mote from the house. In such
cases, I have seen first one turn tail, then the other.

A novel spectacle often occurs in summer, when the female has young.
You are rambling on the mountain, accompanied by your dog, when you
are startled by that wild, half-threatening squall, and in a moment
perceive your dog, with inverted tail, and shame and confusion in
his looks, sneaking toward you, the old fox but a few rods in his
rear. You speak to him sharply, when he bristles up, turns about,
and, barking, starts off vigorously, as if to wipe out the dishonor;
but in a moment comes sneaking back more abashed than ever, and owns
himself unworthy to be called a dog. The fox fairly shames him out
of the woods. The secret of the matter is her sex, though her
conduct, for the honor of the fox be it said, seems to be prompted
only by solicitude for the safety of her young.

One of the most notable features of the fox is his large and massive
tail. Seen running on the snow at a distance, his tail is quite as
conspicuous as his body; and, so far from appearing a burden, seems
to contribute to his lightness and buoyancy. It softens the outline
of his movements, and repeats or continues to the eye the ease and
poise of his carriage. But, pursued by the hound on a wet, thawy
day, it often becomes so heavy and bedraggled as to prove a serious
inconvenience, and compels him to take refuge in his den. He is very
loath to do this; both his pride and the traditions of his race
stimulate him to run it out, and win by fair superiority of wind and
speed; and only a wound or a heavy and moppish tail will drive him
to avoid the issue in this manner.

To learn his surpassing shrewdness and cunning, attempt to take him
with a trap. Rogue that he is, he always suspects some trick, and
one must be more of a fox than he is himself to overreach him. At
first sight it would appear easy enough. With apparent indifference
he crosses your path, or walks in your footsteps in the field, or
travels along the beaten highway, or lingers in the vicinity of
stacks and remote barns. Carry the carcass of a pig, or a fowl, or a
dog, to a distant field in midwinter, and in a few nights his tracks
cover the snow about it.

The inexperienced country youth, misled by this seeming carelessness
of Reynard, suddenly conceives a project to enrich himself with fur,
and wonders that the idea has not occurred to him before, and to
others. I knew a youthful yeoman of this kin