s to shout at him, which made him run off.

The boys wanted to know if I thought I had killed the hen. On going
out later I found that I had not even hit the coop--not so bad a shot,
after all, taking into account the size of the coop and the thick,
distorting qualities of the weather.

There is no particular credit to the fox in this, nor do I come in for
any particular credit this time; but the little drama does illustrate
the chances in the game of life, chances that sometimes, usually
indeed, are in favor of the fox.

He not only got away, but he also got away with eleven out of the
twelve young chicks in that brood. He had dug a hole under the wire of
the coop, then, by waiting his chance, or by frightening the chicks
out, had eaten all of them but one.

That he escaped this time was sheer luck; that he got his breakfast
before escaping was due to his cunning. And I have seen so many
instances of his cunning that, with my two scientific eyes wide open, I
could believe him almost as wise as he was thought to be in the olden
days of fable and folk-lore. How cool and collected he can be, too!

One day last autumn I was climbing the steep ridge behind the
mowing-field when I heard a fox-hound yelping over in the hollow
beyond. Getting cautiously to the top of the ridge, I saw the hound
off below me on the side of the parallel ridge across the valley. He
was beating slowly along through the bare sprout-land, and evidently
having a hard time holding the trail. Now and then he would throw his
head up into the air and howl, a long, doleful howl, as if in protest,
begging the fox to stop its fooling and play fair.

The hound was walking, not running, and at a gait almost as deliberate
as his howl. Round and round in one place he would go, off this way,
off that, then back, until, catching the scent again, or in despair of
ever hitting it (I don't know which), he would stand stock-still and
howl.

That the hound was tired I felt sure; but that he was on the trail of a
fox I could not believe; and I was watching him curiously when
something stirred on the top of the ridge almost beside me.

Without turning so much as my head, I saw the fox, a beautiful
creature, going slowly round and round in a circle--in a figure eight,
rather--among the bushes; then straight off it went and back; off again
in another direction and back; then in and out, round and round,
utterly without hurry, until, taking a long leap down