hound in a dozen counties, creeping
like a cat along the top rail of a sheep-fence, now putting his nose
down to the wood, now throwing his head back for a great howl of
exultation.--It was all immensely entertaining; and nobody seemed to
be enjoying it more than the fox.

One of the most fascinating bits of animal study is to begin at the
very beginning of fox education, _i.e._, to find a fox den, and go
there some afternoon in early June, and hide at a distance, where you
can watch the entrance through your field-glass. Every afternoon the
young foxes come out to play in the sunshine like so many kittens.
Bright little bundles of yellow fur they seem, full of tricks and
whims, with pointed faces that change only from exclamation to
interrogation points, and back again. For hours at a stretch they roll
about, and chase tails, and pounce upon the quiet old mother with
fierce little barks. One climbs laboriously up the rock behind the
den, and sits on his tail, gravely surveying the great landscape with
a comical little air of importance, as if he owned it all. When called
to come down he is afraid, and makes a great to-do about it. Another
has been crouching for five minutes behind a tuft of grass, watching
like a cat at a rat-hole for some one to come by and be pounced upon.
Another is worrying something on the ground, a cricket perhaps, or a
doodle-bug; and the fourth never ceases to worry the patient old
mother, till she moves away and lies down by herself in the shadow of
a ground cedar.

As the afternoon wears away, and long shadows come creeping up the
hillside, the mother rises suddenly and goes back to the den; the
little ones stop their play, and gather about her. You strain your
ears for the slightest sound, but hear nothing; yet there she is,
plainly talking to them; and they are listening. She turns her head,
and the cubs scamper into the den's mouth. A moment she stands
listening, looking; while just within the dark entrance you get
glimpses of four pointed black noses, and a cluster of bright little
eyes, wide open for a last look. Then she trots away, planning her
hunt, till she disappears down by the brook. When she is gone, eyes
and noses draw back; only a dark silent hole in the bank is left. You
will not see them again--not unless you stay to watch by moonlight
till mother-fox comes back, with a fringe of field-mice hanging from
her lips, or a young turkey thrown across her shoulders.

One shrewd