INTRODUCTION There is reason for the fox being termed the shrewdest of wild creatures. Unlike the deer and other vegetarians whose dinners often grow under their noses, he rarely gets a meal without outwitting other animals. He lacks the climbing ab ... Read more

INTRODUCTION There is reason for the fox being termed the shrewdest of wild creatures. Unlike the deer and other vegetarians whose dinners often grow under their noses, he rarely gets a meal without outwitting other animals. He lacks the climbing ability of the opossum, the sharp claws of the lynx, the protective odor of the skunk, the diving powers of the otter—he is indeed just a little wild dog, a wonderfully bright, hardworking little animal whose cunning alone can lead him from his enemies and keep away the pangs of hunger. He has been so persistently hunted by man that he is almost untameable; but as far as he dares to be, he is friendly under ordinary circumstances and fond of wandering around man’s dwellings. Chicken stealing is charged against him; but after all he holds the same position in the animal world that the wise old crow does among the birds—his good deeds and his crimes nearly balance. In “Bun, a Wild Rabbit,” the fox appeared as one of many woods creatures encountered by that doughty cottontail; but, to do him justice, a separate volume was required. Foxes are much more plentiful than generally supposed. It is almost safe to say that wherever there are woods there are foxes, yet so wonderfully clever are they that few are seen. Whoever can distinguish their tracks from those of other animals is usually not disposed to tell of the discovery of fox “sign.” The friend of the fox fears the fox’s enemy; the trapper fears a competitor; and so the wily creature weaves his trail endlessly about the country side, unwatched except by the very few “who know.” Imagination must play a part in making the story of a wild animal complete, especially that of such an intensely shy and crafty creature as a fox; but nothing is included here which does not fall within the actual powers of the swift and wily red fox of today. Indeed there are numbers of them very much like Red Ben. Parts of his story are written in the snows of many woodlands besides Oak Ridge, and adventures such as his are still happening in the quiet of moonlit nights. As fast as man thinks out new methods of destruction, the fox finds fresh tricks through which to escape. And may he ever escape! For when the edges of our old fields no longer bear the imprint of his tireless feet, when the woodlands that delighted his wild little heart have been usurped by the tame dog and the tame cat, then indeed will have departed half their charm, half the thrill of winter walks. J. W. G. Bethayres, Pa. Less