic. ‘The life of a wild ani-
mal always has a tragic end.

Such a collection of histories naturally sug-
gests a common thought—a moral it would have
been called in the last century. No doubt each
different mind will find a moral to its taste, but
I hope some will herein find emphasized a
moral as old as Scripture—we and the beasts
are kin. Man has nothing that the animals
have not at least a vestige of, the animals have
nothing that man does not in some degree share.

Since, then, the animals are creatures with
wants and feelings differing in degree only from
our own, they surely have their rights. This

12

*SUOOIL IW) ood | ou

ave aa a i! ote al! “ = ee

Note to the Reader

fact, now beginning to be recognized by the
Caucasian world, was emphasized by the Buddh-
ist Over 2,000 years ago.

THIS BOOK was made by my wife, Grace
Gallatin Thompson. Although the handiwork
throughout is my own, she chiefly is responsible
for designs of cover, title page, and general
make-up. Thanks are due her also for the lit-
erary revision, and for the mechanical labor of
seeing the book through the press.

Ernest Seton Chompson.
gs
144 FIFTH AVE., NEw York City,
August 14, 1898.

‘| Lobo
Boatd The King of
a§| Currumpaw

Lobo
The King of Currumpaw

I

== URRUMPAW is a vast cattle range in
northern New Mexico. It is a land
of rich pastures and teeming flocks
and herds, a land of rolling mesas and
precious running waters that at length
unite in the Currumpaw River, from
= which. the whole region is named.
And the king whose despotic power was felt
over its entire extent was an old gray wolf.
Old Lobo, or the king, as the Mexicans called
him, was the gigantic leader of a remarkable
pack of gray wolves, that had ravaged the Cur-
rumpaw Valley for a number of years. All the
shepherds and ranchmen knew him well, and,

17

Lobo

wherever he appeared with his trusty band, ter-
ror reigned supreme among the cattle, and wrath
and despair among their owners. Old Lobo
was a giant among wolves, and was cunning and
strong in proportion to his size. His voice at
night was well-known and easily distinguished |
from that of any of his fellows. An ordi-
nary wolf might howl half the night about the
herdsman’s bivouac without attracting more
than a passing notice, but when the deep roar
of the old king came booming down the cafion,
the watcher bestirred himself and prepared to
learn in the morning that fresh and serious in-
roads had been made among the herds.

Old Lobo’s band was but a small one. This
I never quite understood, for usually, when a
wolf rises to the position and power that he had,
he attracts a numerous following. It may be
that he had as many as he desired, or perhaps
his ferocious temper prevented the increase of
his pack. - Certain is it that Lobo had only five
followers during the latter part of his reign.
Each of these, however, was a wolf of renown,
most of them were above the ordinary size, one
in particular, the second in command, was a

18

Lobo ;
veritable giant, but even he was far below the
leader in size and prowess. Several of the band,
besides the two leaders, were especially noted.
One of those was a beautiful white wolf, that
the Mexicans called Blanca ; this was supposed
to be afemale, possibly Lobo’s mate. Another
was a yellow wolf of remarkable swiftness, which,
according to current stories had, on several oc-
casions, captured an antelope for the pack.

It will be seen, then, that these wolves were
thoroughly well-known to the cowboys and
shepherds. They were frequently seen and
oftener heard, and their lives were intimately
associated with those of the cattlemen, who
would so gladly have destroyed them. There
was not a stockman on the Currumpaw who
would not readily have given the value of
many steers for the scalp of any one of Lobo’s
band, but they seemed to possess charmed lives,
and defied all manner of devices to kill them.
They scorned all hunters, derided all poisons,
and continued, for at least five years, to exact
their tribute from the Currumpaw ranchers to
the extent, many said, of a cow each day. Ac-
cording to this estimate, therefore, the band had

19

Lobo

killed more than two thousand of the finest
stock, for, as was only too well-known, they
selected the best in every instance.

The old idea that a wolf was constantly in a
starving state, and therefore ready to eat any-
thing, was as far as possible from the truth in
this case, for these freebooters were always
sleek and well-conditioned, and were in fact
most fastidious about what they ate. Any ani-
mal that had died from natural causes, or that
was diseased or tainted, they would not touch,
and they even rejected anything that had been
killed by the stockmen. Their choice and
daily food was the tenderer part of a freshly
killed yearling heifer. An old bull or cow
they disdained, and though they occasionally
took a young calf or colt, it was quite clear
that veal or horseflesh was not their favorite
diet. It was also known that they were not
fond of mutton, although they often amused
themselves by killing sheep. One night in
November, 1893, Blanca and the yellow wolf
killed two hundred and fifty sheep, apparently
for the fun of it, and did not eat an ounce of
their flesh. |

20

Lobo

These are examples of many stories which
I might repeat, to show the ravages of this
destructive band. Many new devices for their
extinction were tried each year, but still they
lived and throve in spite of all the efforts of
their foes. A great price was set on Lobo’s
head, and in consequence poison in a score of
subtle forms was put out for him, but he never ds
failed to detect and avoid it. One thing only x
he feared—that was firearms, and knowing full sg eae Loe
well that all men in this region carried them, Ky
he never was known to attack or face a human
being. Indeed, the set policy of his band was
to take refuge in flight whenever, in the day-
time, a man was descried, no matter at what
distance. Lobo’s habit of permitting the pack
to eat only that which they themselves had
killed, was in numerous cases their salvation,
ana ihe keenness of his scent to detect the taint
of human hands or the poison itself, completed
their immunity. :

On one occasion, one of the cowboys heard
the too familiar rallying-cry of Old Lobo, and
stealthily approaching, he found the Currum-
paw pack in a hollow, where they had ‘ round-

21

Lobo

ed up’ asmall herd of cattle. Lobo sat apart
on a knoll, while Blanca with the rest was en-
deavoring to ‘cut out’ a young cow, which
they had selected ; but the cattle were standing
in a compact mass with their heads outward,
and presented to the foe a line of horns, un-
broken save when some cow, frightened by a
fresh onset of the wolves, tried to retreat into
the middle of the herd. It was only by taking
advantage of these breaks that the wolves had
succeeded at all in wounding the selected cow,
but she was far from being disabled, and it
seemed that Lobo at length lost patience with
his followers, for he left his position on the hill,
and, uttering a deep roar, dashed toward the herd.
The terrified rank broke at his charge, and he
sprang inamong ihem. Then the cattle scattered
like the pieces of a bursting bomb. Away went
the chosen victim, but ere she had gone twaity-
five yards Lobo was upon her. Seizing her by
the neck he suddenly held back with all his
force and so threw her heavily to the ground.
The shock must have been tremendous, for the
heifer was thrown heels over head. Lobo also
turned a somersault, but immediately recovered

22

Lobo

e

himself, and his followers falling on the poor
cow, killed her in a few seconds. Lobo took
no part in the killing—after having thrown the
victim, he seemed to say, ‘‘ Now, why could
not some of you have done that at once with-
out wasting so much time?’”’

The man now rode up shouting, the wolves
as usual retired, and he, having a bottle of

strychnine, quickly poisoned the carcase in
~ three places, then went away, knowing they
would return to feed, as they had killed the
animal themselves. But next morning, on go-
ing to look for his expected victims, he found
that, although the wolves had eaten the heifer,
they had carefully cut out and thrown aside all
those parts that had been poisoned.

The dread of this great wolf spread yearly
among the ranchmen, and each year a larger
price was set on his head, until at last it reached
$1,000, an unparalleled wolf-bounty, surely ;
many a good man has been hunted down for
less. Tempted by the promised reward, a
Texan ranger named Tannerey came one day
galloping up the cafion of the Currumpaw. He
had a superb outfit for wolf-hunting—the best

25

‘<

“aYEs
“a Xe, s),
at tia

& Wl,

a Cf
‘a

ob
“

Lobo

of guns and horses, and a pack of enormous
wolf-hounds. Far out on the plains of the
Pan-handle, he and his dogs had killed many
a wolf, and now he never doubted that, within
a few days, old Lobo’s scalp would dangle at
his saddle-bow.

Away they went bravely on their hunt in the
gray dawn of a summer morning, and soon the
great dogs gave joyous tongue to say that they
were already on the track of their quarry.
Within two miles, the grizzly band of Cur-
rumpaw leaped into view, and the chase grew
fast and furious. ‘The part of the wolf-hounds -
was merely to hold the wolves at bay till the
hunter could ride up and shoot them, and this
usually was easy on the open plains of Texas ;
but here a new feature of the country came into —
play, and showed how well Lobo had chosen
his range; for the rocky cafions of the Currum-
paw and its tributaries intersect the prairies in
every direction. The old wolf at once made
for the nearest of these and by crossing it
got rid of the horsemen. His band then scat-
tered and thereby scattered the dogs, and when
they reunited at a distant point of course all of

26

A
= Ln
=: Atay etianrrg e

elie

gS RR pe PS ae te
P as SS Sy owe a

Tannerey, with his Dogs, came Galloping up the Canon.

Lobo

the dogs did not turn up, and the wolves no
longer outnumbered, turned on their pursuers
and killed or desperately wounded them all.
That night when Tannerey mustered his dogs,
only six of them returned, and of these, two
were terribly lacerated. This hunter made
two other attempts to capture the royal scalp,
but neither of them was more successful than
the first, and on the last occasion his best
horse met its death by a fall; so he gave up
the chase in disgust and went back to Texas,
leaving Lobo more than ever the despot of the
region.

Next year, two other hunters appeared, de-
termined to win the promised bounty. Each
believed he could destroy this noted wolf, the
first by means of a newly devised poison, which
was to be laid out in an entirely new manner ;
the other a French Canadian, by poison as-
sisted with certain spells and charms, for he
firmly believed that Lobo was a_ veritable
‘loup-garou,’ and could not be killed by or-
dinary means. But cunningly compounded
poisons, charms, and incantations were all of
no avail against this grizzly devastator. He

29

Lobo

made his weekly rounds and daily banquets as
aforetime, and before many weeks had passed,
Calone and Laloche gave up in capa and
went elsewhere to hunt.

In the spring of 1893, after his unsuccessful
attempt to capture Lobo, Joe Calone had a
humiliating experience, which seems to show
that the big wolf simply scorned his enemies,
and had absolute confidence in himself. Ca-~
lone’s farm was on a small tributary of the
Currumpaw, in a picturesque cafion, and among
the rocks of this very cafion, within a thousand
yards of the house, old Lobo and his mate se-
lected their den and raised their family that
season. There they lived all summer, and
killed Joe’s cattle, sheep, and dogs, but laughed
at all his poisons and traps, and rested securely
among the recesses of the cavernous cliffs, while

Joe vainly racked his brain for some method of

smoking them out, or of reaching them with
dynamite. But they escaped entirely unscathed,
and continued their ravages as before. ‘‘ There’s
where he lived all last summer,’’ said Joe,
pointing to the face of the cliff, ‘‘and I couldn’t
do a thing with him. I was likea fool to him.”’

30

Lobo

II

Tuis history, gathered so far from the cow-
boys, I found hard to believe until in the fall
of 1893, I made the acquaintance of the wily
marauder, and at length came to know him
more thoroughly than anyone else. Some
years before, in the Bingo days, I had been
a wolf-hunter, but my occupations since then
had been of another sort, chaining me to stool
and desk. Iwas much in need of a change,
and when a friend, who was also a ranch-owner
on the Currumpaw, asked me to come to New
Mexico and try if I could do anything with
this predatory pack, I accepted the invitation
and, eager to make the acquaintance of its
king, was as soon as possible among the mesas
of that region. I spent some time riding about
to learn the country, and at intervals, my guide
would point to the skeleton of a cow to which
the hide still adhered, and remark, ‘‘ That’s
some of his work.’’

It became quite clear to me that, in this
rough country, it was useless to think of pur-

31

|

Lobo

suing Lobo with hounds and horses, so that
poison or traps were the only available expe-
dients. At present we had no traps large
enough, so I set to work with poison.

I need not enter into the details of a hun-
dred devices that I employed to circumvent
this ‘loup-garou’ ; there was no combination
of strychnine, arsenic, cyanide, or prussic acid,
that I did not essay ; there was no manner of
flesh that I did not try as bait; but morning
after morning, as I rode forth to learn the result,
I found that all my efforts had been useless.
The old king was too cunning for me. A
single instance will show his wonderful sagacity.
Acting on the hint of an old trapper, I melted
some cheese together with the kidney fat of a
freshly killed heifer, stewing it in a china dish,
and cutting it with a bone knife to avoid the
taint of metal. When the mixture was cool, I
cut it into lumps, and making a hole in one
side of each lump, I inserted a large dose of
strychnine and cyanide, contained in a capsule
that was impermeable by any odor; finally I
sealed the holes up with pieces of the cheese
itself. During the whole process, I wore a

322

A

Lobo
pair of gloves steeped in the hot blood of the
heifer, and even avoided breathing on the
baits. When all was ready, I put them in a
raw-hide bag rubbed all over with blood, and
rode forth dragging the liver and kidneys of
the beef at the end of a rope. With this I
made a ten-mile circuit, dropping a bait at
each quarter of a mile, and taking the utmost
care, always, not to touch any with my hands.

Lobo, generally, came into this part of the
range in the early part of each week, and
passed the latter part, it was supposed, around
the base of Sierra Grande. This was Monday,
and that same evening, as we were about to
retire, | heard the deep bass howl of his ma-
jesty. On hearing it one of the boys briefly re-
marked, ‘‘ There he is, we’ll see.’’

The next morning I went forth, eager to
know the result. I soon came on the fresh
trail of the robbers, with Lobo in the lead—his
track was always easily distinguished. An or-
dinary wolf’s forefoot is 434 inches long, that
of a large wolf 434 inches, but Lobo’s, as
measured a number of times, was 514 inches
from claw to heel; I afterward found that his

33

Lobo

other proportions were commensurate, for he
stood three feet high at the shoulder, and
weighed 150 pounds. His trail, therefore,
though obscured by those of his followers, was
never difficult to trace. The pack had soon
found the track of my drag, and as usual fol-
lowed it. I could see that Lobo had come to
the first bait, sniffed about it, and finally had
picked it up.

Then I could not conceal my delight. ‘I’ve
got him at last,’’ I exclaimed ; ‘‘I shall find
him stark within a mile,’’ and I galloped on
with eager eyes fixed on the great broad track
in the dust. It led me to the second bait and
that also was gone. How I exulted—lI surely
have him now and perhaps several of his band.
But there was the broad paw-mark still on the
drag ; and though I stood in the stirrup and
scanned the plain I saw nothing that looked
like a dead wolf. Again I followed—to find
now that the third bait was gone—and the
king-wolf’s track led on to the fourth, there to
learn that he had not really taken a bait at all,
but had merely carried them in his mouth.
Then having piled the three on the fourth, he

34

Lobo

e

scattered filth over them to express his utter
contempt for my devices. After this he left
my drag and went about his business with the
pack he guarded so effectively.

_ This is only one of many similar experiences
which convinced me that poison would never
avail to destroy this robber, and though I con-
tinued to use it while awaiting the arrival of
the traps, it was only because it was meanwhile
asure means of killing many prairie wolves and
other destructive vermin.

About this time there came under my obser-
vation an incident that will illustrate Lobo’s
diabolic cunning. ‘These wolves had at least
one pursuit which was merely an amusement, it
was stampeding and killing sheep, though they
rarely ate them. The sheep are usually kept in
flocks of from one thousand to three thousand
under one or more shepherds. At night they
are gathered in the most sheltered place avail-
able, and a herdsman sleeps on each side of the
flock to give additional protection. Sheep are
such senseless creatures that they are liable to
be stampeded by the veriest trifle, but they
have deeply ingrained in their nature one, and

35

Lobo

perhaps only one, strong weakness, namely, to
follow their leader. And this the shepherds
turn to good account by putting half a dozen
goats in the flock of sheep. The latter recog-
nize the superior intelligence of their bearded
cousins, and when a night alarm occurs they
crowd around them, and usually are thus saved
from a stampede and are easily protected. But it
was not always so. One night late in last No-
vember, two Perico shepherds were aroused by
an onset of wolves. Their flocks huddled
around the goats, which being neither fools
nor cowards, stood their ground and were
bravely defiant ; but alas for them, no common
wolf was heading this attack. Old Lobo, the
weir-wolf, knew as well as the shepherds that
the goats were the moral force of the flock, so
hastily running over the backs of the densely
packed sheep, he fell on these leaders, slew
them all in a few minutes, and soon had the
luckless sheep stampeding in a thousand differ-
ent directions. For weeks afterward I was al-
most daily accosted by some anxious shepherd,
who asked, ‘‘ Have you seen any stray OTO
sheep lately ?’’ and usually I was obliged to
36

» Lobo |

ff say I had; one day it was, ‘‘ Yes, I came on
some five or six carcasses by Diamond Springs; ’’

a small ‘ bunch’ running on the Malpai Mesa ;
or again, ‘‘ No, but Juan Meira saw about
twenty, freshly killed, on the Cedra Monte
two days ago.”’
At length the wolf traps arrived, and with
two men I worked a whole week to get them
properly set out. We spared no labor or pains,
I adopted every device I could think of that
might help to insure success. The second day
after the traps arrived, I rode around to inspect,
and soon came upon Lobo’s trail running from
trap to trap. In the dust I could read the
whole story of his doings that night. He had
trotted along in the darkness, and although the
traps were so carefully concealed, he had in-
stantly detected the first one. Stopping the
onward march of the pack, he had cautiously
‘scratched around it until he had disclosed the
trap, the chain, and the log, then left them
wholly exposed to view with the trap still un-
sprung, and passing on he treated over a dozen
traps in thesame fashion. Very soon I noticed

39

Lobo —

that he stopped and turned aside as soon as
he detected suspicious signs on the trail and a
new plan to outwit him at once suggested itself.
I set the traps in the form of an H; that is,
with a row of traps on each side of the trail,
and one on the trail for the cross-bar of the H.
Before long, I had an opportunity to count an-
other failure. Lobocame trotting along the trail,
and was fairly between the parallel lines be-
fore he detected the single trap in the trail, but
he stopped in time, and why or how he knew
enough I cannot imagine, but without turning
an inch to the right or left, he slowly and cau-
tiously backed on his own tracks, putting each
paw exactly in its old track until he was off
the dangerous ground. ‘Then returning at one
side he scratched clods and stones with his hind
feet till he had sprung every trap. This he did
on many other occasions, and although I varied
my methods and redoubled my precautions, he
was never deceived, his sagacity seemed never
at fault, and he might have been pursuing his
career of rapine to-day, but for an unfortunate
alliance that proved his ruin and added his
name to the long list of heroes who, unassail-

40

: ‘vouvig puv Oqo’y] :

Lobo

able when alone, have fallen through the indis-
cretion of a trusted ally.

Iil

Once or twice, I had found indications that
everything was not quite right in the Currum-
paw pack. There were signs of irregularity, I
thought ; for instance there was clearly the trail
of a smaller wolf running ahead of the leader,
at times, and this I could not understand until
a cowboy made a remark which explained the
matter.

‘‘T saw them to-day, ’’ he said, ‘‘ and the
wild one that breaks away is Blanca.’’ Then
the truth dawned upon me, and I added, ‘‘ Now,
I know that Blanca is a she-wolf, because were
a he-wolf to act thus, Lobo would kill him at
once.”’

This suggested a new plan. I killed a heifer,
and set one or two rather obvious:traps about
the carcass. Then cutting off the head, which
is considered useless offal, and quite beneath
the notice of a wolf, Iset it a little apart and
around it placed six powerful steel traps proper-

43

Lobo

ly deodorized and concealed with the utmost
care. During my operations I kept my hands,
boots, and implements smeared with fresh blood,
and afterward sprinkled the ground with the
same, as though it had flowed from the head ;
and when the traps were buried in the dust I
brushed the place over with the skin of a coyote,
and with a foot of the same animal made a
number of tracks over the traps. The head
was so placed that there was a narrow passage
between it and some tussocks, and in this pas-
sage I buried two of my best traps, fastening
them to the head itself.

Wolves have a habit of approaching every
carcass they get the wind of, in order to ex-
amine it, even when they have no intention of
eating of it, and I hoped that this habit would
bring the Currumpaw pack within reach of my
latest stratagem. I did not doubt that Lobo
would detect my handiwork about the meat,
and prevent the pack approaching it, but I did
build some hopes on the head, for it looked as
though it had been thrown aside as useless.

Next morning, I sallied forth to inspect the
traps, and there, oh, joy! were the tracks of

44

Lobo
the pack, and the place where the beef-head
and its traps had been was empty. A hasty fos

study of the trail showed that Lobo had kept
the pack from approaching the meat, but one,
a small wolf, had evidently gone on to examine rt 4 ee
the head as it lay apart and had walked right ; Lae
into one of the traps.
We set out on the trail, and within a mile
discovered that the hapless wolf was Blanca. se Ge
Away she went, however, at a gallop, and al- q :
though encumbered by the beef-head, which

weighed over fifty pounds, she speedily dis- Eo)
tanced my companion who was on foot. But = Ki
we overtook her when she reached the rocks, fag? SFI
for the horns of the cow’s head became caught a oe
and held her fast. She was the handsomest ie
wolf I had ever seen. Her coat was in perfect 5
‘ condition and nearly white. m Ls &: & Lu

She turned to fight, and raising her voice ‘ae? =
in the rallying cry of her race, sent a long vhs cs
howl rolling over the cafion. From far away fa
upon the mesa came a deep response, the cry Ps
of Old Lobo. That was her last call, for now owe
we had closed inon her, and all her energy and "eB"
breath were devoted to combat. 6 BA

45 ht

Mi

5
ss
VU ese
(s40-.. 7
49
; &,
= Sy
Pwr ance
i ©
f
Fi

Lobo

Then followed the inevitable tragedy, the
idea of which I shrank from afterward more
than at the time. We each threw a lasso over
the neck of the doomed wolf, and strained our
horses in opposite directions until the blood
burst from her mouth, her eyes glazed, her
limbs stiffened and then fell limp. Homeward
then we rode, carrying the dead wolf, and ex-
ulting over this, the first death-blow we had
been able to inflict on the Currumpaw pack.

At intervals during the tragedy, and afterward
as we rode homeward, we heard the roar of
Lobo as he wandered about on the distant
mesas, where he seemed to be searching for
Blanca. He had never really deserted her, but
knowing that he could not save her, his deep-
rooted dread of firearms had been too much for
him when he saw us approaching. All that day
we heard him wailing as he roamed in his quest,
and I remarked at length to one of the boys,
‘¢ Now, indeed, I truly know that Blanca was
his mate.’’

As evening fell he seemed to be coming tow-
ard the home cafion, for his voice sounded con-
tinually nearer. There was an unmistakable

46

Lobo

note of sorrow in it now. It was no longer the
loud, defiant howl, but a long, plaintive wail ;
‘¢ Blanca! Blanca!’’ he seemed to call. And
as night came down, I noticed that he was not
far from the place where we had overtaken her.
At length he seemed to find the trail, and when
he came to the spot where we had killed her,
his heart-broken wailing was piteous to hear.
It was sadder than I could possibly have be-
lieved. Even the stolid cowboys noticed it,
and said they had ‘‘ never heard a wolf carry
on like that before.’’ Heseemed to know ex-
actly what had taken place, for her blood had
stained the place of her death.

Then he took up the trail of the horses and
followed it to the ranch-house. Whether in
hopes of finding her there, or in quest of re-
venge, I know not, but the latter was what he
found, for he surprised our unfortunate watch-
dog outside and tore him to little bits within fifty
yards of the door. He evidently came alone
this time, for I found but one trail next morn-
ing, and he had galloped about ina reckless
manner that was very unusual with him. I had
half expected this, and had set a number of ad-

47

Bla of

——

u
~.
: ,
Mee
’ hes
ca ey Noe
s
“
&, /
Oy -
~
of feaNtexeas ys
aie
, 4
nen
. oY : a
Gee
* =e >
oie rs a
s 2.
<= xs N
~~ Peis },
.- ‘ ase.
“4 \ ee
We % Sy
We

Lobo

ditional traps about the pasture. Afterward I
found that he had indeed fallen into one of
these, but such was his strength, he had torn
himself loose and cast it aside.

I believed that he would continue in the
neighborhood until he found her body at least,
so I concentrated all my energies on this one
enterprise of catching him before he left the
region, and while yet in this reckless mood.
Then I realized what a mistake I had made in
killing Blanca, for by using her+as a decoy I
might have secured him the next night.

I gathered in all the traps I could command,
one hundred and thirty strong steel wolf-traps,
and set them in fours in every trail that led into
the cafion ; each trap was separately fastened to
a log, and each log was separately buried. In
burying them, I carefully removed the sod and
every particle of earth that was lifted we put
in blankets, so that after the sod was replaced
and all was finished the eye could detect no trace
of human handiwork. When the traps were
concealed I trailed the body of poor Blanca
over each place, and made of it a drag that
circled all about the ranch, and finally I took

. 48

Lobo

off one of her paws and made with it a line of
tracks over each trap. Every precaution and
device known to me I used, and retired at a late
hour to await the result.

Once during the night I thought I heard Old
Lobo, but was not sure of it. Next dayI rode
around, but darkness came on before I completed
the circuit of the north cafion, and I had noth-
ing to report. At supper one of the cowboys
said, ‘‘ There was a great row among the cattle
in the north cafion this morning, maybe there
is something in the traps there.’’ It was after-
noon of the next day before I got to the place re-
ferred to, and as I drew near a great grizzly form
arose from the ground, vainly endeavoring to
escape, and there revealed before me stood Lobo,
King of the Currumpaw, firmly held in the
traps. Poor old hero, he had never ceased to
search for his darling, and when he found the
trail her body had made he followed it reckless-
ly, and so fell into the snare prepared for him.
There he lay in the iron grasp of all four traps,
perfectly helpless, and all around him were nu-
merous tracks showing how the cattle had gath-
ered about him to insult the fallen despot, without

49

Lobo

daring to approach within his reach. For two
days and two nights he had lain there, and now
was worn out with struggling. Yet, when I went
near him, he rose up with bristling mane and
raised his voice, and for the last time made the
cafion reverberate with his deep bass roar, a call
for help, the muster call of his band. But there
was none to answer him, and, left alone in his
extremity, he whirled about with all his strength
and made a desperate effort to get at me. All
in vain, each trap was a dead drag of over three
hundred pounds, and in their relentless fourfold
grasp, with great steel jaws on every foot, and the
heavy logs and chains all entangled together,
he was absolutely powerless. How his huge
ivory tusks did grind on those cruel chains, and
when I ventured to touch him with my rifle-
barrel he left grooves on it which are there to
this day. His eyes glared green with hate and
fury, and his jaws snapped with a hollow
‘chop,’ as he vainly endeavored to reach me
and my trembling horse. But he was worn
out with hunger and struggling and loss of
blood, and he soon sank exhausted to the
ground.
50

Lobo

“ Something like compunction came over me,
as I prepared to deal out to him that which so
many had suffered at his hands.

‘Grand old outlaw, hero of a thousand law-
less raids, in a few minutes you will be but a
great load of carrion. It cannot be otherwise.”’
Then I swung my lasso and sent it whistling
over his head. But not so fast; he was yet far
from being subdued, and, before the supple
coils had fallen on his neck he seized the noose
and, with one fierce chop, cut through its hard
thick strands, and dropped it in two pieces at
his feet.

Of course I had my rifle as a last resource, but
I did not wish to spoil his royal hide, so I gal-
loped back to the camp and returned with a
cowboy and a fresh lasso. We threw to our
victim a stick of wood which he seized in his
teeth, and before he could relinquish it our
lassoes whistled through the air and tightened
on his neck.

Yet before the light had died from his fierce
eyes, I cried, ‘‘ Stay, we will not kill him ; let
us take him alive to the camp.’’ He was so
completely powerless now that it was easy to

51

Lobo

put a stout stick through his mouth, behind his
tusks, and then lash his jaws with a heavy cord
which was also fastened to the stick. The stick
kept the cord in, and the cord kept the stick
in so he was harmless. As soon as he felt his
jaws were tied he made no further resistance,
and uttered no sound, but looked calmly at us
and seemed to say, ‘‘ Well, you have got me at
last, do as you please with me.’’ And from that
time he took no more notice of us.

We tied his feet securely, but he never
groaned, nor growled, nor turned his head.
Then with our united strength were just able to
put him on my horse. His breath came evenly
as though sleeping, and his eyes were bright
and clear again, but did not rest on us. Afar
on the great rolling mesas they were fixed, his
passing kingdom, where his famous band was
now scattered. And he gazed till the pony
descended the pathway into the cafion, and the
rocks cut off the view.

By travelling slowly we reached the ranch in
safety, and after securing him with a collar and
astrong chain, we staked him out in the past-
ure and removed the cords. ‘Then for the first

52

Lobo

time I could examine him closely, and proved
how unreliable is vulgar report when a living
hero or tyrant is concerned. He had wot a
collar of gold about his neck, nor was there on
his shoulders an inverted cross to denote that
he had leagued himself with Satan. But I did
find on one haunch a great broad scar, that
tradition says was the fang-mark of Juno, the
leader of Tannerey’s wolf-hounds—a mark
which she gave him the moment before he
stretched her lifeless on the sand of the cafion.

I set meat and water beside him, but he paid
no heed. He lay calmly on his breast, and
gazed away past me down through the gateway
of the cafion, over the open plains—his plains—
with those steadfast yellow eyes ; nor moved a
muscle when I touched him. When the sun
went down he was still gazing fixedly across the
prairie. I expected he would call up his band
when night came, and prepared for them, but
he had called once in his extremity, and none
had come; he would never call again.

A lion shorn of his strength, an eagle robbed
of his freedom, or a dove bereft of his mate, all
die, it is said, of a broken heart ; and who will

SB)

dee?

Lobo

aver that this grim bandit could bear the three-
fold brunt, heart-whole? This only I know,
that when the morning dawned, he was lying
there still in his position of calm repose, but his
spirit was gone—the old king-wolf was dead.

I took the chain from his neck, a cowboy
helped me to carry him to the shed where lay
the remains of Blanca, and as we laid him beside
her, the cattle-man exclaimed: ‘‘ There, you
would come to her, now you are together again.’’

54°

sai

jd
©

Qu.
MN
&
A)
>
SS
7p)

The Story of a Crow

Silverspot
The Story of a Crow

7OW many of us have ever got to
i know a wild animal? I do not
mean merely to meet with one once
or twice, or to have one in a cage,
but to really know it for a long
time while it is wild, and to get an
ingietett into its life and history. The trouble
usually is to know one creature from his fellow.
One fox or crow is so much hke another that
we cannot be sure that it really is the same
next time we meet. But once in awhile there
arises an animal who is stronger or wiser than
his fellow, who becomes a great leader, who is,
as we would say, a genius, and if he is bigger,

59

Silverspot

or has some mark by which men can know
him, he soon becomes famous in his country,
and shows us that the life of a wild animal may
be far more interesting and exciting than that
of many human beings.

Of this class were Courtrand, the bob-tailed
wolf that terrorized the whole city of Paris for
about ten years in the beginning of the four-
teenth century ; Clubfoot, the lame grizzly bear
that in two years ruined all the hog-raisers, and
drove half the farmers out of business in the
upper Sacramento Valley; Lobo, the king-
wolf of New Mexico, that killed a cow every
day for five years, and the Soehnee panther that
in less than two years killed nearly three hun-
dred human beings—and such also was Silver-
spot, whose history, as far as I could learn it, I
shall now briefly tell.

Silverspot was simply a wise old crow; his
name was given because of the silvery white
spot that was like a nickel, stuck on his right
side, between the eye and the bill, and it was
owing to this spot that I was able to know him
from the other crows, and put together the
parts of his history that came to my knowledge.

6a

Silverspot.

Silverspot

e

Crows are, as you must know, our most in-
telligent birds—‘ Wise as an old crow’ did
not become a saying without good reason.
Crows know the value of organization, and are
as well drilled as soldiers—very much better
than some soldiers, in fact, for crows are al-
ways on duty, always at war, and always de-
pendent on each other for life and safety.
Their leaders not only are the oldest and wisest
of the band, but also the strongest and bravest,
for they must be ready at any time with sheer
force to put down an upstart ora rebel. The
rank and file are the youngsters and the crows
without special gifts.

Old Silverspot was the leader of a large band
of crows that made their headquarters near
Toronto, Canada, in Castle Frank, which is a
pine-clad hill on the northeast edge of the city.
This band numbered about two hundred, and
for reasons that I never understood did not in-
crease. In mild winters they stayed along the
Niagara River; in cold winters they went much
farther south. But each year in the last week
of February Old Silverspot would muster his
followers and boldly cross the forty miles of

63

Silverspot

open water that lies between Toronto and Ni-
agara ; not, however, in a straight line would
he go, but always in a curve to the west,
whereby he kept in sight of the familiar land-
mark of Dundas Mountain, until the pine-clad
hill itself came in view. Each year he came
with his troop, and for about six weeks took up
his abode on the hill. Each morning there-
after the crows set out in three bands to forage.
One band went southeast to Ashbridge’s Bay. |
One went west up the Don, and one, the largest,
went northwestward up the ravine. ‘The last
Silverspot led in person. Who led the others
I never found out.

On calm mornings they flew high and straight
away. But when it was windy the band flew
low, and followed the ravine for shelter. My,
windows overlooked the ravine, and it was thus
that in 1885 I first noticed this old crow. I
was a new-comer in the neighborhood, but an
old resident said to me then ‘‘ that there old
crow has been a-flying up and down this ravine
for more than twenty years.’’ My chances to
watch were in the ravine, and Silverspot dog-
gedly clinging to the old route, though now it

64

Silverspot

was edged with houses and spanned by bridges,
became a very familiar acquaintance. Twice
each day in March and part of April, then again
in the late summer and the fall, he passed and
repassed, and gave me chances to see his move-

: ments, and hear his orders to his bands, and
so, little by little, opened my eyes to the fact

that the crows, though a little people, are of
great wit, a race of birds with a language and
a social system that is wonderfully human in
many of its chief points, and in someis better
carried out than our own.

One windy day I stood on the high bridge
across the ravine, as the old crow, heading his
long, straggling troop, came flying down home-
ward. Half a mile away I could hear the con-
tented ‘A//’s well, come right along!’ as we

No. 1.
Caw Caw ;

should say, or.as he put it, and as also his lieu-

tenant echoed it at the rear of the band. They

were flying very low to be out of the wind, and
65

Silverspot

would have to rise a little to clear the bridge
on which I was. . Silverspot saw me standing
there, and as I was closely watching him he
didn’t like it. He checked his flight and called
out, ‘Be on your guard,’ or
No. 2.
=|

Caw
and rose much higher in the air. Then seeing
that I was not armed he flew over my head
about twenty feet, and his followers in turn did
the same, dipping again to the old level when
past the bridge.

Next day I was at the same place, and as
the crows came near I raised my walking stick
and pointed it atthem. The old fellow at once
cried out ‘ Danger,’ and rose fifty feet higher

No. 3.
Ca

than before. Seeing that it was not a gun, he
ventured to fly over. But on the third day I
66

Silverspot

took with me a gun, and at once he cried out,
“Great danger—a gun.’ His lieutenant re-

cacacaca Caw

peated the cry, and every crow in the troop
began to tower and scatter from the rest, till
they were far above gun shot, and so passed
safely over, coming down again to the shelter
of the valley when well beyond reach. An-
other time, as the long, straggling troop came
down the valley, a red-tailed hawk alighted on
a tree close by their intended route. The
leader cried out, ‘ Hawk, hawk,’ and stayed

Caw Caw
his flight, as did each crow on nearing him,
until all were massed in a solid body. Then,
no longer fearing the hawk, they passed on.
But a quarter of a mile farther on a man with
a gun appeared below, and the cry, ‘ Great
67

Silverspot

danger—a gun, a gun; scaiter for your lives,’
at once caused them to scatter widely and tower

No. 6.
it

’

CERES RII Sa EES
\. fs |e Ye
(ad) OS A oe oe ee ee |
bl 4 Sa a

cacacaca Caw
till far beyond range. Many others of his
words of command I learned in the course of
my long acquaintance, and found that sometimes
a very little difference in the sound makes a
very great difference in meaning. Thus while
No. 5 means hawk, or any large, dangerous
bird, this means ‘ wheel around,’ evidently a

Caw Caw § Cacacaca

combination of No. 5, whose root idea is dan-
ger,and of No. 4, whose root idea is retreat, and
this again is a mere ‘ good day,’ to a far away

fting Along the Log.

i

sn

The Hound Came

ee

é

2

Silverspot

comrade. This is usually addressed to the
ranks and means ‘ aftention.’ oe

doings among the crows. Some new cause of

excitement seemed to have come on them.

They spent half the day among the pines, in-
stead of foraging from dawn till dark. Pairs
and trios might be seen chasing each other, and
from time to time they showed off in various
feats of flight. A favorite sport was to dart

- down suddenly from a great height toward
"some perching crow, and just before touching
‘” it to turn at a hairbreadth and rebound in the air
+ ‘. fast that the wings of the swooper whirred

with a sound like distant thunder. Sometimes
one crow would lower his head, raise every
feather, and coming close to another would gur-

gle out a long note like
No. ro.

C-r-r-r-a —-wW

Silverspot

What did itall mean? Isoonlearned. They
were making love and pairing off. The males
were showing off their wing powers and their
voices to the lady crows. And they must have
been highly appreciated, for by the middle of
April all had mated and had scattered over the
country for their honeymoon, leaving the som-
bre old pines of Castle Frank deserted and
silent.

II

The Sugar Loaf hill stands alone in the Don
Valley. It is still covered with woods that join
with those of Castle Frank, a quarter ofa mile 4%
off. In the woods, between the two hills, is a wa
pine-tree in whose top is a deserted hawk’snest. |
Every Toronto school-boy knows the nest, na i
excepting that I had once shot a black squirrel |
on its edge, no one had ever seen a sign of life
about it. There it was year after year, ragged
and old, and falling to pieces. Yet, strange to
tell, in all that time it never did drop to pieces,
like other old nests.

One morning in May I was out at gray dawn,
and stealing gently through the woods, whose

7°

Silverspot

dead leaves were so wet that no rustle was made.
I chanced to pass under the old nest, and was -.

surprised to see a black tail sticking over the
edge. Istruck the tree a smart blow, off flew

a crow, and the secret was out. I had long ~- ee

suspected that a pair of crows nested each year
about the pines, but now I realized that it was
Silverspot and his wife. The old nest was
theirs, and they were too wise to give it an air
of spring-cleaning and housekeeping each year.
Here they had nested for long, though guns in
the hands of men and boys hungry to shoot
crows were carried under their home every day.
I never surprised the old fellow again, though I

_ Several times saw him through my telescope. «
a

One day while watching I saw a crow crossing

the Don Valley with something white in his

beak. He flew to the mouth of the Rosedale
Brook, then took a short flight to the Beaver
Elm. ‘There he dropped the white object, and
looking about gave me a chance to recognize
my old friend Silverspot. After a minute he
picked up the white thing—a shell—and walked
over past the spring, and here, among the docks

- and the skunk-cabbages, he unearthed a pile of

71

aa)

Silverspot

shells and other white, shiny things. Hespread
them out in the sun, turned them over, lifted
them one by one in his beak, dropped them,
nestled on them as though they were eggs, toyed
with them and gloated over them like a miser.
This was his hobby, his weakness. He could
not have explained why he enjoyed them, any
more than a boy can explain why he collects
postage-stamps, or a girl why she prefers pearls
to rubies ; but his pleasure in them was very real,
and after half an hour he covered them all, in-
cluding the new one, with earth and leaves, .
flew off. I went at once to the spot and ex-
amined the hoard ; there was about a hatful in
all, chiefly white pebbles, clam-shells, and some
bits of tin, but there was also the handle of a
china cup, which must have been the gem of
the collection. That was the last time I saw
them. Silverspot knew that I had found his
treasures, and he removed them at once; where
I never knew.

During the space that I watched him so
closely he had many little adventures and
escapes. He was once severely handled by a
sparrowhawk, and often he was chased and

a

The Handle of a China-cup, the Gem of the Collection.

Silverspot

e

worried by kingbirds. Not that these did him
much harm, but they were such noisy pests
that he avoided their company as quickly as
possible, just as a grown man avoids a conflict
with a noisy and impudent small boy. He
had some cruel tricks, too. He had a way
of going the round of the small birds’ nests
~ each morning to eat the new laid eggs, as
regularly as a doctor visiting his patients. But
we must not judge him for that, as it is just
what we ourselves do to the hens in the barn-
yard.

His quickness of wit was often shown. One
day I saw him flying down the ravine with a
large piece of bread in his bill. The stream
below him was at this time being bricked over
asasewer. ‘There was one part of two hundred
yards quite finished, and, as he flew over the
open water just above this, the bread fell from
his bill, and was swept by the current out of
sight into the tunnel. He flew down and
peered vainly into the dark cavern, then, act-
ing upon a happy thought, he flew to the down-
stream end of the tunnel, and awaiting the re-
appearance of the floating bread, as it was swept

75

Silverspot

onward by the current, he seized and bore it
offin triumph.

Y Silverspot was a crow of the world. He
was truly a successful crow. He lived in a
region that, though full of dangers, abounded
with food. In the old, unrepaired nest he
raised a brood each year with his wife, whom,
by the way, I never could distinguish, and
when the crows again gathered together he was
their acknowledged chief. is

The reassembling takes place about the end
of June—the young crows with their bob-tails,
soft wings, and falsetto voices are brought by
their parents, whom they nearly equal in size,
and introduced to society at the old pine woods,
a woods that is at once their fortress and col-
lege. Here they find security in numbers and
in lofty yet sheltered perches, and here they
begin their schooling and are taught all the
secrets of success in crow life, and in crow life
the least failure does not simply mean begin
again. It means death.

The first week or two after their arrival is
spent by the young ones in getting acquainted,
for each crow must know personally all the

76

Silverspot

others in the band. ‘Their parents meanwhile
have time to rest a little after the work of rais-
ing them, for now the youngsters are able to
feed themselves and roost on a branch in arow,
just like big folks.

In a week or two the moulting season comes.
At this time the old crows are usually irritable
and nervous, but it does not stop them from be-
ginning to drill the youngsters, who, of course,
do not much enjoy the punishment and nagging
they get so soon after they have been mamma’s
own darlings. But it is all for their good, as
the old lady said when she skinned the eels, and
old Silverspot is an excellent.teacher. Some-
times he seems to make a speech to them.
What he says I cannot guess, but, judging by
the way they receive it, it must be extremely
witty. Each morning there is a company
drill, for the young ones naturally drop into
two or three squads according to their age and
strength. The rest of the day they forage with
their parents. .

When at length September comes we find a
great change. ‘The rabble of silly little crows
have begun to learn sense. ‘The delicate blue

79

Silverspot

iris of their eyes, the sign of a fool-crow, has
given place to the dark brown eye of the old
stager. ‘They know their drill now and have
learned sentry duty. ‘They have been taught
guns and traps and taken a special course in
wire-worms and greencorn. ‘They know that
a fat old farmer’s wife is much less dangerous,
though so much larger, than her fifteen-year-old
son, and they can tell the boy from his sister.
They know that an umbrella is not a gun, and
they can count up to six, which is fair for
young crows, though Silverspot can go up
nearly to thirty. “They know the smell of gun-
powder and the south side of a hemlock-tree,
and begin to plume themselves upon being
crows of the world. They always fold their
“wings three times after alighting, to be sure
that it is neatly done. They know how to
worry a fox into giving up half his dinner, and —
also that when the kingbird or the purple mar- _
tin assails them they must dash into a bush, for ©
it is as impossible to fight the little pests as it is
for the fat apple-woman to catch the small boys
who have raided her basket. All these things
do the young crows know ; but they have taken
80

Silverspot

no lessons in egg-hunting yet, for it is not the
season. They are unacquainted with clams,
and have never tasted horses’ eyes, or seen
sprouted corn, and they don’t know a thing
about travel, the greatest educator ofall. They
did not think of that two months ago, and
since then they have thought of it, but have
learned to wait till their betters are ready.

September sees a great change in the old
crows, too. Their moulting is over. They
are now in full feather again and proud of their
handsome coats. Their health is again good,
and with it their tempers are improved. Even
old Silverspot, the strict teacher, becomes quite
jolly, and the youngsters, who have long ago
learned to respect him, begin really to love him.

He has hammered away at drill, teaching
them all the signals and words of command in
use, and now it is a pleasure to see them in the
early morning.

‘ Company 1 /’ the old chieftain would cry
in crow, and Company 1 would answer with a
‘great clamor.

‘Fly /’ and himself leading them, they would
all fly straight forward.

SI

Silverspot

‘ Mount /’ and straight upward they turned
in a moment.

‘ Bunch /’ and they all massed into a dense
black flock.

‘ Scatter /’ and they spread out like leaves
before the wind.

‘ Form line /’ and they strung out into the
long line of ordinary flight.

‘ Descend !’ and they all dropped nearly to
the ground. |

‘ Forage !’ and they alighted and scattered
about to feed, while two of the permanent sen-
tries mounted duty—one on a tree to the right,
the other on a mound to the far left. A minute
or two later Silverspot would cry out, ‘A man
with a gun!’ The sentries repeated the cry
and the company flew at once in open order as
quickly as possible toward the trees. Once be-
hind these, they formed line again in safety and
returned to the home pines.

Sentry duty is not taken in turn by all the
crows, but a certain number whose watchfulness
has been often proved are the perpetual sentries,
and are expected to watch and forage at the
same time. Rather hard on them it seems to

82

Silverspot

us, but it works well and the crow organization
is admitted by all birds to be the very best in
existence.

Finally, each November sees the troop sail
away southward to learn new modes of life, new
landmarks and new kinds of food, under the
guidance of the ever-wise Silverspot. ,/

Itt

There is only one time when a crow is a fool,
and that is at night. There is only one bird
that terrifies the crow, and that is the owl.
When, therefore, these come together it is a
woful thing for the sable birds. The distant
hoot of an owl after dark is enough to make
them withdraw their heads from under their
wings, and sit trembling and miserable till
morning. In very cold weather the exposure
of their faces thus has often resulted in a crow
having one or both of his eyes frozen, so that
blindness followed and therefore death. There
are no hospitals for sick crows.

83

Silverspot

But with the morning their courage comes
again, and arousing themselves they ransack
the woods for a mile around till they find that
owl, and if they do not kill him they at least
worry him half to death and drive him twenty
miles away.

In 1893 the crows had come as usual to Cas-
tle Frank. I was walking in these woods a few
days afterward when I chanced upon the track
of arabbit that had been running at full speed
over the snow and dodging about among the
trees as though pursued. Strange to tell, I
could see no track of the pursuer.. I followed
the trail and presently saw a drop of blood on
the snow, and a little farther on found the part-
ly devoured remains of a little brown bunny.
What had killed him was a mystery until a care-
ful search showed in the snow a great double-
toed track and a beautifully pencilled brown
feather. Then all was clear—a horned owl.
Half an hour later, in passing again by the place,
there, in a tree, within ten feet of the bones of
his victim, was the fierce-eyed owl himself. The
murderer still hung about the scene of his crime.
For once circumstantial evidence had not lied.

Pete in ieentn Setenetnceneedinadieetiadenbaael

|

WOIPANW oy} JO Yury sy

nang,

Mosyacoy) Woz ro PSU Ae ; je wa
; ‘ ’

Silverspot | .

At my approach he gave a guttural ‘ grrr-o0’
and flew off with low flagging flight to haunt
the distant sombre woods.

Two days afterward, at dawn, there was a great
uproar among the crows. I went out early to
see, and found some black feathers drifting over
the snow. I followed up the wind in the direc-
tion from which they came and soon saw the
bloody remains of a crow and the great double-
toed track which again told me that the mur-
derer was theowl. All around were signs of the
struggle, but the fell destroyer was too strong.
The poor crow had been dragged from his perch
at night, when the darkness had put him at a
hopeless disadvantage.

I turned over the remains, and by chance
unburied the head—then started with an ex-
clamation of sorrow. Alas! It was the head
of old Silverspot. His long life of usefulness
to his tribe was over—slain at last by the owl
that he had taught so many hundreds of young ©
crows to beware of.

The old nest on the Sugar Loaf is abandoned
now. The crows still come in spring-time to
Castle Frank, but without their famous leader

87

Silverspot

their numbers are dwindling, and soon they will
be seen no more about the old pine-grove in
which they and their forefathers had lived and
learned for ages. |

88

Ses Rageylug
ante The Story of a
NH

| s ss Cottontail Rabbit

Rageylug
The Story of a Cottontail Rabbit

RAGGYLUG, or Rag, was the name of a young
cottontail rabbit. It was given him from his
torn and ragged ear, a life-mark that he got
in his first adventure. He lived with his mother
in Olifant’s swamp, where I made their acquaint-
ance and gathered, in a hundred different ways,
the little bits of proof and scraps of truth that at
length enabled me to write this history.

Those who do not know the animals well
may think I have humanized them, but those
who have lived so near them as to know some-
what of their ways and their minds will not
think so.

Truly rabbits have no speech as we under-
stand it, but they have a way of conveying ideas

by a system of sounds, signs, scents, whisker- ©

93

ay

Raggylug

touches, movements, and example that answers
the purpose of speech; and it must be remem-
bered that though in telling this story I free-
ly translate from rabbit into English, 7 repeat
nothing that they did not say.

— =

—=
SSS SSS =SSSSSSS

The rank swamp grass bent over and con-
cealed the snug nest where Raggylug’s mother | \
had hidden him. She had partly covered him
with some of the bedding, and, as always, her
last warning was to ‘lay low and say nothing,
whatever happens.’ Though tucked in bed,
he was wide awake and his bright eyes were

94

Rageylug | :

taking in that part of his little green world that
was straight above. A bluejay and a red-
squirrel, two notorious thieves, were loudly be-
rating each other for stealing, and at one time
Rag’s home bush was the centre of their fight ;
a yellow warbler caught a blue butterfly but six
inches from his nose, and a scarlet and black
ladybug, serenely waving her knobbed feelers,
took a long walk up one grassblade, down
another, and across the nest and over Rag’s
face—and yet he never moved nor even winked.

After awhile he heard a strange rustling of
the leaves in the near thicket. It was an odd,
continuous sound, and though it went this way
and that way and came ever nearer, there was
no patter of feet with it. Rag had lived his
whole life in the Swamp (he was three weeks
old) and yet had never heard anything like
this. Of course his curiosity was greatly
aroused. His mother had cautioned him to
lay low, but that was understood to be in case
of danger, and this strange sound without foot-
falls could not be anything to fear.

The low rasping went past close at hand,
then to the right, then back, and seemed going

95

Raggylug

away. Rag felt he knew what he was about ;
he wasn’t a baby; it was his duty to learn
what it was. He slowly raised his roly-poly
body on his short fluffy legs, lifted his little
round head above the covering of his nest and
peeped out into the woods. ‘The sound had
ceased as soon as he moved. He saw nothing,
so took one step forward toa clear view, and
instantly found himself face to face with an
enormous Black Serpent.

‘‘ Mammy,’’ he screamed in mortal terror as
the monster darted athim. With all the strength
of his tiny limbs he tried torun. But in a
fiash the Snake had him by one ear and whipped
around him with his coils to gloat over the
helpless little baby bunny he had secured for
dinner.

‘¢Mam-my—Mam-my,’’ gasped poor little -
Raggylug as the cruel monster began slowly
choking him to death. Very soon the little
one’s cry would have ceased, but bounding
through the woods straight as an arrow came
Mammy. No longer ashy, helpless little Molly
Cottontail, ready to fly from a shadow: the
mother’s love was strong in her. The cry of

g6

’

Face to Face with an Enormous Black Serpent.

Raggylug

her baby had filled her with the courage of a
hero, and—hop, she went over that horrible
reptile. Whack, she struck down at him with
her sharp hind claws as she passed, giving him
such a stinging blow that he squirmed with
pain and hissed with anger.

‘*M-a-m-m-y,’’ came feebly from the little
one. And Mammy came leaping again and
again and struck harder and fiercer until the
loathsome reptile let go the little one’s ear
and tried to bite the old one as she leaped over.
But all he got was a mouthful of wool each
time, and Molly’s fierce blows began to tell,
as long bloody rips were torn in the Black
Snake’s scaly armor.

Things were now looking bad for the Snake ;
and bracing himself for the next charge, he
lost his tight hold on Baby Bunny, who at
once wriggled out of the coils and away into
the underbrush, breathless and terribly fright-
ened, but unhurt save that his left ear was much
torn by the teeth of that dreadful Serpent.

Molly now had gained all she wanted. She
had no notion of fighting for glory or revenge.
Away she went into the woods and the little

99

By
te. VT vy

Raggylug

one followed the shining beacon of her snow-
white tail until she led him to a safe corner of
the Swamp.

II

Old Olifant’s Swamp was a rough, brambly

tract of second-growth woods, with a marshy —

‘pond and a stream through the middle. A few ~
ragged remnants of the old forest still stood
in it and a few of the still older trunks were
lying about as dead logs in the brushwood.
The land about the pond was of that willow-
grown sedgy kind that cats and horses avoid,
but that cattle do not fear. The drier zones
were overgrown with briars and young trees.
The outermost belt of all, that next the fields,
was of thrifty, gummy -trunked young pines
whose living needles in air and dead ones on
earth offer so delicious an odor to the nostrils
of the passer-by, and so deadly a breath to
those seedlings that would compete with them
for the worthless waste they grow on. =

All around for a long way were smooth
fields, and the only wild tracks that ever crossed

100

Raggylug

e

these fields were those of a thoroughly bad and

-

SS a fox that lived only too near.
“The chief indwellers of the swamp were
Molly and Rag. Their nearest neighbors were
far away, and their nearest kin were dead.
This was their home, and here they lived to-
gether, and here Rag received the training that
made his success in life.

Molly was a good little mother and gave him
a careful bringing up. ‘The first thing he
learned was ‘ to lay low and say nothing.’ His
adventure with the snake taught him the wis-
dom of this. Rag never forgot that lesson ; af-
terward he did as he was told, and it made the
other things come more easily.

The second lesson he learned was ‘ freeze.’-
It grows out of the first, and Rag was taught it
as soon as he could run.

‘Freezing’ is simply doing nothing, turning
into a statue. As soon as he finds a foe near,
no matter what he is doing, a well-trained Cot-
tontail keeps just as he is and stops all move-
ment, for the creatures of the woods are of the
same color as the things in the woods and
catch the eye only while moving. So when

Iol

Ragegylug

enemies chance together, the one who first sees
the other can keep himself unseen by ‘ freez-
ing’ and thus have all the advantage of choos-
ing the time for attack or escape. Only those
who live in the woods know the importance of
this; every wild creature and every hunter
must learn it; all learn to do it well, but not
one of them can beat Molly Cottontail in the
doing. Rag’s mother taught him this trick
by example. When the white cotton cushion
that she always carried to sit on went bobbing
away through the woods, of course Rag ran his
hardest to keep up. But when Molly stopped
and ‘froze,’ the natural wish to copy made
him do the same.

But the best lesson of all that Rag learned
from his mother was the secret of the Brierbrush.
It is a very old secret now, and to make it
plain you must first hear why the Brierbrush
quarrelled with the beasts.

102

Raggylug

Long ago the Roses used
to grow on bushes that had no thorns.
But the Squirrels and Mice used to
limb after them, the Cattle used to knock
them off with their horns, the Possum
would twitch them off with his long tail,
and the Deer, with his sharp hoofs, would
break them down. So the Brierbrush
_ armed itself with spikes to protect its roses
and declared eternal war on all creatures that
climbed trees, or had horns, or hoofs, or long
tails. This left the Brierbrush at peace with
none but Molly Cottontail, who could not climb,
was hornless, hoofless, and had scarcely any
tail at all.

fn truth the Cottontail had never harmed a
Brierrose, and having now so many enemies
the Rose took the Rabbit into especial friend-
ship, and when dangers are threatening poor
Bunny he flies to the nearest Brierbrush, cer-
tain thatit is ready with a million keen and
poisoned daggers to defend him.

x,
(4

103

Raggylug

So the secret that Rag learned from his mother
was, ‘ The Brierbush is your best friend.’

Much of the time that season was spent in
learning the lay of the land, and the bramble
and brier mazes. And Rag learned them so
well that he could go all around the swamp by
two different ways and never leave the friendly
briers at any place for more than five hops.

It is not long since the foes of the Cotton-
tails were disgusted to find that man had
brought a new kind of bramble and planted it
in long lines throughout the country. It was
so strong that no creatures could break it down,
and so sharp that the toughest skin was torn by
it. Each year there was more of it and each
year it became a more serious matter to the
wild creatures. But Molly Cottontail had no
fear of it. She was not brought up in the briers
for nothing. Dogs and foxes, cattle and sheep,
and even man himself might be torn by those
fearful spikes: but Molly understands it and
lives and thrives under it. And the further-it
spreads the more safe country there is for the
Cottontail. And the name of this new and |
dreaded bramble is—the barbed-wire fence. »/

104

Raggylug

Ill

7
f "

Molly had no other children to look after
now, so Rag had all her care. He was unusu-
ally quick and bright as well as strong, and he
had uncommonly good chances; so he got on
remarkably well.

All the season she kept him busy learning the
tricks of the trail, and what to eat and drink
and what not totouch. Day by day she worked
to train him; little by little she taught him,
putting into his mind hundreds of ideas that her
own life or early training had stored in hers,
and so equipped him with the knowledge that
makes life possible to their kind.

Close by her side in the clover-field or the
thicket he would sit and copy her when she
wobbled her nose ‘ to keep her smeller clear,’
and pull the bite from her mouth or taste her
lips to make sure he was getting the same kind
of fodder. Still copying her, he learned to
comb his ears with his claws and to dress his
coat and to bite the burrs out of his vest and
socks. He learned, too, that nothing but clear

105,

Raggylug

dewdrops from the briers were fit for a rabbit
to drink, as water which has once ouched the
earth must surely bear some taint. Thus he
began the study of woodcraft, the’oldest of all
sciences. © |

‘As soon as Rag was big enough to go out
alone, his mother taught him the signal code.
Rabbits telegraph each other by thumping on
the ground with their hind feet. Along the
ground sound carries far; a thump that at six
feet from the earth is not heard at twenty yards
will, near the ground, be heard at least one
hundred yards. Rabbits have very keen hear-
ing, and so might hear this same thump at two
hundred yards, and that would reach from end to
end of Olifant’s Swamp. A single s#ump means
‘look out’ or ‘freeze.’ A slow thump thump
means ‘come.’ A _ fast thump thump means
‘danger ;’ and a very fast thump thump thump
means ‘run for dear life.’

At another time, when the weather was fine
and the bluejays were quarrelling among them-
selves, asure sign that no dangerous foe was .
about, Rag began a new study. Moily, by
flattening her ears, gave the sign to squat. ‘Then

106

Raggylug : :

she ran far away in the thicket and gave the
thumping sigvial for ‘come.’ Rag set out at a
run to the piace but could not find Molly. He
thumped, but got no reply. Setting carefully
about his search he found her foot-scent and
following this strange guide, that the beasts all
know so well and man does not know at all, he
worked out the trail and found her where she
was hidden. Thus he got his first lesson in
trailing, and thus it was that the games of hide
and seek they played became the schooling for
the serious chase of which there was so much in
his after life.

Before that first season of schooling was over
he had learnt all the principal tricks by which
a rabbit lives and in not a few problems showed
himself a veritable genius. ~

He was an adept at ‘tree,’ ‘dodge,’ and
‘squat,’ he could play ‘log-lump,’ with ‘wind’.
and ‘ baulk’ with ‘ back-track ’ so well that he
scarcely needed any other tricks. He had not
yet tried it, but he knew just how to play
‘ barb-wire,’ which is a new trick of the brill-
jant order; he had made a special study of
‘sand,’ which burns up all scent, and he was

107

Raggylug

deeply versed in ‘change-off,’ ‘fence,’ and
‘double’ as well as ‘ hole-up,’ which is a trick
requiring longer notice, and yet he never forgot
that ‘lay-low ’ is the beginning of all wisdom
and ‘ brierbush’ the only trick that is always
safe.

He was taught the signs by which to know
all his foes and then the way to baffle them.
For hawks, owls, foxes, hounds, curs, minks,
weasels, cats, skunks, coons, and men, each
have a different plan of pursuit, and for each
and all of these evils he was taught a remedy.

And for knowledge of the enemy’s approach
he learnt to depend first on himself and his
mother, and then on the bluejay. ‘‘ Never
neglect the bluejay’s warning,’’ said Molly; ‘‘he
is a mischief-maker, a marplot, and a thief all the
time, but nothing escapes him. He wouldn’t
mind harming us, but he cannot, thanks to the
briers, and his enemies are ours, so it is well to
heed him. If the woodpecker cries a warning
you can trust him, he is honest ; but he is a fool
beside the bluejay, and though the bluejay of-
ten tells lies for mischief you are safe to believe
him when he brings ill news.’’

108
ee

Ve
al Ae Se

ES

ar |

Raggylug

*

The barb-wire trick takes a deal of nerve and
the best of legs. It was long before he vent-
ured to play it, but as he came to his full pow-
ers it became one of his favorites.

‘It’s fine play for those who can do it,”’
said Molly. ‘‘ First you lead off your dog on a
straightaway and warm him up a bit by nearly
letting him catch you. ‘Then keeping just one
hop ahead, you lead him at a long slant full tilt
into a breast-high barb-wire. I’ve seen many a
dog and fox crippled, and one big hound killed
outright thisway. But I’ve also seen more than
one rabbit lose his life in trying it.’’

Rag early learnt what some rabbits never
learn at all, that ‘hole-up’ is not such a fine
rusé as it seems ; it may be the certain safety of
a wise rabbit, but soon or late is a sure death-
trap toa fool. A young rabbit always thinks
of it first, an old rabbit never tries it till all
others fail. It means escape from a man or
dog, a fox or a bird of prey, but it means sud-
den death if the foe is a ferret, mink, skunk, or
weasel. , >

There were but two ground-holes in the
Swamp. One on the Sunning Bank, which was

109

'IN ODD CATLIKE Positions

Raggylug

a dry sheltered knoll in the South-end. It was
open and sloping to the sun, and here on fine
days the Cottontails took their sunbaths. They
stretched out among the fragrant pine needles
and winter-green in odd cat-like positions, and
turned slowly over as though roasting and wish-
ing all sides well done. And they blinked and
panted, and squirmed as if in dreadful pain ;
yet this was one of the keenest enjoyments they
knew.

Just over the brow of the knoll was a large
pine stump. Its grotesque roots wriggled out
above the yellow sand-bank lke dragons, and
under their protecting claws a sulky old wood-
chuck had digged a den long ago. He became
more sour and ill-tempered as weeks went by,
and one day waited to quarrel with Olifant’s
dog instead of going in so that Molly Cotton-
tail was able to take possession of the den an
hour later.

This, the pine-root hole, was afterward very
coolly taken by aself-sufficient young skunk who
with less valor might have enjoyed greater lon-
gevity, for he imagined that even man with a
gun would fly from him. Instead of keeping

110

Raggylug .

Molly from the den for good, therefore, his
reign, like that of a certain Hebrew king, was
over in four days.

The other, the fern-hole, was in a fern thicket
next the clover field. It was small and damp,
and useless except as a last retreat. It also was
the work of a woodchuck, a well-meaning
friendly neighbor, but a hare-brained youngster
whose skin in the form of a whip-lash was now
developing higher horse-power in the Olifant
working team.

‘« Simple justice,’’ said the old man, “for

that hide was raised on stolen feed that the team
would a’ turned into horse-power anyway.”’
__ The Cottontails were now sole owners of the
holes, and did not go near them when they
could help it, lest anything like a path should be
made that might betray these last retreats to an
enemy.

There was also the hollow hickory, which,
though nearly fallen, was still yreen, and had
the great advantage of being open at both ends.
This had long been the residence of one Lotor,
a solitary old coon whose ostensible calling was

frog-hunting, and who, like the monks of old, ae ;

IIt

Ragegylug

was supposed to abstain from all flesh food.
', But it was shrewdly suspected that he needed

; - but a chance to indulge in diet of rabbit. When

at last one dark night he was killed while raid-
ing Olifant’s hen-house, Molly, so far from feel-
ing a pang of regret, took possession of his cosy
nest with a sense of unbounded relief.

IV

Bright August sunlight was flooding the
Swamp in the morning. Everything seemed
soaking in the warm radiance. A little brown
swamp-spatrow was teetering on a long rush in
the pond. Beneath him there were open spaces
of dirty water that brought down a few scraps
of the blue sky, and worked it and the yellow
duckweed into an exquisite mosaic, with a little
wrong-side picture of the bird in the middle.
On the bank behind was a great vigorous growth
of golden green skunk-cabbage, that cast dense
shadow over the brown swamp tussocks.

The eyes of the swamp-sparrow were not
trained to take in the color glories, but he saw
what we might have missed; that two of the ~

Ii2

Raggylug | :

numberless leafy brown bumps under the broad
cabbage-leaves were furry living things, with
noses that never ceased to move up and down
whatever else was still.

It was Molly and Rag. They were stretched
under the skunk-cabbage, not because they liked
its rank smell, but because the winged ticks
could not stand it at all and so left them in
peace.

Rabbits have no set time for lessons, they
are always learning; but what the lesson is de-
pends on the present stress, and that must
arrive before it is known. They went to this
place for a quiet rest, but had not been long
there when suddenly a warning note from the
ever-watchful bluejay caused Molly’s nose and
ears to go up and her tail to tighten to her
back. Away across the Swamp was Olifant’s
big black and white ‘dog, acaes straight
toward them.

“« Now,”’ said Molly, ‘‘squat while I go and
keep that fool out of mischief.’’ Away she
went to meet him and she fearlessly dashed
across the dog’s path. ¢

‘¢ Bow-ow-ow,’’ he fairly yelled as he bound-

113

cak peas» }
taut By
ea c
Agger:
y
———-——e

Ragegylug

ed after Molly, but she kept just beyond his
reach and led him where the million daggers
struck fast and deep, till his tender ears were
scratched raw, and guided him at last plump into
a hidden barbed-wire fence, where he got such a
gashing that he went homeward howling with
pain. After making ashort double, a loop and a
baulk in case the dog should come back, Molly
returned to find that Rag in his eagerness was
standing bolt upright and craning his neck to
see the sport.

This disobedience made her so angry that she
struck him with her hind foot and knocked him
over in the mud.

One day as they fed on the near clover field
a red-tailed hawk came swooping after them.
Molly kicked up her hind legs to make fun of
him and skipped into the briers along one of
their old pathways, where of course the hawk
could not follow. It was the main path from
the Creekside Thicket to the Stove-pipe brush-
pile. Several creepers had grown across it, and
Molly, keeping one eye on the hawk, set to work
and cut the creepers off. Rag watched her,
than ran on ahead, and cut some more that

114

Raggylug

were across the path. ‘‘ That’s right,’’ said
Molly, ‘‘ always keep the runways clear, you
will need them often enough. Not wide, but
clear. ’ Cut everything like a creeper across
them and some day you will find you have
cut a snare. ‘‘ A what?’’ asked Rag, as he
scratched his right ear with his left hind foot.

‘© snare is something that looks like a
creeper, but it doesn’t grow and it’s worse than
all the hawks in the world,’’ said Molly, glanc-
ing at the now far-away red-tail, ‘‘ for there it
hides night and day in the runway till the
chance to catch you comes.’’

‘*T don’t believe it could catch me,’’ said
Rag, with the pride of youth as he rose on his
heels to rub his chin and whiskers high up on a
smooth sapling. Rag did not know he was doing
this, but his mother saw and knew it was asign,
like the changing of a boy’s voice, that her little ,
one was no longer a baby but would soon be a
grown-up Cottontail. .

115

Raggylug

V

There is magic in running water. Who does
not know it and feel it? The railroad builder
fearlessly throws his bank across the wide bog or
lake, or the sea itself, but the tiniest rill of run-
ning water he treats with great respect, studies
its wish and its way and gives it all it seems to
ask. The thirst-parched traveller in the poi-
sonous alkali deserts holds back in deadly fear
from the sedgy ponds till he finds one down
whose centre is a thin, clear line, and a faint
flow, the sign of running, living water, and joy-
fully he drinks.

There is magic in running water, no evil
spell can cross it. ‘Tam O’Shanter proved its
potency in time of sorest need. The wild-wood
creature with its deadly foe following tireless on
the trail scent, realizes its nearing doom and
feels an awful spell. Its strength is spent, its
every trick is tried in vain till its good angel
leads it to the water, the running, living water,
and dashing in it follows the cooling stream,
and then with force renewed takes to the woods
again.

116

ve

anne eit

pt Ne Wi BH

Rag Followed the Snow-white Beacon

Raggylug

There is. magic in running water. * The
hounds come to the very spot and halt and cast
about ; and halt and cast in vain. ‘Their spell
is broken by the merry stream, and the wild
thing lives its life.

And this was one of the great secrets that
Raggylug learned from his mother—“ after the
Brierrose, the Water is your friend.’’

One hot, muggy night in August, Molly: led
Rag through the woods. The cotton-white
cushion she wore under her tail twinkled ahead
and was his guiding lantern, though it went out
as soon as she stopped and sat on it. After a
few runs and stops to listen, they came to the
edge of the pond. The hylasin the trees above
them were singing ‘ sleep, sleep,’ and away out
on a sunken log in the deep water, up to his
chin in the cooling bath, a bloated bullfrog was
singing the praises of a ‘jug o’ rum.’

‘« Follow me still,’’ said Molly, in rabbit,
and ‘flop’ she went into the pond and struck
out for the sunken log in the middle. Rag
flinched but plunged with a little ‘ouch,’
gasping and wobbling his nose very fast but
still copying his mother. The same move-

119g

pees?

Raggylug

ments as on land sent him through the water,
and thus he found he could swim. On he went
till he reached the sunken log and scrambled up
by his dripping mother on the high dry end,
with a rushy screen around them and the Water
that tells no tales. After this in warm black
nights when that old fox from Springfield came
prowling through the Swamp, Rag would note
the place of the bullfrog’s voice, for in case of
direst need it might be a guide to safety.
And thenceforth the words of the song that
the bullfrog sang were, ‘ Come, come, in danger
come.’

This was the latest study that Rag took up
with his mother—it was really a post-graduate
course, for many little rabbits never learn it at
all.

VI

No wild animal dies of old age. Its life has
soon or late atragic end. It is only a question
of how long it can hold out against its foes.
But Rag’s life was proof that once a rabbit passes
out of his youth he is likely to outlive his prime

' 1IZ0

Raggylug

and be killed only in the last third of life, the
downhill third we call old age.

The Cottontails had enemies on every side.
Their daily life was a series of escapes. For
dogs, foxes, cats, skunks, coons, weasels, minks,
snakes, hawks, owls, and men, and even insects
were all plot*:ng to kill them. They had hun-
dreds of adventures, and at least once a day they
had to fly for their lives and save Haeals ive es by
their legs and wits.

More than once that hateful fox from Spring-
field drove them to taking refuge under the
wreck of a barbed-wire hog-pen by the spring.
But once there they could look calmly at him
while he spiked his legs in vain attempts to
reach them.

Once or twice Rag when hunted had played
off the hound against a skunk that had seemed
likely to be quite as dangerous as the dog.

Once he was caught alive by a hunter who
had a hound and a ferret to help him. But
Rag had the luck to escape next day, with a
yet deeper distrust of ground holes. He was
several times run into the water by the cat, and
many times was chased by hawks and owls, but

IZI

eee s

Raggylug

for each kind of danger there was a safeguard.
His mother taught him the principal dodges,
and he improved on them and made many new
ones as he grew older. And the older and wiser
he grew the less he trusted to his legs, and the
more to his wits for safety.

Ranger was the name of a young hound in
the neighborhood. To train him his master
used to put him on the trail of one of the Cot-
tontails. It was nearly always Rag that they
ran, for the young buck enjoyed the runs as
much as they did, the spice of danger in them
being just enough for zest. He would say:

‘*Oh, mother! here comes the dog again, I
must have a run to-day.”’

“You are too bold, Raggy, my son! ’’ she
might reply. ‘I fear you will run once too
often.’’

‘¢ But, mother, it is such glorious fun to tease
that fool dog, and it’s all good training. I'll
thump if I am too hard pressed, then you can
come and change off while I get my second
wind.’’

On he would come, and Ranger would take the
trail and follow till Rag got tired of it. Then

TZ2

Raggylug

he either sent a thumping telegram for help,
which brought Molly to take charge of the dog,
or he got rid of the dog by some clever trick.
A description of one of these shows how well
Rag had learned the arts of the woods.

He knew that his scent lay best near the
ground, and was strongest when he was warm.

BS = Bay. in -s
KL eee \ oN oe.
> Creskside tus se Wao ee a
2 = Seg eee oe Pee (
‘4 ir - Bees <7 et a Pasta a Re t
L = Se ehen T ae t - a ae = .
=e Se ; EELS Ay Se E les <
ee eee : ie 4
aha woe eet J “\ 1 = a Pal -" .
“7 hick € t; :\ Hi Sen— ne s See \
he oe : cee ox n- ry
* i Se { Gs... ms \
Nees ts- = 7 a Se ae
Le
heey yui \
Ly af G

So if he could get off the ground, and be left in
peace for half an hour to cool off, and for the
trail tostale, he knew he would be safe. When,
therefore, he tired of the chase, he made for
the Creekside brier-patch, where he ‘wound’—
that is, zigzagged—till he left a course so crooked
that the dog was sure to be greatly delayed in
working it out. He then went straight to D

123

“~

Raggylug

in the woods, passing one hop to windward of
the high log E. Stopping at D, he followed
his back trail to F, here he leaped aside and ran
toward B. Then, returning on his trail to J,
he waited till the hound passed on his trail at I.
Rag then got back on his old trail at H, and
followed it to E, where, with a scent-baulk or
great leap aside, he reached the high log, and
running to its higher end, he sat like a bump.
Ranger lost much time in the bramble maze,
and the scent was very poor when he got it
straightened out, and came to D. Here he be-
gan to circle to pick it up, and after losing
much time, struck the trail which ended sud-
denly at G. Again he was at fault, and had to
circle to find the trail. Wider and wider the
circles, until at last, he passed right under the
log Rag was on. Buta cold scent, ona cold
day, does not go downward much. Rag never
budged nor winked, and the hound passed.
Again the dog came round. ‘This time he
crossed the low part of the log, and stopped to
smell it. ‘Yes, clearly it was rabbity,’ but it
was a Stale scent now ; still he mounted the log.
It was a trying moment for Rag, as the great

124 '

i
|
*
re

Raggylug

e

hound came sniff-sniffing along the log. But his
nerve did not forsake him; the wind was right ;
he had his mind made up to bolt as soon as
Ranger came half wayup. But he didn’t come.
A yellow cur would have seen the rabbit sitting
there, but the hound did not, and the scent
seemed stale, so he leaped off the log, and Rag
had won.

Vil

Rag had never seen any other rabbit than
his mother. Indeed he had scarcely thought
about there being any other. He was more
and more away from her now, and yet he never
felt lonely, for rabbits do not hanker for com-
pany. But one day in December, while he was
among the red dogwood brush, cutting a new
path to the great Creekside thicket, he saw all at
once against the sky over the Sunning Bank the
head and ears of a strange rabbit. The new-
comer had the air of a well-pleased discoverer
and soon came hopping Rag’s way along one of
his paths into Azs Swamp. A new feeling rushed
over him, that boiling mixture of anger and
hatred called jealousy.

127

Rageylug

The stranger stopped at one of Rag’s rubbing-
trees—that is, a tree against which he used to
stand on his heels and rub his chin as far up as
he could reach. He thought he did this simply
because he liked it ; but all buck-rabbits do so,
_ and several ends are served.» It makes the tree

a < rabbity, so that other rabbits know that this

“ swamp already belongs to a rabbit family and
is not open for settlement. It also lets the
next one know by the scent if the last caller
was an acquaintance, and the height from the
ground of the rubbing-places shows how tall
the rabbit is. '

Now to his disgust Rag noticed that the new-
comer was a head taller than himself, and a
big, stout buck atthat. This was a wholly new
experience and filled Rag with a wholly new
feeling. The spirit of murder entered his
heart ; he chewed very hard with nothing in
his mouth, and hopping forward onto a smooth
piece of hard ground he struck slowly :

‘ Thump—thump—thump,’ which is a rabbit
telegram for, ‘ Get out of my swamp, or fight.’

The new-comer made a big V with his ears,
sat upright for a few seconds, then, dropping on

128

Raggylug

his fore-féet, sent along the ground a louder,
stronger, ‘ Zhump—thump—thump.’

And so war was declared.

They came together by short runs side-wise,
each one trying to get the wind of the other
and watching for a chance advantage. The
stranger was a big, heavy buck with plenty of
muscle, but one or two trifles such as treading
on a turnover and failing to close when Rag
was on low ground showed that he had not
much cunning and counted on winning his
battles by his weight. On he came at last and
Rag met him like a little fury. As they came
together they leaped up and struck out with
their hind feet. Zhud, thud they came, and
down went poor little Rag. In a moment the
stranger was on him with his teeth and Rag
was bitten, and lost several tufts of hair before
he could getup. But he was swift of foot and
got out of reach. Again he charged and again
he was knocked down and bitten’severely. He
was no match for his foe, and it soon became a
question of saving his own life.

Hurt as he was he sprang away, with the stran-
ger in full chase, and bound to kill him as well

129

Raggylug

as to oust him from the Swamp where he was
born. Rag’s legs were good and so was his
wind. The stranger was big and so heavy that
he soon gave up the chase, and it was well for
poor Rag that he did, for he was getting stiff
from his wounds as well as tired. From that
day began a reign of terror for Rag. His
training had been against owls, dogs, weasels,
men, and so on, but what to do when chased
by another rabbit, he did not know. All he
knew was to lay low till he was found, then
run.

Poor little Molly was completely terrorized ;
she could not help Rag and sought only to
hide. But the big buck soon found her
out. She tried to run from him, but she was
not now so swift as Rag. The stranger made
no attempt to kill her, but he made love to her,
and because she hated him and tried to get
away, he treated her shamefully. Day after
day he worried her by following her about, and
often, furious at her lasting hatred, he would
knock her down and tear out mouthfuls of her
soft fur till his rage cooled somewhat, when he
would let her go for awhile. But his fixed

130

Rageylug

e

purpose was to kill Rag, whose escape seemed
hopeless. There was no other swamp he could
go to, and whenever he took a nap now he
had to be ready at any moment to dash for his
life. A dozen timesa day the big stranger came
creeping up to where he slept, but each time

the watchful Rag awoke in time toescape. To.

escape yet not to escape. He saved his life in-
deed, but oh! what a miserable life it had be-
come. How maddening to be thus helpless,
to see his little mother daily beaten and torn,
as well as tosee all his favorite feeding-grounds,
the cosy nooks, and the pathways he had made
with so much labor, forced from him by this
hateful brute. Unhappy Rag realized that to
the victor belong the spoils, and he hated him
more than ever he did fox or ferret.

How was it to end? He was wearing out
with running and watching and bad food, and
little Molly’s strength and spirit were breaking
down under thelong persecution. The stranger
was ready to go to all lengths to destroy poor
Rag, and at last stooped to the worst crime
known among rabbits. However much they
may hate each other, all good rabbits forget

131

<*

42
40, I
> “er ed
{" peed Se

Rageylug

their feuds when their common enemy appears.
Yet one day when a great goshawk came swoop-
ing over the swamp, the stranger, keeping well
under cover himself, tried again and again to
drive Rag into the open. |

Once or twice the hawk nearly had him, but
still the briers saved him, and it was only when

ON SR the big buck himself came near being caught

that he gave it up. And again Rag escaped,
but was no better off. He made up his
mind to leave, with his mother, if possible, next
night and go into the world in quest of some
new home when he heard old Thunder, the
hound, sniffing and searching about the out-
skirts of the swamp, and he resolved on playing
a desperate game. He deliberately crossed the
hound’s view, and the chase that then began was
fast and furious. ‘Thrice around the Swamp
they went till Rag had made sure that his
mother was hidden safely and that his hated
foe was in his usual nest. Then right into that
nest and plump over him he jumped, giving him
a rap with one hind foot as he passed over his
head. |

‘* You miserable fool, I kill you yet,’’ cried

132

Raggylug

e

the stranger, and up he jumped only to find him-
self between Rag and the dog and heir to all
the peril of the chase.

On came the hound baying hotly on the
straight-away scent. The buck’s weight and
size were great advantages in a rabbit fight, but
now they were fatal. He did not know many
tricks. Just the simple ones like ‘ double,’
‘wind,’ and ‘ hole-up,’ that every baby Bunny
knows. But the chase was too close for doub-
ling and winding, and he didn’t know where
the holes were.

It was a straight race. The brier-rose, kind
to all rabbits alike, did its best, but it was no
use. The baying of the hound was fast and
steady. The crashing of the brush and the
yelping of the hound each time the briers tore
his tender ears were borne to the two rabbits
where they crouched in hiding. But suddenly
these sounds stopped, there was a scuffle, then
loud and terrible screaming. |

Rag knew what it meant andit sent a shiver
through him, but he soon forgot that when all
was over and rejoiced to be once more the
master of the dear old Swamp.

133

Raggylug

VIII

Old Olifant had doubtless a right to burn all
those brush-piles in the east and south of the
Swamp and to clear up the wreck of the old
barbed-wire hog-pen just below the spring. But
it was none the less hard on Rag and his mother.
The first were their various residences and out-
posts, and the second their grand fastness and
safe retreat.

They had so long held the Swamp and felt it
to be their very own in every part and suburb,

—including Olifant’s grounds and buildings—
that they would have resented the appearance
of another rabbit even about the adjoining
barnyard.

Their claim, that of long, successful occu-
pancy, was exactly the same as that by which
most nations hold their land, and it would be
hard to find a better right.

During the time of the January thaw the
Olifants had cut the rest of the large wood
about the pond and curtailed the Cottontails’
domain on all sides. But they still clung to the
dwindling Swamp, for it was their home and

134

Raggylug

e

they were loath to move to foreign parts.
Their life of daily perils went on, but they were
still fleet of foot, long of wind, and bright of
wit. Of late they had been somewhat troubled
by a mink that had wandered up-stream to their
quiet nook. A little judicious guidance had
transferred the uncomfortable visitor to Oli-
fant’s hen-house. But they were not yet quite
sure that he had been properly looked after. So
for the present they gave up using the ground-
holes, which were, of course, dangerous blind-
alleys, and stuck closer than ever to the briers
and the brush-piles that were left.

That first snow had quite gone and the
weather was bright and warm until now. Molly,
feeling a touch of rheumatism, was somewhere
in the lower thicket seeking a teaberry tonic.
Rag was sitting in the weak sunlight on a bank
in the east side. The smoke from the fa-
miliar gable chimney of Olifant’s house came
fitfully drifting a pale blue haze through the
underwoods and showing as a dull brown
against the brightness of the sky. ‘The sun-gilt
gable was cut off midway by the banks of brier-
brush, that purple in shadow shone like rods of

135

Ragegylug

blazing crimson and gold in the light. Beyond
the house the barn with its gable and roof, new
gilt as the house, stood up like a Noah’s ark.

The sounds that came from it, and yet more
the delicious smell that mingled with the smoke,
told Rag that the animals were being fed cab-
bage in the yard. Rag’s mouth watered at the
idea of the feast. He blinked and blinked as
he snuffed its odorous promises, for he loved
cabbage dearly. But then he had been to the
barnyard the night before after a few paltry
clover-tops, and no wise rabbit would go two
nights running to the same place.

Therefore he did the wise thing. He moved
across where he could not smell the cabbage and
made his supper of a bundle of hay that had
been blown from the stack. Later, when about
to settle for the night, he was joined by Molly,
who had taken her teaberry and then eaten her
frugal meal of sweet birch near the Sunning
Bank.

Meanwhile the sun had gone about his busi-
ness elsewhere, taking all his gold and glory
with him. Off in the east a big black shutter
came pushing up and rising higher and higher;

136

Raggylug :

it spread over the whole sky, shut out all light
and left the world a very gloomy place indeed.
Then another mischief-maker, the wind, taking
advantage of the sun’s absence, came on the scene
and set about brewing trouble. The weather
turned colder and colder ; it seemed worse than
when the ground had been covered with snow.

‘<Isn’t this terribly cold? How I wish we
had our stove-pipe brush-pile,’’ said Rag.

«‘ A good night for the pine-root hole,’’ re-
plied Molly, ‘‘ but we have not yet seen the
pelt of that mink on the end of the barn, and
it is not safe till we do.’’

The hollow hickory was gone—in fact at this
very moment its trunk, lying in the wood-yard,
was harboring the mink they feared. So the
Cottontails hopped to the south side of the pond
and, choosing a brush-pile, they crept under and
snuggled down for the night, facing the wind
but with their noses in different directions so as
to go out different ways in case of alarm. The
wind blew harder and colder as the hours went
by, and about midnight a fine icy snow came
ticking down on the dead leaves and hissing
through the brush heap. It might seem a poor

137

Ragegylug

night for hunting, but that old fox from Spring-
field was out. He came pointing up the wind
in the shelter of the Swamp and chanced in the
lee of the brush-pile, where he scented the
sleeping Cottontails. He halted for a moment,
then came stealthily sneaking up toward the
brush under which his nose told him the rabbits
were crouching. The noise of the wind and
the sleet enabled him to come quite close be-
fore Molly heard the faint crunch of a dry
leaf under his paw. She touched Rag’s whis-
kers, and both were fully awake just as the fox
sprang on them; but they always slept with their
legs ready for a jump. Molly darted out into
the blinding storm. The fox missed his spring
but followed like a racer, while Rag dashed off
to one side.

There was only one road for Molly; that was
straight up the wind, and bounding for her
life she gained a little over the unfrozen mud
that would not carry the fox, till she reached
the margin of the pond. No chance to turn
now, on she must go.

Splash! splash! through the weed she went,
then plunge into the deep water.

138

No Chance to Turn Now.

%

~

Raggylug

And plunge went the fox close behind. But
it was too much for Reynard on such a night.
He turned back, and Molly, seeing only one
course, struggled through the reeds into the deep
water and struck out for the other shore. But
there was a strong headwind. The little waves,
icy cold, broke over her head as she swam, and
the water was full of snow that blocked her
way like soft ice, or floating mud. The dark
line of the other shore seemed far, far away,
with perhaps the fox waiting for her there.

But she laid her ears flat to be out of the gale,
and bravely put forth all her strength with wind
and tide against her. After a long, weary
swim in the cold water, she had nearly reached
the farther reeds when a great mass of floating
snow barred her road; then the wind on the
bank made strange, fox-like sounds that robbed
her of all force, and she was drifted far back-
ward before she could get free from the floating
bar. |

Again she struck out, but slowly—oh so
slowly now. And when at last she reached the
lee of the tall reeds, her limbs were numbed,
her strength spent, her brave little heart was

141

Raggylug

sinking, and she cared no more whether the fox
were there or not. ‘Through the reeds she did
indeed pass, but once in the weeds her course
wavered and slowed, her feeble strokes no longer
sent her landward, the ice forming around her,
stopped her altogether. In a little while the
cold, weak limbs ceased to move, the furry nose-
tip of the little mother Cottontail wobbled no
more, and the soft brown eyes were closed in
death.

But there was no fox waiting to tear her with
ravenous jaws. Rag had escaped the first onset
of the foe, and assoon as he regained his wits
he came running back to change-off and so help
his mother. He met the old fox going round
the pond to meet Molly and led him far and
away, then dismissed him with a barbed-wire
gash on his head, and came to the bank and
sought about and trailed and thumped, but all
his searching was in vain; he could not find his
little mother. He never saw her again, and he
never knew whither she went, for she slept her
never-waking sleep in the ice-arms of her friend
the Water that tells no tales.

142

Raggylug

e

Poor little Molly Cottontail! She was a true
heroine, yet only one of unnumbered millions
that without a thought of heroism have lived
and done their best in their little world, and
died. She fought a good fight in the battle of
life. She was good stuff; the stuff that never
dies. For flesh of her flesh and brain of her
brain was Rag. She lives in him, and through
him transmits a finer fibre to her race.

And Ragstill livesin the Swamp. Old Olifant
died that winter, and the unthrifty sons ceased
to clear the Swamp or mend the wire fences.
Within a single year it was a wilder place than
ever ; fresh trees and brambles grew, and falling
wires made many Cottontail castles and last re-
treats that dogs and foxes dared not storm.
And there to this day lives Rag. He is a big
strong buck now and fears no rivals. He has
a large family of his own, and a pretty brown
wife that he got no one knows where. There, no
doubt, he and his children’s children will flour-
ish for many years to come, and there you may
see them any sunny evening if you have learnt
their signal code, and choosing a good spot on
the ground, know just how and when to thumpit.

143

eel Bingo
pout | The Story of
My Dog

Bingo

** We Franckelyn’s dogge leaped over a style,
Hnd pep yclept bim lyttel Bingo,
B=za T-=aRWh =i Ged”,
Bnd yey yclept bim lyttel Bingo.

We Franckelyn’s wyfe brewed nuttc=ebrown ayle,
Hnd be yclept ptte rare goode Stingo,

§ =-=T= T=vaAhHhW=za Ge QOD,
Hnd be yclept ytte rare goode Stingo.

Row ys not this a prettye rbyme,
f tbynke yptte ps bye Fingo,

S3=2etFzeRHRe GeO,
I thynke ytte ws bye Jingo.”

146

Bingo
The Story of My Dog

I

=T was early in November, 1882, and
the Manitoba winter had just set in.
I was tilting back in my chair for a
few lazy moments after breakfast
idly alternating my gaze from the
one window-pane of our shanty,
through which was framed a bit of
the prairie and the end of our cowshed, to the
old rhyme of the ‘ Franckelyn’s dogge’ pinned
on the logs near by. But the dreamy mixture
of rhyme and view was quickly dispelled by
the sight of a large gray animal dashing across
the prairie into the cowshed, with a smaller
black and white animal in hot pursuit.

147

Bingo

‘* A wolf,’’ I exclaimed, and seizing a rifle
dashed out to help the dog. But before I
could get there they had left the stable, and
after a short run over the snow the wolf again
turned at bay, and the dog, our neighbor’s
collie, circled about watching his chance to
snap.

I fired a couple of long shots, which had
the effect only of setting them off again over
the prairie. After another run this matchless
dog closed and seized the wolf by the haunch,
but again retreated to avoid the fierce return
chop. ‘Then there was another stand at bay,
and again a race over the snow. Every few
hundred yards this scene was repeated. The
dog managing so that each fresh rush should be
toward the settlement, while the wolf vainly
tried to break back toward the dark belt of
trees in the east. At last after a mile of this
fighting and running I overtook them, and the
dog, seeing that he now had good backing,
closed in for the finish.

After a few seconds the whirl of struggling
animals resolved itself into a wolf, on his back,
with a bleeding collie gripping his throat, and

148

SS ee SR: ee
Ernes? oeten | AompAsoen—

Ree

= ee ce eee en ce ee cat

Frank Retreated Each Time the Wolf Turned.

Bingo

it was now easy for me to step up and end the
fight by putting a ball through the wolf’s head.

Then, when this dog of marvellous wind
saw that his foe was dead, he gave him no sec-
ond glance, but set out at a lope for a farm
four miles across the snow where he had left his
master when first the wolf was started. He
was a wonderful dog, and even if I had not
come he undoubtedly would have killed the
wolf alone, as I learned he had already done
with others of the kind, in spite of the fact that
the wolf, though of the smaller or prairie race,
was much larger than himself.

I was filled with admiration for the dog’s
prowess and at once sought to buy him at any
price. The scornful reply of his owner was,
‘Why don’t you try to buy one of the chil-
drent? ”’

Since Frank was not in the market I was
obliged to content myself with the next best
thing, one of his alleged progeny. That is, ason
of his wife. This probable offspring of an illus-
trious sire was a roly-poly ball of black fur that
looked more like a long-tailed bear-cub than a
puppy. But he had some tan markings like

151

Bingo

those on Frank’s coat, that were, I hoped, guar-
antees of future greatness, and also a very char-
acteristic ring of white that he always wore on
his muzzle. |

Having got possession of his person, the next
thing was to find him a name. Surely this
puzzle was already solved. The rhyme of the
‘Franckelyn’s dogge’ was inbuilt with the foun-
dation of our acquaintance, so with adequate
pomp we ‘yclept him little Bingo.’

II

The rest of that winter Bingo spent in our
shanty, living the life of a lubberly, fat, well-
meaning, ill-doing puppy; gorging himself with
food and growing bigger and clumsier each day.

aimerstee ‘Feyen sad experience failed to teach him that he
& = must keep his nose out of the rat-trap. His most
=m, Jag, friendly overtures to the cat were wholly mis-
y, “4 Pe? understood and resulted only in an armed neu-
iF 4 &% , trality that, varied by occasional reigns of terror,
aed continued to the end ; which came when Bingo,
who early showed a mind of his own, got a
152

Bingo

notion for sleeping at the barn and avoiding the
shanty altogether.

When the spring came I set about his serious
education. After much pains on my behalf and
many pains on his, he learned to go at the word
in quest of our old yellow cow, that pastured at
will on the unfenced prairie.

Once he had learned his business, he became
very fond of it and nothing pleased him more
than an order to go and fetch the cow. Away
he would dash, barking with pleasure and leap-
ing high in the air that he might betterscan the
plain for his victim. In a short time he would
return driving her at full gallop before him, and
gave her no peace until, puffing and blowing, she
was safely driven into the farthest corner of her
stable. |

Less energy on his part would have been
more satisfactory, but we bore with him until
he grew so fond of this semi-daily hunt that
he began to bring ‘old Dunne’ without being
told. And at length not once or twice but a
dozen times a day this energetic cowherd would
sally forth on his own responsibility and drive
the cow home to the stable.

153

Bingo

At last things came to such a pass that when-
ever he felt like taking a little exercise, or had
a few minutes of spare time, or even happened
to think of it, Bingo would sally forth at racing
speed over the plain and a few minutes later
return, driving the unhappy yellow cow at full
gallop before him.

‘At first this did not seem very bad, as it kept
the cow from straying too far; but soon it was
seen that it hindered her feeding. . She became
thin and gave less milk ; it seemed to weigh on
her mind too, as she was always watching ner-
vously for that hateful dog, and in the mornings
would hang around the stable as though afraid
to venture off and subject herself at once to an
onset.

This was going too far. All attempts to
make Bingo more moderate in his pleasure were
failures, so he was compelled to give it up al-
together. After this, though he dared not bring
her home, he continued to show his interest by
lying at her stable door while she was being
milked.

As the summer came on the mosquitoes be-
came a dreadful plague, and the consequent

154

Bingo

vicious switching of Dunne’s tail at milking-
time even more annoying than the mosquitoes.

Fred, the brother who did the milking, was
of an inventive as well as an impatient turn of
mind, and he devised a simple plan to stop the
switching. He fastened a brick to the cow’s
tail, then set blithely about his work assured of
unusual comfort while the rest of us looked on
in doubt.

Suddenly through the mist of mosquitoes
came a dull whack and an outburst of ‘lan-
guage.’ The cow went on placidly chewing till
Fred got on his feet and furiously attacked her
with the milking-stool. It was bad enough to
be whacked on the ear with a brick by a stupid
old cow, but the uproarious enjoyment and ridi-
cule of the bystanders made it unendurable.

Bingo, hearing the uproar, and divining that
he was needed, rushed in and attacked Dunne
on the other side. Before the affair quieted
down the milk was spilt, the pail and stool
were broken, and the cow and the dog severely
beaten.

Poor Bingo could not understand it at all.
He had lorig ago learned to despise that cow,

ie
oem.

He

Patt, >

oe Ag

Bingo

and now in utter disgust he decided to for-
sake even her stable door, and from that time
he attached himself exclusively to the horses
and their stable.

The cattle were mine, the horses were my
brother’s, and in transferring his allegiance from
the cow-stable to the horse-stable Bingo seemed
to give me up too, and anything like daily
companionship ceased, and, yet, whenever any
emergency arose Bingo turned to me and I to
him, and both seemed to feel that the bond be-
tween man and dog is one that lasts as long as
life.

The only other occasion on which Bingo
acted as cowherd was in the autumn of the
same year at the annual Carberry Fair. Among
the dazzling inducements to enter one’s stock
there was, in addition to a prospect of glory, a
cash prize of ‘two dollars,’ for the ‘ best col-
lie in training.’

Misled by a false friend, I entered Bingo,
and early on the day fixed, the cow was driven
to the prairie just outside of the village. When
the time came she was pointed out to Bingo
and the word given—‘ Go fetch the cow.’ It

156

Bingo
was the intention, of course, that he should
bring her to me at the judge’s stand.
But the animals knew better. They hadn’t
rehearsed all summer for nothing. When Dunne

saw Bingo’s careering form she knew that her
o

only hope for safety was to get into her stable,
and Bingo was equally sure that his sole mission
in life was to quicken her pace in that direction.
So off they raced over the prairie, like a wolf
after a deer, and heading straight toward their
home two miles away, they disappeared from
view.

That was the last that judge or jury ever saw
of dog or cow. ‘The prize was awarded to the
only other entry.

IIT

Bingo’s loyalty to the horses was quite re-
markable; by day he trotted beside them, and
by night he slept at the stable door. Where the
team went Bingo went, and nothing kept him
away from them. ‘This interesting assumption
of ownership lent the greater significance to the
following circumstance.

Bingo

I was not superstitious, and up to this time
had had no faith in omens, but was now deep-
ly impressed by a strange occurrence in which
Bingo took a leading part. There were but
two of us now living on the De Winton Farm.
One morning my brother set out for Boggy
Creek for a load of hay. It was a long day’s
journey there and back, and he made an early
start. Strange to tell, Bingo for once in his life
did not follow the team. My brother called to
him, but still he stood at a safe distance, and
eying the team askance, refused to stir. Sud-
denly he raised his nose in the air and gave vent
to a long, melancholy howl. He watched the
wagon out of sight, and even followed for a
hundred yards or so, raising his voice from time
to time in the most doleful howlings. All that
day he stayed about the barn, the only time
that he was willingly separated from the horses,
and at intervals howled a very death dirge. I
was alone, and the dog’s behavior inspired me
with an awful foreboding of calamity, that
weighed upon me more and more as the hours
passed away.

About six o’clock Bingo’s howlings became

155

Bingo

unbearable, so that for lack of a better thought
I threw something at him, and ordered him
away. But oh, the feeling of horror that filled
me! Why did I let my brother go away alone?
Should I ever again see him alive? I might
have known from the dog’s actions that some-
thing dreadful was about to happen.

At length the hour for his return arrived, and
there was John on his load. I took charge of
the horses, vastly relieved, and with an air of as-
sumed unconcern, asked, ‘‘ All right ?’’

‘*Right,’’ was the laconic answer.

Who now can say that there is nothing in
omens ?

And yet, when long afterward, I told this to
one skilled in the occult, he looked grave, and
said, ‘* Bingo always turned to you in a crisis ?’’

Sess!

‘‘Then do not smile. It was you that were
in danger that day; he stayed and saved your
life, though you never knew from what.’’

159

Bingo

IV

Early in the spring I had begun Bingo’s
education. Very shortly afterward he began
mine. |

Midway on the two-mile stretch of prairie
that lay between our shanty and the village of
Carberry, was the corner-stake of the farm; it
was a stout post in a low mound of earth, and
was visible from afar.

I soon noticed that Bingo never passed with-
out minutely examining this mysterious post.
Next I learned that it was also visited by the
prairie wolves as well as by all the dogs in the
neighborhood, and at length, with the aid of a
telescope, I made a number of observations that
helped me to an understanding of the matter
and enabled me to enter more fully into Bingo’s
private life.

The post was by common agreement a regis-
try of the canine tribes. Their exquisite sense
of smell enabled each individual to tell at once
by the track and trace what other had recently
been at the post. When the snow came much

160

Bingo

more was revealed. I then discovered that this
post was but one of a system that covered the
country ; that in short, the entire region was
laid out in signal stations at convenient inter-
vals. These were marked by any conspicuous
post, stone, buffalo skull, or other object that
chanced to be in the desired locality, and ex-
tensive observation showed that it was a very
complete system for getting and giving the
news.

Each dog or wolf makes a point of calling at
those stations that are near his line of travel
to learn who has recently been there, just as a
man calls at his club on returning to town and
looks up the register.

I have seen Bingo approach the post, sniff,
examine the ground about, then growl, and
with bristling mane and glowing eyes, scratch
fiercely and contemptuously with his hind feet,
finally walking off very stiffly, glancing back
from time to time. All of which, being inter-
preted, said :

‘‘ Grrrh! woof! there’s that dirty cur of
McCarthy’s. Woof! I’ll’tend to him to-night.
Woof! woof/’’ On another occasion, after

161

Bingo

the preliminaries, he became keenly interested
and studied a coyote’s track that came and
went, saying to himself, as I afterward learned :

‘“¢A coyote track coming from the north,
smelling of dead cow. Indeed? Pollworth’s
old Brindle must be dead at last. ‘This is worth
looking into.’’

At other times he would wag his tail, trot
about the vicinity and come again and again to
make his own visit more evident, perhaps for
the benefit of his brother Bill just back from
Brandon! So that it was not by chance that
one night Bill turned up at Bingo’s home and
was taken to the hills where a delicious dead
horse afforded a chance to suitably celebrate
the reunion.

At other times he would be suddenly aroused
by the news, take up the trail, and race to the
next station for later information.

Sometimes his inspection produced only an
air of grave attention, as though he said to him-
self, ‘‘ Dear me, who the deuce is this?’’ or
‘« Tt seems to me : met that fellow at the Por-
tage last summer.’

One morning on approaching the post Bie

¢
“Wh es
= ° Me divce us this? “+ 4

Bingo

go’s every hair stood on end, his tail dropped
and quivered, and he gave proof that he was
suddenly sick at the stomach, sure signs of
terror. Heshowed no desire to follow up or
know more of the matter, but returned to the
house, and half an hour afterward his mane was
still bristling and his expression one of hate or
fear.

I studied the dreaded track and learned that
in Bingo’s language the half-terrified, deep-
gurgled ‘ svrr-wff’ means ‘ timber wolf.’

These were among the things that Bingo
taught me. And in the after time when I
might chance to see him arouse from his frosty
nest by the stable door, and after stretching
himself and shaking the snow from his shaggy
coat, disappear into the gloom at a steady trot
trot, trot, I used to think :

«Aha! old dog, I know where you are off
to, and why you eschew the shelter of the
shanty. Now I know why your nightly trips
over the country are so well timed, and how
you know just where to go for what you want,
and when and how to seek it.’’

163

Bingo

Ve

In the autumn of 1884, the shanty at De
Winton farm was closed and Bingo changed
his home to the establishment, that is, to the
stable, not the house, of Gordon Wright, our
most intimate neighbor.

Since the winter of his puppyhood he had
declined to enter a house at any time excepting
during a thunder-storm. Of thunder and guns
he had a deep dread—no doubt the fear of the
first originated in the second, and that arose
from some unpleasant shot-gun experiences, the
cause of which will be seen. His nightly
couch was outside the stable, even during the
coldest weather, and it was easy to see that he
enjoyed to the full the complete nocturnal liberty
entailed. Bingo’s midnight wanderings ex-
tended across the plains for miles. ‘There was
plenty of proof of this. Some farmers at very
remote points sent word to old Gordon that if
he did not keep his dog home nights, they
would use the shotgun, and Bingo’s terror of
firearms would indicate that the threats were

164

Bingo

not idle. A man living as far away as Petrel,
said he saw a large black wolf kill a coyote on
the snow one winter evening, but afterward he
changed his opinion and ‘ reckoned it must ’a’
been Wright’s dog.’ Whenever the body of
a winter-killed ox or horse was exposed, Bingo
was sure to repair to it nightly, and driving
away the prairie wolves, feast to repletion.

Sometimes the object of a night foray was
merely to maul some distant neighbor’s dog,
and notwithstanding vengeful threats, there
seemed no reason to fear that the Bingo breed
would die out. One man even avowed that he
had seen a prairie wolf accompanied by three
young ones which resembled the mother, ex-
cepting that they were very large and black
and had a ring of white around the muzzle.

True or not as that may be, I know that late
in March, while we were out in the sleigh
with Bingo trotting behind, a prairie wolf was
started from a hollow. Away it went with
Bingo in full chase, but the wolf did not greatly
exert itself to escape, and within a short dis-
tance Bingo was close up, yet strange to tell,
there was no grappling, no fight!

ae a
W ia
NG 2,

Bingo

Bingo trotted amiably alongside and licked
the wolf’s nose.

We were astounded, and shouted to urge
Bingo on. Our shouting and approach several
times started the wolf off at speed and Bingo
again pursued until he had overtaken it, but
his gentleness was too obvious.

‘“<Tt is a she-wolf, he won’t harm her,’’ I
exclaimed as the truth dawned on me. And
Gordon said: ‘‘ Well, I be darned.’’

So we called our unwilling dog and drove on.

For weeks after this we were annoyed by
the depredations of a prairie wolf who killed
our chickens, stole pieces of pork from the end
of the house, and several times terrified the
children by looking into the window of the
shanty while the men were away.

Against this animal Bingo seemed to be no

safeguard. At length the wolf, a female, was

killed, and then Bingo plainly showed his hand
by his lasting enmity toward Oliver, the man
who did the deed.

166

———

Bingo and the She-Wolf.

Bingo

VI

It is wonderful and beautiful how a man and
his dog will stick to one another, through thick
and thin. Butler tells of an undivided Indian
tribe, in the Far North which was all but ex-
terminated by an internecine feud over a dog
that belonged to one man and was killed by
his neighbor; and among ourselves we have
lawsuits, fights, and deadly feuds, all pointing
the same old moral, ‘ Love me, love my dog.’

One of our neighbors had a very fine hound
that he thought the best and dearest dog in the
world. I loved him, soI loved his dog, and
when one day poor Tan crawled home terribly
mangled and died by the door, I joined my
threats of vengeance with those of his master
and thenceforth lost no opportunity of tracing
the miscreant, both by offering rewards and by
collecting scraps of evidence. At length it
was clear that one of three men to the south-
ward had had a hand in the cruel affair. The
scent was warming up, and soon we should
have been ina position to exact rigorous justice

169

Bingo

at least, from the wretch who had murdered poor
old Tan.

Then something took place which at once
changed my mind and led me to believe that
the mangling of the old hound was not by any
means an unpardonable crime, but indeed on
second thoughts was rather commendable than
otherwise. :

Gordon Wright’s farm lay to the south of us,
and while there one day, Gordon, Jr., knowing
that I was tracking the murderer, took me
aside and looking about furtively, he whispered,
in tragic tones :

“‘ It was Bing done it.”’

And the matter dropped right there. For I
confess that from that moment I did all in my
power to baffle the justice I had previously
striven so hard to further.

I had given Bingo away long before, but the
feeling of ownership did not die; and of this in-
dissoluble fellowship of dog and man he was _
soon to take part in another important illus-
tration.

Old Gordon and Oliver were close neigh-
bors and friends ; they joined in a contract to

170

Bingo Watched while Curley Feasted. |

Bingo

cut wood, and worked together harmoniously
till late onin winter. Then Oliver’s old horse
died, and he, determining to profit as far as
possible, dragged it out on the plain and laid
poison baits for wolves around it. Alas, for
poor Bingo! He would lead a wolfish life,
though again and again it brought him into
wolfish misfortunes.

He was as fond of dead horse as any of his
wild kindred. ‘That very night, with Wright’s
own dog Curley, he visited the carcass. It
seemed as though Bing had busied himself
chiefly keeping off the wolves, but Curley feasted
_immoderately. The tracks in the snow told the
story of the banquet ; the interruption as the
poison began to work, and of the dreadful
spasms of pain during the erratic course back
home where Curley, falling in convulsions at
Gordon’s feet, died in the greatest agony.

‘Love me, love my dog,’ no explanations
or apology were acceptable; it was useless to
urge that it was accidental, the long-standing
feud between Bingo and Oliver was now remem-
bered as an important side-light. The wood-
contract was thrown up, all friendly relations

173

Bingo

ceased, and to this day there is no county big
enough to hold the rival factions which were
called at once into existence and to arms by
Curley’s dying yell.

It was months before Bingo really recovered
from the poison. We believed indeed that he
never again would be the sturdy old-time Bingo.
But when the warm spring weather came he
began to gain strength, and bettering as the grass
grew, he was within a few weeks once more in
full health and vigor to be a pride to his friends
and a nuisance to his neighbors.

VII

Changes took me far away from Manitoba,
and on my return in 1886 Bingo was still a
member of Wright’s household. I thought he
would have forgotten me after two years ab-
sence, but notso. One day early in the winter,
after having been lost for forty-eight hours, he
crawled home to Wright’s with a wolf-trap and
a heavy log fast to one foot, and the foot frozen
to stony hardness. No one had been able to
- approach to help him, he was so savage, when I,

174

Bingo
the stranger now, stooped down and laid hold
of the trap with one hand and his leg with the
other. Instantly he seized my wrist in his
teeth.

Without stirring I said, ‘‘ Bing, don’t you
know me?”’

He had not broken the skin and at once re-
leased his hold and offered no further resistance,
although he whined a good deal during the re-
moval of the trap. He still acknowledged me
his master in spite of his change of residence
and my long absence, and notwithstanding my
surrender of ownership I still felt that he was
my dog.

Bing was carried into the house much against
his will and his frozen foot thawed out. Dur-
ing the rest of the winter he went lame and two
of his toes eventually dropped off. But before
the return of warm weather his health and
strength were fully restored, and to a casual
glance he bore no mark of his dreadful experi-
ence in the steel trap.

Bingo

Vill

During that same winter I caught many wolves
and foxes who did not have Bingo’s good luck
in escaping the traps, which I kept out right
into the spring, for bounties are good even when
fur is not.

Kennedy’s Plain was always a good trapping
ground because it was unfrequented by man and
yet lay between the heavy woods and the set-
tlement. I had been fortunate with the fur
here, and late in April rode in on one of my
regular rounds.

The wolf-traps are made of heavy steel and
have two springs, each of one hundred pounds
power. ‘They are set in fours around a buried
bait, and after being strongly fastened to con-
cealed logs are carefully covered in cotton and
in fine sand so as to be quite invisible.

A prairie wolf was caught in one of these. I
killed him with a club and throwing him aside
proceeded to reset the trap as I had done so
many hundred times before. All was quickly
done. I threw the trap-wrench over toward the

176

Bingo.

_ pony, and seéing some fine sand near by, I
reached out for a handful of it to add a good
finish to the setting.

Oh, unlucky thought! Oh, mad _ heedless-
ness born of long immunity! That fine sand
was on the next wolf-trap and in an instant I
was a prisoner. Although not wounded, for
the traps have no teeth, and my thick trapping
gloves deadened the snap, I was firmly caught
across the hand above the knuckles. Not
greatly alarmed at this, I tried to reach the
trap-wrench with my right foot. Stretching
out at full length, face downward, I worked
myself toward it, making my imprisoned
arm as long and straight as possible. I
could not see and reach at the same time, but
counted on my toe telling me when I touched
the little iron key to my fetters. My first effort
was a failure; strain as I might at the chain my
toe struck no metal. I swung slowly around
my anchor, but still failed. Then a painfully
taken observation showed I was much too far to
the west. I set about working around, tapping
blindly with my toe to discover the key. Thus
wildly groping with my right foot I forgot

177

Bingo

about the other till there was a sharp ‘ clank’
and the iron jaws of trap No. 3 closed tight on
my left foot.

The terrors of the situation did not, at
first, impress me, but I soon found that all my
struggles were in vain. I could not get free
from either trap or move the traps together,
and there I lay stretched out and firmly staked
to the ground.

What would become of me now? ‘There was
not much danger of freezing for the cold weather
was over, but Kennedy’s Plain was never visited
excepting by the winter wood-cutters. No one
knew where I had gone, and unless I could man-
age to free myself there was no prospect ahead
but to be devoured by wolves, or else die of cold
and starvation.

As I lay there the red sun went down over the
spruce swamp west of the plain, and ashorelark
on a gopher mound a few yards off twittered his
evening song, just as one had done the night be-
fore at our shanty door, and though the numb
pains were creeping up my arm, and a deadly chill
possessed me, I noticed how long his little ear-
tufts were. Then my thoughts went to the com-

178

Bingo»

fortable supper-table at Wright’s shanty, and I
thought, now they are frying the pork for sup-
per, or just sitting down. My pony still stood
as I left him with his bridle on the ground
patiently waiting totake me home. MHedid not
understand the long delay, and when I called,
he ceased nibbling the grass and looked at me
in dumb, helpless inquiry. If he would only go
home the empty saddle might tell the tale and
bring help. But his very faithfulness kept him
waiting hour after hour while I was perishing of
cold and hunger.

Then I remembered how old Girou the trap-
per had been lost, and in the following spring
his comrades found his skeleton held by the leg
in a bear-trap. I wondered which part of my
clothing would show my identity. Then a new
thought came tome. This is how a wolf feels
when he is trapped. Oh! what misery have
I been responsible for! Now I’m to pay for it.

Night cameslowly on. A prairie wolf howled,
the pony pricked up his ears and walking nearer
to me, stood with his head down. ‘Then another
prairie wolf howled and another, and I could
make out that they were gathering in the neigh-

179

Bingo

borhood. There I lay prone and helpless, won-
dering if it would not be strictly just that they
should come and tear me to pieces. I heard
them calling for a long time before I realized
that dim, shadowy forms were sneaking near.
The horse saw them first, and his terrified snort
drove them back at first, but they came nearer
next time and sat around me on the prairie.
Soon one bolder than the others crawled up and
tugged at the body of his dead relative. I
shouted and he retreated growling. The pony
ran to a distance in terror. Presently the
wolf returned, and after two or three of these
retreats and returns, the body was dragged off
and devoured by the rest in a few minutes.
After this they gathered nearer and sat on
their haunches to look at me, and the boldest
one smelt the rifle and scratched dirt on it.
He retreated when I kicked at him with my
free foot and shouted, but growing bolder as I
grew weaker he came and snarled right in my
face. At this several others snarled and came
up closer, and I realized that I was to be de-
voured by the foe that I most despised, when
suddenly out of the gloom with a guttural roar

180

Bingo

sprang a great black wolf. The prairie wolves
scattered like chaff except the bold one, which
seized by the black new-comer was in a-few
moments a draggled corpse, and then, oh hor-
rors! this mighty brute bounded at me and— —
Bingo—noble Bingo, rubbed his shaggy, pant-
ing sides against meand licked my pallid face.

«¢ Bingo—Bing—old—boy — Fetch me the
trap-wrench ! ’’

Away he went and returned dragging the
rifle, for he knew only that I wanted some-
thing.

«¢ No—Bing—the trap-wrench.’’ This time
it was mysash, but at last he brought the
wrench and wagged his tail in joy that it was
right. Reaching out with my free hand, after
much difficulty I unscrewed the _ pillar-nut.
The trap fell apart and my hand was re-
leased, and a minute later I was free. Bing
brought the pony up, and after slowly walk-
ing to restore the circulation I was able to
mount. Then slowly at first but soon at a
gallop, with Bingo as herald careering and bark-
ing ahead, we set out for home, there to
learn that the night before, though never taken

181

Bingo

on the trapping rounds, the brave dog had acted
strangely, whimpering and watching the tim-
ber-trail ; and at last when night came on, in
spite of attempts to detain him he had set out
in the gloom and guided by a knowledge that
is beyond us had reached the spot in time to
avenge me as well as set me free.

Stanch old Bing—he was a strange dog.
Though his heart was with me, he passed me
next day with scarcely a look, but responded
with alacrity when little Gordon called him to
a gopher-hunt. And it was so to the end;
and to the end also he lived the wolfish life
that he loved, and never failed to seek the win-
ter-killed horses and found one again witha
poisoned bait, and wolfishly bolted that ; then
feeling the pang, set out, not for Wright’s but
to find me, and reached the doer of my shanty
where I should have been. Next day on re-
turning I found him dead in the snow with his
head on the sill of the door—the door of his
puppyhood’s days; my dog to the last in his
heart of hearts——it was my help he sought,
and vainly sought, in the hour of his bitter ex-
tremity. | 3

182

Vv
a
bs

Springfield Fox

The Springtield Fox

HE hens had been mysteriously disap-
pearing for over a month; and when
I came home to Springfield for the
summer holidays it was my duty to
find the cause. This was scon done.
The fowls were carried away bodily
one at atime, before going to roost
or else after leaving, which put tramps and
neighbors out of court; they were not taken
from the high perches, which cleared all coons
and owls; or left partly eaten, so that weasels,
skunks, or minks were not the guilty ones, and
the blame, therefore, was surely left at Rey-
nard’s door.

The great pine wood of Erindale was on the
other bank of the river, and on looking care-

187

The Springfield Fox

fully about the lower ford I saw a few fox-tracks
and a barred feather from one of our Plymouth
Rock chickens. On climbing the farther bank
in search of more clews, I heard a great outcry
of crows behind me, and turning, saw a number
of these birds darting down at something in the
ford. A better view showed that it was the old
story, thief catch thief, for there in the middle
of the ford was a fox with something in his
jaws—he was returning from our barnyard with
another hen. The crows, though shameless rob-
bers themselves, are ever first to cry ‘Stop
thief,’ and yet more than ready to take ‘hush-
money ’ in the form of a share in the plunder.

And this was their game now. The fox to
get back home must cross the river, where he
was exposed to the full brunt of the crow mob.
He made a dash for it, and would doubtless have
gotten across with his booty had I not joined in
the attack, whereupon he dropped the hen,
scarce dead, and disappeared in the woods.

This large and regular levy of provisions
wholly carried off could mean but one thing, a
family of little foxes at home ; and to find them
I now was bound. .

188

The Springfield Fox

That evening I went with Ranger, my hound,
across the river into the Erindale woods. As
soon as the hound began to circle, we heard
the short, sharp bark of a fox from a thickly
wooded ravine close by. Ranger dashed in at
once, struck a hot scent and went off on a lively
straight-away till his voice was lost in the dis-
tance away over the upland.

After nearly an hour he came back, panting
and warm, for it was baking August weather,
and lay down at my feet.

But almost immediately the same foxy ‘ Yap
yurrr’ was heard close at hand and off dashed
the dog on another chase.

Away he went in the darkness, baying like a
foghorn, straight away to the north. And the
loud ‘ Boo, 600,’ became a low ‘oo, 0,’
and that a feeble ‘o-o’ and then was lost.
They must have gone some miles away, for even
with ear to the ground I heard nothing of them
though a mile was easy distance for Ranger’s
brazen voice.

As I waited in the black woods I heard a
sweet sound of dripping water: ‘ Zink tank
tenk tink, Ta tink tank tenk tonk.’

189

The Springfield Fox

I did not know of any spring so near, and in
the hot night it was a glad find. But the sound
led me to the bough of an oak-tree, where I
found its source. Such a soft sweet song; full
of delightful suggestion on such a night:

Tonk tank tenk tink

Ta tink a tonk a tank a tink a
Ta ta tink tank ta ta tonk tink
Drink a tank a drink a drunk.

It was the ‘ water-dripping’ song of the
saw-whet owl.

But suddenly a deep raucous breathing and
a rustle of leaves showed that Ranger was back.
He was completely fagged out. His tongue
hung almost to the ground and was dripping with
foam, his flanks were heaving and spume-flecks
dribbled from his breast and sides. He stopped
panting a moment to give my hand a dutiful
lick, then flung himself flop on the leaves to
drown all other sounds with his noisy panting.

But again that tantalizing ‘Yap yurrr’ was
heard a few feet away, and the meaning of it
all dawned on me.

We were close to the den where the little

190

The Springfield Fox

foxes were, and the old ones were taking turns
in trying to lead us away.

It was late night now, so we went home feel-
ing sure that the problem was nearly solved.

Il

It was well known that there was an old fox
with his family living in the neighborhood, but
no one supposed them so near.

This fox had been called ‘Scarface,’ be-
cause of a scar reaching from his eye through
and back of his ear ; this was supposed to have
been. given him by a barbed-wire fence during
a rabbit hunt, and as the hair came in white
after it healed, it was always a strong mark.

The winter before I had met with him and had
had a sample of his craftiness. I was out shoot-
ing, after a fall of snow, and had crossed the
open fields to the edge of the brushy hollow
back of the old mill. As my head rose to a
view of the hollow I caught sight of a fox
trotting at long range down the other side, in
line to cross my course. Instantiy I held mo-
tionless, and did not even lower or turn my

Ig!

The Springfield Fox

head lest I should catch his eye by moving,
until he went on out of sight in the thick cover
at the bottom. As soon as he was hidden I
bobbed down and ran to head him off where
he should leave the cover on the other side, and
was there in good time awaiting, but no fox
came forth. A careful look showed the fresh
track of a fox that had bounded from the cover,
and following it with my eye I saw old Scar-
face himself far out of range behind me, sitting
on his haunches and grinning as though much
amused.

A study of the trail made all clear. He had
seen me at the moment I saw him, but he, also
like a true hunter, had concealed the fact, put-
ting on an air of unconcern till out of sight,
when he had run for his life around behind me
and amused himself by watching my stillborn
trick.

In the springtime I had yet another instance
of Scarface’s cunning. I was walking with
a friend along the road over the high pasture.
We passed within thirty feet of a ridgé on which
were several gray and brown bowlders. When
at the nearest point my friend said :

192

The Springfield Fox

=
*

‘Stone number three looked to me very
much like a fox curled up.”’

But I could not see it, and we passed. We
had not gone many yards farther when the wind
blew on this bowlder as on fur.

My friend said, ‘‘I am sure that is a fox,
lying asleep.’’

‘¢We’ll soon settle that,’’ I replied, and
turned back, but as soon as I had taken one
step from the road, up jumped Scarface, for it
was he, and ran. A fire had swept the middle
of the pasture, leaving a broad belt of black;
over this he skurried till he came to the unburnt
yellow grass again, where he squatted down and
was lost to view. He had been watching us all
the time, and would not have moved had we
kept to the road. The wonderful part of this is,
not that he resembled the round stones and dry
grass, but that he £vxew he did, and was ready
to profit by it.

We soon found that it was Scarface and his
wife Vixen that had made our woods their
home and our barnyard their base of supplies.

Next morning a search in the pines showed
a great bank of earth that had been scratched

193

The Springfield Fox

up within a few months. It must have come
from a hole, and yet there was none to be seen.
It is well known that a really cute fox, on dig-
ging a new den, brings all the earth out at the
first hole made, but carries on a tunnel into
some distant thicket. Then closing up for good
the first made and too well-marked door, uses
only the entrance hidden in the thicket.

So after a little search at the other side of a
‘knoll, I found the real entry and good proof
that there was a nest of little foxes inside.

Rising above the brush on the hillside was a
great hollow basswood. It leaned a good deal
and had a large hole at the bottom, and a smaller
one at top.

We boys had often used this tree in playing
Swiss Family Robinson, and by cutting steps
in its soft punky walls had made it easy to go up
and down in the hollow. Now it came inhandy,
for next day when the sun was warm I went
there to watch, and from this perch on the roof,
I soon saw the interesting family that lived in
the cellar near by. There were four little foxes ;
they looked curiously like little lambs, with
their woolly coats, their long thick legs and in-

194

&
2
a

eee

‘The Springfield Fox

e

nocent expressions, and yet a second glance
at their broad, sharp-nosed, sharp-eyed visages
showed that each of these innocents was the
makings of a crafty old fox.

They played about, basking in the sun, or
wrestling with each other till a slight sound
made them skurry under ground. But their
alarm was needless, for the cause of it was their
mother; she stepped from the bushes bringing
- another hen—number seventeen as I remember.
A low call from her and the little fellows came
tumbling out. Then began a scene that I
thought charming, but which my uncle would
not have enjoyed at all. 3

They rushed on the hen, and tussled and
fought with it, and each other, while the mother,
keeping a sharp eye for enemies, looked on with
fond delight. The expression on her face was
remarkable. It was first a grinning of delight,
but her usual look of wildness and cunning was
there, nor were cruelty and nervousness lacking,
but over all was the unmistakable look of the
mother’s pride and love.

The base of my tree was hidden in bushes
and much lower than the knoll where the den

197

The Springfield Fox

was. So Icould come and go at will without
scaring the foxes.

For many days I went there and saw much
of the training of the young ones. ‘They early
learned to turn to statuettes at any strange
sound, and then on hearing it again or finding
other cause for fear, run for shelter.

Some animals have so much mother-love that
it overflows and benefits outsiders. Not so old
Vixen it would seem. Her pleasure in the cubs
led to most refined cruelty. For she often
brought home to them mice and birds alive, and
with diabolic gentleness would avoid doing
them serious hurt so that the cubs might have
larger scope to torment them.

There was a woodchuck that lived over in
the hill orchard. He was neither handsome
nor interesting, but he knew how to take care
of himself. He had digged a den between the
roots of an old pine stump, so that the foxes
could not follow him by digging. But hard
1g, work was not their way of life; wits they be-
ee lieved worth more than elbow-grease. This

sao, woodchuck usually sunned himself on the stump

Ss, each morning. If he saw a fox near he went

Meee ee EN

198

The Springfield Fox :

down in the door of his den, or if the enemy
was very near he went inside and stayed long
enough for the danger to pass.

One morning Vixen and her mate seemed to
decide that it was time the children knew some-
thing about the broad subject of Woodchucks,
and further that this orchard woodchuck would
serve nicely for an object-lesson. So they went
together to the orchard-fence unseen by old
Chuckie on his stump. Scarface then showed
himself in the orchard and quietly walked in
a line so as to pass by the stump at a dis-
tance, but never once turned his head or al-
lowed the ever-watchful woodchuck to think
himself seen. When the fox entered the field
the woodchuck quietly dropped down to the
mouth of his den; here he waited as the fox
passed, but concluding that after all wisdom is
the better part, went into his hole.

This was what the foxes wanted. Vixen had
kept out of sight, but now ran swiftly to the
stump and hid behind it. Scarface had kept
straight on, going very slowly. The woodchuck
had not been frightened, so before long his head
popped up between the roots and he looked

_ 199

The Springfield Fox

around. ‘There was that fox still going on,
farther and farther away. The woodchuck grew
bold as the fox went, and came out farther, and
then seeing the coast clear, he scrambled onto
the stump, and with one spring Vixen had him
and shook him till he lay senseless. Scarface
had watched out of the corner of his eye and
now came running back. But Vixen took the
chuck in her jaws and made for the den, so he
saw he wasn’t needed.

Back to the den came Vix, and carried the
chuck so carefully that he was able to struggle
a little when she got there. A low ‘ woof’ at
the den brought the little fellows out like school-
boys to play. She threw the wounded animal
to them and they set on him like four little
furies, uttering little growls and biting little
bites with all the strength of their baby jaws,
but the woodchuck fought for his life and beat-
ing them off slowly hobbled to the shelter of a
thicket. The little ones pursued like a pack
of hounds and dragged at his tail and flanks, but
could not hold him back. So Vix overtook
him with a couple of bounds and dragged him
again into the open for the children to worry.

200

1ce.

M

Vix Shows the Cubs How to Catch

The Springfield Fox :

Again and again this rough sport went on till
one of the little ones was badly bitten, and his
squeal of pain roused Vix to end the woodchuck’s
misery and serve him up at once.

Not far from the den was a hollow overgrown
with coarse grass, the playground of a colony
of field-mice. The earliest lesson in woodcraft
that the little ones took, away from the den,
was in this hollow. Here they had their first
course of mice, the easiest of all game. In
teaching, the main thing was example, aided by
a deep-set instinct. The old fox, also, had
one or two signs meaning ‘‘lie still and watch,’’
‘come, do as I do,’’ and so on, that were much
used.

So the merry lot went to this hollow one
calm evening and Mother Fox made them lie
still in the grass. Presently a faint squeak
showed that the game was astir. Vix rose up
and went on tip-toe into the grass—not crouch-
ing but as high as she could stand, sometimes
on her hind legsso as to get a better view. The
runs that the mice follow are hidden under the
grass tangle, and the only way to know the
whereabouts of a mouse is by seeing the slight

203

The Springfield Fox

shaking of the grass, which is the reason why
mice are hunted only on calm days.

And the trick is to locate the mouse and
seize him first and see him afterward. Vix
soon made a spring, and in the middle of the
bunch of dead grass that she grabbed was a
field-mouse squeaking his last squeak.

He was soon gobbled, and the four awkward
little foxes tried to do the same as their mother,
and when at length the eldest for the first time
in his life caught game, he quivered with excite-
ment and ground his pearly little milk-teeth
into the mouse with a rush of inborn savage-
ness that must have surprised even himself.

Another home lesson was on the red-squir-
rel. One of these noisy, vulgar creatures, lived
close by and used to waste part of each day
scolding the foxes, from some safe perch. The
cubs made many vain attempts to catch him as
he ran across their glade from one tree to an-
other, or spluttered and scolded at them a foot
or so out of reach. But old Vixen was up in
natural history—she knew squirrel nature and
took the case in hand when the proper time
came. She hid the children and lay down flat

204

The Springfield Fox

in the middle of the open glade. The saucy
low-minded squirrel came and scolded as usual.
But she moved no hair. He came nearer and
at last right overhead to chatter :

‘¢ You brute you, you brute you.”’

But Vix lay as dead. ‘This was very per-
plexing, so the squirrel came down the trunk
and peeping about made a nervous dash across
the grass, to another tree, again to scold from
a safe perch.

‘You brute you, you useless brute, scarrr-
scarrrrr.’’

But flat and lifeless on the grass lay Vix.
This was most tantalizing to the squirrel. He
was naturally curious and disposed to be venture-
some, so again he came to the ground and skur-
ried across the glade nearer than before.

Still as death lay Vix, ‘‘ surely she was dead.”’
And the little foxes began to wonder if their
mother wasn’t asleep.

But the squirrel was working himself into
a little craze of foolhardy curiosity. He had
dropped a piece of bark on Vix’s head,- he had
used up his list of bad words and he had done
it all over again, without getting a sign of life.

205

The Springfield Fox

So after a couple more dashes across the glade
he ventured withina few feet of the really watch-
ful Vix, who sprang to her feet and ee him
in a twinkling.

‘¢ And the little ones picked the bones e-oh.’’

Thus the rudiments of their education were
laid, and afterward as they grew stronger they
were taken farther afield to begin the higher
branches of trailing and scenting.

For each kind of prey they were taught a way
to hunt, for every animal hassome great strength
or it could not live, and some great weakness
or the others could not live. The squirrel’s
weakness was foolish curiosity ; the fox’s that
he can’t climb a tree. And the training of the
little foxes was all shaped to take advantage of
the weakness of the other creatures and to make
up for their own by defter play where they are
strong.

From their parents they learned the chief
axioms of the fox world. How, is not easy
to say. But that they learned this in company
with their parents was clear. Here are some
that foxes taught me, without saying a word :—

Never sleep on your straight track.

206
az
avin’? s
‘sea
WZ
=
* hy £
aes eno =
~ (F ae
aed ete =.
.* ey ty
A Sg 2G
Z x WN 3
wl ios a >
s =) ‘ay
at 4 FG a
ts LE ’ faa
c

a
™~
'

¢ i cals ae a
And the Little ones picked his Bones €-oh!

ee 3

The Springfield Fox

*e

Your nose is before your eyes, then trust it
first.

A fool runs down the wind.

Running rills cure many ills.

Never take the open if you can keep the
cover.

Never leave a straight trail if a crooked one
will do.

If it’s strange, it’s hostile.

Dust and water burn the scent.

Never hunt mice in a rabbit-woods, or rab-
bits in a henyard.

Keep off the grass.

Inklings of the meanings of these were al-
ready entering the little ones’ minds—thus,
‘Never follow what you can’t smell,’ was wise,
they could see, because if you can’t smell it,
then the wind is so that it must smell you.

One by one they learned the birds and beasts
of their home woods, and then as they were able
to go abroad with their parents they learned
new animals. They were beginning to think
they knew the scent of everything that moved.
But one night the mother took them to a field
where was a strange black flat thing on the

207

The Springfield Fox

ground. She brought them on purpose to

smell it, but at the first whiff their every hair

stood on end, they trembled, they knew not

why—it seemed to tingle through their blood

and fill them with instinctive hate and fear.

And when she saw its full effect she told them—
“That is man-scent.”’

Til

Meanwhile the hens continued to disappear.
I had not betrayed the den of cubs. Indeed,
I thought a good deal more of the little rascals
than I did of the hens; but uncle was dread-
fully wrought up and made most disparaging
remarks about my woodcraft. To please him
I one day took the hound across to the woods
and seating myself on a stump on the open hill-
side, I bade the dog go on. Within three min-
utes he sang out in the tongue all hunters know
so well, ‘‘ Fox | fox! fox ! straight away down
the valley.”’

After awhile I heard them coming back.
There | saw the fox——Scarface—loping lightly
across the river-bottom to the stream. In he

208

The Springfield Fox

went and trotted along in the shallow water
near the margin for two hundred yards, then
came out straight toward me. Though in full
view, he saw me not but came up the hill
watching over his shoulder for the hound.
Within ten feet of me he turned and sat with
his back to me while he craned his neck and
showed an eager interest in the doings of the
hound. Ranger came bawling along the trail
till he came to the running water, the killer of
scent, and here he was puzzled ; but there was
only one thing to do; that was by going up
and down both banks find where the fox had
left the river.

The fox before me shifted his position a little
to get a better view and watched with a most
human interest all the circling of the hound.
He was so close that I saw the hair of his
shoulder bristle a little when the dog came in
sight. I couldsee the jumping of his heart on his
ribs, and the gleam of his yellow eye. When the
dog was whoily baulked by the water trick, it

was comical to see:—he could not sit still, but .

rocked up and down in glee, and reared on his
hind feet to get a better view of the slow-plod-

209

The Springfield Fox

ding hound. With mouth opened nearly to
his ears, though not at all winded, he panted
noisily for a moment, or rather he laughed
gleefully, just as a dog laughs by grinning and
panting.

Old Scarface wriggled in huge enjoyment as
the hound puzzled over the trail so long that
when he did find it, it was so stale he could
barely follow it, and did not feel justified in
tonguing on it at all. a

As soon as the hound was working up the
hill, the fox quietly went into the woods. I
had been sitting in plain view only ten feet
away, but I had the wind and kept still and
the fox never knew that his life had for twenty
minutes been in the power of the foe he most
feared. Ranger also would have passed me as
near as the fox, but I spoke to him, and with a
little nervous start he quit the trail and looking
sheepish lay down by my feet.

This little comedy was played with variations
for several days, but it was all in plain view
from the house across the river. My uncle, im-
patient at the daily loss of hens, went out him-
self, sat on the open knoll, and when old Scar-

210

The Springfield Fox

e

face trotted to his lookout to watch the dull
hound on the river flat below, my uncle remorse-
lessly shot him in the back, at the very moment
when he was grinning over a new triumph.

IV

But still the hens were disappearing. My
uncle was wrathy. He determined to conduct
the war himself, and sowed the woods with
poison baits, trusting to luck that our own dogs
would not get them. He indulged in contemptu-
ous remarks on my by-gone woodcraft, and went
out evenings with a gun and the two dogs, tosee
what he could destroy.

Vix knew right well what a poisoned bait was ;
she passed them by or else treated them with
active contempt, but one she dropped down
the hole of an old enemy, a skunk, who was
never afterward seen. Formerly old Scarface
was always ready to take charge of the dogs,
and keep them out of mischief. But now that
Vix had the whole burden of the brood, she
could no longer spend time in breaking every
track to the den, and was not always at hand

The Springfield Fox

to meet and mislead the foes that might be com-
ing too near.

The end is easily foreseen. Ranger followed
a hot trail to the den, and Spot, the fox-terrier,
announced that the family was at home, and
then did his best to go in after them.

The whole secret was now out, and the whole
family doomed. ‘The hired man came around
with pick and shovel to dig them out, while we
and the dogs stood by. Old Vix soon showed
herself in the near woods, and led the dogs
away off down the river, where she shook them
off when she thought proper, by the simple de-
vice of springing on a sheep’s back. The
frightened animal ran for several hundred yards,
then Vix got off, knowing that there was now
a hopeless gap in the scent, and returned to the
den. But the dogs, baffled by the break in the
trail, soon did the same, to find Vix hanging
about in despair, vainly trying to decoy us away
from her treasures.

Meanwhile Paddy plied both pick and shovel
with vigor and effect. The yellow, gravelly sand
was heaping on both sides, and the shoulders of
the sturdy digger were sinking below the level.

212

The Springfield Fox

After an hour’s digging, enlivened by frantic
rushes of the dogs after the old fox, who hovered
near in the woods, Pat called :

«‘ Here they are, sor! ’’

It was the den at the end of the burrow, and
cowering as far back as they could, were the
four little woolly cubs. af

Before I could interfere, a murderous blow
from the shovel, and asudden rush for the fierce
little terrier, ended the lives of three. The
fourth and smallest was barely saved by holding
him by his tail high out of reach of the excited
dogs.

He gave one short squeal, and his poor
mother came at the cry, and circled so near that
she would have been shot but for the accidental
protection of the dogs, who somehow always
seemed to get between, and whom she once
more led away on a fruitless chase.

The little one saved alive was dropped into a
bag, where he lay quite still. His unfortunate
brothers were thrown back into their nursery
bed, and buried under a few shovelfuls of earth.

We guilty ones then went back into the
house, and the little fox was soon chained in

213

4

G

\\)

Ss

The Springtield Fox

the yard. No one knew just why he was kept
alive, but in all a change of feeling had set
in, and the idea of killing him was without a
supporter.

He was a pretty little fellow, like a cross be-
tween a fox and a lamb. His woolly visage
and form were strangely lamb-like and inno-
cent, but one could find in his yellow eyes a
gleam of cunning and savageness as unlamb-like
as it possibly could be.

As long as anyone was near he crouched
sullen and cowed in his shelter-box, and it was
a full hour after being left alone before he vent-
ured to look out.

My window now took the place of the hol-
low basswood. A number of hens of the breed
he knew so well were about the cub in the
the yard. Late that afternoon as they strayed
near the captive there was a sudden rattle of
the chain, and the youngster dashed at the near-
est one and would have caught him but for the
chain which brought him up with a jerk. He
got on his feet and slunk back to his box, and
though he afterward made several rushes he so
gauged his leap as to win or fail within the

214

The Springfield Fox

length of the chain and never again was brought
up by its cruel jerk.

As night came down the little fellow became
very uneasy, sneaking out of his box, but going
back at each slight alarm, tugging at his chain,
or at times biting it in fury while he held it
down with his fore paws. Suddenly he paused
as though listening, then raising his little black
nose he poured out a short quavering cry.

Once or twice this was repeated, the time
between being occupied in worrying the chain
and running about. Then an answer came.
The far-away Yap-yurrr of the old fox. A
few minutes later a shadowy form appeared on
the wood-pile. The little one slunk into his
box, but at once returned and ran to meet his
mother with all the gladness that a fox could
show. Quick as a flash she seized him and
turned to bear him away by the road she came.
But the moment the end of the. chain was
reached the cub was rudely jerked from the old
one’s mouth, and she, scared by the opening of
a window, fled over the wood-pile.

An hour afterward the cub had ceased to run
about or cry. I peeped out, and by the light

215

Slunk back into hie box

The Springfield Fox

of the moon saw the form of the mother at full
length on the ground by the little one, gnaw-
ing at something—the clank of iron told what,
it was that cruel chain. And Tip, the little
one, meanwhile was helping himseif to a warm
drink.

On my going out she fled into the dark
woods, but there by the shelter-box were two
little mice, bloody and still warm, food for the
cub brought by the devoted mother. And in
the morning I found the chain was very bright
for a foot or two next the little one’s collar.

On walking across the woods to the ruined
den, I again found signs of Vixen. The poor
heart-broken mother had come and dug out the
bedraggled bodies of her little ones.

There lay the three little baby foxes all
licked smooth now, and by them were two of
our hens fresh killed. The newly heaved earth
was printed all over with tell-tale signs—signs
that told me that here by the side of her dead
she had watched like Rizpah. Here she had
brought their usual meal, the spoil of her night-
ly hunt. Here she had stretched herself be-
side them and vainly offered them their natural

216

The Springfield Fox :

drink and yearned to feed and warm them as of
old; but only stiff little bodies under their soft
wool she found, and little cold noses still and
unresponsive.

A deep impress of elbows, breast, and hocks
showed where she had laid in silent grief and
watched them for long and mourned as a wild
mother can mourn for its young. But from
that time she came no more to the ruined den,
for now she surely knew that her little ones
were dead.

V

Tip the captive, the weakling of the brood,
was now the heir to all her love. The dogs
were loosed to guard the hens. The hired
man had orders to shoot the old fox on sight—
so had I, but was resolved never to see her.
Chicken-heads, that a fox loves and a dog will
not touch, had been poisoned and scattered
through the woods; and the only way to the
yard where Tip was tied, was by climbing the
wood-pile after braving all other dangers. And
yet each night old Vix was there to nurse her

219

ey

PSs Vay
ma 4 My RY
Tis IS Wee

The Springfield Fox

baby and bring it fresh-killed hens and game.
Again and again I saw her, although she came
now without awaiting the querulous cry of the
captive. |

The second night of the captivity I heard
the rattle of the chain, and then made out that
the old fox was there, hard at work digging a
hole by the little one’s kennel. When it was
deep enough to half bury her, she gathered into
it all the slack of the chain, and filled it again
with earth. Then in triumph thinking she had
gotten rid of the chain, she seized little Tip by
the neck and turned to dash off up the wood-
pile, but alas only to have him jerked roughly
from her grasp.

Poor little fellow, he whimpered sadly as he
crawled into his box. After half an hour there
was a great outcry among the dogs, and by their
straight-away tonguing through the far woods
I knew they were chasing Vix. Away up north
they went in the direction of the railway and
their noise faded from hearing. Next morning
the hound had not come back. Wesoon knew
why. Foxes long ago learned what a railroad
is ; they soon devised several ways of turning it

220

The Springfield Fox ;

to account. One way is when hunted to walk
the rails for a long distance just before a train
comes. The scent, always poor on iron, is
destroyed by the train and there is always a
chance of hounds being killed by the engine.
But another way more sure, but harder to play,
is to lead the hounds straight to a high trestle
just ahead of the train, so that the engine over-
takes them on it and they are surely dashed
to destruction.

This trick was skilfully played, and down
below we found the mangled remains of old
Ranger and learned that Vix was already
wreaking her revenge.

That same night she returned to the yard
before Spot’s weary limbs could bring him
back and killed another hen and brought it to
Tip, and stretched her panting length beside
him that he might quench his thirst. For she
seemed to think he had no food but what she
brought.

It was that hen that betrayed to my uncle
the nightly visits.

My own sympathies were all turning to Vix,
- and I would have no hand in planning further
221

a 6)

The Springfield Fox

murders. Next night my uncle himself watched,
gun in hand, foran hour. Then when it became
cold and the moon clouded over he remembered
other important business elsewhere, and left
Paddy in his place.

But Paddy was ‘‘ onaisy’’ as the stillness and
‘ anxiety of watching worked on his nerves. And
the loud bang! bang! an hour later left us sure
only that powder had been burned.

In the morning we found Vix had not failed
her young one. Again next night found my
uncle on guard, for another hen had been taken.
Soon after dark a single shot was heard, but Vix
dropped the game she was bringing and escaped.
Another attempt made that night called forth
another gun-shot. Yet next day it was seen by
the brightness of the chain that she had come
again and vainly tried for hours to cut that
hateful bond.

Such courage and stanch fidelity were bound
to win respect, if not toleration. At any rate,
there was no gunner in wait next night, when
all was still. Could it be of any use? Driven
off thrice with gun-shots, would she make an-
other try to feed or free her captive young one?

222

The Springfield Fox

Would she? Hers was a mother’s love.
There was but one to watch them this time, the
fourth night, when the quavering whine of the
little one was followed by that shadowy form
above the wood-pile.

But carrying no fowl or food that could be
seen. Had the keen huntress failed at last?
Had she no head of game for this her only
charge, or had she learned to trust his captors
for his food ?

No, far from all this. The wild-wood mother’s
heart and hate were true. Her only thought
had been to set him free. All means she knew
she tried, and every danger braved to tend him
well and help him to be free. But all had
failed.

Like a shadow she came and in a moment
was gone, and Tip seized on something dropped,
and crunched and chewed with relish what she
brought. But even as he ate, a knife-like pang
shot through and a scream of pain escaped him.
Then there was a momentary struggle and the
little fox was dead.

The mother’s love was strong in Vix, but a
higher thought was stronger. She knew right

223

<< 7]

The Springfield Fox

well the poison’s power; she knew the poison
bait, and would have taught him had he lived
to know and shun it too. But now at last
when she must choose for him a wretched pris-
oner’s life or sudden death, she quenched the
mother in her breast and freed him by the one
remaining door.

It is when the snow is on the ground that

we take the census of the woods, and when the
winter came it told me that Vix no longer
roamed the woods of Erindale. Where she
went it never told, but only this, that she was
gone.
’ Gone, perhaps, to some other far-off haunt
to leave behind the sad remembrance of her
murdered little ones and mate. Or gone, may
be, deliberately, from the scene of a sorrowful
life, as many a wild-wood mother has gone, by
the means that she herself had used to free her
young one, the last of all her brood.

224

The Pacing Mustang

O CALONE threw down his
saddle on the dusty ground,
turned his horses loose, and
went clanking into the ranch-
house.

‘¢ Nigh about chuck time? ’’
he asked.

‘¢ Seventeen minutes,’’ said
the cook glancing at the Waterbury, with the
air of a train-starter, though this show of pre-
cision had never yet been justified by events.

‘¢ How’s things on the Perico?’’ said Jo’s
pard.

‘¢ Hotter’n hinges,’’ said Jo. ‘‘ Cattle seem
QO. K.; lots of calves.”’

’

229

The Pacing Mustang

‘‘T seen that bunch o’ mustangs that waters
at Antelope Springs; couple o’ colts along ;
one little dark one, a fair dandy ; a born pacer.
I run them a mile or two, and he led the bunch,
an’ never broke his pace. Cut loose, an’
pushed them jest for fun, an’ darned if I could
make him break.’’

“¢ You didn’t have no reefreshments along ?’’
said Scarth, incredulously.

‘‘That’s all right, Scarth. You had to crawl
on our last bet, an’ you’ll get another chance
soon as you’re man enough.’’

‘¢ Chuck,’’ shouted the cook, and the subject
was dropped. Next day the scene of the round-
up was changed, and the mustangs were forgot-
tena

A year later the same corner of New Mexico
was worked over by the roundup, and again

the mustang bunch was seen. The dark colt

was now a black yearling, with thin, clean legs
and glossy flanks; and more than one of the
boys saw with his own eyes this oddity—the
mustang was a born pacer. |

Jo was along, and the idea now struck him
that that colt was worth having. To an East-

230

The Pacing Mustang

e

erner this thought may not seem startling or
original, but in the West, where an unbroken
horse is worth $5, and where an ordinary saddle-
horse is worth $15 or $20, the idea of a wild
mustang being desirable property does not oc-
cur to the average cowboy, for mustangs are
hard to catch, and when caught are merely wild-
animal prisoners, perfectly useless and untama-
ble to the last. Not a few of the cattle-owners
make a point of shooting all mustangs at sight,
for they are not only useless cumberers of the -
feeding-grounds, but commonly lead away do
mestic horses, which soon take to the wild life
and are thenceforth lost.

Wild Jo Calone knew a ‘ bronk right down to
subsoil.’ ‘‘I never seen a white that wasn’t
soft, nor a chestnut that wasn’t nervous, nor a
bay that wasn’t good if broke right, nor a
black that wasn’t hard as nails, an’ full of the
old Harry. Alla black bronk wants is claws
to be wus’n Daniel’s hull outfit of lions.’’

Since then a mustang is worthless vermin, ~S

and a black mustang ten times worse than worth- es ee Le
less, Jo’s pard ‘‘ didn’t see no sense in Jo’s > Vays x :

wantin’ to corral the yearling,’’ as he now
231

ee

The Pacing Mustang

seemed intent on doing. But Jo got no chance
to try that year.

He was only a cow-puncher on $25 a month,
and tied to hours. Like most of the boys, he
always looked forward to having a ranch and
an outfit of his own. His brand, the hogpen,
of sinister suggestion, was already registered at
Santa Fé, but of horned stock it was borne by
a single old cow, so as to give him a legal right
., to put his brand on any maverick (or unbranded
animal) he might chance to find.

Yet each fall, when paid off, Jo could not re-
sist the temptation to go to town with the boys
and havea good time ‘ while the stuff held out.’
So that his property consisted of little more
than his saddle, his bed, and his old cow. He
kept on hoping to make a strike that would
leave him well fixed with a fair start, and when
the thought came that the Black Mustang was
his mascot, he only needed a chance to ‘make
thei trys

The roundup circled down to the Canadian
River, and back in the fall by the Don Carlos
Hills, and Jo saw no more of the Pacer, though
he heard of him from many quarters, for the

232

The Pacing Mustang 2

colt, now a vigorous, young horse, rising three,
was beginning to be talked of.

Antelope Springs is in the middle of a great
level plain. When the water is high it spreads
into a small lake with a belt of sedge around it ;
when it is low there is a wide flat of black mud,
glistening white with alkali in places, and the
spring a water-hole in the middle. It has no
flow or outlet and yet is fairly good water, the
only drinking-place for many miles.

This flat, or prairie as it would be called far-
ther north, was the favorite feeding-ground of
the Black Stallion, but it was also the pasture
of many herds of range horses and cattle.
Chiefly interested was the ‘L cross F’ outfit.
Foster, the manager and part owner, was a man
of enterprise. He believed it would pay to
handle a better class of cattle and horses on
the range, and one of his ventures was ten half-
blooded mares, tall, clean-limbed, deer-eyed
creatures, that made the scrub cow-ponies look
like pitiful starvelings of some degenerate and
quite different species.

One of these was kept stabled for use, but
the nine, after the weaning of their colts,

233

Ese

The Pacing Mustang

managed to get away and wandered off on the
range. ,

A horse has a fine instinct for the road to the
best feed, and the nine mares drifted, of course,
to the prairie of Antelope Springs, twenty miles
to the southward. And when, later that sum-
mer Foster went to round them up, he found
the nine indeed, but with them and guarding
them with an air of more than mere comrade-
ship was a coal-black stallion, prancing around
and rounding up the bunch like an expert, his
jet-black coat a vivid contrast to the golden
hides of his harem.

The mares were gentle, and would have been
easily driven homeward but for a new and un-
expected thing. The Black Stallion became
greatly aroused. He seemed to inspire them too
with his wildness, and flying this way and that —
way drove the whole band at full gallop where
he would. Away they went, and the little cow-
ponies that carried the men were easily left be-
hind.

This was maddening, and both men at last
drew their guns and sought a chance to drop
that ‘blasted stallion.’ But no chance came

234

The Pacing Mustang ,

that was not g to 1 of dropping one of the
mares. A long day of manceuvring made no
change. The Pacer, for it was he, kept his
family together and disappeared among the
southern sandhills. The cattlemen on their
jaded ponies set out for home with the poor sat-
isfaction of vowing vengeance for their failure
on the superb cause of it.

One of the most aggravating parts of it was
that one or two experiences like this would
surely make the mares as wild as the Mustang,
and there seemed to be no way of saving them
from it.

Scientists differ on the power of beauty and
prowess to attract female admiration among the
lower animals, but whether it is admiration or
the prowess itself, it is certain that a wild ani-
mal of uncommon gifts soon wins a large follow-
ing from the harems of his rivals. And the
great Black Horse, with his inky mane and tail
and his green-lighted eyes, ranged through all
that region and added to his following from
many bands till not less than a score of mares
were in his ‘ bunch.’ Most were merely hum-
ble cow-ponies turned out to range, but the nine

EK

The Pacing Mustang

great mares were there, a striking group by _
themselves. According to all reports, this bunch —
was always kept rounded up and guarded with
such energy and jealousy that a mare, once in it,
was a lost animal so far as man was concerned,
and the ranchmen realized soon that they had
gotten on the range a mustang that was doing
them more harm than all other sources of loss
put together.

It was December, 1893. 1 was new in the
country, and was setting out from the ranch-
house on the Pinavetitos, to go with a wagon to
the Canadian River. As I was leaving, Foster
finished his remark by: ‘‘ And if you get a
chance to draw a bead on that accursed mus-
tang, don’t fail to drop him in his tracks.”’

This was the first I had heard of him, and as
I rode along I gathered from Burns, my guide,
the history that has been given. I was full of
curiosity to see the famous three-year-old, and

236

The Pacing Mustang

e

was not a little disappointed on the second day
when we came to the prairie on Antelope
Springs and saw no sign of the Pacer or his band.

But on the next day, as we crossed the Ala-
mosa Arroyo, and were rising to the rolling
prairie again, Jack Burns, who was riding on
ahead, suddenly dropped flat on the neck of his
horse, and swung back to me in the wagon,
saying :

“¢ Get out your rifle, here’s that stallion.”

I seized my rifle, and hurried forward toa
view over the prairie ridge. In the hollow be-
low was a band of horses, and there at one end
was the Great Black Mustang. He had heard
some sound of our approach, and was not un-
suspicious of danger. There he stood with
head and tail erect, and nostrils wide, an image
of horse perfection and beauty, as noble an
animal as ever ranged the plains, and the mere
notion of turning that magnificent creature into
a mass of carrion was horrible. In spite of
Jack’s exhortation to ‘shoot quick,’ I delayed,
and threw open the breach, whereupon he, al-
ways hot and hasty, swore at my slowness,
growled, ‘ Gi’ me that gun,’ and as he seized

237

The Pacing Mustang

it I turned the muzzle up, and accidentally the
gun went off.

Instantly the herd below was all alarm, the
great black leader snorted and neighed and
dashed about. And the mares bunched, and
away all went in a rumble of hoofs, and a cloud
of dust.

The Stallion careered now on this side, now
on that, and kept his eye on all and led and
drove them far away. As long as I could
see I watched, and never once did he break his
pace.

Jack made Western remarks about me and my
gun, as well as that mustang, but I rejoiced in
the Pacer’s strength and beauty, and not for all
the mares in the bunch would I have harmed
his glossy hide.

I{I

There are several ways of capturing wild
horses. One is by creasing—that is, grazing
the animal’s nape with a rifle-ball so that he is
stunned long enough for hobbling.

‘Yes! I seen about a hundred necks broke

238

The Pacing Mustang

e

trying it, but I never seen a mustang creased
yet,’’ was Wild Jo’s critical remark.

Sometimes, if the shape of the country abets
it, the herd can be driven into a corral ; some-
times with extra fine mounts they can be run
down, but by far the commonest way, paradoxi-
cal as it may seem, is to wa/k them down.

The fame of the Stallion that never was known
to gallop was spreading. Extraordinary stories
were told of his gait, his speed, and his wind, and
when old Montgomery of the ‘ triangle-bar’ out-
fit came out plump at Well’s Hotel in Clayton,
and in presence of witnesses said he’d give one
thousand dollars cash for him safe in a box-car,
providing the stories were true, a dozen young
cow-punchers were eager to cut loose and win
the purse, as soon as present engagements were
up. But Wild Jo had had his eye on this
very deal for quite awhile; there was no time to
lose, so ignoring present contracts he rustled all
night to raise the necessary equipment for the
game.

By straining his already overstrained credit,
and taxing the already overtaxed generosity of
his friends, he got together an expedition con-

239

[>

The Pacing Mustang

sisting of twenty good saddle-horses, a mess-
wagon, and a fortnight’s stuff for three men—
himself, his ‘ pard,’ Charley, and the cook.

Then they set out from Clayton, with the
avowed intention of walking down the wonder-
fully swift wild horse. The third day they arrived
at Antelope Springs, and as it was about noon
they were not surprised to see the black Pacer
marching down to drink with all his band behind
him. Jo kept out of sight until the wild horses
each and all had drunk their fill, for a thirsty
animal always travels better than one laden with
water.

Jo then rode quietly forward. The Pacer
took alarm at halfa mile, and led his band away
out of sight on the soapweed mesa to the south-
east. Jo followed at a gallop till he once more
sighted them, then came back and instructed
the cook, who was also teamster, to make for
Alamosa Arroyo in the south. Then away to
the southeast he went after the mustangs. After
a mile or two he once more sighted them, and
walked his horse quietly till so near that they
again took alarm and circled away to the south.
An hour’s trot, not on the trail, but cutting

240

The Pacing Mustang

across to where they ought to go, brought Jo
again in close sight. Again he walked quietly
toward the herd, and again there was the alarm
and flight. And so they passed the afternoon,
but circled ever more and more to the south, so
that when the sun was low they were, as Jo had
expected, not far from Alamosa Arroyo. ‘The
band was again close at hand, and Jo, after
starting them off, rode to the wagon, while his
pard, who had been taking it easy, took up the
slow chase on a fresh horse.

After supper the wagon moved on to the up-
per ford of the Alamosa, as arranged, and there
camped for the night.

Meanwhile, Charley followed the herd. They
had not run so far as at first, for their pursuer
made no sign of attack, and they were getting
used to his company. They were more easily
found, as the shadows fell, on account of a snow-
white mare that wasin the bunch. A young
moon in the sky now gave some help, and rely-
ing on his horse to choose the path, Charley kept
him quietly walking after the herd, represented
by that ghost-white mare, till they were lost in
the night. He then got off, unsaddled and

241

The Pacing Mustang

picketed his horse, and in his blanket quickly
went to sleep.

At the first streak of dawn he was up, and
within a short half-mile, thanks to the snowy
mare, he found the band. At his approach,
the shrill neigh of the Pacer bugled his
troop into a flying squad. But on the first
mesa they stopped, and faced about to see what
this persistent follower was, and what he wanted.
For a moment or so they stood against the sky
to gaze, and then deciding that he knew him as
well as he wished to, that black meteor flung his
mane on the wind, and led off at his tireless,
even swing, while the mares came streaming
after.

Away they went, circling now to the west,
and after several repetitions of this same play,
flying, following, and overtaking, and flying
again, they passed, near noon, the old Apache
look-out, Buffalo Bluff. And here, on watch,
was Jo. A long thin column of smoke told
Charley to come to camp, and with a flashing
pocket-mirror he made response.

Jo, freshly mounted, rode across, and again
took up the chase, and back came Charley to

242

- The Pacing Mustang

camp to eat and rest, and then move on up
stream.

All that day Jo followed, and managed, when
it was needed, that the herd should keep the
great circle, of which the wagon cut a small
chord. At sundown he came to Verde Crossing,
and there was Charley with a fresh horse and
food, and Jo went on in the same calm, dogged
way. All the evening he followed, and far into
the night, for the wild herd was now getting
somewhat used to the presence of the harmless
strangers, and were more easily followed; more-
over, they were tiring out with perpetual travel-
ling. They were no longer in the good grass
country, they were not grain-fed like the horses
on their track, and above all, the slight but
continuous nervous tension was surely telling.
It spoiled their appetites, but made them very
thirsty. They were allowed, and as far as pos-
sible encouraged, to drink deeply at every
chance. ‘The effect of large quantities of water
on a running animal is well known ; it tends to
stiffen the limbs and spoil the wind. Jo care-
fully guarded his own horse against such excess,
and both he and his horse were fresh when they

243

The Pacing Mustang

camped that night on the trail of the jaded
mustangs.

At dawn he found them easily close at hand,
and though they ran at first they did not go far
before they dropped into a walk. The battle
seemed nearly won now, for the chief difficulty
in the ‘walk-down’ is to keep track of the
herd the first two or three days when they are
fresh. .

All that morning Jo kept in sight, generally
in close sight, of the band. About ten o’clock,
Charley relieved him near José Peak and that
day the mustangs walked only a quarter of a
mile ahead with much less spirit than the day
before and circled now more north again. At
night Charley was supplied with a fresh horse
and followed as before.

Next day the mustangs walked with heads
held low, and in spite of the efforts of the Black
Pacer at times they were less than a hundred
yards ahead of their pursuer.

The fourth and fifth days passed the same
way, and now the herd was nearly back to Ante-
lope Springs. So far all had come out as ex-
pected. The chase had been in a great circle

244

2
ee

The Pacing Mustang

with the wagon following a lesser circle. The
wild herd was back to its starting-point, worn
out ; and the hunters were back, fresh and on
fresh horses. The herd was kept from drink-
ing till late in the afternoon and then driven
to the Springs to swell themselves with a per-
fect water gorge. Now was the chance for the
skilful ropers on the grain-fed horses to close
in, for the sudden heavy drink was ruination, al-
most paralysis, of wind and limb, and it would
be easy to rope and hobble them one by one.

There was only one weak spot in the pro-
gramme, the Black Stallion, the cause of the
hunt, seemed made of iron, that ceaseless swing-
ing pace seemed as swift and vigorous now as on
the morning when the chase began. Up and
down he went rounding up the herd and urging
them on by voice and example to escape. But
they were playedout. The old white mare that
had been such help in sighting them at night,
had dropped out hours ago, dead beat. The
half-bloods seemed to be losing all fear of the
horsemen, the band was clearly in Jo’s power.
But the one who was the prize of all the hunt
seemed just as far as ever out of reach.

245

The Pacing Mustang

Here was a puzzle. Jo’s comrades knew
him well and would not have been surprised to
see him in a sudden rage attempt to shoot the
Stallion down. But Jo had no such mind.
During that long week of following he had
watched the horse all day at speed and never
once had he seen him gallop.

The horseman’s adoration of a noble horse
had grown and grown, till now he would as
soon have thought of shooting his best mount
as firing on that splendid beast.

Jo even asked himself whether he would take
the handsome sum that was offered for the
prize. Such an animal would be a fortune in
himself to sire a race of pacers for the track.

But the prize was still at large—the time had
come to finish up the hunt. Jo’s finest mount

De ee caught. She was a mare of Eastern blood,

Aes ae © but raised on the plains. She never would have
& Ba & ; come into Jo’s possession but for a curious weak-
U7 ness. The loco is a poisonous weed that grows

rr in these regions. Moststock will not touch it ;

but sometimes an animal tries it and becomes

addicted to it. _ It acts somewhat like morphine,

but the animal, though sane for long intervals,
246

Fh doce “weeD

=

- The Pacing Mustang

has always a passion for the herb and finally
dies mad. A beast with the craze is said to
be locoed. And Jo’s best mount had a wild
gleam in her eye that to an expert told the
tale.

But she was swift and strong and Jo chose
her for the grand finish of the chase. It would
have been an easy matter now to rope the
mares, but was no longer necessary. They
could be separated from their black leader and
driven home to the corral. But that leader
still had the look of untamed strength. Jo, re-
joicing in a worthy foe, went bounding forth
to try the odds. The lasso was flung on the
ground and trailed to take out every kink,
and gathered as he rode into neatest coils on
his left palm. Then putting on the spur the
first time in that chase he rode straight for the
Stallion a quarter of a mile beyond. Away he
went, and away went Jo, each at his best, while
the fagged-out mares scattered right and left
and let them pass. Straight across the open
plain the fresh horse went at its hardest gallop,
and the Stallion, leading off, still kept his start
and kept his famous swing.

247

The Pacing Mustang

It was incredible, and Jo put on more spur
and shouted to his horse, which fairly flew, but
shortened up the space between by not a single
inch. For the Black One whirled across the
flat and up and passed a soapweed mesa and
down .across a sandy treacherous plain, then
over a grassy stretch where prairie dogs barked,
then hid below, and on came Jo, but there to
see, could he believe his eyes, the Stallion’s
start grown longer still, and Jo began to curse
his luck, and urge and spur his horse until the
poor uncertain brute got into such a state of
nervous fright, her eyes began to roll, she
wildly shook her head from side to side, no
longer picked her ground—a badger-hole re-
ceived her foot and down she went, and Jo went
flying to the earth. Though badly bruised, he
gained his feet and tried to mount his crazy
beast. But she, poor brute, was done for—her
off fore-leg hung loose. 7

There was but one thing to do. Jo loosed
the cinch, put Lightfoot out of pain, and car-
tied back the saddle to the camp. While the
Pacer steamed away till lost to view.

This was not quite defeat, for all the mares

248

The Pacing Mustang

were manageable now, and Jo and Charley
drove them carefully to the ‘L cross F’ corral
and claimed a good reward. But Jo was more
than ever bound to own the Stallion. He had
seen what stuff he was made of, he prized him
more and more, and only sought to strike some
better plan to catch him.

IV

The cook on that trip was Bates—Mr. Thom-
as Bates, he called himself at the post-office
where he regularly went for the letters and re-
mittance which never came. Old Tom Tur-
keytrack, the boys called him, from his cattle-
brand, which he said was on record at Denver,
and which, according to his story, was also
borne by countless beef and saddle stock on
the plains of the unknown North.

When asked to join the trip as a partner, Bates
made some sarcastic remarks about horses not
fetching $12 a dozen, which had been literally
true within the year, and he preferred to go ona
very meagre salary. But no one who once saw
the Pacer going had failed to catch the craze.

249

The Pacing Mustang

Turkeytrack experienced the usual change of
heart. He now wanted to own that mustang.
How this was to be brought about he did not
clearly see till one day there called at the ranch
that had ‘secured his services,’ as he put it, one,
Bill Smith, more usually known as Horseshoe
Billy, from his cattle-brand. While the excel-
lent fresh beef and bread and the vile coffee,
dried peaches and molasses were being con-
sumed, he of the horseshoe remarked, in tones
which percolated through a huge stop-gap of
bread :

‘¢ Wall, I seen’ that thar Pacer to-day, nigh
enough to put a plait in his tail.’’

«¢ What, you didn’t shoot?”’

‘No, but I come mighty near it.’’

“Don’t you be led into no sich foolishness,’’
said a ‘double-bar H’ cow-puncher at the other
end of the table. ‘‘I calc’late that maverick
ill carry my brand before the moon changes.”

«You'll have to be pretty spry or you’ll find
a ‘triangle dot’ on his weather side when you
ect there.

‘¢ Where did you run acrost him ?’’

‘¢ Wall, it was like this; I was riding the

250

The Pacing Mustang

e

flat by Antelope Springs and I sees a lump on
the dry mud inside the rush belt. I knowed I
never seen that before, so rides up, thinking it
might be some of our stock, an’ seen it was a
horse lying plumb flat. ‘The wind was blowing
like from him to me, sol rides up close
and seen it was the Pacer, dead as a mackerel.
Still, he didn’t look swelled or cut, and there
wa’n’t no smell, an’ I didn’t know what to
think till I seen his ear twitch off a fly and
then I knowed he was sleeping. I gits down
me rope and coils it, and seen it was old and
pretty shaky in spots, and me saddle a single
cinch, an’ me pony about 700 again a 1,200 lbs.
stallion, an’ I sez to meself,sez I: ‘’Tain’tno
use, I’ll only break me cinch and git throwed
an’ lose me saddle.’ So I hits the saddle-horn a
crack with the hondu, and I wish’t you’d a
seen that mustang. He lept six foot in the air
an’ landed on all fours and snorted like he was
shunting cars. His eyes fairly bugged out an’
he lighted out lickety split for California, and
he orter be there about now if he kep’ on like
he started—and I swear he never made a break
the hull trip.’’

251

h,

The Pacing Mustang

The story was not quite so consecutive as
given here. It was much punctuated by present
engrossments, and from first to last was more or
less infiltrated through the necessaries of life,
for Bill was a healthy young man without a
trace of falseshame. But the account was com-
plete and everyone believed it, for Billy was
known to be reliable. Of all those who heard,
old Turkeytrack talked the least and probably
thought the most, for it gave him a new idea.

During his after-dinner pipe he studied it out
and deciding that he could not go it alone, he
took Horseshoe Billy into his council and the
result was a partnership in a new venture to capt-
ure the Pacer ; that is, the $5,000 that was now
said to be the offer for him safe in a box-car.

Antelope Springs was still the usual watering-
place of the Pacer. The water being low left
a broad belt of dry black mud between the
sedge and the spring. At two places this belt
was broken by a well-marked trail made by the
animals coming to drink. Horses and wild
animals usually kept to these trails, though the
horned cattle had no hesitation in taking a
short cut through the sedge.

252

The Pacing Mustang

In the most used of these trails the two men
set to work with shovels and digged a pit 15
feet long, 6 feet wide and 7 feet deep. It was
a hard twenty hours work for them as it had to
be completed between the Mustang’sdrinks, and
it began to be very damp work before it was
finished. With poles, brush, and earth it was
then cleverly covered over and concealed. And
the men went to a distance and hid in pits
made for the purpose.

About noon the Pacer came, alone now since
the capture of his band. The trail on the op-
posite side of the mud belt was little used, and
old ‘Tom, by throwing some fresh rushes across
it, expected to make sure that the Stallion
would enter by the other, if indeed he should
by any caprice try to come by the unusual path,

What sleepless angel is it watches over and
cares for the wild animals? In spite of all rea-
sons to take the usual path, the, Pacer came
along the other. The suspicious-looking rushes
did not stop him; he walked calmly to the
water and drank. ‘There was only one way
now to prevent utter failure; when he lowered
his head for the second draft which horses al-

253

The Pacing Mustang

ways take, Bates and Smith quit their holes and
ran swiftly toward the trail behind him, and
when he raised his proud head Smith sent a
revolver-shot into the ground behind him.
Away went the Pacer at his famous gait
straight to the trap. Another second and he
would be into it. Already he is on the trail,
and already they feel they have him, but the
angel of the wild things is with him, that in-
comprehensible warning comes, and with one
mighty bound he clears the fifteen feet of
treacherous ground and spurns the earth as he
fades away unharmed, never again to visit An-
telope Springs by either of the beaten paths.

Vv

Wild Jo never lacked energy. He meant
to catch that Mustang, and when he learned
that others were bestirring themselves for the
same purpose he at once set about trying the
best untried plan he knew—the plan by which
the coyote catches the fleeter jackrabbit, and
the mounted Indian the far swifter antelope—
the old plan of the relay chase.

254

The Pacing Mustang :

The Canadian River on the south, its affluent,
the Pifiavetitos Arroyo, on the northeast, and
the Don Carlos Hills with the Ute Creek Cafion
on the west, formed a sixty-mile triangle that
was the range of the Pacer. It was believed
that he never went outside this, and at all times
Antelope Springs was his headquarters. Jo
knew this country well, all the water-holes
and cafion crossings as well as the ways of the
Pacer.

If he could have gotten fifty good horses he
could have posted them to advantage so as to
cover all points, but twenty mounts and five
good riders were all that proved available.

The horses, grain-fed for two weeks before,
were sent on ahead; each man was instructed
how to play his part and sent to his post the day
before the race. On the day of the start Jo
with his wagon drove to the plain of Antelope
Springs and, camping far off in a little draw,
waited.

At last he came, that coal-black Horse, out
from the sand-hills at the south, alone as always
now, and walked calmly down to the Springs
and circled quite around it to sniff for any hid-

255

The Pacing Mustang

den foe. Then he approached where there was
no trail at all and drank.

Jo watched and wished he would drink a
hogshead. But the moment that he turned -
and sought the grass Jo spurred his steed. The
Pacer heard the hoofs, then saw the running
horse, and did not want a nearer view but led
away. Across the flat he went down to the
south, and kept the famous swinging gait that
made his start grow longer. Now through the
sandy dunes he went, and steadying to an even
pace he gained considerably and Jo’s too-laden
horse plunged through the sand and sinking fet-
lock deep, lost at every bound. Then came a level
stretch where the runner seemed to gain, and
then a long decline where Jo’s horse dared not
run his best, so lost again at every step.

‘ But on they went, and Jo spared neither spur
rs nor quirt. A mile—a mile—and another mile,
and the far-off rock at Arriba loomed up
ahead.

fi ie 9 And there Jo knew fresh mounts were held,
AA and on they dashed. But the night-black
: mane out level on the breeze ahead was gaining
more and more. —

or

256

The Pacing Mustang :

Arriba Cafion reached at last, the watcher
stood aside, for it was not wished to turn the
race, and the Stallion passed—-dashed down,
across and up the slope, with that unbroken
pace, the only one he knew.

And Jo came bounding on his foaming
steed, and leaped on the waiting mount, then
urged him down the slope and up upon the
track, and on the upland once more drove in
the spurs, and raced and raced, and raced, but
not a single inch he gained.

Ga-lump, gal-lump, gal-ump with measured
beat he went—an hour—an hour, and another
hour—Arroyo Alamosa just ahead with fresh
relays, and Jo yelled at his horse and pushed
him on and on. Straight for the place the
Black One made, but on the last two miles
some strange foreboding turned him to the left,
and Jo foresaw escape in this, and pushed
his jaded mount at any cost to head him off,
and hard as they had raced this was the hard-
est race of all, with gasps for breath and leather
squeaks at every straining bound. Then cut-
ting right across, Jo seemed to gain, and draw-
ing his gun he fired shot after shot to toss the

257

The Pacing Mustang

dust, and so turned the Stailion’s head and
forced him back to take the crossing to the right.

Down they went. The Stallion crossed and
Jo sprang to the ground. His horse was done,
for thirty miles had passed in the last stretch,
and Jo himself was worn out. His eyes were
burnt with flying alkali dust. He was half blind
so he motioned to his ‘pard’ to ‘‘ go ahead and
keep him straight for Alamosa ford.’’

Out shot the rider on a strong, fresh steed,
and away they went—up and down on the roll-
ing plain—the Black Horse flecked with snowy
foam. His heaving ribs and noisy breath
showed what he felt—but on and on he went.

And Tom on Ginger seemed to gain, then
lose and lose, when in an hour the long decline
of Alamosa came. And therea freshly mounted
lad took up the chase and turned it west, and
on they went past towns of prairie dogs,
through soapweed tracts and cactus brakes by

«scores, and pricked and wrenched rode on.

With dust and sweat the Black was now a

dappled brown, but still he stepped the same.

Young Carrington, who followed, had hurt his

steed by pushing at the very start, and spurred
258

The Pacing Mustang

and urged him now to cut across a gulch at
which the Pacer shied. Just one misstep and
down they went.

The boy escaped, but the pony lies there
yet, and the wild Black Horse kept on.

This was close to old Gallego’s ranch where
Jo himself had cut across refreshed to push the
chase. Within thirty minutes he was again
scorching the Pacer’s trail.

Far in the west the Carlos Hills were seen,
and there Jo knew fresh men and mounts were
waiting, and that way the indomitable rider
tried to turn the race, but by a sudden whim,
of the inner warning born perhaps—the Pacer
turned. Sharp to the north he went, and Jo,
the skilful wrangler, rode and rode and yelled
and tossed the dust with shots, but down a
gulch the wild black meteor streamed and Jo
could only follow. Then came the hardest race
of all; Jo, cruel to the Mustang, was crueller to
his mount and to himself. The sun was hot,
the scorching plain was dim in shimmering heat,
his eyes and lips were burnt with sand and salt,
and yet the chase sped on. _The only chance
to win would be if he could drive the Mustang

259

— SN

Neg

The Pacing Mustang

back to Big Arroyo Crossing. Now almost for
the first time he saw signs of weakening in the
Black. His mane and tail were not just quite so
high, and his short half mile of start was down
by more than half, but still he stayed ahead
and paced and paced and paced.

An hour and another hour, and still they went
the same. But they turned again, and night
was near when big Arroyo ford was reached—
fully twenty miles. But Jo was game, he seized
the waiting horse. ‘The one he left went gasp-
ing to the stream and gorged himself with wa-
ter till he died.

Then Jo held back in hopes the foaming
Black would drink. But he was wise ; he gulped
a single gulp, splashed through the stream and
then passed on with Jo at speed behind him.
_And when they last were seen the Black was on
ahead just out of reach and Jo’s horse bound-
ing on.

It was morning when Jo came to camp on
foot. His tale was briefly told :—eight horses
dead—five men worn out—the matchless Pacer
safe and free. 3

‘«*Taint possible; it can’t bedone. Sorry I

260

eras
Fs 5 as

Pe
P £ y 35
<} SéEGh . Thom [sont ‘

sa a a Se aa aaa rege = ee Se ert

Away Went the Mustang at his Famous Pace.

e

| The Pacing Mustang

didn’t bore his hellish carcass through when I
had the chance,’’ said Jo, and gave it up.

VI

Old Turkeytrack was cook on this trip. He
had watched the chase with as much interest as
anyone, and when it failed he grinned into the
pot and said: ‘‘ That mustang’s mine unless
I’m a darned fool.’’ Then falling back on
Scripture for a precedent, as was his habit, he
still addressed the pot:

‘« Reckon the Philistines tried to run Samson
down and they got done up, an’ woulda stayed
done ony for a nat’ral weakness on his part.
An’ Adam would a loafed in Eden yit ony
for a leetle failing which we all onderstand.
An’ it aint $5000 I'll take for him nuther.”’
(This last remark probably referred to the Mus-
tang. )

Much persecution had made the Pacer wilder
than ever. But it did not drive him away from
Antelope Springs. That was the only drinking-
place with absolutely no shelter for a mile on
every side to hide an enemy. Here he came

263

en ee

The Pacing Mustang

almost every day about noon, and after thor-
oughly spying the land approached to drink.

His had been a lonely life all winter since the
capture of his harem, and of this old Turkey-
track was fully aware. The old cook’s chum had
a nice little brown mare which he judged would
serve his ends, and taking a pair of the strongest
hobbles, a spade, a spare lasso, and a stout post
he mounted the mare and rode away to the
famous Springs. ;

A few antelope skimmed over the plain be-
fore him in the early freshness of the day. Cat-
tle were lying about in groups, and the loud,
sweet song of the prairie lark was heard on
every side. For the bright snowless winter of
the mesas was gone and the springtime was at
hand. ‘The grass was greening and all nature
seemed turning to thoughts of love.

It was in the air, and when the little brown
mare was picketed out to graze she raised her
nose from time to time to pour forth a long
shrill whinny that surely was her song, if song
she had, of love.

Old Turkeytrack studied the wind and the
Jay of the land. ‘There was the pit he had la-

264

The Pacing Mustang *

bored at, now opened and filled with water that
was rank with drowned prairie dogs and mice.
Here was the new trail the animals were forced
to make by the pit. He selected asedgy clump
near some smooth, grassy ground, and _ first
firmly sunk the post, then dug a hole large
enough to hide in, and spread his blanket in it.
He shortened up the little mare’s tether, till she
could scarcely move; then on the ground be-
tween he spread his open lasso, tying the long
end to the post, then covered the rope with
dust and grass, and went into his hiding-place.
About noon, after long waiting, the amorous
whinny of the mare was answered from the high
ground, away to the west, and there, black
against the sky, was the famous Mustang.
Down he came at that long swinging gait,
but grown crafty with much pursuit, he often
stopped to gaze and whinny, and got answer
that surely touched his heart. Nearer he came
again to call, then took alarm, and paced all
around in a great circle to try the wind for his
foes, and seemed in doubt. But he circled
nearer still, and neighed again, and got reply that
seemed to quell all fears, and set his heart aglow.

265

if V)Syillig i)"
a VW Siz
Me i

The Pacing Mustang

Nearer still he pranced, till he touched Solly’s
nose with his own, and finding her as responsive
as he well could wish, thrust aside all thoughts
of danger, and abandoned himself to the de-
light of conquest, until, as he pranced around,
his hind legs for a moment stood within the evil
circle of the rope. One deft sharp twitch, the
noose flew tight, and he was caught.

A snort of terror and a bound in the air gave
Tom the chance to add the double hitch. The
loop flashed up the line, and snake-like bound
those mighty hoofs.

Terror lent speed and double strength for a
moment, but the end of the rope was reached,
and down he went a captive, a hopeless prisoner
at last. Old Tom’s ugly, little crooked form
sprang from the pit to complete the mastering
of the great glorious creature whose mighty
strength had proved as nothing when matched
with the wits of a little old man. With snorts
and desperate bounds of awful force the great
beast dashed and struggled to be free; but all in
vain. The rope was strong.

The second lasso was deftly swung, and the
forefeet caught, and then with a skilful move

266

The Pacing Mustang -

the feet were drawn together, and down went
the raging Pacer to liea moment later ‘hog-tied’
and helpless on the ground. There he struggled
till worn out, sobbing great convulsive sobs
while tears ran down his cheeks.

Tom stood by and watched, but a strange re-
vulsion of feeling came over the old cow-
puncher. He trembled nervously from head to
foot, as he had not done since he roped his first
steer, and for awhile could do nothing but gaze
on his tremendous prisoner. But the feeling soon
passed away. He saddled Delilah, and taking
the second lasso, roped the great horse about
the neck, and left the mare to hold the Stallion’s
head, while he put on the hobbles. This was
soon done, and sure of him now old Bates was
about to loose the ropes, but on a sudden
thought he stopped. He had quite forgotten,
and had come unprepared for something of im-
portance. In Western law the Mustang was the
property of the first man to mark him with his
brand ; how was this to be done with the near-
est branding-iron twenty miles away ?

Old Tom went to his mare, took up her hoofs
one at a time, and examined each shoe. Yes!

267

The Pacing Mustang

one was a little loose; he pushed and pried it
with the spade, and got it off. Buffalo chips
and kindred fuel were plentiful about the plain,
so a fire was quickly made, and he soon had one
arm of the horse-shoe red hot, then holding the
other wrapped in his sock he rudely sketched
on the left shoulder of the helpless mustang a
turkeytrack, his brand, the first time really
that it had ever been used. The Pacer shud-
dered as the hot iron seared his flesh, but it was
quickly done, and the famous Mustang Stallion
was a maverick no more.

Now all there was to do was to take him
home. ‘The ropes were loosed, the Mustang
felt himself freed, thought he was free, and.
sprang to his feet only to fall as soon as he
tried totake astride. His forefeet were strong-
ly tied together, his only possible gait a shuf-
fling walk, or else a desperate labored bounding
with feet so unnaturally held that within a few
yards he was inevitably thrown each time he
tried to break away. Tom on the light pony
headed him off again and again, and by dint of
driving, threatening, and manceuvring, con-
trived to force his foaming, crazy captive north-

268

The Pacing Mustang °

ward toward the Pifiavetitos Cafion. But the
wild horse would not drive, would not give in.
With snorts of terror or of rage and maddest
bounds, he tried and tried to get away. It
was one long cruel fight ; his glossy sides were
thick with dark foam, and the foam was stained
with blood. Countless hard falls and exhaus-
tion that a long day’s chase was powerless to pro-
duce were telling on him; his straining bounds
first this way and then that, were not now
quite so strong, and the spray he snorted as he
gasped was half a spray of blood. But his
captor, relentless, masterful and cool, still forced
him on. Down the slope toward the cafion
they had come, every yard a fight, and now
they were at the head of the draw that took the
trail down to the only crossing of the cafion, the
northwest limit of the Pacer’s ancient range.
From this the first corral and ranch-house
were in sight. The man rejoiced, but the
Mustang gathered his remaining strength for
one more desperate dash. Up, up the grassy
slope from the trail he went, defied the swing-
ing, slashing rope and the gunshot fired in air,
in vain attempt to turn his frenzied course.
269

The Pacing Mustang

Up, up and on, above the sheerest cliff he dashed
then sprang away into the vacant air, down—
down—two hundred downward feet to fall, and
land upon the rocks below, a lifeless wreck— _
but free.

Wully
The Story of a Yaller Dog |

WuLLy was a little yaller dog. A _ yaller
dog, be it understood, is not necessarily the
same as a yellow dog. He is not simply a
canine whose capillary covering is highly charged

with yellow pigment. He is the mongrelest
mixture of all mongrels, the least common mul- ,
tiple of all dogs, the breedless union of all |
breeds, and though of no breed at all, he is yet |
of older, better breed than any of his aristocratic

relations, for he is nature’s attempt to restore
the ancestral jackal, the parent stock of all dogs.

Indeed, the scientific name of the jackal
(Canis aureus) means simply ‘yellow dog,’
and not a few of that animal’s characteristics are
seen in his domesticated representative. For the
plebeian cur is shrewd, active, and hardy, and

275

;
We id’
WH te

\\ Ky
DiS
: = \

=e be"
e M
f " ‘

remnant

Wully

far better equipped for the real struggle of life
than any of his ‘thoroughbred’ kinsmen.

If we were to abandon a yaller dog, a grey-
hound, and a bulldog on a desert island, which
of them after six months would be alive and
well? Unquestionably it would be the de-
spised yellow cur. He has not the speed of
the greyhound, but neither does he bear the
seeds of lung and skin diseases. He has not
the strength or reckless courage of the bulldog,
but he has something a thousand times better,
he has common sense. Health and wit are no
mean equipment for the life struggle, and when
the dog-world is not ‘managed’ by man, they
have never yet failed to bring out the yellow
mongrel as the sole and triumphant survivor.

Once in a while the reversion to the jackal
type is more complete, and the yaller dog has
pricked and pointed ears. Beware of him then.
He is cunning and plucky and can bite like a
wolf. There is a strange, wild streak in his
nature too, that under cruelty or long adversity
may develop into deadliest treachery in spite
of the better traits that are the foundation of
man’s love for the dog.

276

Wully ;

I

WAY up in the Cheviots little Wully
was born. He and one other of the
litter were kept; his brother because
he resembled the best dog in the
vicinity, and himself because he was
a little yellow beauty.

His early life was that of a sheep-dog, in
‘company with an experienced collie who
trained him, and an old shepherd who was
scarcely inferior to them in intelligence. By
the time he was two years old Wully was full
grown and had taken a thorough course in
sheep. He knew them from ram-horn to lamb-
hoof, and old Robin, his master, at length had
such confidence in his sagacity that he would
frequently stay at the tavern all night while
Wully guarded the woolly idiots in the hills.
His education had been wisely bestowed and
in most ways he was a very bright little dog
with a future before him. Yet he never learned
to despise that addle-pated Robin. The old
shepherd, with all his faults, his continual

279

Wide

Wolly

striving after his ideal state—intoxication—and
his mind-shrivelling life in general was rarely
brutal to Wully, and Wully repaid him with an
exaggerated worship that the greatest and wisest
in the land would have aspired to in vain.

Wully could not have imagined any greater
being than Robin, and yet for the sum of five
shillings a week all Robin’s vital energy and
mental force were pledged to the service of a
not very great cattle and sheep dealer, the real
proprietor of Wully’s charge, and when this
man, really less great than the neighboring
laird, ordered Robin ‘to drive his flock by
stages to the Yorkshire moors and markets, of
all the 376 mentalities concerned, Wully’s was
the most interested and interesting.

The journey through Northumberland was
uneventful. At the River Tyne the sheep were
driven on to the ferry and landed safely in
smoky South Shields. ‘The great factory chim-
neys were just starting up for the day and belch-
ing out fogbanks and thunder-rollers of opaque
leaden smoke that darkened the air and hung
low like a storm-cloud over the streets. The
sheep thought that they recognized the fuming

280

Wully

dun of an unusually heavy Cheviot storm.
They became alarmed, and in spite of their
keepers stampeded through the town in 374
different directions.

Robin was vexed to the inmost recesses of
his tiny soul. He stared stupidly after the
sheep for half a minute, then gave the order,
“‘Wully, fetch them in.’’ After this mental
effort he sat down, lit his pipe, and taking out
his knitting began work on a half-finished
sock.

To Wully the voice of Robin was the voice
of God. Away he ran in 374 different direc-
tions, and headed off and rounded up the 374
different wanderers, and brought them back to
the ferry-house before Robin, who was stolidly
watching the process, had toed off his sock.

Finally Wully—not Robin—gave the sign
that all were in. ‘The old shepherd proceeded
to count them—370, 371, 372, 373.

«¢Wully,’’ he said reproachfully, ‘‘ thar no’
a’ here. Thur’s anither.’”’ And Wully, stung
with shame, bounded off to scour the whole city
for the missing one. He was not long gone
when asmall boy pointed out to Robin that

281

Wully

the sheep were all there, the whole 374. Now
Robin was in a quandary. His order was to
hasten on to Yorkshire, and yet he knew that
Wully’s pride would prevent his coming back
without another sheep, even if he had to steal
it. Such things had happened before, and re-
sulted in embarrassing complications. What
should he do? There was five shillings a week
at stake. Wully was a good dog, it was a
pity to lose him, but then, his orders from the
master ; and again, if Wully stole an extra sheep
to make up the number, then what—in a for-
eign land too? He decided to abandon Wully,
and push on alone with the sheep. And how
he fared no one knows or cares.

Meanwhile, Wully careered through miles of
streets hunting in vain for his lost sheep. All
day he searched, and at night, famished and
worn out, he sneaked shamefacedly back to the
ferry, only to find that master and sheep had
gone. His sorrow was pitiful to see. He ran
about whimpering, then took the ferryboat
across to the other side, and searched every-
where for Robin. He returned to South
Shields and searched there, and spent the rest

282

Wully

of the night seeking for his wretched idol.
The next day he continued his search, he
crossed and recrossed the river many times.
He watched and smelt everyone that came over,
and with significant shrewdness he sought un-
ceasingly in the neighboring taverns for his
master. ‘The next day he set to work system-
atically to smell everyone that might cross the
ferry.

The ferry makes fifty trips a day, with an
average of one hundred persons a trip, yet never
once did Wully fail to be on the gang-plank
and smell every pair of legs that crossed—s5,000
pairs, 10,000 legs that day did Wully examine
after his own fashion. And the next day, and
the next, and all the week he kept his post, and
seemed indifferent to feeding himself. Soon
starvation and worry began to tell on him.
He grew thin and ill-tempered. No-one could
touch him, and any attempt—to interfere with
his daily occupation of leg-smelling roused him
to desperation.

Day after day, week after week Wully
watched and waited for his master, who never
came. The ferry men learned to _ respect

283

As ne
3Sheets in the Wind}
oo ; :

Wully

Wully’s fidelity. At first he scorned their
proffered food and shelter, and lived no one
knew how, but starved to it at last, he ac-
cepted the gifts and learned to tolerate the
givers. Although embittered against the world,
his heart was true to his worthless master.

Fourteen months afterward I made his ac-
quaintance. He was still on rigid duty at his
post. He had regained his good looks. His
bright, keen face set off by his white ruff and
pricked ears made a dog to catch the eye any-
where. But he gave me no second glance,
once he found my legs were not those he
sought, and in spite of my friendly overtures
during the ten months following that he con-
tinued his watch, I got no farther into his con-
fidence than any other stranger.

For two whole years did this devoted creat-
ure attend that ferry. There was only one
thing to prevent him going home to the hills,
not the distance nox the chance of getting lost,
but the conviction that Robin, the godlike
Robin, wished him to stay by the ferry ; and
he stayed.

But he crossed the water as often as he felt

‘ ait

4
w=
\ { ; (es Spit tenn et

a \

mm ZA ,
att OE 4 - |Z \% | ai
PON a Z ‘a

Ge
PTE Cos Oh ee )

Wully

it would serve his purpose. The fare for a dog
was one penny, and it was calculated that Wully
owed the company hundreds of pounds before
he gave up his quest. He never failed to sense
every pair of nethers that crossed the gang-
plank — 6,000,000 legs by computation had
been pronounced upon by this expert. But all
to no purpose. His unswerving fidelity never
faltered, though his temper was obviously sour-
ing under the long strain.

We had never heard what became of Robin,
but one day a sturdy drover strode down the
ferry-slip and Wully mechanically assaying the
new personality, suddenly started, his mane
bristled, he trembled, a low growl escaped
him, and he fixed his every sense on the drover.

One of the ferry hands not understanding,
called to the stranger, ‘‘ Hoot mon, ye maunna
hort oor dawg.’’

‘¢ Whaes hortin ’im, ye fule; he is-mair like
to hort me.’’ But further explanation was
not necessary. Wully’s manner had wholly
changed. He fawned on the drover, and his
tail was wagging violently for the first time in
years.

285

Wully

A few words made it all clear. Dorley, the
drover, had known Robin very well, and the
mittens and comforter he wore were of Robin’s
own make and had once been part of his ward-
robe. Wully.recognized the traces of his mas-
ter, and despairing of any nearer approach to his
lost idol, he abandoned his post at the ferry and
plainly announced his intention of sticking to
the owner of the mittens, and Dorley was well-
pleased to take Wully along to his home among
the hills of Derbyshire, where he became once
more a sheep-dog in charge of a flock.

II

Monsaldale is one of the best-known valleys
in Derbyshire. The Pig and Whistle is its
single but celebrated inn, and Jo Greatorex, the
landlord, is a shrewd and sturdy Yorkshireman.
Nature meant him for a frontiersman, but cir-
cumstances made him an innkeeper and his in-
born tastes made him a—well, never mind ;
there was a great deal of poaching done in that
country.

Wully’s new home was on the upland east of

286

be ME Li me 4g See

SS aa a

Once More a Sheep-dog jin Charge of a Flock.

Wully :

the valley above Jo’s inn, and that fact was not
without weight in bringing me to Monsaldale.
His master, Dorley, farmed. in a small way on
the lowland, and on the moors had a large
number of sheep. These Wully guarded with
his. old-time sagacity, watching them while they
fed and bringing them to the fold atnight. He
was reserved and preoccupied for a dog, and
rather too ready to show his teeth to strangers,
but he was so unremitting in his attention to
his flock that Dorley did not lose a lamb that
year, although the neighboring farmers paid the
usual tribute to eagles and to foxes.

The dales are poor fox-hunting country at
best. The rocky ridges, high stone walls, and
precipices are too numerous to please the riders,
and the final retreats in the rocks are so plenti-
ful that it was a marvel the foxes did not over-
run Monsaldale. But they didn’t. ‘There had
been but little reason for complaint until the
year 1881, when a sly old fox quartered him-
self on the fat parish, like a mouse inside a
cheese, and laughed equally at the hounds of
the huntsmen and the lurchers of the farmers.

He was several times run by the Peak hounds,

2289

and escaped by making for the Devil’s Hole.
Once in this gorge, where the cracks in the
rocks extend unknown distances, he was safe.
The country folk began to see something more
than chance in the fact that he always escaped
at the Devil’s Hole, and when one of the
hounds who nearly caught this Devil’s Fox
soon after went mad, it removed all doubt as
to the spiritual paternity of said fox.

He continued his career of rapine, making
audacious raids and hair-breadth escapes, and
finally began, as do many old foxes, to kill from
a mania for slaughter. ‘Thus it was that Digby
lost ten lambs in one night. Carroll lost seven
the next night. Later, the vicarage duck-pond
was wholly devastated, and scarcely a night
passed but someone in the region had to report
a carnage of poultry, lambs or sheep, and, finally
even calves,

Of course all the slaughter was attributed to
this one fox of the Devil’s Hole. It was known
only that he was a very large fox, at least one
that made a very large track. He never was
clearly seen, even by the huntsmen. And it
was noticed that Thunder and Bell, the stanch-

290

Wully ;

est hounds in the pack, had refused to tongue or
even to follow the trail when he was hunted.

His reputation for madness sufficed to make
the master of the Peak hounds avoid the neigh-
borhood. The farmers in Monsaldale, led by
Jo, agreed among themselves that if it-would
only come on a snow, they would agsemble and
beat the whole country, and in defiance of all
rules of the hunt, get rid of the ‘daft’ fox in
any way they could. But the snow did not
come, and the red-haired gentleman lived his
life. Notwithstanding his madness, he did not
lack method. He never came two successive
nights to the same farm. He never ate where
he killed, and he never left a track that betrayed
his retreat. He usually finished up his night’s
trail on the turf, or on a public highway.

Once I saw him. I was walking to Monsal-
dale from Bakewell late one night during a
heavy storm, and as I turned the corner of
Stead’s sheep-fold there was a vivid flash of light-
ning. By its light, there was fixed on my ret-
ina a picture that made me start. Sitting on
his haunches by the roadside, twenty yards
away, was a very large fox gazing at me with

291

Wully

malignant eyes, and licking his muzzle in a sug-
gestive manner. All this I saw, but no more,
and might have forgotten it, or thought myself
mistaken, but the next morning, in that very
fold, were found the bodies of twenty-three
lambs and sheep, and the unmistakable signs
that brought home the crime to the well-known
marauder.

There was only one man who escaped, and
that was Dorley. This was the more remarka-
ble because he lived in the centre of the region
raided, and within one mile of the Devil’s Hole.
Faithful Wully proved himself worth all the
dogs in the neighborhood. Night after night
he brought in the sheep, and never one was
missing, The Mad Fox might prowl about the
Dorley homestead if he wished, but Wully,
shrewd, brave, active Wully was more than a
match for him, and not only saved his master’s
flock, but himself escaped with a whole skin.
Everyone entertained a profound respect for
him, and he might have been a popular pet but
for his temper which, never genial, became
more and more crabbed. He seemed to like
Dorley, and Huldah, Dorley’s eldest daughter,

292

Wully :
a shrewd, handsome, young woman, who, in
the capacity of general manager of the house,
was Wully’s special guardian. ‘The other mem-
bers of Dorley’s family Wully learned to toler-
ate, but the rest of the world, men and dogs, he
seemed to hate.

His uncanny disposition was well shown in
the last meeting I had with him. I was walk-
ing on a pathway across the moor behind Dor-
ley’s house. Wully was lying on the doorstep.
As I drew near he arose, and without appear-
ing to see me trotted toward my pathway and
placed himself across it about ten yards ahead of
me. There hestood silently and intently regard-
ing the distant moor, his slightly bristling mane
the only sign that he had not been suddenly
turned to stone. He did not stir as I came up,
and not wishing to quarrel, I stepped around
past his nose and walked on. Wully at once

left his position and in the same eerie silence ,/,
trotted on some twenty feet and again stood '~y

across the pathway. Once more I came up
and, stepping into the grass, brushed past his

nose. Instantly, but without a sound, he seized -

my left heel, I kicked out with the other foot,
293

fx

Wully

but he escaped. Not having a stick, I flung a
large stone at him. He leaped forward and the
stone struck him in the ham, bowling him over
into a ditch. He gasped out a savage growl
as he fell, but scrambled out of the ditch and
limped away in silence.

Yet sullen and ferocious as Wully was to the
world, he was always gentle with Dorley’s
sheep. Many were the tales of rescues told of
him. Many a poor lamb that had fallen into
a pond or hole would have perished but for his
timely and sagacious aid, many a far-weltered
ewe did he turn right side up ; while his keen
eye discerned and his fierce courage baffled
every eagle that had appeared on the moor in
his time.

III

The Monsaldale farmers were still paying
their nightly tribute to the Mad Fox, when the
snow came, late in December. Poor Widow
Gelt lost her entire flock of twenty sheep, and
the fiery cross went forth early in the morning.
With guns unconcealed the burly farmers set
out to follow to the finish the tell-tale tracks in

294

Wully

the snow, those of a very large fox, undoubtedly
the multo-murderous villain. For awhile the
trail was clear enough, then it came to the river
and the habitual cunning of the animal was
shown. He reached the water at along angle
pointing down stream and jumped into the
shallow, unfrozen current. But at the other
side there was no track leading out, and it was
only after long searching that, a quarter of a
mile higher up the stream, they found where
he had come out. The track then ran to the
top of Henley’s high stone wall, where there
was no snow left to tell tales. But the patient
hunters persevered. When it crossed the smooth
snow from the wall to the high road there was
a difference of opinion. Some claimed that the
track went up, others down the road. But Jo
settled it, and after another long search they
found where apparently the same trail, though

some said a larger one had left the road to enter

a sheep-fold, and leaving this without harming
the occupants, the track-maker had stepped in
the footmarks of a countryman, thereby getting
to the moor road, along which he had trotted
straight to Dorley’s farm.

Wully

That day the sheep were kept in on account
of the snow and Wully, without his usual occupa-
tion, was lying on some planks in the sun. As
the hunters drew near the house, he growled
savagely and sneaked around to where the sheep
were. Jo Greatorex walked up to where Wul-
ly had crossed the fresh snow, gave a glance,
looked dumbfounded, then pointing to the re-
treating sheep-dog, he said, with emphasis :

‘‘ Lads, we’re off the track of the Fox. . But
there’s the killer of the Widder’s yowes.”’

Some agreed with Jo, others recalled the
doubt in the trail and were for going back to
make a fresh follow. At this juncture, Dorley
himself came out of the house.

‘¢'Tom,’’ said Jo, ‘* that~dos sa’) thine “as
killed twenty of Widder Gelt’s sheep, last
night. An’ ah fur one don’t believe as it is
first killin’.’’

‘¢ Why, mon, thou art crazy,’’ said Tom, -
‘‘Ah never ’ad a better sheep-dog—’e fair
loves the sheep.’”’

‘*Aye! We’s seen summat o’ that in las’
night’s work,’’ replied Jo.

In vain the company related the history of

’

296

Wally
the morning. ‘Tom swore that it was nothing
but a jealous conspiracy to rob him of Wully.

‘¢Wully sleeps i’ the kitchen every night.
Never is oot till he’s let to bide wi’ the yowes.
Why, mon, he’s wi’ oor sheep the year round,
and never a hoof have ah lost.’’

Tom became much excited over this abomin-
able attempt against Wully’s reputation and life.
Jo and his partisans got equally angry, and it
was a wise suggestion of Huldah’s that quieted
them. ;

‘¢ Weyther,’’ said she, ‘‘ah’ll sleep i’ the
kitchen the night. If Wully ’as ae way of get-
tin’ oot ah’ll see it, an’ if he’s no oot an’
sheep’s killed on the country-side, we'll ha’
proof it’s na Wully.’’

That night Huldah stretched herself on the
settee and Wully slept as usual underneath the
table. As night wore on the dog became rest-
less. He turned on his bed and once or twice
got up, stretched, looked at Huldah and lay
down again. About two o’clock he seemed no
longer able to resist some strange impulse. He
arose quietly, looked toward the low window,
then at the motionless girl. Huldah lay still

297

Wully

and breathed as though sleeping. Wully slowly
came near and sniffed and breathed his doggy
breath in her face. She made no move. He
nudged her gently with his nose. Then, with
his sharp ears forward and his head on one side
he studied her calm face. Still no sign. He
walked quietly to the window, mounted the
table without noise, placed his nose under the
sash-bar and raised the light frame until he
could put one paw underneath. Then chang-
ing, he put his nose under the sash and raised
it high enough to slip out, easing down the
frame finally on his rump and tail with an
adroitness that told of long practice. Then he
disappeared into the darkness.

From her couch Huldah watched in amaze-
ment. After waiting for some time to make
sure that he was gone, she arose, intending to
call her father at once, but on second thought
she decided to await more conclusive proof.
She peered into the darkness, but no sign of
Wully was to be seen. She put more wood on
the fire, and lay down again. For over an
hour she lay wide awake listening to the kitchen
clock, and starting at each trifling sound, and

298

Wully Studied Her Calm Face.
eo

Wully

wondering what the dog was doing. Could it
be possible that he had really killed the widow’s
sheep? ‘Then the recollection of his gentleness
to their own sheep came, and completed her
perplexity.

Another hour slowly tick-tocked. She heard
a slight sound at the window that made her
heart jump. The scratching sound was soon
followed by the lifting of the sash, and in a
short time Wully was back in the kitchen with
the window closed behind him.

By the flickering fire-light Huldah could see
a strange, wild gleam in his eye, and his jaws
and snowy breast were dashed with fresh blood.
The dog ceased his slight panting as he scrutin-
ized the girl. ‘Then, as she did not move, he
_lay down, and began to lick his paws and muz-
zle, growling lowly once or twice as though at
the remembrance of some recent occurrence.

Huldah had seen enough. There could no
longer be any doubt that Jo wasright and more
—a new thought flashed into her quick brain,
she realized that the weird fox of Monsal was
before her. Raising herself, she looked straight
at Wully, and exclaimed :

301

Hee
‘ie >
eZ

y GE

‘ \
wt
ATI

Wi
mi Ne

Wully

¢¢Wully! Wully! so it’s a’ true—oh, Wully,
ye terrible brute.’’

Her voice was fiercely reproachful, 1t rang in
the quiet kitchen, and Wully recoiled as though -
shot. He gave a desperate glance toward the
closed window. Hiseye gleamed, and his mane
bristled. But he cowered under her gaze, and
grovelled on the floor as though begging for
mercy. Slowly he crawled nearer and nearer,
as if to lick her feet, until quite close, then,
with the fury of a tiger, but without a sound,
he sprang for her throat.

The girl was taken unawares, but she threw
up her arm in time, and Wully’s long, gleaming
tusks sank into her flesh, and grated on the bone.

‘‘Help! help! feyther! “seytherte- she

shrieked.
_ Wully was a light weight, and for a moment
she flung him off. But there could be no mis-
taking his purpose. The game was up, it was
his life or hers now.

‘‘Feyther! feyther!’’ she screamed, as the
yellow fury, striving to kill her, bit and tore
the unprotected hands that had so often fed
him.

302

Wully :

In vain she fought to hold him off, he would
soon have had her by the throat, when in rushed
Dorley.

Straight at him, now in the same horrid sil-
ence sprang Wully, and savagely tore him again
and again before a deadly blow from the fagot-
hook disabled him, dashing him, gasping and
writhing, on the stone floor, desperate, and done
for, but game and defiant to the last. Another
quick blow scattered his brains on the hearth-
stone, where so long he had been a faithful
and honored retainer—and Wully, bright, fierce,
trusty, treacherous Wully, quivered a moment,
then straightened out, and lay forever still.

393

a

| Redruff
: The Story of the
| Don Valley Partridge

Redruff
he Story of the Don Valley Partridge

&,QOWN the wooded slope of Taylor’s
‘| Hill the Mother Partridge led her
brood; down toward the crystal
brook that by some strange whim
was called Mud Creek. Her little
ones were one day old but already
quick on foot, and she was taking them for the
first time to drink.

She walked slowly, crouching low as she went,
for the woods were full of enemies. She was
uttering a soft little cluck in her throat, a call
to the little balls of mottled down that on their
tiny pink legs came toddling after, and peeping
softly and plaintively if left even a few inches

397

Redruff

behind, and seeming so fragile they made the
very chicadees look big and coarse. ‘There
were twelve of them, but Mother Grouse
watched them all, and she watched every bush
and tree and thicket, and the whole woods and
the sky itself. Always for enemies she seemed
seeking—friends were too scarce to be looked
for—and an enemy she found. Away across
the level beaver meadow was a great brute of a
fox. He was coming their way, and in a few
moments would surely wind them or strike their
trail. There was no time to lose.

“Krrr! Krrr!' (Hide! Hide!) geneds the
mother in a low firm voice, and the little bits
of things, scarcely bigger than acorns and but a
day old, scattered far (a few inches) apart to
hide. One dived under a leaf, another between
two roots, a third crawled into a curl of birch-
bark, a fourth into a hole, and so on, till all
were hidden but one who could find no cover,
so squatted on a broad yellow chip and lay very
flat, and closed his eyes very tight, sure that
now he was safe from beingseen. They ceased
their frightened peeping and all was still.

Mother Partridge flew straight toward the

305

Redruft .

dreaded beast, alighted fearlessly a few yards to
one side of him, and then flung herself on the
ground, flopping as though winged and lame—
oh, so dreadfully lame—and whining like a dis-
tressed puppy. Was she begging for mercy—
mercy froma bloodthirsty, cruel fox? Oh, dear
no! She was no fool. One often hears of the
cunning of the fox. Wait and see what a fool he
is compared with a mother-partridge. Elated
at the prize so suddenly within his reach, the
fox turned with a dash and caught—at least,
no, he didn’t quite catch the bird; she flopped
by chance just a foot out of reach. He fol-
lowed with another jump and would have seized
her this time surely, but somehow a sapling
came just between, and the partridge dragged
herself awkwardly away and under a log, but
the great brute snapped his jaws and bounded
over the log, while she, seeming a trifle less
lame, made another clumsy forward spring and
tumbled down a bank, and Reynard, keenly
following, almost caught her tail, but, oddly
enough, fast as he went and leaped, she still
seemed just a trifle faster. It was most extraor-
dinary. A winged partridge and he, Rey-
399

Redruff

nard, the Swift-foot, had not caught her in five
minutes’ racing. It was really shameful. But
the partridge seemed to gain strength as the fox
put forth his, and after a quarter of a mile race,
racing that was somehow all away from Taylor’s
Hill, the bird got unaccountably quite well, and,
rising with a derisive whirr, flew off through the
woods leaving the fox utterly dumfounded to
realize that he had been made a fool of, and,
worst of all, he now remembered that this was
not the first time he had been served this very
trick, though he never knew the reason for it.

Meanwhile Mother Partridge skimmed in a
great circle and came by a roundabout way
back to the little fuzz-balls she had left hidden
in the woods.

With a wild bird’s keen memory for places,
she went to the very grass-blade she last
trod on, and stood for a moment fondly to ad-
mire the perfect stillness of her children. Even
at her step not one had stirred, and the little
fellow on the chip, not so very badly concealed
after all, had not budged, nor did he now; he
only closed his eyes a tiny little bit harder, till
the mother said : ;

310

Redruff | .

‘ K-reet !’ (Come, children) and instantly
like a fairy story, every hole gave up its little
baby-partridge, and the wee fellow on the chip,
the biggest of them all really, opened his big-
little eyes and ran to the shelter of her broad
tail, with a sweet little ‘feep peep’ which an
enemy could not have heard three feet away,
but which his mother could not have missed
thrice as far, and all the other thimblefuls of
down joined in, and no doubt thought them-
selves dreadfully noisy, and were proportion-
ately happy.

The sun was hot now. There was an open
space to cross on the road to the water, and,
after a careful lookout for enemies, the mother
gathered the little things under the shadow of
her spread fantail and kept off all danger of
sunstroke until they reached the brier thicket
by the stream.

Here a cottontail rabbit leaped out and gave
them a great scare. But the flag of truce he
carried behind was enough. He was an old
friend ; and among other things the little ones
learned that day that Bunny always sails under
_a flag of truce, and lives up to it too.

311

we

a
ay

iS i; 3

-

oe

vs

W

Dt |
|

eddie

On. a
ue So) Oh

WS
hs,

Redruff

And then came the drink, the purest of liv-
ing water, though silly men had called it Mud
Creek.

At first the little fellows didn’t know how to
drink, but they copied their mother, and soon
learned to drink like her and give thanks after
every sip. There they stood in a row along the
edge, twelve little brown and golden balls on
twenty-four little pink-toed, in-turned feet, with
twelve sweet little golden heads gravely bowing,
drinking and giving thanks like their mother.

Then she led them by short stages, keeping
the cover, to the far side of the beaver-meadow,
where was a great grassy dome. ‘The mother had
made a note of this dome some time before. It
takes a number of such domes to raise a brood of
partridges. For this was an ant’s nest. The
old one stepped on top, looked about a moment,
then gave half a dozen vigorous rakes with her
claws. The friable ant-hill was broken open,
and the earthen galleries scattered in ruins down
the slope. The ants swarmed out and quarrelled
with each other for lack of a better plan. Some
ran around the hill with vast energy and little
purpose, while a few of the more sensible began

312

Rediait | .

to carry away fat white eggs. But the old par-
tridge, coming to the little ones, picked up one
of these juicy-looking bags and clucked and
dropped it, and picked it up again and again
and clucked, then swallowed it. The young
ones stood around, then one little yellow fel-
low, the one that sat on the chip, picked up an
ant-egg, dropped it a few times, then yielding
to asudden impulse, swallowed it, and so had
learned to eat. Within twenty minutes even
the runt had learned, and a merry time they had
scrambling after the delicious eggs as their
mother broke open more ant-galleries, and sent
them and their contents rolling down the bank,
till every little partridge had so crammed his
little crop that he was positively misshapen and
could eat no more.

Then all went cautiously up the stream, and
on a sandy bank, well screened by brambles, they
lay for all that afternoon, and learnéd how pleas-
ant it was to feel the cool powdery dust running
between their hot littletoes. With their strong
bent for copying, they lay on their sides like
their mother and scratched with their tiny feet
and flopped with their wings, though they had

313

Redruff

no wings to flop with, only a little tag among
the down on each side, to show where the wings
would come. That night she took them toa
dry thicket near by, and there among the crisp,
dead leaves that would prevent an enemy’s si-
lent approach on foot, and under the interlac-
ing briers that kept off all foes of the air, she
cradled them in their feather-shingled nursery
and rejoiced in the fulness of a mother’s joy over
the wee cuddling things that peeped in their
sleep and snuggled so trustfully against her warm
body.

II

The third day the chicks were much stronger
on their feet. They no longer had to go around
an acorn ; they could even scramble over pine-
cones, and on the little tags that marked the
places for their wings, were now to be seen blue
rows of fat blood-quills.

Their start in life was a good mother, good
legs, a few reliable instincts, and a germ of rea-
son. It was instinct, that is, inherited habit,
which taught them to hide at the word from their

314

Redruff ‘

mother ; it was instinct that taught them to follow
her, but it was reason which made them keep
under the shadow of her tail when the sun was
smiting down, and from that day reason entered
more and more into their expanding lives.

Next day the blood-quills had sprouted the
tips of feathers. On the next, the feathers were
well out, and a week later the whole family of
down-clad babies were strong on the wing.

And yet not all—poor little Runtie had been
sickly from the first. He bore his half-shell on
his back for hours after he came out ; he ran less
and cheeped more than his brothers, and when
one evening at the onset of a skunk the mother
gave the word ‘ Kwit, kwit’ (Fly, fly), Runtie
was left behind, and when she gathered her
brood on the piney hill he was missing, and
they saw him no more.

Meanwhile, their training had gone on. They
knew that the finest grasshoppers abounded in
the long grass by the brook ; they knew that the
currant-bushes dropped fatness in the form of
smooth, green worms; they knew that the
dome of an ant-hill rising against the distant
woods stood for a garner of plenty; they knew

315

Redruff

that strawberries, though not reaily insects, were
almost as delicious; they knew that the huge
danaid butterflies were good, safe game, if they
could only catch them, and that a slab of bark
dropping from the side of a rotten log was sure
to abound in good things of many different
kinds; and they had learned, also, that yellow-
jackets, mud-wasps, woolly worms, and hundred-
leggers were better let alone.

It was now July, the Moon of Berries. ‘The
chicks had grown and flourished amazingly
during this last month, and were now so large
that in her efforts to cover them the mother
was kept standing all night.

They took their daily dust-bath, but of late
had changed to another higher on the hill. It:
was one in use by many different birds, and at
first the mother disliked the idea of such a sec-
ond-hand bath. But the dust was of such a fine,
agreeable quality, and the children led the way
with such enthusiasm, that she forgot her mis-
trust.

After a fortnight the little ones began to
droop and she herself did not feel very well.
They were always hungry, and though they ate

316

Redruff

enormously, they one and all grew thinner and
thinner. The mother was the last to be affected.
But when it came, it came as hard on her—a
ravenous hunger, a feverish headache, and a
wasting weakness. She never knew the cause.
She could not know that the dust of the much-
used dust-bath, that her true instinct taught her
to mistrust at first, and now again to shun, was
sown with parasitic worms, and that all of the
family were infested.

No natural impulse is without a purpose.
The mother-bird’s knowledge of healing was
only to follow naturalimpulse. The eager, fever-
ish craving for something, she knew not what,
led her to eat, or try, everything that looked eat-
able and to seek the coolest woods. - And there
she found a deadly sumach laden with its poison
fruit. A month ago she would have passed it
by, but now she tried the unattractive berries.
The acrid burning juice seemed to answer some
strange demand of her body; she ate and ate,
and all her family joined in the strange feast of
physic. No human doctor could have hit it
better ; it proved a biting, drastic purge, the
dreadful secret foe was downed, the danger

317

LV

Porson
Sumac

iF
ce A Ve

Redruff

passed. But not for all— Nature, the old
nurse, had come too late for two of them. The
weakest, by inexorable law, dropped out. En-
feebled by the disease, the remedy was too se-
vere for them. They drank and drank by the
stream, and next morning did not move when
the others followed the mother. Strange ven-
geance was theirs now, for a skunk, the same
that could have told where Runtie went, found
and devoured their bodies and died of the poi-
son they had eaten.

Seven little partridges now obeyed the
mother’s call. Their individual characters
were early shown and now developed fast. The
weaklings were gone, but there were still a fool
and a lazy one. ‘The mother could not help
caring for some more than for others, and her
favorite was the biggest, he who once sat on the
yellow chip for concealment. He was not only
the biggest, strongest, and handsomest of the
brood, but best of all, the most obedient. His
mother’s warning ‘zrrrr’ (danger) did not
always keep the others from a risky path or a
doubtful food, but obedience seemed natural to
him, and he never failed to respond to her soft

318

Redruff

‘ K-reet’ (Come), and of this obedience he
reaped the reward, for his days were longest in
the land.

August, the Molting Moon, went by; the
young ones were now three parts grown. ‘They
knew just enough to think themselves wonder-
fully wise. When they were small it was nec-
essary to sleep on the ground so their mother
could shelter them, but now they were too big
to need that, and the mother began to introduce
grown-up ways of life. It was time to roost in
the trees. The young weasels, foxes, skunks,
and minks were beginning torun. ‘The ground
grew more dangerous each night, so at sundown
Mother Partridge called ‘ K-reet,’ and flew into
a thick, low tree.

The little ones followed, except one, an obsti-
nate little fool who persisted in sleeping on the
ground as heretofore. It was all right that
time, but the next night his brothers were
awakened by his cries. ‘There was a slight
scuffle, then stillness, broken only by a horrid
sound of crunching bones and a smacking of
lips. They peered down into the terrible dark-
ness below, where the glint of two close-set eyes

319

Redruff

and a peculiar musty smell told them that a
mink was the killer of their fool brother.

Six little partridges now sat in a row at night,
with their mother in the middle, though it was
not unusual for some little one with cold feet to
perch on her back.

Their education went on, and about this time
they were taught ‘ whirring.’ A partridge can
rise on the wing silently if it wishes, but whir-
ring is so important at times that all are taught
how and when to rise on thundering wings.
Many ends are gained by the whirr. It warns
all other partridges near that danger is at hand,
it unnerves the gunner, or it fixes the foe’s at-
tention on the whirrer, while the others sneak
off in silence, or by squatting, escape notice.

A partridge adage might well be ‘ foes and
food for every moon.’ September came, with
seeds and grain in place of berries and ant-
eggs, and gunners in place of skunks and minks.

The partridges knew well what a fox was,
but had scarcely seen a dog. A fox they knew
they could easily baffle by taking to a tree, but
when in the Gunner Moon old Cuddy came
prowling through the ravine with his bob-tailed

320

In
th
e
Moonli
ight.

Redruff | ‘

yellow cur, the mother spied the dog and cried
out, ‘ Kwit! kwit!’ (Fly, fly). Two of the
brood thought it a pity their mother should lose
her wits so easily over a fox, and were pleased
to show their superior nerve by springing into a
tree in spite of her earnestly repeated ‘ Az? /
Rkwit/’ and her example of speeding away on
silent wings.

Meanwhile, the strange bob-tailed fox came
under the tree and yapped and yapped at them.
They were much amused at him and at their
mother and brothers, so much so that they
never noticed a rustling in the bushes till there
was a loud Bang / bang / and down fell two
bloody, flopping partridges, to be seized and
mangled by the yellow cur until the gunner ran
om the bushes and rescued the remains.

Ill

Cuddy lived in a wretched shanty near the
Don, north of Toronto. His was what Greek
philosophy would have demonstrated to be an
ideal existence. He had no wealth, no taxes,
no social pretensions, and no property to speak

323

Redruff

of. His life was made up of a very little work
and a great deal of play, with as much out-door
life as he chose. He considered himself a true
sportsman because he was ‘ fond o’ huntin’,’ and
‘took a sight o’ comfort out of seein’ the critters
hit the mud’ when his gun was fired. The
neighbors called him a squatter, and looked on
him merely as an anchored tramp. He shot
and trapped the year round, and varied his
game somewhat with the season perforce, but
had been heard to remark he could tell the
month by the ‘taste o’ the patridges,’ if he
didn’t happen to know by the almanac. This,
no doubt, showed keen observation, but was also
unfortunate proof of something not so credit-
able. ‘The lawful season for murdering par-
tridges began September 15th, but there was
nothing surprising in Cuddy’s being out a fort-
night ahead of time. Yet he managed to es-
cape punishment year after year, and even con-
trived to pose in a newspaper interview as an
interesting character.

He rarely shot on the wing, preferring to pot
his birds, which was not easy to do when the
leaves were on, and accounted for the brood in

324

Redruff

e

the third ravine going so long unharmed ; but
the near prospect of other gunners finding them
now, had stirred him to go after ‘a mess 0’
birds.’ He had heard no roar of wings when
the mother-bird led off her four survivors, so
pocketed the two he had killed and returned to
the shanty.

The little grouse thus learned that a dog is
not a fox, and must be differently played; and
an old lesson was yet more deeply graven—
‘ Obedience is long life.’

The rest of September was passed in keeping
quietly out of the way of gunners as well as
some old enemies. They still roosted on the
long thin branches of the hardwood trees among
the thickest leaves, which protected them from
foes in the air; the height saved them from foes
on the ground, and left them nothing to fear
but coons, whose slow, heavy tread on the lim-
ber boughs never failed to give them timely
warning. But the leaves were falling now——
every month its foes and its food. This was
nut time, and it was owl time, too. Barred
owls coming down from the north doubled or
trebled the owl population. The nights were

325

Redruff

getting frosty and the coons less dangerous, so
the mother changed the place of roosting to the
thickest foliage of a hemlock-tree.

Only one of the brood disregarded the warn-
ing ‘ Kreet, kreet. He stuck to his swinging
elm-bough, now nearly naked, and a great yel-
low-eyed owl bore him off before morning.

Mother and three young ones now were left,
but they were as big as she was; indeed one,
the eldest, he of the chip, was bigger. Their
ruffs had begun to show. Just the tips, to tell
what they would be like when grown, and not
a little proud they were of them.

The ruff is to the partridge what the train is
to the peacock——his chief beauty and his pride.
A hen’s ruff is black with a slight green gloss.
A cock’s is much larger and blacker and is
glossed with more vivid bottle-green. Oncein
a while a partridge is born of unusual size and
vigor, whose ruff is not only larger, but by
a peculiar kind of intensification is of a deep
coppery red, iridescent with violet, green, and
gold. Such a bird is sure to be a wonder to
all who know him, and the little one who had
squatted on the chip, and had always done what

326

Redruff : + From ge %

he was told, developed before the Acorn Moon
had changed, into all the glory of a gold and y
copper ruff—for this was Redruff, the famous
partridge of the Don Valley.

IV }

One day late in the Acorn Moon, that is,

about mid-October, as the grouse family were ay
basking with full crops near a great pine log on
the sunlit edge of the beaver-meadow, they
heard the far-away bang of a gun, and Redruff,
acting on some impulse from within, leaped
on the log, strutted up and down a couple of
times, then, yielding to the elation of the
bright, clear, bracing air, he whirred his wings
in loud defiance. Then, giving fuller vent to
this expression of vigor, just as a colt frisks to
show how well he feels, he whirred yet more
loudly, until, unwittingly, he found himself
drumming, and tickled with the discovery of his
new power, thumped the air again and again till
he filled the near woods with the loud tattoo of
the fully grown cock-partridge. His brother
and sister heard and looked on with admiration

S27

Redruff

and surprise; so did his mother, but from that
time she began to be a little afraid of him.

In early November comes the moon of a
weird foe. By a strange law of nature, not
wholly without parallel among mankind, all
partridges go crazy in the November moon of
their first year. They become possessed of a
mad hankering to get away somewhere, it does
not matter much where. And the wisest of
them do all sorts of foolish things at this period.
They go drifting, perhaps, at speed over the
country by night, and are cut in two by wires,
or dash into lighthouses, or locomotive head-
lights. Daylight finds them in all sorts of
absurd places, in buildings, in open marshes,
perched on telephone wires in a great city, or
even on board of coasting vessels. The craze
seems to be a relic of a bygone habit of migra-
tion, and it has at least one good effect, it
breaks up the families and prevents the constant
intermarrying, which would surely be fatal to
their race. It always takes the young badly
their first year, and they may have it again the
second fall, for it is very catching; but in the
third season it is practically unknown.

328

Redrutf

Redruft’s mother knew it was coming as soon
as she saw the frost grapes blackening, and the
maples shedding their crimson and gold. ‘There
was nothing to do but care for their health and
keep them in the quietest part of the woods.

The first sign of it came when a flock of wild
geese went honking southward overhead. ‘The
young ones had never before seen such long-
necked hawks, and were afraid of them. But
seeing that their mother had no fear, they took
courage, and watched them with intense inter-
est. Was it the wild, clanging cry that moved
them, or was it solely the inner prompting then
come to the surface? A strange longing to fol-
low took possession of each of the young ones.
They watched those. arrowy trumpeters fading
away to the south, and sought out higher
perches to watch them farther yet, and from
that time things were no more the same. The
November moon was waxing, and when it was
full, the November madness came.

The least vigorous of the flock were most
affected. The little family wasscattered. Red-
ruff himself flew on several long erratic night
journeys. The impulse took him southward,

329

REDRUFF’S CALENDAR

JULY. >

BERRY ff
MOON £3

ch :
MOLTING BY 47 “FM
MOON #F ¢ :

Redruff

but there lay the boundless stretch of Lake On-
tario, so he turned again, and the waning of
the Mad Moon found him once more in the
Mud Creek Glen, but absolutely alone.

Vv

Food grew scarce as winter wore on. Red-
ruff clung to the old ravine and the piney sides
of Taylor’s Hill, but every month brought its

* food and its foes. The Mad Moon brought

madness, solitude, and grapes; the Snow Moon
came with rosehips; and the Stormy Moon
brought browse of birch and silver storms that
sheathed the woods in ice, and made it hard to
keep one’s perch while pulling off the frozen
buds. Redruff’s beak grew terribly worn with
the work, so that even when closed there was still
an opening through behind the hook. But nat-
ure had prepared him for the slippery footing ;
his toes, so slim and trim in September, had
sprouted rows of sharp, horny points, and these
grew with the growing cold, till the first snow
had found him fully equipped with snow-shoes
and ice-creepers. The cold weather had driven

330

Redruff

away most of the hawks and owls, and made
it impossible for his four-footed enemies to
approach unseen, so that things were nearly
balanced.

His flight in search of food had daily led him
farther on, till he had discovered and explored the
Rosedale Creek, with its banks of silver-birch,
and Castle Frank, with its grapes and rowan
berries, as well as Chester woods, where amel-
anchier and Virginia-creeper swung their fruit-
bunches, and checkerberries glowed beneath
the snow.

He soon found out that for some strange rea-
son men with guns did not go within the high
fence of Castle Frank. So among these scenes
he lived his life, learning new places, new foods,
and grew wiser and more beautiful every day.

He was quite alone so far as kindred were
concerned, but that scarcely seemed a hardship.
Wherever he went he could see the jolly chick-
adees scrambling merrily about, and he remem-
bered the time when they had seemed such
big, important creatures. They were the most
absurdly cheerful things in the woods. Before
the autumn was fairly over they had begun to

331

ee

Redruff

sing their famous refrain, ‘ Spring Soon,’ and
kept it up with good heart more or less all

Shrinp “Soon

through the winter’s direst storms, till at length
the waning of the Hungry Moon, our February,
seemed really to lend some point to the ditty,
and they redoubled their optimistic announce-
ment to the world in an ‘ I-told-you-so’ mood.
Soon good support was found, for the sun
gained strength and melted the snow from the
southern slope of Castle Frank Hill, and ex-
posed great banks of fragrant wintergreen,
whose berries were a bounteous feast for Red-
ruff, and, ending the hard work of pulling
frozen browse, gave his bill the needed chance
to grow into its proper shape again. Very
soon the first bluebird came flying over and
warbled as he flew ‘ Zhe spring 1s coming.’ The
sun kept gaining, and early one day in the dark
of the Wakening Moon of March there was a
loud ‘ Caw, caw,’ and old Silverspot, the king-

332
MAR.
WAKENING
Mi00N

Redrutff :

crow, came swinging along from the south at
the head of his troops and officially announced

‘THE SPRING HAS COME.’

All nature seemed to respond to this, the
opening of the birds’ New Year, and yet it was
something within that chiefly seemed to move
them. The chickadees went simply wild ; they
sang their ‘ Spring now, spring now now—
Spring now now,’ so persistently that one won-
dered how they found time to get a living.

And Redruff felt it thrill him through and
through. He sprang with joyous vigor on a
stump and sent rolling down the little valley,
again and again, a thundering ‘7hump, thump,
thump, thunderrrrrrrrr,’ that wakened dull
echoes as it rolled, and voiced his gladness in
the coming of the spring.

Away down the valley was Cuddy’s shanty.
He heard the drum-call on the still morning
air and ‘ reckoned there was a cock patridge to
git,’ and came sneaking up the ravine with his
gun. But Redruff skimmed away in silence, nor
rested till once more in Mud Creek Glen. And
there he mounted the very log where first he

333

Ay et
2 ws

2)
SUE eITA

4 UP ES

Alt!

» Yi
ee

i”

Ne

\
oe
\

.,
)

<<

Redrutf

had drummed and rolled his loud tattoo again
and again, till asmall boy who had taken a short
cut to the mill through the woods, ran home,
badly scared, to tell his mother he was sure the
Indians were on the war-path, for he heard their
war-drums beating in the glen.

Why does a happy boy holla? Why does
a lonesome youth sigh? They don’t know
any more than Redruff knew why every day
now he mounted some dead log and thumped
and thundered to the woods ; then strutted and
admired his gorgeous blazing ruffs as they
flashed their jewels in the sunlight, and then
thundered out again. Whence now came the
strange wish for someone else to admire the
plumes? And why had such a notion never
come till the Pussywillow Moon ?

‘ Thump, thump, thunder-r-r-r-r-r-r1rr¢?
‘Thump, thump, thunder-r-r-v-v-r-r014

he rumbled again and again.

Day after day he sought the favorite log, and
a new beauty, arose-red comb, grew out above
each clear, keen eye, and the clumsy snow-
shoes were wholly shed from his feet. His ruff
grew finer, his eye brighter, and his whole ap-

334

Redruff

pearance splendid to behold, as he strutted and
flashed in the sun. But—oh! he was so /one-
some now.

Yet what could he do but blindly vent his
hankering in this daily drum-parade, till on a
day early in loveliest May, when the trilliums
had fringed his log with silver stars, and he had
drummed and longed, then drummed again, his
keen ear caught a sound, a gentle footfall in the
brush. He turned to a statue and watched ; he
knew he had been watched. Could it be pos-
sible? Yes! there it was—a form—another—a
shy little lady grouse, now bashfully seeking to
hide. In a moment he was by her side. His
whole nature swamped by a new feeling—burnt
up with thirst—a cooling spring in sight. And
how he spread and flashed his proud array!
How came he to know that that would please ?
He puffed his plumes and contrived to stand
just right to catch the sun, and strutted and ut-
tered a low, soft chuckle that must have been
just as good as the ‘ sweet nothings’ of another
race, for clearly now her heart was won. Won,
really, days ago, if only he had known. For full
three days she had come at the loud tattoo and

335

Redruff

coyly admired him from afar, and felt a little
piqued that he had not yet found out her, so
close at hand. So it was not quite all mis-
chance, perhaps, that little stamp that caught
his ear. But now she meekly bowed her head
with sweet, submissive grace—the desert passed,
the parch-burnt wanderer found the spring at
last.

Oh, those were bright, glad days in the
lovely glen of the unlovely name. ‘The sun
was never so bright, and the piney air was
balmier sweet than dreams. And that great
noble bird came daily on his log, sometimes
with her and sometimes quite alone, and
drummed for very joy of being alive. But why
sometimes alone? Why not forever with his
Brownie bride? Why should she stay to feast
and play with him for hours, then take some
stealthy chance to slip away and see him no
more for hours or till next day, when his mar-
tial music from the log announced him restless
for her quick return? There was a woodland
mystery here he could not clear. Why should
her stay with him grow daily less till it was

336

Sas

Redruff C

down to minutes, and one day at last she never
came at all. Nor the next, nor the next, and
Redruff, wild, careered on lightning wing and
drummed on the old log, then away up-stream
on another log, and skimmed the hill to another
Tavine to drum and drum. But on the fourth
day, when he came and loudly calied her, as of
old, at their earliest tryst, he heard a sound in
the bushes, as at first, and there was his miss-
ing Brownie bride with ten little peeping par-
tridges following after.

Redruff skimmed to her side, terribly frighten-
ing the bright-eyed downlings, and was just a
little dashed to find the brood with claims far
stronger than his own. But he soon accepted
the change, and thenceforth joined himself to
the brood, caring for them as his father never
had for him.

VI

Good fathers are rare in the grouse world.
The mother-grouse builds her nest and hatches
out her young without help. She even hides
the place of the nest from the father and meets

337

Redruff

him only at the drum-log and the feeding-
ground, or perhaps the dusting-place, which is
the club-house of the grouse kind.

When Brownie’s little ones came out they
had filled her every thought, even to the for-
getting of their splendid father. But on the
third day, when they were strong enough, she
had taken them with her at the father’s call.

Some fathers take no interest in their little
ones, but Redruff joined at once to help
Brownie in the task of rearing the brood. They
had learned to eat and drink just as their father
had learned long ago, and could toddle along,
with their mother leading the way, while the
father ranged near by or followed far behind.

The very next day, as they went from the
hill-side down toward the creek in a somewhat
drawn-out string, like beads with a big one
at each end, a red squirrel, peeping around a
pine-trunk, watched the procession of down-
lings with the Runtie straggling far in the
rear. Redruff, yards behind, preening his
feathers on a high log, had escaped the eye of
the squirrel, whose strange perverted thirst for
birdling blood was roused at what seemed so

338

Ie.

Runti

ing

ff Sav

Redru

Redruff :

fair a chance. With murderous intent to cut
off the hindmost straggler, he made a dash.
Brownie could not have seen him until too late,
but Redruff did. He flew for that red-haired
cutthroat ; his weapons were his fists, that is,
the knob-joints of the wings, and what a blow
he could strike! At the first onset he struck
the squirrel square on the end of the nose, his
weakest spot, and sent him reeling; he stag-
gered and wriggled into a brush-pile, where he
had expected to carry the little grouse, and there
lay gasping with red drops trickling down his
wicked snout. The partridges left him lying
there, and what became of him they never
knew, but he troubled them no more.

The family went on toward the water, but
a cow had left deep tracks in the sandy loam,
and into one of these fell one of the chicks and
peeped in dire distress when he found he could
_not get out.

This was a fix. Neither old one seemed to
know what to do, but as they trampled vainly
round the edge, the sandy bank caved in, and,
running down, formed a long slope, up which
the young one ran and rejoined his brothers

341

Redruff

under the broad veranda of their mother’s
tail.

Brownie was a bright little mother, of small
stature, but keen of wit and sense, and was,
night and day, alert to care for her darling
chicks. How proudly she stepped and clucked
through the arching woods with her dainty
brood behind her; how she strained her little
brown tail almost to a half-circle to give them
a broader shade, and never flinched at sight of
any foe, but held ready to fight or fly, which-
ever seemed the best for her little ones.

Before the chicks could fly they had a
meeting with old Cuddy ; though it was June,
he was out with his gun. Up the third ravine
he went, and Tike, his dog, ranging ahead,
came so dangerously near the Brownie brood
that Redruff ran to meet him, and by the old but
never failing trick led him on a foolish chase
away back down the valley of the Don.

But Cuddy, as it chanced, came right along,
straight for the brood, and Brownie, giving the
signal to the children, ‘Avrr, krrr’ (Hide,
hide), ran to lead the man away just as her mate
had led the dog. Full of a mother’s devoted

342

Redruff

love, and skilled in the learning of the woods,
she ran in silence till quite near, then sprang
with a roar of wings right in his face, and
tumbling on the leaves she shammed a lameness
that for a moment deceived the poacher. But
when she dragged one wing and whined about
his feet, then slowly crawled away, he knew just
what it meant—that it was all a trick to lead
him from her brood, and he struck at her a sav-
age blow; but little Brownie was quick, she
avoided the blow and limped behind a sapling,
there to beat herself upon the leaves again in
sore distress, and seem so lame that Cuddy
made another try to strike her down with a
stick. But she moved in time to balk him, and
bravely, steadfast still to lead him from her help-
less little ones, she flung herself before him and
beat her gentle breast upon the ground, and
moaned as though begging for mercy. And
Cuddy, failing again to strike her, raised his
gun, and firing charge enough to kill a bear, he
blew poor brave, devoted Brownie into quiver-
ing, bloody rags.

This gunner brute knew the young must be
hiding near, so looked about to find them. But

343

Redruff

no one moved or peeped. He saw not one, but
as he tramped about with heedless, hateful feet,
he crossed and crossed again their hiding-
ground, and more than one of the silent little
sufferers he trampled to death, and neither knew
nor cared.

Redruff had taken the yellow brute away off
down-stream, and now returned to where he
left his mate. The murderer had gone, taking
her remains, to be thrown to the dog. Red-
ruff sought about and found the bloody spot
with feathers, Brownie’s feathers, scattered
around, and now he knew the meaning of that
shot.

Who can tell what his horror and his mourn-
ing were? ‘The outward signs were few, some
minutes dumbly gazing at the place with down-
cast, draggled look, and then a change at the
thought of their helpless brood. Back to the
hiding-place he went, and called the well-known
‘ Kreet, kreet.' Did every grave give up its little
inmate at the magic word? No, barely more than
half; six little balls of down unveiled their lus-
trouseyes, and, rising, ran to meet him, but four
feathered little bodies had found their graves in-

344

Reduit

deed. Redruff called again and again, till he
was sure that all who could respond had come,
then led them from that dreadful place, far, far
away up-stream, where barb-wire fences and
bramble thickets were found to offer a less
grateful, but more reliable, shelter.

Here the brood grew and were trained by
their father just as his mother had trained him;
though wider knowledge and experience gave
him many advantages. He knew so well the
country round and al! the feeding-grounds, and
how to meet the ills that harass partridge-life,
that the summer passed and not a chick was lost.
They grew and flourished, and when the Gun-
ner Moon arrived they were a fine family of six
grown-up grouse with Redruff, splendid in his
gleaming copper feathers, at their head. He
had ceased to drum during the summer after the
loss of Brownie, but drumming is to the par-
tridge what singing is to the lark ; while it is his
love-song, it is also an expression of exuberance
born of health, and when the molt was over and
September food and weather had renewed his
splendid plumes and braced him up again, his
spirits revived, and finding himself one day

345

= ns
a ea ee —-

Redruff

near the old log he mounted impulsively, and
drummed again and again.

From that time he often drummed, while his
children sat around, or one who showed his
father’s blood would mount some nearby stump
or stone, and beat the air in the loud tattoo.

The black grapes and the Mad Moon now
came on. But Redruff’s brood were of a vigor-
ous stock; their robust health meant robust
wits, and though they got the craze, it passed
within a week, and only three had flown away
for good.

Redruff, with his remaining three, was living
in the glen when the snow came. It was light,
flaky snow, and as the weather was not very cold,
the family squatted for the night under the low,
flat boughs of a cedar-tree. But next day the
storm continued, it grew colder, and the drifts
piled upallday. At night, the snow-fall ceased,
but the frost grew harder still, so Redruff, leading
the family to a birch-tree above a deep drift,
dived into the snow, and the others did the
same. ‘Then into the holes the wind blew the
loose snow—their pure white bed-clothes, and
thus tucked in they slept in comfort, for the

346

Redrutf

snow is a warm wrap, and the air passes through
it easily enough for breathing. Next morning
each partridge found a solid wall of ice before
him from his frozen breath, but easily turned to
one side and rose on the wing at Redruff’s
morning ‘ Kreet, kreet, kwit.’ (Come children,
come children, fly.)

This was the first night for them in a snow-
drift, though it was an old story to Redruff, and
next night they merrily dived again into bed, and
the north wind tucked them in as before. But
a change of weather was brewing. ‘The night
wind veered to the east. A fall of heavy flakes
gave place to sleet, and that tosilverrain. The
whole wide world was sheathed in ice, and
when the grouse awoke to quit their beds, they
found themselves sealed in with a great cruel
sheet of edgeless ice.

The deeper snow was still quite soft, and Red-
ruff bored his way to the top, but there the
hard, white sheet defied hisstrength. Hammer
and struggle as he might he could make no im-
pression, and only bruised his wings and head.
His life had been made up of keen joys and dull
hardships, with frequent sudden desperate

347

Redruff

straits, but this seemed the hardest brunt of all,
as the slow hours wore on and found him weak-
ening with his struggles, but no nearer to free-
dom. He could hear the struggling of his
family, too, or sometimes heard them calling to
him for help with their long-drawn plaintive
‘ p-€-€-€-€-€-t-€, p-e-e-€-e-e-t-€.”

They were hidden from many of their ene-
mies, but not from the pangs of hunger, and
when the night came down the weary prison-
ers, worn out with hunger and useless toil, grew
quiet in despair. At first they had been afraid
the fox would come and find them imprisoned
there at his mercy, but as the second night
went slowly by they no longer cared, and even
wished he would come and break the crusted
snow, and so give them at least a fighting
chance for life.

But when the fox really did come padding
over the frozen drift, the deep-laid love of life
revived, and they crouched in utter stillness
till he passed. ‘The second day was one of
driving storm. ‘The north wind sent his snow-_
horses, hissing and careering over the white —
earth, tossing and curling their white manes

348

Redrutf ;

and kicking up more snow as they dashed on.
The long, hard grinding of the granular snow
seemed to be thinning the snow-crust, for though
far from dark below, it kept on growing lighter.
Redruff had pecked and pecked at the under
side all day, till his head ached and his bill was
wearing blunt, but when the sun went down he
seemed as far as ever from escape. The night
passed like the others, except no fox went trot-
ting overhead. In the morning he renewed
his pecking, though now with scarcely any
force, and the voices or struggles of the others
were.no more heard. As the daylight grew
stronger he could see that his long efforts had
made a brighter spot above him in the snow,
and he continued feebly pecking. Outside, the
storm-horses kept on trampling all day, the
crust was really growing thin under their heels,
and late that afternoon his bill went through
into the open air. New life came with this gain,
and he pecked away, till just before the sun
went down he had made a hole that his head,
his neck, and his ever-beautiful ruffs could pass.
His great broad shoulders were too large, but
he could now strike downward, which gave him

349

— ene tn

Redruff

fourfold force ; the snow-crust crumbled quickly,
and in a little while he sprang from his icy
prison once more free. But the young ones!
Redruff flew to the nearest bank, hastily gath-
ered a few red hips to stay his gnawing hun-
ger, then returned to the prison-drift and clucked
and stamped. He got only one reply, a feeble
‘ peete, peete,’ and scratching with his sharp
claws on the thinned granular sheet he soon
broke through, and Graytail feebly crawled out
of the hole. But that was all; the others, scat-
tered he could not tell where in the drift, made
no reply, gave no sign of life, and he was forced
to leave them. When the snow melted in the
spring their bodies came to view, skin, bones,
and feathers—nothing more.

Vil

It was long before Redruff and Graytail fully
recovered, but food and rest in plenty are sure
cure-alls, and a bright clear day in midwinter
had the usual effect of setting the vigorous Red-
ruff to drumming on the log. Was it the
drumming, or the tell-tale tracks of their snow-

350

i ies :

Redeutl-. ‘

low him with a gun, so when the snow was
deepest, and food scarcest, Cuddy hatched a new
plot. Right across the feeding-ground, almost
the only good one now in the Stormy Moon,
he set a row of snares. A cottontail rabbit,
an old friend, cut several of these with his sharp
teeth, but some remained, and Redruff, watch-
ing a far-off speck that might turn out a hawk,
trod right in one of them, and in an instant
was jerked into the air to dangle by one
foot.

Have the wild things no moral or legal
rights? What right has man to inflict such long
and fearful agony on a fellow-creature, simply
because that creature does not speak his lan-
guage? All that day, with growing, racking
pains, poor Redruff hung and beat his great,
strong wings in helpless struggles to be free.
All day, all night, with growing torture, until
he only longed for death. But no one came.
The morning broke, the day wore on, and still
he hung there, slowly dying ; his very strength
a curse. The second night crawled slowly

4 down, and when, in the dawdling hours of

darkness, a great Horned Owl, drawn by the
357

Redruff

feeble flutter of a dying wing, cut short the
pain, the deed was wholly kind.

The wind blew down the valley from the
north. The snow-horses went racing over the
wrinkled ice, over the Don Flats, and over the
marsh toward the lake, white, for they were
driven snow, but on them, scattered dark, were
riding plumy fragments of partridge ruffs—the
famous rainbow ruffs. And they rode on the
wind that night, away, away to the south, over
the dark lake, as they rode in the gloom of his
Mad Moon flight, riding and riding on till they
were engulfed, the last trace of the last of the
Don Valley race.

For no partridge is heard in Castle Frank
now—and in Mud Creek Ravine the old pine
drum-log, unused, has rotted in silence away.

358

arr #&¢t

gE

WERT,
BOOKBINDING
MIDDLETOWN, PA
JAR. G4

We're Guality Bourne

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

AMI

OO0LL164636.