w a duck
back onto the sand with a broken neck; and he has generally time for a
second, often for a third, before the flock escapes into deep water.
Then he buries all his birds but one, throws that across his
shoulders, and trots off, wagging his head, to some quiet spot where
he can eat his dinner and take a good nap undisturbed.

When with all his cunning Reynard is caught napping, he makes use of
another good trick he knows. One winter morning some years ago, my
friend, the old fox-hunter, rose at daylight for a run with the dogs
over the new-fallen snow. Just before calling his hounds, he went to
his hen-house, some distance away, to throw the chickens some corn for
the day. As he reached the roost, his steps making no sound in the
snow, he noticed the trail of a fox crossing the yard and entering the
coop through a low opening sometimes used by the chickens. No trail
came out; it flashed upon him that the fox must be inside at that
moment.

Hardly had he reached this conclusion when a wild cackle arose that
left no doubt about it. On the instant he whirled an empty box against
the opening, at the same time pounding lustily to frighten the thief
from killing more chickens. Reynard was trapped sure enough. The
fox-hunter listened at the door, but save for an occasional surprised
_cut-aa-cut_, not a sound was heard within.

Very cautiously he opened the door and squeezed through. There lay a
fine pullet stone dead; just beyond lay the fox, dead too.

"Well, of all things," said the fox-hunter, open-mouthed, "if he
hasn't gone and climbed the roost after that pullet, and then tumbled
down and broken his own neck!"

Highly elated with this unusual beginning of his hunt, he picked up
the fox and the pullet and laid them down together on the box outside,
while he fed his chickens.

When he came out, a minute later, there was the box and a feather or
two, but no fox and no pullet. Deep tracks led out of the yard and up
over the hill in flying jumps. Then it dawned upon our hunter that
Reynard had played the possum-game on him, getting away with a whole
skin and a good dinner.

There was no need to look farther for a good fox track. Soon the music
of the hounds went ringing over the hill and down the hollow; but though
the dogs ran true, and the hunter watched the runways all day with
something more than his usual interest, he got no glimpse of the wily
old fox. Late at night the dogs came limping home, weary and