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 UNIVERSITY 
 LIBRARY 
 
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 FUND GIVEN IN 189I BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
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 BlRDS-oF-MANIToBAV-iW- 
 
 Mammals "f-MAW it°ba' iiUf- 
 
 ARTANATOM yof-ANiMALS' 
 
 Being the Personail Histories of 
 
 Lo[)o 
 
 oingo 
 
 The Sprinpfield Fo;c 
 The Pd.cin§ Must?>.ng 
 wully 
 Mid Redruf f . 
 
 
 Id/ 
 
 PUBU5HEC-By'CHARLE5-SCRlBNEK'5' 50NS' NEVNT-YORKCITy-A-D-iafS- 
 

 
 Copyright, 1898, by 
 eniest Scton Cbompsoti 
 
 first edWon 
 
 October, 1898 
 
 Second edition 
 
 December, 1898 
 
This Book 
 is DedlcMed 
 
 To Jim 
 
The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924024546529 
 
A List of the Stories in this Book 
 And their Full-page Drawings 
 
 Page 
 
 LabOt the Ktng of Currumpaw . . . 15 
 
 Lobo showing the pack how to kill 
 
 beef 23 
 
 Tannerey, with his dogs, came gallop- 
 ing up the canon 27 
 
 Lobo exposing the traps 38 
 
 Lobo and Blanca 42 
 
 Lobo Rex Currumpae 55 
 
 Silverspot, the Story of a Crow • • • 57 
 
 Silverspot 61 
 
 The handle of a china-cup, the gem of 
 
 the collection 73 
 
 Roost in a row, like big folks . . . 78 
 
 The track of the murderer .... 85 
 
 The death of Silverspot 89 
 
 5 
 
A List of the Stories in this Book 
 
 Page 
 
 R^SfSylugf t^ Story of a Cottontail 
 
 Rabbit 91 
 
 "Mammy, mammy! " he screamed, in 
 
 mortal terror 97 
 
 Rag followed the snow-white beacon . 118 
 
 The hound came sniffing along the 
 
 log 126 
 
 No chance to turn now 139 
 
 Bingfo, the Story of JVIy Dog . . . 145 
 
 Frank retreated each time the wolf 
 
 turned 149 
 
 Bingo and the she-wolf 167 
 
 Bingo watched while Cur ley feasted . 172 
 
 Tail-piece 183 
 
 Cbe Springfield fox 185 
 
 They tussled and fought, while their 
 mother looked on with fond de- 
 
 Hght ' . . 196 
 
 Vix shows the cubs how to catch mice 202 
 
 There she had lain, and mourned . . 218 
 
 Vix 225 
 
 6 
 
A List of the Stories in this Book 
 
 Page 
 
 Cbc pacing Mustang 227 
 
 Away went the mustang at his famous 
 
 pace 261 
 
 QCluU>>, the Story of a YaUcr Dog . . 273 
 
 The three maroons 277 
 
 Once more a sheep-dog in charge of 
 
 a flock 287 
 
 Wully studied her calm face . . . 299 
 
 Redruff, the Story of the Don Valley 
 
 partridge 305 
 
 In the moonhght 321 
 
 Redruff saving Runtie 340 
 
 The owl 356 
 
 The thought. (Tail-piece) .... 359 
 
Note to the Reader 
 
 THESE STORIES are true. Although I 
 have left the strict line of historical truth in 
 many places, the animals in this book were all 
 real characters. They lived the lives I have 
 depicted, and showed the stamp of heroism and 
 personality more strongly by far than it has been 
 in the power of my pen to tell. 
 
 I believe that natural history has lost much 
 by the vague general treatment that is so com- 
 mon. What satisfaction would be derived from 
 a ten-page sketch of the habits and customs of 
 Man ? How much more profitable it would be 
 to devote that space to the life of some one 
 great man. This is the principle I have en- 
 deavored to apply to my animals. The real 
 personality of the individual, and his view of 
 life are my theme, rather than the ways of the 
 9 
 
Note to the Reader 
 
 race in general, as viewed by a casual and hos- 
 tile human eye. 
 
 This may sound inconsistent in view of my 
 having pieced together some of the characters, 
 but that was made necessary by the fragmentary 
 nature of the records. There is, however, al- 
 most no deviation from the truth in Lobo, Bin- 
 go, and the Mustang. 
 
 Lobo lived his wild romantic life from 1889 
 to 1894 in the Currumpaw region, as the ranch- 
 men know too well, and "died, precisely as re- 
 lated, on January 31, 1894. 
 
 Bingo was my dog from 1882 to 1888, in 
 spite of interruptions, caused by lengthy visits 
 to New York, as my Manitoban friends will re- 
 member. And my old friend, the owner of 
 Tan, will learn from these pages how his dog 
 really died. 
 
 The Mustang lived not far from Lobo in the 
 early nineties. The story is given strictly as it 
 occurred, excepting that there is a dispute as to 
 the manner of his death. According to some 
 testimony he broke his neck in the corral that 
 
Note to the Reader 
 
 he was first taken to. Old Turkeytrack is where 
 he cannot be consulted to settle it. 
 
 Wully is, in a sense, a compound of two dogs ; 
 both were mongrels, of some collie blood, and 
 were raised as sheep-dogs. The first part of 
 Wully is given as it happened, after that it was 
 known only that he became a savage, treacher- 
 ous sheep-killer. The details of the second part 
 belong really to another, a similar yaller dog, 
 who long lived the double life — a faithful sheep- 
 dog by day, and a bloodthirsty, treacherous 
 monster by night. Such things are less rare 
 than is supposed, and since writing these stories 
 I have heard of another double-lived sheep-dog 
 that added to its night amusements the crown- 
 ing barbarity of murdering the smaller dogs of 
 the neighborhood. He had killed twenty, and 
 hidden them in a sand-pit, when discovered by 
 his master. He died just as Wully did. 
 
 Redruff really lived in the Don Valley north 
 of Toronto, and many of my companions will 
 remember him. He was killed in 1889, be- 
 tween the Sugar Loaf and Castle Frank, by a 
 
Note to the Reader 
 
 creature whose name I have withheld, as it is 
 the species, rather than the individual, that I 
 wish to expose. 
 
 Silverspot, Raggylug, and Vixen are founded 
 on real characters. Though I have ascribed to 
 them the adventures of more than one of their 
 kind, every incident in their biographies is from 
 life. 
 
 The fact that these stories are true is the rea- 
 son why all are tragic. The life of a wild ani- 
 mal always has a tragic end. 
 
 Such a collection of histories naturally sug- 
 gests a common thought — a moral it would have 
 been called in the last century. No doubt each 
 different mind will find a moral to its taste, but 
 I hope some will herein find emphasized a 
 moral as old as Scripture — we and the beasts 
 are kin. Man has nothing that the animals 
 have not at least a vestige of, the animals have 
 nothing that man does not in some degree share. 
 
 Since, then, the animals are creatures with 
 wants and feelings differing in degree only from 
 our own, they surely have their rights. This 
 
Note to the Reader 
 
 fact, now beginning to be recognized by the 
 Caucasian world, was emphasized by the Buddh- 
 ist over 2,000 years ago. 
 
 THIS BOOK was made by my wife, Grace 
 Gallatin Thompson. Although the handiwork 
 throughout is my own, she chiefly is responsible 
 for designs of cover, title page, and general 
 make-up. Thanks are due her also for the lit- 
 erary revision, and for the mechanical labor of 
 seeing the book through the press. 
 
 emcst Scton 'Cboinpson. 
 
 « 
 
 144 Fifth Ave., New York City, 
 August 14, 1898. 
 
 13 
 

 
 Lobo 
 
 The King of 
 
 Currumpaw 
 
Lobo 
 
 The King of Currumpaw 
 
 URRUMPAW is a vast cattle range in 
 northern New Mexico. It is a land 
 of rich pastures and teeming flocks 
 and herds, a land of rolling mesas and 
 precious running waters that at length 
 unite in the Currumpaw River, from 
 which the whole region is namedT 
 And the king whose despotic power was felt 
 over its entire extent was an old gray wolf. 
 
 Old Lobo, or the king, as the Mexicans called 
 him, was the gigantic leader of a remarkable 
 pack of gray wolves, that had ravaged the Cur- 
 rumpaw Valley for a number of years. All the 
 shepherds and ranchmen knew him well, and, 
 
 17 
 
 / 
 
Lobo 
 
 wherever he appeared with his trusty band, ter- 
 ror reigned supreme among the cattle, and wrath 
 and despair among their owners. Old Lobo 
 was a giant among wolves, and was cunning and 
 strong in proportion to his size. His voice at 
 night was well-known and easily distinguished 
 from that of any of his fellows. An ordi- 
 nary wolf might howl half the night about the 
 herdsman's bivouac without attracting more 
 than a passing notice, but when the deep roar 
 of the old king came booming down the canon, 
 the watcher bestirred himself and prepared to 
 learn in the morning that fresh and serious in- 
 roads had been made among the herds. 
 
 Old Lobo's band was but a small one. This 
 I never quite understood, for usually, when a 
 wolf rises to the position and power that he had, 
 he attracts a numerous following. It may be 
 that he had as many as he desired, or perhaps 
 his ferocious temper prevented the increase of 
 his pack. Certain is it that Lobo had only five 
 followers during the latter part of his reign. 
 Each of these, however, was a wolf of renown, 
 most of them were above the ordinary size, one 
 in particular, the second in command, was a 
 i8 
 
Lobo 
 
 veritable giant, but even he was far below the 
 leader in size and prowess. Several of the band, 
 besides the two leaders, were especially noted. 
 One of those was a beautiful white wolf, that 
 the Mexicans called Blanca ; this was supposed 
 to be a female, possibly Lobo's mate. Another 
 was a yellow wolf of remarkable swiftness, which, 
 according to current stories had, on several oc- 
 casions, captured an antelope for the pack. 
 
 It will be seen, then, that these wolves w^ere 
 thoroughly well-known to the cowboys and 
 shepherds. They were frequently seen and 
 oftener heard, and their lives were intimately 
 associated with those of the cattlemen, who 
 would so gladly have destroyed them. There 
 was not a stockman on the Currumpaw who 
 would not readily have given the value of 
 many steers for the scalp of any one of Lobo's 
 band, but they seemed to possess charmed lives, 
 and defied all manner of devices to kill them. 
 They scorned all hunters, derided all poisons, 
 and continued, for at least five years, to exact 
 their tribute from the Currumpaw ranchers to 
 the extent, many said, of a cow each day. Ac- 
 cording to this estimate, therefore, the band had 
 
 19 
 
Lobo 
 
 killed more than two thousand of the finest 
 stock, for, as was only too well-known, they 
 selected the best in every instance. 
 
 The old idea that a wolf was constantly in a 
 starving state, and therefore ready to eat any- 
 thing, was as far as possible from the truth in 
 this case, for these freebooters were always 
 sleek and well-conditioned, and were in fact 
 most fastidious about what they ate. Any ani- 
 mal that had died from natural causes, or that 
 was diseased or tainted, they would not touch, 
 and they even rejected anything that had been 
 killed by the stockmen. Their choice and 
 daily food was the tenderer part of a freshly 
 killed yearling heifer. An old bull or cow 
 they disdained, and though they occasionally 
 took a young calf or colt, it was quite clear 
 that veal or horseflesh was not their favorite 
 diet. It was also known that they were not 
 fond of mutton, although they often amused 
 themselves by killing sheep. One night in 
 November, 1893, Blanca and the yellow wolf 
 killed two hundred and fifty sheep, apparently 
 for the fun of it, and did not eat an ounce of 
 their flesh. 
 
Lobo 
 
 These are examples of many stories which 
 1 might repeat, to show the ravages of this 
 destructive band. Many new devices for their 
 extinction were tried each year, but still they 
 lived and throve in spite of all the efforts of 
 their foes. A great price was set on Lobo's 
 head, and in consequence poison in a score of 
 subtle forms was put out for him, but he never 
 failed to detect and avoid it. One thing only 
 he feared — that was firearms, and knowing full 
 well that all men in this region carried them, 
 he never was known to attack or face a human 
 being. Indeed, the set policy of his band was 
 to take refuge in flight whenever, in the day- 
 time, a man was descried, no matter at what 
 distance. Lobo's habit of permitting the pack 
 to eat only that which they themselves had 
 killed, was in numerous cases their salvation, 
 and the keenness of his scent to detect the taint 
 of human hands or the poison itself, completed 
 their immunity. 
 
 On one occasion, one of the cowboys heard 
 the too familiar rallying-cry of Old Lobo, and 
 stealthily approaching, he found the Currum- 
 paw pack in a hollow, where they had ' round- 
 
Lobo 
 
 ed up ' a small herd of cattle. Lobo sat apart 
 on a knoll, while Blanca with the rest was en- 
 deavoring to ' cut out ' a young cow, which 
 they had selected ; but the cattle were standing 
 in a compact mass with their heads outward, 
 and presented to the foe a line of horns, un- 
 broken save when some cow, frightened by a 
 fresh onset of the wolves, tried to retreat into 
 the middle of the herd. It was only by taking 
 advantage of these breaks that the wolves had 
 succeeded at all in wounding the selected cow, 
 but she was far from being disabled, and it 
 seemed that Lobo at length lost patience with 
 his followers, for he left his position on the hill, 
 and, uttering a deep roar, dashed toward the herd. 
 The terrified rank broke at his charge, and he 
 sprang in among them. Then the cattle scattered 
 like the pieces of a bursting bomb. Away went 
 the chosen victim, but ere she had gone twenty- 
 five yards Lobo was upon her. Seizing her by 
 the neck he suddenly held back with all his 
 force and so threw her heavily to the ground. 
 The shock must have been tremendous, for the 
 heifer was thrown heels over head. Lobo also 
 turned a somersault, but immediately recovered 
 
ir 
 
Lobo 
 
 himself, and his followers falling on the poor 
 cow, killed her in a few seconds. Lobo took 
 no part in the killing — after having thrown the 
 victim, he seemed to say, " Now, why could 
 not some of you have done that at once with- 
 out wasting so much time? " 
 
 The man now rode up shouting, the wolves 
 as usual retired, and he, having a bottle of 
 strychnine, quickly poisoned the carcass in 
 three places, then went away, knowing they 
 would return to feed, as they had killed the 
 animal themselves. But next morning, on go- 
 ing to look for his expected victims, he found 
 that, although the wolves had eaten the heifer, 
 they had carefully cut out and thrown aside all 
 those parts that had been poisoned. 
 
 The dread of this great wolf spread yearly 
 among the ranchmen, and each year a larger 
 price was set on his head, until at last it reached 'i V6°i';< 
 
 $i,ooo, an unparalleled wolf-bounty, surely ; \~7A\Ul""'/<y ' /' 
 
 many a good man has been hunted down for '^' ,,, ^ 
 
 less. Tempted by the promised reward, a \*i'' !p ^ 
 
 Texan ranger named Tannerey came one day > ? ' 
 
 galloping up the canon of the Currumpaw. He fe/ 
 
 had a superb outfit for wolf-hunting — the best 
 
 25 
 
 
Lofco 
 
 of guns and horses, and a pack of enormous 
 wolf-hounds. Far out on the plains of the 
 Pan-handle, he and his dogs had killed many 
 a wolf, and now he never doubted that, within 
 a few days, old Lobo's scalp would dangle at 
 his saddle-bow. 
 
 Away they went bravely on their hunt in the 
 gray dawn of a summer morning, and soon the 
 great dogs gave joyous tongue to say that they 
 were already on the track of their quarry. 
 Within two miles, the grizzly band of Cur- 
 rumpaw leaped into view, and the chase grew 
 fast and furious. The part of the wolf-hounds 
 was merely to hold the wolves at bay till the 
 hunter could ride up and shoot them, and this 
 usually was easy on the open plains of Texas ; 
 but here a new feature of the country came into 
 play, and showed how well Lobo had chosen 
 his range ; for the rocky canons of the Currum- 
 paw and its tributaries intersect the prairies in 
 every direction. The old wolf at once made 
 for the nearest of these and by crossing it 
 got rid of the horsemen. His band then scat- 
 tered and thereby scattered the dogs, and when 
 they reunited at a distant point of course all of 
 26 
 

 
 j^t 
 
 .'■-■4^ * ^Y^'l 
 
 ^ i-j-^^- •>'■>■■ 
 
 im'^^fi'^- 
 
 Taiinerey, with his dogs, came galloping- up the canon. 
 
Lobo 
 
 the dogs did not turn up, and the wolves no 
 longer outnumbered, turned on their pursuers 
 and killed or desperately wounded them all. 
 That night when Tannerey mustered his dogs, 
 only six of them returned, and of these, two 
 were terribly -lacerated. This hunter made 
 two other attempts to capture the royal scalp, 
 but neither of them was more successful than 
 the first, and on the last occasion his best 
 horse met its death by a fall ; so he gave up 
 the chase in disgust and went back to Texas, 
 leaving Lobo more than ever the despot of the 
 region. 
 
 Next year, two other hunters appeared, de- 
 termined to win the promised bounty. Each 
 believed he could destroy this noted wolf, the 
 first by means of a newly devised poison, which 
 was to be laid out in an entirely new manner ; 
 the other a French Canadian, by poison as- 
 sisted with certain spells and charms, for he 
 firmly believed that Lobo was a veritable 
 'loup-garou,' and could not be killed by or- 
 dinary means. But cunningly compounded 
 poisons, charms, and incantations were all of 
 no avail against this grizzly devastator. He 
 29 
 
Lobo 
 
 made his weekly rounds and daily banquets as 
 aforetime, and before many weeks had passed, 
 Calone and Laloche gave up in despair and 
 went elsewhere to hunt. 
 
 In the spring of 1893, after his unsuccessful 
 attempt to capture Lobo, Joe Calone had a 
 humiliating experience, which seems to show 
 that the big wolf simply scorned his enemies, 
 and had absolute confidence in himself. Ca- 
 lone' s farm was on a small tributary of the 
 Currumpaw, in a picturesque canon, and among 
 the rocks of this very canon, within a thousand 
 yards of the house, old Lobo and his mate se- 
 lected their den and raised their family that 
 season. There they lived all summer, and 
 killed Joe's cattle, sheep, and dogs, but laughed 
 at all his poisons and traps, and rested securely 
 among the recesses of the cavernous cliffs, while 
 Joe vainly racked his brain for some method of 
 smoking them out, or of reaching them with 
 dynamite. But they escaped entirely unscathed, 
 and continued their ravages as before. ' ' There's 
 where he lived all last summer," said Joe, 
 pointing to the face of the cliff, "and I couldn't 
 do a thing with him. I was like a fool to him," 
 30 
 
Lot)o 
 
 II 
 
 This history, gathered so far from the cow- 
 boys, I found hard to behave until in the fall 
 of 1893, I made the acquaintance of the wily 
 marauder, and at length came to know him 
 more thoroughly than anyone else. Some 
 years before, in the Bingo days, I had been 
 a wolf-hunter, but my occupations since then 
 had been of another sort, chaining me to stool 
 and desk. I was much in need of a change, 
 and when a friend, who was also a ranch-owner 
 on the Currumpaw, asked me to come to New 
 Mexico and try if I could do anything with 
 this predatory pack, I accepted the invitation 
 and, eager to make the acquaintance of its 
 king, was as soon as possible among the mesas 
 of that region. I spent some time riding about 
 to learn the country, and at intervals, my guide 
 would point to the skeleton of a cow to which 
 the hide still adhered, and remark, "That's 
 some of his work. ' ' 
 
 It became quite clear to me that, in this 
 rough country, it was useless to think of pur- 
 31 
 
Lobo 
 
 suing Lobo with hounds and horses, so that 
 poison or traps were the only available expe- 
 dients. At present we had no traps large 
 enough, so I set to work with poison. 
 
 I need not enter into the details of a hun- 
 dred devices that I employed to circumvent 
 this ' loup-garou ' ; there was no combination 
 of strychnine, arsenic, cyanide, or prussic acid, 
 that I did not essay ; there was no manner of 
 flesh that I did not try as bait ; but morning 
 after morning, as I rode forth to learn the result, 
 I found that all my efforts had been useless. 
 The old king was too cunning for me. A 
 single instance will show his wonderful sagacity. 
 Acting on the hint of an old trapper, I melted 
 some cheese together with the kidney fat of a 
 freshly killed heifer, stewing it in a china dish, 
 and cutting it with a bone knife to avoid the 
 taint of metal. When the mixture was cool, I 
 cut it into lumps, and making a hole in one 
 side of each lump, I inserted a large dose of 
 strychnine and cyanide, contained in a capsule 
 that was impermeable by any odor ; finally I 
 sealed the holes up with pieces of the cheese 
 itself During the whole process, I wore a 
 32 
 
Lobo 
 
 pair of gloves steeped in the hot blood of the 
 heifer, and even avoided breathing on the 
 baits. When all was ready, I put them in a 
 raw-hide bag rubbed all over with blood, and 
 rode forth dragging the liver and kidneys of 
 the beef at the end of a rope. With this I 
 made a ten-mile circuit, dropping a bait at 
 each quarter of a mile, and taking the utmost 
 care, always, not to touch any with my hands. 
 
 Lobo, generally, came into this part of the 
 range in the early part of each week, and 
 passed the latter part, it was supposed, around 
 the base of Sierra Grande. This was Monday, 
 and that same evening, as we were about to 
 retire, I heard the deep bass howl of his ma- 
 jesty. On hearing it one of the boys briefly re- 
 marked, " There he is, we'll see." 
 
 The next morning I went forth, eager to 
 know the result. I soon came on the fresh 
 trail of the robbers, with Lobo in the lead — his 
 track was always easily distinguished. An or- 
 dinary wolfs forefoot is 4^ inches long, that 
 of a large wolf 4^ inches, but Lobo's, as 
 measured a number of times, was 5)^ inches 
 from claw to heel ; I afterward found that his 
 33 
 
Lofeo 
 
 other proportions were commensurate, for he 
 stood three feet high at the shoulder, and 
 weighed 150 pounds. His trail, therefore, 
 though obscured by those of his followers, was 
 never difficult to trace. The pack had soon 
 found the track of my drag, and as usual fol- 
 lowed it. I could see that Lobo had come to 
 the first bait, sniffed about it, and finally had 
 picked it up. 
 
 Then I could not conceal my delight. "I've 
 got him at last," I exclaimed; "I shall find 
 him stark within a mile," and I galloped on 
 with eager eyes fixed on the great broad track 
 in the dust. It led me to the second bait and 
 that also was gone. How I exulted — I surely 
 have him now and perhaps several of his band. 
 But there was the broad paw-mark still on the 
 drag ; and though I stood in the stirrup and 
 scanned the plain I saw nothing that looked 
 like a dead wolf. Again I followed — to find 
 now that the third bait was gone — and the 
 king-wolf's track led on to the fourth, there to 
 learn that he had not really taken a bait at all, 
 but had merely carried them in his mouth. 
 Then having piled the three on the fourth, he 
 34 
 
Lotx> 
 
 scattered filth over them to express his utter 
 contempt for my devices. After this he left 
 my drag and went about his business with the 
 pack he guarded so effectively. 
 - This is only one of many similar experiences 
 which convinced me that poison would never 
 avail to destroy this robber, and though I con- 
 tinued to use it while awaiting the arrival of 
 the traps, it was only because it was meanwhile 
 a sure means of killing many prairie wolves and 
 other destructive vermin. 
 
 About this time there came under my obser- 
 vation an incident that will illustrate Lobe's 
 diabolic cunning. These wolves had at least 
 one pursuit which was merely an amusement, it 
 was stampeding and kilhng sheep, though they 
 rarely ate them. The sheep are usually kept in 
 flocks of from one thousand to three thousand 
 under one or more shepherds. At night they 
 are gathered in the most sheltered place avail- 
 able, and a herdsman sleeps on each side of the 
 flock to give additional protection. Sheep are 
 such senseless creatures that they are liable to 
 be stampeded by the veriest trifle, but they 
 have deeply ingrained in their nature one, and 
 35 
 
Lobo 
 
 perhaps only one, strong weakness, namely, to 
 follow their leader. And this the shepherds 
 turn to good account by putting half a dozen 
 goats in the flock of sheep. The latter recog- 
 nize the superior intelligence of their bearded 
 cousins, and when a night alarm occurs they 
 crowd around them, and usually are thus saved 
 from a stampede and are easily protected. But it 
 was not always so. One night late in last No- 
 vember, two Perico shepherds were aroused by 
 an onset of wolves. Their flocks huddled 
 around the goats, which being neither fools 
 nor cowards, stood their ground and were 
 bravely defiant ; but alas for them, no common 
 wolf was heading this attack. Old Lobo, the 
 weir-wolf, knew as well as the shepherds that 
 the goats were the moral force of the flock, so 
 hastily running over the backs of the densely 
 packed sheep, he fell on these leaders, slew 
 them all in a few minutes, and soon had the 
 luckless sheep stampeding in a thousand differ- 
 ent directions. For weeks afterward I was al- 
 most daily accosted by some anxious shepherd, 
 who asked, " Have you seen any stray OTO 
 sheep lately ? ' ' and usually I was obliged to 
 36 
 
H V 
 
;>i 
 
 Lobo 
 
 say I had ; one day it was, "Yes, I came on 
 some five or six carcasses by Diamond Springs; " 
 or another, it was to the effect that I had seen 
 a small ' bunch ' running on the Malpai Mesa ; 
 or again, " No, but Juan Meira saw about 
 twenty, freshly killed, on the Cedra Monte 
 two days ago. ' ' 
 
 At length the wolf traps arrived, and with 
 two men I worked a whole week to get them 
 properly set out. We spared no labor or pains, 
 I adopted every device I could think of that 
 might help to insure success. The second day 
 after the traps arrived, I rode around to inspect, 
 and soon came upon Lobo's trail running from 
 trap to trap. In the dust I could read the 
 whole story of his doings that night. He had 
 trotted along in the darkness, and although the 
 traps were so carefully concealed, he had in- 
 stantly detected the first one. Stopping the 
 onward march of the pack, he had cautiously 
 scratched around it until he had disclosed the 
 trap, the chain, and the log, then left them 
 wholly exposed to view with the trap still un- 
 sprung, and passing on he treated over a dozen 
 traps in the same fashion. Very soon I noticed 
 
 39 
 
Lobo 
 
 that he stopped and turned aside as soon as 
 he detected suspicious signs on the trail and a 
 new plan to outwit him at once suggested itself. 
 I set the traps in the form of an H ; that is, 
 with a row of traps on each side of the trail, 
 and one on the trail for the cross-bar of the H. 
 Before long, I had an opportunity to count an- 
 other failure. Lobo came trotting along the trail, 
 and was fairly between the parallel lines be- 
 fore he detected the single trap in the trail, but 
 he stopped in time, and why or how he knew 
 enough I cannot tell, the Angel of the wild 
 things must have been with him, but without 
 turning an inch to the right or left, he slowly 
 and cautiously backed on his own tracks, put- 
 ting each paw exactly in its old track until he 
 was off the dangerous ground. Then returning 
 at one side he scratched clods and stones with 
 his hind feet till he had sprung every trap. This 
 he did on many other occasions, and although 
 I varied my methods and redoubled my precau- 
 tions, he was never deceived, his sagacity seemed 
 never at fault, and he might have been pursuing 
 his career of rapine to-day, but for an unfortu- 
 nate alliance that proved his ruin and added 
 his name to the long list of heroes who, unassail- 
 40 
 
o 
 o 
 
Lobo 
 
 able when alone, have fallen through the indis- 
 cretion of a trusted ally. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Once or twice, I had found indications that 
 everything was not quite right in the Currum- 
 paw pack. There were signs of irregularity, I 
 thought ; for instance there was clearly the trail 
 of a smaller wolf running ahead of the leader, 
 at times, and this I could not understand until 
 a cowboy made a remark which explained the 
 matter. 
 
 "I saw them to-day, " he said, "and the 
 wild one that breaks away is Blanca." Then 
 the truth dawned upon me, and I added, ' ' Now, 
 I know that Blanca is a she-wolf, because were 
 a he-wolf to act thus, Lobo would kill him at 
 once." 
 
 This suggested a new plan. I killed a heifer, 
 and set one or two rather obvious traps about 
 the carcass. Then cutting off the head, which 
 is considered useless offal, and quite beneath 
 the notice of a wolf, I set it a little apart and 
 around it placed six powerful steel traps proper- 
 43 
 
LoBo 
 
 ly deodorized and concealed with the utmost 
 care. During my operations I kept my hands, 
 boots, and implements smeared with fresh blood, 
 and afterward sprinkled the ground with the 
 same, as though it had flowed from the head ; 
 and when the traps were buried in the dust I 
 brushed the place over with the skin of a coyote, 
 and with a foot of the same animal made a 
 number of tracks over the traps. The head 
 was so placed that there was a narrow passage 
 between it and some tussocks, and in this pas- 
 sage I buried two of my best traps, fastening 
 them to the head itself 
 
 Wolves have a habit of approaching every 
 carcass they get the wind of, in order to ex- 
 amine it, even when they have no intention of 
 eating of it, and I hoped that this habit would 
 bring the Currumpaw pack within reach of my 
 latest stratagem. I did not doubt that Lobo 
 would detect my handiwork about the meat, 
 and prevent the pack approaching it, but I did 
 build some hopes on the head, for it looked as 
 though it had been thrown aside as useless. 
 
 Next morning, I salhed forth to inspect the 
 traps, and there, oh, joy ! were the tracks of 
 
 44 
 
Lobo 
 
 "'lf\---9S 
 
 
 
 ^' 
 
 # 
 
 % 
 
 
 the pack, and the place where the beef-head 
 
 and its traps had been was empty. A hasty " )CS 
 
 study of the trail showed that Lobo had kept 
 
 the pack from approaching the meat, but one, 
 
 a small wolf, had evidently gone on to examine f|^ 
 
 the head as it lay apart and had walked right 
 
 into one of the traps. 
 
 We set out on the trail, and within a mile 
 discovered that the hapless wolf was Blanca. 
 Away she went, however, at a gallop, and al- 
 though encumbered by the beef-head, which 
 weighed over fifty pounds, she speedily dis- fS 
 
 tanced my companion who was on foot. But ^ 
 
 we overtook her when she reached the rocks, t9» <^S 
 
 for the horns of the cow's head became caught fSp 
 
 and held her fast. She was the handsomest * 
 
 wolf I had ever seen. Her coat was in perfect 
 condition and nearly white. mSs, 
 
 She turned to fight, and raising her voice ifl' 
 
 in the rallying cry of her race, sent a long * 
 
 howl rolling over the canon. From far away m-^ 
 
 upon the mesa came a deep response, the cry 'tS 
 
 of Old Lobo. That was her last call, for now j^ 
 
 we had closed in on her, and all her energy and *A' 
 
 breath were devoted to combat. 
 45 
 
 r« 
 
 I* 
 
 iSi 
 
 -/ 
 
Lobe 
 
 Then followed the inevitable tragedy, the 
 idea of which I shrank from afterward more 
 than at the time. We each threw a lasso over 
 the neck of the doomed wolf, and strained our 
 horses in opposite directions until the blood 
 burst from her mouth, her eyes glazed, her 
 limbs stiffened and then fell limp. Homeward 
 then we rode, carrying the dead wolf, and ex- 
 ulting over this, the first death-blow we had 
 been able to inflict on the Currumpaw pack. 
 
 At intervals during the tragedy, and afterward 
 as we rode homeward, we heard the roar of 
 Lobo as he wandered about on the distant 
 mesas, where he seemed to be searching for 
 Blanca. He had never really deserted her, but 
 knowing that he could not save her, his deep- 
 rooted dread of firearms had been too much for 
 him when he saw us approaching. All that day 
 we heard himwaihngas he roamed in his quest, 
 and I remarked at length to one of the boys, 
 " Now, indeed, I truly know that Blanca was 
 his mate. ' ' 
 
 As evening fell he seemed to be coming tow- 
 ard the home canon, for his voice sounded con- 
 tinually nearer. There was an unmistakable 
 46 
 
Loix} 
 
 note of sorrow in it now. It was no longer the 
 loud, defiant howl, but a long, plaintive wail ; 
 " Blanca ! Blanca ! " he seemed to call. And 
 as night came down, I noticed that he was not 
 far from the place where we had overtaken her. 
 At length he seemed to find the trail, and when 
 he came to the spot where we had killed her, 
 his heart-broken wailing was piteous to hear. 
 It was sadder than I could possibly have be- 
 lieved. Even the stolid cowboys noticed it, 
 and said they had " never heard a wolf carry 
 on like that before." He seemed to know ex- 
 actly what had taken place, for her blood had 
 stained the place of her death. 
 
 Then he took up the trail of the horses and 
 followed it to the ranch-house. Whether in 
 hopes of finding her there, or in quest of re- 
 venge, I know not, but the latter was what he 
 found, for he surprised our unfortunate watch- 
 dog outside and tore him to little bits within fifty 
 yards of the door. He evidently came alone 
 this time, for I found but one trail next morn- 
 ing, and he had galloped about in a reckless 
 manner that was very unusual with him. I had 
 half expected this, and had set a number of ad- 
 47 
 
 'Vte-^ 
 
Lobo 
 
 ditional traps about the pasture. Afterward I 
 found that he had indeed fallen into one of 
 these, but such was his strength, he had torn 
 himself loose and cast it aside. 
 
 I believed that he would continue in the 
 neighborhood until he found her body at least, 
 so I concentrated all my energies on this one 
 enterprise of catching him before he left the 
 region, and while yet in this reckless mood. 
 Then I realized what a mistake I had made in 
 killing Blanca, for by using her as a decoy I 
 might have secured him the next night. 
 
 I gathered in all the traps I could command, 
 
 one hundred and thirty strong steel wolf-traps, 
 
 and set them in fours in every trail that led into 
 
 the canon ; each trap was separately fastened to 
 
 a log, and each log was separately buried. In 
 
 burying them, I carefully removed the sod and 
 
 every particle of earth that was lifted we put 
 
 ^ in blankets, so that after the sod was replaced 
 
 ij^ I /^ and all was finished the eye could detect no trace 
 
 ..''"'';■' N. of human handiwork. When the traps were 
 
 ,.\ J '- concealed I trailed the body of poor Blanca 
 
 A; /_ over each place, and made of it a drag that 
 
 ,^ ..--.^ y.-, circled all about the ranch, and finally I took 
 
 48 
 
 r- 
 
 1 r 
 
 J 
 
 
 
 [\. 
 
 i" ■■ 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 "'M^ 
 
 ^, 
 
 1 
 
 .-.V-- *' 
 
 i -^ 
 
 *fr 
 
 
 
 ^ ^y. 
 
 
 
 < '*'- 
 
 Z . 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 
 "''..- 
 
 •-'^ t—. 
 
 
 
 \ -■■■ 
 
 ■■""n.._.-'' 
 
 '/*> 
 
 
 
 •J 
 
 
Lofx> 
 
 oflf one of her paws and made with it a line of 
 tracks over each trap. Every precaution and 
 device known to me I used, and retired at a late 
 hour to await the result. 
 
 Once during the night I thought I heard Old 
 Lobo, but was not sure of it. Next day I rode 
 around, but darkness came on before I completed 
 the circuit of the north caiion, and I had noth- 
 ing to report. At supper one of the cowboys 
 said, " There was a great row among the cattle 
 in the north canon this morning, maybe there 
 is something in the traps there. ' ' It was after- 
 noon of the next day before I got to the place re- 
 ferred to, and as I drew near a great grizzly form 
 arose from the ground, vainly endeavoring to 
 escape, and there revealed before me stood Lobo, 
 King of the Currumpaw, firmly held in the 
 traps. Poor old hero, he had never ceased to 
 search for his darling, and when he found the 
 trail her body had made he followed it reckless- 
 ly, and so fell into the snare prepared for him. 
 There he lay in the iron grasp of all four traps, 
 perfectly helpless, and all around him were nu- 
 merous tracks showing how the cattle had gath- 
 ered about him to insult the fallen despot, without 
 
 49 
 
Lobo 
 
 daring to approach within his reach. For two 
 days and two nights he had lain there, and now 
 was worn out with struggling. Yet, when I went 
 near him, he rose up with bristling mane and 
 raised his voice, and for the last time made the 
 canon reverberate with his deep bass roar, a call 
 for help, the muster call of his band. But there 
 was none to answer him, and, left alone in his 
 extremity, he whirled about with all his strength 
 and made a desperate effort to get at me. All 
 in vain, each trap was a dead drag of over three 
 hundred pounds, and in their relentless fourfold 
 grasp, with great steel jaws on every foot, and the 
 heavy logs and chains all entangled together, 
 he was absolutely powerless. How his huge 
 ivory tusks did grind on those cruel chains, and 
 when I ventured to touch him with my rifle- 
 barrel he left grooves on it which are there to 
 this day. His eyes glared green with hate and 
 fury, and his jaws snapped with a hollow 
 ' chop,' as he vainly endeavored to reach me 
 and my trembling horse. But he was worn 
 out with hunger and struggling and loss of 
 blood, and he soon sank exhausted to the 
 ground. 
 
 50 
 
Lobo 
 
 Something like compunction came over me, 
 as I prepared to deal out to him that which so 
 many had suffered at his hands. 
 
 " Grand old outlaw, hero of a thousand law- 
 less raids, in a few minutes you will be but a 
 great load of carrion. It cannot be otherwise." 
 Then I swung my lasso and sent it whistling 
 over his head. But not so fast ; he was yet far 
 from being subdued, and, before the supple 
 coils had fallen on his neck he seized the noose 
 and, with one fierce chop, cut through its hard 
 thick strands, and dropped it in two pieces at 
 his feet. 
 
 Of course I had my rifle as a last resource, but 
 I did not wish to spoil his royal hide, so I gal- 
 loped back to the camp and returned with a 
 cowboy and a fresh lasso. We threw to our 
 victim a stick of wood which he seized in his 
 teeth, and before he could relinquish it our 
 lassoes whistled through the air and tightened 
 on his neck. 
 
 Yet before the light had died from his fierce 
 
 eyes, I cried, " Stay, we will not kill him ; let 
 
 us take him alive to the camp." He was so 
 
 completely powerless now that it was easy to 
 
 51 
 
Lobo 
 
 put a stout stick through his mouth, behind his 
 tusks, and then lash his jaws with a heavy cord 
 which was also fastened to the stick. The stick 
 kept the cord in, and the cord kept the stick 
 in so he was harmless. As soon as he felt his 
 jaws were tied he made no further resistance, 
 and uttered no sound, but looked calmly at us 
 and seemed to say, " Well, you have got me at 
 last, do as you please with me. ' ' And from that 
 time he took no more notice of us. 
 
 We tied his feet securely, but he never 
 groaned, nor growled, nor turned his head. 
 Then with our united strength were just able to 
 put him on my horse. His breath came evenly 
 as though sleeping, and his eyes were bright 
 and clear again, but did not rest on us. Afar 
 on the great rolling mesas they were fixed, his 
 passing kingdom, where his famous band was 
 now scattered. And he gazed till the pony 
 descended the pathway into the canon, and the 
 rocks cut off the view. 
 
 By travelling slowly we reached the ranch in 
 safety, and after securing him with a collar and 
 a strong chain, we staked him out in the past- 
 ure and removed the. cords. Then for the first 
 52 
 
LoSo 
 
 time I could examine him closely, and proved 
 how unreliable is vulgar report when a livuig 
 hero or tyrant is concerned. He had not a 
 collar of gold about his neck, nor was there on 
 his shoulders an inverted cross to denote that 
 he had leagued himself with Satan. But I did 
 find on one haunch a great broad scar, that 
 tradition says was the fang-mark of Juno, the 
 leader of Tannerey's wolf-hounds — a mark 
 which she gave him the moment before he 
 stretched her lifeless on the sand of the canon. 
 
 I set meat and water beside him, but he paid 
 no heed. He lay calmly on his breast, and 
 gazed with those steadfast yellow eyes away 
 past me down through the gateway of the canon, 
 over the open plains — his plains — nor moved a 
 muscle when I touched him. When the sun 
 went down he was still gazing fixedly across the 
 prairie. I expected he would call up his band 
 when night came, and prepared for them, but 
 he had called once in his extremity, and none 
 had come; he would never call again. 
 
 A lion shorn of his strength, an eagle robbed 
 of his freedom, or a dove bereft of his mate, all 
 die, it is said, of a broken heart ; and who will 
 53 
 
Lobo 
 
 aver that this grim bandit could bear the three- 
 fold brunt, heart-whole? This only I know, 
 that when the morning dawned, he was lying 
 there still in his position of calm repose, but his 
 spirit was gone — the old king-wolf was dead. 
 
 I took the chain from his neck, a cowboy 
 helped me to carry him to the shed where lay 
 the remains of Blanca, and as we laid him beside 
 her, the cattle-man exclaimed: "There, you 
 would come to her, now you are together again." 
 
 54 
 

 tw 
 
 Silverspot 
 
 The Story of a Crow 
 
Silverspot 
 The Story of a Crow 
 
 f OW many of us have ever got to 
 know a wild animal? I do not 
 mean merely to meet with one once 
 or twice, or to have one in a cage, 
 but to really know it for a long 
 time while it is wild, and to get an 
 insight into its life and history. The trouble 
 usually is to know one creature from his fellow. 
 One fox or crow is so much like another that 
 we cannot be sure that it really is the same 
 next time we meet. But once in awhile there 
 arises an animal who is stronger or wiser than 
 his fellow, who becomes a great leader, who is, 
 as we would say, a genius, and if he is bigger, 
 59 
 
Silverspot 
 
 or has some mark by which men can know 
 him, he soon becomes famous in his country, 
 and shows us that the life of a wild animal may 
 be far more interesting and exciting than that 
 of many human beings. 
 
 Of this class were Courtrand, the bob-tajled 
 wolf that terrorized the whole city of Paris for 
 about ten years in the beginning of the four- 
 teenth century ; Clubfoot, the lame grizzly bear 
 that in two years ruined all the hog-raisers, and 
 drove half the farmers out of business in the 
 upper Sacramento Valley ; Lobo, the king- 
 wolf of New Mexico, that killed a cow every 
 day for five years, and the Soehnee panther that 
 in less than two years killed nearly three hun- 
 dred human'beings — and such also was Silver- 
 spot, whose history, as far as I could learn it, I 
 shall now briefly tell. 
 
 Silverspot was simply a wise old crow ; his 
 name was given because of the silvery white 
 spot that was like a nickel, stuck on his right 
 side, between the eye and the bill, and it was 
 owing to this spot that I was able to know him 
 from the other crows, and put together the 
 parts of his history that came to my knowledge. 
 60 
 
Silverspot 
 
Silverspot 
 
 Crows are, as you must know, our most in- 
 telligent birds — ' Wise as an old crow ' did 
 not become a saying without good reason. 
 Crows know the value of organization, and are 
 as well drilled as soldiers — very much better 
 than some soldiers, in fact, for crows are al- 
 ways on duty, always at war, and always de- 
 pendent on each other for life and safety. 
 Their leaders not only are the oldest and wisest 
 of the band, but also the strongest and bravest, 
 for they must be ready at any time with sheer 
 force to put down an upstart or a rebel. The 
 rank and file are the youngsters and the crows 
 without special gifts. 
 
 Old Silverspot was the leader of a large band 
 of crows that made their headquarters near 
 Toronto, Canada, in Castle Frank, which is a 
 pine-clad hill on the northeast edge of the city. 
 This band numbered about two hundred, and 
 for reasons that I never understood did not in- 
 crease. In mild winters they stayed along the 
 Niagara River ; in cold winters they went much 
 farther south. But each year in the last week 
 of February Old Silverspot would muster his 
 followers and boldly cross the forty miles of 
 
 63 
 
>^ 
 
 Silverspot 
 
 open water that lies between Toronto and Ni- 
 agara ; not, however, in a straight line would 
 he go, but always in a curve to the west, 
 whereby he kept in sight of the familiar land- 
 mark of Dundas Mountain, until the pine-clad 
 hill itself came in view. Each year he came 
 with his troop, and for about six weeks took up 
 his abode on the hill. Each morning there- 
 after the crows set out in three bands to forage. 
 One band went southeast to Ashbridge's Bay. 
 One went north up the Don, and one, the 
 largest, went northwestward up the ravine. The 
 last Silverspot led in person. Who led the 
 others I never found out. 
 
 On calm mornings they flew high and straight 
 away. But when it was windy the band flew 
 low, and followed the ravine for shelter. My 
 windows overlooked the ravine, and it was thus 
 that in 1885 I first noticed this old crow. I 
 was a new-comer in the neighborhood, but an 
 old resident said to me then "that there old 
 crow has been a-flying up and down this ravine 
 for more than twenty years. ' ' My chances to 
 watch were in the ravine, and Silverspot dog- 
 gedly clinging to the old route, though now it 
 64 
 
Silverspot 
 
 was edged with houses and spanned by bridges, 
 became a very famihar acquaintance. Twice 
 each day in March and part of April, then again 
 in the late summer and the fall, he passed and 
 repassed, and gave me chances to see his move- 
 ments, and hear his orders to his bands, and 
 so, little by little, opened my eyes to the fact 
 that the crows, though a little people, are of 
 great wit, a race of birds with a language and 
 a social system that is wonderfully human in 
 many of its chief points, and in some is better 
 carried out than our own. 
 
 One windy day I stood on the high bridge 
 across the ravine, as the old crow, heading his 
 long, straggling troop, came flying down home- 
 ward. Half a mile away I could hear the con- 
 tented ^Airs well, come right along!' as we 
 
 No. I. 
 
 Caw 
 
 Caw 
 
 should say, or as he put it, and as also his lieu- 
 tenant echoed it at the rear of the band. They 
 were flying very low to be out of the wind, and 
 
 65 
 
Silverspot 
 
 would have to rise a little to clear the bridge 
 on which I was. Silverspot saw me standing 
 there, and as I was closely watching him he 
 didn't like it. He checked his flight and called 
 out, ' Be on your guard, ' or 
 
 No. 2. 
 
 Caw 
 
 and rose much higher in the air. Then seeing 
 that I was not armed he flew over my head 
 about twenty feet, and his followers in turn did 
 the same, dipping again to the old level when 
 past the bridge. 
 
 Next day I was at the same place, and as 
 the crows came near I raised my walking stick 
 and pointed it at them. The old fellow at once 
 cried out 'Danger,' and rose fifty feet higher 
 
 No. 3. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Ca 
 
 than before. Seeing that it was not a gun, he 
 
 ventured to fly over. But on the third day I 
 
 66 
 
Silverspot 
 
 took with me a gun, and at once he cried out, 
 ' Great danger — a gun.' His lieutenant re- 
 No. 4. 
 
 fr-mir 
 
 ^ 
 
 cacacaca Caw 
 
 peated the cry, and every crow in the troop 
 began to tower and scatter from the rest, till 
 they were far above gun shot, and so passed 
 safely over, coming down again to the shelter 
 of the valley when well beyond reach. An- 
 other time, as the long, straggling troop came 
 down the valley, a red-tailed hawk alighted on 
 a tree close by their intended route. The 
 leader cried out, 'Hawk, hawk,' and stayed 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 Caw Caw 
 
 his flight, as did each crow on nearing him, 
 until all were massed in a solid body. Then, 
 no longer fearing the hawk, they passed on. 
 But a quarter of a mile farther on a man with 
 a gun appeared below, and the cry, ' Great 
 
 - 67 
 
Silverspot 
 
 danger — a gun, a gun ; scatter for your lives,' 
 at once caused them to scatter widely and tower 
 
 No. 6. 
 
 ^S 
 
 i»i» "y 
 
 P 
 
 cacacaca Caw 
 
 till far beyond range. Many others of his 
 words of command I learned in the course of 
 my long acquaintance, and found that sometimes 
 a very little difference in the sound makes a 
 very great difference in meaning. Thus while 
 No. 5 means hawk, or any large, dangerous 
 bird, this means 'wheel around,' evidehtly a 
 
 . No. 7. 
 
 ^ 
 
 J.^ 1 Ji^NJr'-J W 
 
 Caw Caw cacacaca 
 
 combination of No. 5, whose root idea is dan- 
 ger, and of No. 4, whose root idea is retreat, and 
 this again is a mere 'good day,' to a far away 
 
 No. 8. 
 
 ^<' J J^I J 
 
 Caw 
 
 Caw 
 
 68 
 
Silverspot 
 
 comrade. This is usually addressed to the 
 ranks and means ' attention. ' 
 
 No. 9. 
 
 Early in April there began to be great 
 doings among the crows. Some new cause of 
 excitement seemed to have come on them. 
 They spent half the day among the pines, in- 
 stead of foraging from dawn till dark. Pairs 
 and trios might be seen chasing each other, and 
 from time to time they showed off in various 
 feats of flight. A favorite sport was to dart 
 down suddenly from a great height toward 
 some perching crow, and just before touching 
 it to turn at a hairbreadth and rebound in the air 
 so fast that the wings of the swooper whirred 
 with a sound like distant thunder. Sometimes 
 one crow would lower his head, raise every 
 feather, and coming close to another would gur- 
 gle out a long note like 
 
 E 
 
 -U^ 4 ^ 
 
 C - r 
 
 r - T 
 
 69 
 
 w 
 
Silverspot 
 
 What did it all mean ? I soon learned. They 
 were making love and pairing off. The males 
 were showing off their wing powers and their 
 voices to the lady crows. And they must have 
 been highly appreciated, for by the middle of 
 April all had mated and had scattered over the 
 country for their honeymoon, leaving the som- 
 bre old pines of Castle Frank deserted and 
 silent. 
 
 II 
 
 The Sugar Loaf hill stands alone in the Don 
 Valley. It is still covered with woods that join 
 with those of Castle Frank, a quarter of a mile 
 off. In the woods, between the two hills, is a 
 pine-tree in whose top is a deserted hawk's nest. 
 Every Toronto school-boy knows the nest, and, 
 excepting that I had once shot a black squirrel 
 on its edge, no one had ever seen a sign of life 
 about it. There it was year after year, ragged 
 and old, and falling to pieces. Yet, strange to 
 tell, in all that time it never did drop to pieces, 
 like Other old nests. 
 
 One morning in May I was out at gray dawn, 
 and stealing gently through the woods, whose 
 70 
 

 Silverspot - 
 
 dead leaves were so wet that no rustle was made. 
 I chanced to pass under the old nest, and was 
 surprised to see a black tail sticking over the 
 edge. I struck the tree a smart blow, off flew 
 a crow, and the secret was out. I had long 
 suspected that a pair of crows nested each year 
 about the pines, but now I realized that it was 
 Silverspot and his wife. The old nest was 
 theirs, and they were too wise to give it an air 
 of spring-cleaning and housekeeping each year. 
 Here they had nested for long, though guns in 
 the hands of men and boys hungry to shoot 
 crows were carried under their home every day. 
 I never surprised the old fellow again, though I 
 several times saw him through my telescope. 
 
 One day while watching I saw a crow crossing 
 the Don Valley with something white in his 
 beak. He flew to the mouth of the Rosedale 
 Brook, then took a short flight to the Beaver 
 Elm. There he dropped the white object, and 
 looking about gave me a chance to recognize 
 my old friend Silverspot. After a minute he 
 picked up the white thing — a shell — and walked 
 over past the spring, and here, among the docks 
 and the skunk-cabbages, he unearthed a pile of 
 
 71 
 
Silvefspot 
 
 shells and other white, shiny things. He spread 
 them out in the sun, turned them over, lifted 
 them one by one in his beak, dropped them, 
 nestled on them as though they were eggs, toyed 
 with them and gloated over them like a miser. 
 This was his hobby, his weakness. He could 
 not have explained -why he enjoyed them, any 
 more than a boy can explain why he collects 
 postage-stamps, or a girl why she prefers pearls 
 to rubies ; but his pleasure in them was very real, 
 and after half an hour he covered them all, in- 
 cluding the new one, with earth and leaves, and 
 flew off. I went at once to the spot and ex- 
 amined the hoard ; there was about a hatful in 
 all, chiefly white pebbles, clam-shells, and some 
 bits of tin, but there was also the handle of a 
 china cup, which must have been the gem of 
 the collection. That was the last time I saw 
 them. Silverspot knew that I had found his 
 treasures, and he removed them at once ; where 
 I never knew. 
 
 During the space that I watched him so 
 
 closely he had many little adventures and 
 
 escapes. He was once severely handled by a 
 
 sparrowhawk, and often he was chased and 
 
 72 
 
-^^^^^ 
 
 The handle of a china-cup, the gem of the collection. 
 
Silvcfspot 
 
 worried by kingbirds. Not that these did him 
 much harm, but they were such noisy pests 
 that he avoided their company as quickly as 
 possible, just as a grown man avoids a conflict 
 with a noisy and impudent small boy. He 
 had some cruel tricks, too. He had a way 
 of going the round of the small birds' nests 
 each morning to eat the new laid eggs, as 
 regularly as a doctor visiting his patients. But 
 we must not judge him for that, as it is just 
 what we ourselves do to the hens in the barn- 
 yard. 
 
 His quickness of wit was often shown. One 
 day I saw him ilying down the ravine with a 
 large piece of bread in his bill. The stream 
 below him was at this time being bricked over 
 as a sewer. There was one part of two hundred 
 yards quite finished, and, as he flew over the 
 open water just above this, the bread fell from 
 his bill, and was swept by the current out of 
 sight into the tunnel. He flew down and 
 peered vainly into the dark cavern, then, act- 
 ing upon a happy thought, he flew to the down- 
 stream end of the tunnel, and awaiting the re- 
 appearance of the floating bread, as it was swept 
 
 75 
 
/.- 
 
 Silvcfspot 
 
 onward by the current, he seized and bore it 
 off in triumph. 
 
 Silverspot was a crow of the world: He 
 was truly a successful crow. He lived in a 
 region that, though full of dangers, abounded 
 with food. In the old, unrepaired nest he 
 raised a brood each year with his wife, whom, 
 by the way, I never could distinguish, and 
 when the crows again gathered together he was 
 their acknowledged chief. 
 
 The reassembling takes place about the end 
 of June — the young crows with their bob-tails, 
 soft wings, and falsetto voices are brought by 
 their parents, whom they nearly equal in size, 
 and introduced to society at the old pine woods, 
 a woods that is at once their fortress and col- 
 lege. Here they find security in numbers and 
 in lofty yet sheltered perches, and here they 
 begin their schooling and are taught all the 
 secrets of success in crow life, and in crow life 
 the least failure does not simply mean begin 
 again. It means death. 
 
 The first week or two after their arrival is 
 spent by the young ones in getting acquainted, 
 for each crow must know personally all the 
 76 
 
Silverspot 
 
 others in the band. Their parents meanwhile 
 have time to rest a little after the work of rais- 
 ing them, for now the youngsters are able to 
 feed themselves and roost on a branch in a row, 
 just like big folks. 
 
 In a week or two the moulting season comes. 
 At this time the old crows are usually irritable 
 and nervous, but it does not stop them from be- 
 ginning to drill the youngsters, who, of course, 
 do not much enjoy the punishment and nagging 
 they get so soon after they have been mamma's 
 own darlings. But it is all for their good, as 
 the old lady said when she skinned the eels, and 
 old Silverspot is an excellent teacher. Some- 
 times he seems to make a speech to them. 
 What he says I cannot guess, but, judging by 
 the way they receive it, it must be extremely 
 witty. Each morning there is a company 
 drill, for the young ones naturally drop into 
 two or three squads according to their age and 
 strength. The rest of the day they forage with 
 their parents. 
 
 When at length September comes we find a 
 great change. The rabble of silly little crows 
 have begun to learn sense. The delicate blue 
 
 79 
 
Silverspot 
 
 iris of their eyes, the sign of a fool-crow, has 
 given place to the dark brown eye of the old 
 stager. They know their drill now and have 
 learned sentry duty. They have been taught 
 guns and traps and taken a special course in 
 wire-worms and greencorn. They know that 
 a fat old farmer's wife is much less dangerous, 
 though so much larger, than her fifteen-year-old 
 son, and they can tell the boy from his sister. 
 They know that an umbrella is not a gun, and 
 they can count up to six, which is fair for 
 young crows, though Silverspot can go up 
 nearly to thirty. They know the smell of gun- 
 powder and the south side of a hemlock-tree, 
 and begin to plume themselves upon being 
 crows of the world. They always fold their 
 wings three times after alighting, to be sure 
 that it is neatly done. They know how to 
 worry a fox into giving up half his dinner, and 
 also that when the kingbird or the purple mar- 
 tin assails them they must dash into a bush, for 
 it is as impossible to fight the little pests as it is 
 for the fat apple-woman to catch the small boys 
 who have raided her basket. All these things 
 do the young crows know ; but they have taken 
 80 
 
Silvefspot 
 
 no lessons in egg-hunting yet, for it is not the 
 season. They are unacquainted with clams, 
 and have never tasted horses' eyes, or seen 
 sprouted corn, and they don't know a thing 
 about travel, the greatest educator of all. They 
 did not think of that two months ago, and 
 since then they have thought of it, but have 
 learned to wait till their betters are ready. 
 
 September sees a great change in the old 
 crows, too. Their moulting is over. They 
 are now in full feather again and proud of their 
 handsome coats. Their health is again good, 
 and with it their tempers are improved. Even 
 old Silverspot, the strict teacher, becomes quite 
 jolly, and the youngsters, who have long ago 
 learned to respect him, begin really to love him. 
 
 He has hammered away at drill, teaching 
 them all the signals and words of command in 
 use, and now it is a pleasure to see them in the 
 early morning. 
 
 ' Company i ! ' the old chieftain would cry 
 in crow, and Company i would answer with a 
 great clamor. 
 
 'My/' and himself leading them, they would 
 all fly straight forward. 
 8i 
 
Silvcrspot 
 
 'Mount!' and straight upward they turned 
 in a moment. 
 
 ' Bunch ! ' and they all massed into a dense 
 black flock. 
 
 'Scatter!' and they spread out like leaves 
 before the wind. 
 
 ' For?n line ! ' and they strung out into the 
 long line of ordinary flight. 
 
 ' Descend ! ' and they all dropped nearly to 
 the ground. 
 
 ' Forage ! ' and they alighted and scattered 
 about to feed, while two of the permanent sen- 
 tries mounted duty — one on a tree to the right, 
 the other on a mound to the far left. A minute 
 or two later Silverspot would cry out, ' A man 
 with a gun ! ' The sentries repeated the cry 
 and the company flew at once in open order as 
 quickly as possible toward the trees. Once be- 
 hind these, they formed line again in safety and 
 returned to the home pines. 
 
 Sentry duty is not taken in turn by all the 
 crows, but a certain number whose watchfulness 
 has been often proved are the perpetual sentries, 
 and are expected to watch and forage at the 
 same time. Rather hard on them it seems to 
 82 
 
Silverspot 
 
 us, but it works well and the crow organization 
 is admitted by all birds to be the very best in 
 existence. 
 
 Finally, each November sees the troop sail 
 away southward to learn new modes of life, new 
 landmarks and new kinds of food, under the 
 guidance of the ever-wise Silverspot. 
 
 Ill 
 
 There is only one time when a crow is a fool, 
 and that is at night. There is only one bird 
 that terrifies the crow, and that is the owl. 
 When, therefore, these come together it is a 
 woful thing for the sable birds. The distant 
 hoot of an owl after dark is enough to make 
 them withdraw their heads from under their 
 wings, and sit trembling and miserable till 
 morning. In very cold weather the exposure 
 of their faces thus has often resulted in a crow 
 having one or both of his eyes frozen, so that 
 blindness followed and therefore death. There 
 are no hospitals for sick crows. 
 83 
 
Silvefspot 
 
 But with the morning their courage comes 
 again, and arousing themselves they ransack 
 the woods for a mile around till they find that 
 owl, and if they do not kill him they at least 
 worry him half to death and drive him twenty 
 miles away. 
 
 In 1893 the crows had come as usual to Cas- 
 tle Frank. I was walking in these woods a few 
 days afterward when I chanced upon the track 
 of a rabbit that had been running at full speed 
 over the snow and dodging about among the 
 trees as though pursued. Strange to tell, I 
 could see no track of the pursuer. I followed 
 the trail and presently saw a drop of blood on 
 the snow, and a little farther on found the part- 
 ly devoured remains of a little brown bunny. 
 What had killed him was a mystery until a care- 
 ful search showed in the snow a great double- 
 toed track and a beautifully pencilled brown 
 feather. Then all was clear — a horned owl. 
 Half an hour later, in passing again by the place, 
 there, in a tree, within ten feet of the bones of 
 his victim, was the fierce-eyed owl himself. The 
 murderer still hung about the scene of his crime. 
 For once circumstantial evidence had not lied. 
 84 
 
o 
 
Silvefspot 
 
 At my approach he gave a guttural ' grrr-oo'' 
 and flew off with low flagging flight to haunt 
 the distant sombre woods. 
 
 Two days afterward, at dawn, there was a great 
 uproar among the crows. I went out early to 
 see, and found some black feathers drifting over 
 the snow. I followed up the wind in the direc- 
 tion from which they came and soon saw the 
 bloody remains of a crow and the great double- 
 toed track which again told me that the mur- 
 derer was the owl. All around were signs of the 
 struggle, but the fell destroyer was too strong. 
 The poor crow had been dragged from his perch 
 at night, when the darkness had put him at a 
 hopeless disadvantage. 
 
 I turned over the remains, and by chance 
 unburied the head — then started with an ex- 
 clamation of sorrow. Alas ! It was the head 
 of old Silverspot. His long life of usefulness 
 to his tribe was over — slain at last by the owl 
 that he had taught so many hundreds of young 
 crows to beware of. 
 
 The old nest on the Sugar Loaf is abandoned 
 now. The crows still come in spring-time to 
 Castle Frank, but without their famous leader 
 87 
 
Silverspot 
 
 their numbers are dwindling, and soon they will 
 be seen no more about the old pine-grove in 
 which they and their forefathers had lived and 
 learned for ages. 
 
Raggylug 
 The Story of a 
 Cottontail Rabbit 
 
Raggylug 
 
 The Story of a Cottontail Rabbit 
 
 Raggylug, or Rag, was the name of a young 
 cottontail rabbit. It was given hirh from his 
 torn and ragged ear, a life-mark that he got 
 in his first adventure. He lived with his mother 
 in OlilSnt's swamp, where I made their acquaint- 
 ance and gathered, in a hundred different ways, 
 the little bits of proof and scraps of truth that at 
 length enabled me to write this history. 
 
 Those who do not know the animals well 
 may think I have humanized them, but those 
 who have lived so near them as to know some- 
 what of their ways and their minds will not 
 think so. 
 
 Truly rabbits have no speech as we under- 
 stand it, but they have a way of conveying ideas 
 by a system of sounds, signs, scents, whisker- 
 93 
 
Ragfgylag 
 
 touches, movements, and example that answers 
 the purpose of speech ; and it must be remem- 
 bered that though in telling this story I free- 
 ly translate from rabbit into English, / repeat 
 nothing that they did not say. 
 
 The rank swamp grass bent over and con- 
 cealed the snug nest where Raggylug's mother 
 had hidden him. She had partly covered him 
 with some of the bedding, and, as always, her 
 last warning was to ' lay low and say nothing, 
 whatever happens.' Though tucked in bed, 
 he was wide awake and his bright eyes were 
 
 94 
 
Ragfgylug: 
 
 taking in that part of his little green world that 
 was straight above. A bliiejay and a red- 
 squirrel, two notorious thieves, were loudly be- 
 rating each other for stealing, and at one time 
 Rag's home bush was the centre of their fight ; 
 a yellow warbler caught a blue butterfly but six 
 inches from his nose, and a scarlet and black 
 ladybug, serenely waving her knobbed feelers, 
 took a long walk up one grassblade, down 
 another, and across the nest and over Rag's 
 face — and yet he never moved nor even winked. 
 
 After a while he heard a strange rustling of 
 the leaves in the near thicket. It was an odd, 
 continuous sound, and though it went this way 
 and that way and came ever nearer, there was 
 no patter of feet with it. Rag had lived his 
 whole life in the Swamp (he was three weeks 
 old) and yet had never heard anything like 
 this. Of course his curiosity was greatly 
 aroused. His mother had cautioned him to 
 lay low, but that was understood to be in case 
 of danger, and this strange sound without foot- 
 falls could not be anything to fear. 
 
 The low rasping went past close at hand, 
 then to the right, then back, and seemed going 
 
 95 
 
Raggylog: 
 
 away. Rag felt he knew what he was about ; 
 he wasn't a baby; it was his duty to learn 
 what il was. He slowly raised his roly-poly 
 body on his short fluffy legs, lifted his little 
 round head above the covering of his nest and 
 peeped out into the woods. The sound had 
 ceased as soon as he moved. He saw nothing, 
 so took one step forward to a clear view, and 
 instantly found himself face to face with an 
 enormous Black Serpent. 
 
 " Mammy," he screamed in mortal terror as 
 the monster darted at him. With all the strength 
 of his tiny limbs he tried to run. But in a 
 flash the Snake had him by one ear and whipped 
 around him with his coils to gloat over the 
 helpless little baby bunny he had secured for 
 dinner. 
 
 " Mam-my — Mam -my," gasped poor little 
 Raggylug as the cruel monster began slowly 
 choking him to death. Very soon the little 
 one's cry would have ceased, but bounding 
 through the woods straight as an arrow came 
 Mammy. No longer a shy, helpless little Molly 
 Cottontail, ready to fly from a shadow : the 
 mother's love was strong in her. The cry of 
 96 
 
'^1/ 
 
 ■ Mammy, Mammy ! " he screamed, in mortal terror. 
 
Ragfgfylug: 
 
 her baby had filled her with the courage of a 
 hero, and — hop, she went over that horrible 
 reptile. Whack, she struck down at him with 
 her sharp hind claws as she passed, giving him 
 such a stinging blow that he squirmed with 
 pain and hissed with anger. 
 
 "M-a-m-m-y," came feebly from the little 
 one. And Mammy came leaping again and 
 again and struck harder and fiercer until the 
 loathsome reptile let go the little one's ear 
 and tried to bite the old one as she leaped over. 
 But all Tie got was a mouthful of wool each 
 time, and Molly's fierce blows began to tell, 
 as long bloody rips were torn in the Black 
 Snake's scaly armor. 
 
 Things were now looking bad for the Snake : 
 and bracing himself for the next charge, he 
 lost his tight hold on Baby Bunny, who at 
 once wriggled out of the coils and away into 
 the underbrush, breathless and terribly fright- 
 ened, but unhurt save that his left ear was much 
 torn by the teeth of that dreadful Serpent. 
 
 Molly now had gained all she wanted. She 
 ■ had no notion of fighting for glory or revenge. 
 Away she went into the woods and the little 
 99 
 
Ragfgylog: 
 
 one followed the shining beacon of her snow- 
 white tail until she led him to a safe corner of 
 the Swamp. 
 
 ir 
 
 Old Olifant's Swamp was a rough, brambly 
 tract of second-growth woods, with a marshy 
 pond and a stream through the middle. A few 
 ragged remnants of the old forest still stood 
 in it and a few of the still older trunks were 
 lying about as dead logs in the brushwood. 
 The land about the pond was of that willow- 
 grown sedgy kind that cats and horses avoid, 
 but that cattle do not fear. The drier zones 
 were overgrown with briars and young trees. 
 The outermost belt of all, that next the fields, 
 was of thrifty, gummy - trunked young pines 
 whose living needles in air and dead ones on 
 earth offer so delicious an odor to the nostrils 
 of the passer-by, and so deadly a breath to 
 those seedlings that would compete with them 
 for the worthless waste they grow on. 
 
 All around for a long way were smooth 
 fields, and the only wild tracks that ever crossed 
 
Ragrgylug: 
 
 these fields were those of a thoroughly bad and 
 unscrupulous fox that lived only too near. 
 
 The chief indwellers of the swamp were 
 Molly and Rag. Their nearest neighbors were 
 far away, and their nearest kin were dead. 
 This was their home, and here they lived to- 
 gether, and here Rag received the training that 
 made his success in life. 
 
 Molly was a^ood little mother and gave him 
 a careful bringing up. The first thing he 
 learned was ' to lay low and say nothing. ' His 
 adventure with the snake taught him the wis- 
 dom of this. Rag never forgot that lesson ; af- 
 terward he did as he was told, and it made the 
 other things come more easily. 
 
 The second lesson he learned was ' freeze. ' 
 It grows out of the first, and Rag was taught it 
 as soon as he could run. 
 
 ' Freezing ' is simply doing nothing, turning 
 into a statue. As soon as he finds a foe near, 
 . no matter what he is doing, a well-trained Cot- 
 tontail keeps just as he is and stops all move- 
 ment, for the creatures of the woods are of the 
 same color as the things in the woods and 
 catch the eye only while moving. So when 
 
 lOI 
 
Ragfgfylagf 
 
 enemies chance together, the one who first sees 
 the other can keep himself unseen by ' freez- 
 ing ' and thus have all the advantage of choos- 
 ing the time for attack or escape. Only those 
 who live in the woods know the importance of 
 this ; every wild creature and every hunter 
 must learn it ; all learn to do it well, but not 
 one of them can beat Molly Cottontail in the 
 doing. Rag's mother taught .him this trick 
 by example. When the white cotton cushion 
 that she always carried to sit on went bobbing 
 away through the woods, of course Rag ran his 
 hardest to keep up. But when Molly stopped 
 and 'froze,' the natural wish to copy made 
 him do the same. 
 
 But the best lesson of all that Rag learned 
 from his mother was the secret of the Brierbrush. 
 It is a very old secret now, and to make it 
 plain you must first hear why the Brierbrush 
 quarrelled with the beasts. 
 
Raggfylog: 
 
 
 L(m^ ago the Roses used 
 to grow on bushes that had no thorns. 
 But the Squirrels and Mice used to 
 climb after them, the Cattle used to knock 
 them off with their horns, the Possum 
 would twitch them off with his long tail, 
 and the Deer, with his sharp hoofs, would 
 break them down. So the Brier brush 
 armed itself with spikes to protect its roses 
 and declared eternal war on all creatures that 
 climbed trees, or had horns, or hoofs, or long 
 tails. This left the Brierbrush at peace with 
 none but Molly Cottontail, who could not climb, 
 was hornless, hoofless, and had scarcely any 
 tail at all. 
 
 In truth the Cottontail had never harmed a 
 Brierrose, and having now so many enemies 
 the Rose took the Rabbit into especial friend- 
 ship, and when dangers are threatening poor 
 Bunny he flies to the nearest Brierbrush, cer- 
 tain that it is ready with a million keen and 
 poisoned daggers to defend him. 
 103 
 
So the secret that Rag learned from his mother 
 was, ' The Brierbush is your best friend.' 
 
 Much of the time that season was spent in 
 learning the lay of the land, and the bramble 
 and brier mazes. And Rag learned them so 
 well that he could go all around the swamp by 
 two different ways and never leave the friendly 
 briers at any place for more than five hops. 
 
 It is not long since the foes of the Cotton, 
 tails were disgusted to find that man had 
 brought a new kind of bramble and planted it 
 in long lines throughout the country. It was 
 so strong that no creatures could break it down, 
 and so sharp that the toughest skin was torn by 
 it. Each year there was more of it and each 
 year it became a more serious matter to the 
 wild creatures. But Molly Cottontail had no 
 fear of it. She was not brought up in the briers 
 for nothing. Dogs and foxes, cattle and sheep, 
 and even man himself might be torn by those 
 fearful spikes : but Molly understands it and 
 lives and thrives under it. And the further it 
 spreads the more safe country there is for the 
 Cottontail. And the name of this new and 
 dreaded bramble is — the barbed-wire fence. 
 104 
 
Ragfgylug: 
 
 III 
 
 Molly had no other children to look after 
 now, so Rag had all her care. He was unusu- 
 ally quick and bright as well as strong, and he 
 had uncommonly good chances ; so he got on 
 remarkably well. 
 
 All the season she kept him busy learning the 
 tricks of the trail, and what to eat and drink 
 and what not to touch. Day by day she worked 
 to train him ; little by Httle she taught him, 
 putting into his mind hundreds of ideas that her 
 own life or early training had stored in hers, 
 and so equipped him with the knowledge that 
 makes life possible to their kind. 
 
 Close by her side in the clover-field or the 
 thicket he would sit and copy her when she 
 wobbled her nose ' to keep her smeller clear,' 
 and pull the bite from her mouth or taste her 
 lips to make sure he was getting the same kind 
 of fodder. Still copying her, he learned to 
 comb his ears with his claws and to dress his 
 coat and to bite the burrs out of his vest and 
 socks. He learned, too, that nothing but clear 
 105 
 
Raggrylug 
 
 dewdrops from the briers were fit for a rabbit 
 to drink, as water which has once touched the 
 earth must surely bear some taint. Thus he 
 began the study of woodcraft, the oldest of all 
 sciences. 
 
 As soon as Rag was big enough to go out 
 alone, his mother taught him the signal code. 
 Rabbits telegraph each other by thumping On 
 the ground with their hind feet. Along the 
 ground sound carries far ; a thump that at six 
 feet from the earth is not heard at twenty yards 
 will, near the ground, be heard at least one 
 hundred yards. Rabbits have very keen hear- 
 ing, and so might hear this same thump at two 
 hundred yards, and that would reach from end to 
 end of Olifant's Swamp. A single thmnp means 
 ' look out ' or ' freeze. ' A slow thump thump 
 means ' come.' A fast thutnp thump means 
 ' danger ; ' and a very fast thump thutnp thump 
 means ' run for dear life-.' 
 
 At another time, when the weather was fine 
 and the bluejays were quarrelling among them- 
 selves, a sure sign that no dangerous foe was 
 about, Rag began a new study. Molly, by 
 flattening her ears, gave the sign to squat. Then 
 io6 
 
Raggryrlu? 
 
 she ran far away in the thicket and gave the 
 thumping signal for ' come.' Rag set out at a 
 run to the place but could not find Molly. He 
 thumped, but got no reply. Setting carefully 
 about his search he found her foot-scent and 
 following this strange guide, that the beasts all 
 know so well and man does not know at all, he 
 worked out the trail and found her where she 
 was hidden. Thus he got his first lesson, in 
 trailing, and thus it was that the games of hide 
 and seek they played became the schooling for 
 the serious chase of which there was so much in 
 his after life. 
 
 Before that first season of schooling was over 
 he had learnt all the principal tricks by which 
 a rabbit lives and in not a few problems showed 
 himself a veritable genius. 
 
 He was an adept at 'tree,' 'dodge,' and 
 'squat,' he Could play 'log-lump,' with 'wind' 
 and ' baulk ' with ' back- track ' so well that he 
 scarcely needed any other tricks. He had not 
 yet tried, it, but he knew just how to play 
 ' barb-wire,' which is a new trick of the brill- 
 iant order ; he had made a special study of 
 'sand,' which burns up all scent, and he was 
 107 
 
-^^<'. 
 
 
 Ragfgfylugf 
 
 deeply versed in 'change-off,' 'fence,' and 
 ' double ' as well as ' hole-up,' which is a trick 
 requiring longer notice, and yet he never forgot 
 that ' lay-low ' is the beginning of all wisdom 
 and ' brierbush ' the only trick that is always 
 safe. 
 
 He was taught the signs by which to know 
 all his foes and then the way to baffle them. 
 For hawks, owls, foxes, hounds, curs, minks, 
 weasels, cats, skunks, coons, and men, each 
 have a different plan of pursuit, and for each 
 and all of these evils he was taught a remedy. 
 
 And for knowledge of the, enemy's approach 
 he learnt to depend first on himself and his 
 mother, and then on the bluejay. " Never 
 neglect the bluejay's warning," said Molly; "he 
 is a mischief-maker, a marplot, and a thief all the 
 time, but nothing escapes him. He wouldn't 
 mind harming us, but he cannot, thanks to the 
 briers, and his enemies are ours, so it is well to 
 heed him. If the woodpecker cries a warning 
 you can trust him, he is honest ; but he is a fool 
 beside the bluejay, and though the bluejay of- 
 ten tells lies for mischief you are safe to believe 
 him when he brings ill news." 
 
 «V,I 
 
Raggfylugf 
 
 The barb-wire trick takes a deal of nerve and 
 the best of legs. It was long before Rag vent- 
 ured to play it, but as he came to his full pow- 
 ers it became one of his favorites. 
 
 "It's fine play for those who can do it," 
 said Molly. " First you lead oif your dog on a 
 straightaway and warm him up a bit by nearly 
 letting him catch you. Then keeping just one 
 hop ahead, you lead him at a long slant full tilt 
 into a breast-high barb-wire. I've seen many a 
 dog and fox crippled, and one big hound killed 
 outright this way. But I've also seen more than 
 one rabbit lose his life in trying it." 
 
 Rag early learnt what some rabbits never 
 learn at all, that ' hole-up ' is not such a fine 
 ruse as it seems ; it may be the certain safety of 
 a wise rabbit, but soon or late is a sure death- 
 trap to a fool. A young rabbit always thinks 
 of it first, an old rabbit never tries it till all 
 others fail. It means escape from a man or 
 dog, a fox or a bird of prey, but it means sud- 
 den death if the foe is a ferret, mink, skunk, or 
 weasel. 
 
 There were but two ground-holes in the 
 Swamp. One on the Sunning Bank, which was 
 log 
 

 Raggylog 
 
 a dry sheltered knoll in the South-end. It was 
 open and sloping to the sun, and here on fine 
 days the Cottontails took their sunbaths. They 
 stretched out among the fragrant pine needles 
 and winter-green in odd cat-like positions, and 
 turned slowly over as though roasting and wish- 
 ing all sides well done. And they blinked and 
 panted, and squirmed as if in dreadful pain; 
 yet this was one of the keenest enjoyments they 
 knew. 
 
 Just over the brow of the knoll was a large 
 pine stump. Its grotesque roots wriggled out 
 above the yellow sand-bank like dragons, and 
 under their protecting claws a sulky old wood- 
 chuck had digged a den long ago. He became 
 more sour and ill-tempered as weeks went by, 
 and one day waited to quarrel with Olifant's 
 dog instead of going in so that Molly Cotton- 
 tail was able to take possession of the den an 
 hour later. 
 
 This, the pine-root hole, was afterward very 
 coolly taken by a self-sufficient young skunk who 
 with less valor might have enjoyed greater lon- 
 gevity, for he imagined that even man with a 
 gun would fly from him. Instead of keeping 
 no 
 
Raggylugr 
 
 Molly from the den for good, therefore, his 
 reign, like that of a certain Hebrew king, was 
 over in four days. 
 
 The other, the fern-hole, was in a fern thicket 
 next the clover field. It was small and damp, 
 and useless except as a last retreat. It also was 
 the work of a woodchuck, a well-meaning 
 friendly neighbor, but a hare-brained youngster 
 whose skin in the form of a whip-lash was now 
 developing higher horse-power in the Olifant 
 working team. 
 
 "Simple justice," said the old man, "for 
 that hide was raised on stolen feed that the team 
 would a' turned into horse-power anyway. ' ' 
 
 The Cottontails were now sole owners of the 
 holes, and did not go near them when they 
 could help it, lest anything like a path should be 
 made that might betray these last retreats to an , 
 enemy. ^^^^^ 
 
 There was also the hollow hickory, which, ^* 
 though nearly fallen, was still green, and had 
 the great advantage of being open at both ends. 
 This had long been the residence of one Lotor, 
 a solitary old coon whose ostensible calling was 
 frog-hunting, and who, like the monks of old, 
 
-'I^l,^ ^^ 
 
 
 .>'■ 
 
 
 
 ff^^k^ 
 
 ; / 
 
 '■ W-^ 
 
 \.;/ 
 
 \ ■' <■>■ 
 
 \^ ^'(i:x^Jr 
 
 '/>' 
 
 ■ //^-''•' 
 
 fl 
 
 :/. /' 
 
 i 
 
 Raggylugf 
 
 was supposed to abstain from all flesh food. But 
 it was shrewdly suspected that he needed but 
 a chance to indulge in a diet of rabbit. When 
 at last one dark night he was killed while raid- 
 ing Olifant's hen-house, Molly, so far from feel- 
 ing a pang of regret, took possession of his cosy 
 nest with a sense of unbounded relief. 
 
 IV 
 
 Bright August sunlight was flooding the 
 Swamp in the morning. Everything seemed 
 soaking in the warm radiance. A little brown 
 swamp-sparrow was teetering on a long rush in 
 the pond. Beneath him there were open spaces 
 of dirty water that brought down a few scraps 
 of the blue sky, and worked it and the yellow 
 duckweed into an exquisite mosaic, with a little 
 wrong-side picture of the bird in the middle. 
 On the bank behind was a great vigorous growth 
 of golden green skunk-cabbage, that cast dense 
 shadow over the brown swamp tussocks. 
 
 The eyes of the swamp-sparrow were not 
 trained to take in the color glories, but he saw 
 what we might have missed ; that two of the 
 
Ragfgylugf 
 
 numberless leafy brown bumps under the broad 
 cabbage-leaves were furry living things, with 
 noses that never ceased to move up and down 
 whatever else was still. 
 
 It was Molly and Rag. They were stretched 
 under the skunk-cabbage, not because they liked 
 its rank smell, but because the winged ticks 
 could not stand it at all and so left them in 
 peace. 
 
 Rabbits have no set time for lessons, they 
 are always learning ; but what the lesson is de- 
 pends on the present stress, and that must 
 arrive before it is known. They went to this 
 place for a quiet rest, but had not been long 
 there when suddenly a warning note from the 
 ever-watchful bluejay caused Molly's nose and 
 ears to go up and her tail to tighten to her 
 back. Away across the Swamp was Olifant's 
 big black and white dog, coming straight 
 toward them. 
 
 " Now," said Molly, "squat while I go and 
 keep that fool out of mischief. ' ' Away she 
 went to meet him and she fearlessly dashed 
 across the dog's path. 
 
 " Bow-ow-ow," he fairly yelled as he bound- 
 113 
 
Raggylug 
 
 ed after Molly, but she kept just beyond his 
 reach and led him where the million daggers 
 struck fast and deep, till his tender ears were 
 scratched raw, and guided him at last plump into 
 a hidden barbed-wire fence, where he got such a 
 gashing that he went homeward howling with 
 pain. After making a short double, a loop and a 
 baulk in case the dog should come back, Molly 
 returned to find that Rag in his eagerness was 
 standing bolt upright and craning his neck to 
 see the sport. 
 
 This disobedience made her so angry that she 
 struck him with her hind foot and knocked him 
 over in the mud. 
 
 One day as they fed on the near clover field 
 a red-tailed hawk came swooping after them. 
 Molly kicked up her hind legs to make fun of 
 him and skipped into the briers along one of 
 their old pathways, where of course the hawk 
 could not follow. It was the main path from 
 the Creekside Thicket to the Stove-pipe brush- 
 pile. Several creepers had grown across it, and 
 Molly, keeping one eye on the hawk, set to work 
 and cut the creepers off. Rag watched her, 
 than ran on ahead, and cut some more that 
 
 114 
 
Raggylogf 
 
 were across the path. "That's right," said 
 Molly, "always keep the runways clear, you 
 will need them often enough. Not wide, but 
 clear. Cut everything like a creeper across 
 them and some day you will find you have 
 cut a snare. "A what?" asked Rag, as he 
 scratched his right ear with his left hind foot. 
 
 "A snare is something that looks like a 
 creeper, but it doesn't grow and it's worse than 
 all the hawks in the world," said Molly, glanc- 
 ing at the now far-away red-tail, " for there it 
 hides, night and day in the runway till the 
 chance to catch you comes. ' ' 
 
 "I don't believe it could catch me," said 
 Rag, with the pride of youth as he rose on his 
 heels to rub his chin and whiskers high up on a 
 smooth sapling. Rag did not know he was doing 
 this, but his mother saw and knew it was a sign, 
 like the changing of a boy's voice, that her little 
 one was no longer a baby but would soon be a 
 grown-up Cottontail. 
 
 "5 
 
Raggylugf 
 
 There is magic in running water. Who does 
 not know it and feel it? The railroad builder 
 fearlessly throws his bank across the wide bog or 
 lake, or the sea itself, but the tiniest rill of run- 
 ning water he treats with great respect, studies 
 its wish and its way and gives it all it seems to 
 ask. The thirst -parched traveller in the poi- 
 sonous alkali deserts holds back in deadly fear 
 from the sedgy ponds till he finds one down 
 whose centre is a thin, clear line, and a faint 
 flow, the sign of running, living water, and joy- 
 fully he drinks. 
 
 There is magic in running water, no evil 
 spell can cross it. Tam O'Shanter proved its 
 potency in time of sorest need. The wild-wood 
 creature with its deadly foe following tireless on 
 the trail scent, realizes its nearing doom and 
 feels an awful spell. Its strength is spent, its 
 every trick is tried in vain till the good Angel 
 leads it to the water, the running, living water, 
 and dashing in it follows the cooling stream, 
 and then with force renewed takes to the woods 
 again. 
 
 ii6 
 
Ragrgfylug 
 
 There is magic in running water. The 
 hounds come to the very spot and halt and cast 
 about ; and halt and cast in vain. Their spell 
 is broken by the merry stream, and the wild 
 thing lives its life. 
 
 And this was one of the great secrets that 
 Raggylug learned from his mother — " after the 
 Brierrose, the Water is your friend." 
 
 One hot, muggy night in August, Molly led 
 Rag through the woods. The cotton-white 
 cushion she wore under her tail twinkled ahead 
 and was his guiding lantern, though it went out 
 as soon as she stopped and sat on it. After a 
 few runs and stops to listen, they came to the 
 edge of the pond. The hylas in the trees above 
 them were singing ' sleep, sleep,'' and away out 
 on a sunken log in the deep water, up to his .^_ 
 
 chin in the cooling bath, a bloated bullfrog was j/ 3^"/ 
 
 singing the praises of a ^jug <?' rum.' J'^^^JM^-^'^ ~~-j 
 
 "Follow me still," said Molly, in rabbit, '^.^o^m 
 
 and ' flop ' she went into the pond and struck 
 out for the sunken log in the middle. Rag 
 flinched but plunged with a little 'ouch,' 
 gasping and wobbling his nose very fast but 
 still copying his mother. The same move- 
 iig 
 
Ragfgrlugr 
 
 ments as on land sent him through the water, 
 and thus he found he could swim. On he went 
 till he reached the sunken log and scrambled up 
 by his dripping mother on the high dry end, 
 with a rushy screen around them and the Water 
 that tells no tales. After this in warm black 
 nights when that old fox from Springfield came 
 prowling through the Swamp, Rag would note 
 the place of the bullfrog's voice, for in case of 
 direst need it might be a guide to safety. 
 And thenceforth the words of the song that 
 the bullfrog sang were, ' Come, come, in danger 
 come. ' 
 
 This was the latest study that Rag took up 
 with his mother — it was really a post-graduate 
 course, for many little rabbits never learn it at 
 all. 
 
 VI 
 
 No wild animal dies of old age. Its life has 
 soon or late a tragic end. It is only a question 
 of how long it can hold out against its foes. 
 But Rag's life was proof that once a rabbit passes 
 out of his youth he is likely to outlive his prime 
 
Ragfgylug: 
 
 and be killed only in the last third of life, the 
 downhill third we call old age. 
 
 The Cottontails had enemies on every side. 
 Their daily life was a series of escapes. For 
 dogs, foxes, cats, skunks, coons, weasels, minks, 
 snakes, hawks, owls, and men, and even insects 
 were all plotting to kill them. They had hun- 
 dreds of adventures, and at least once a day they 
 had to fly for their lives and save themselves by 
 their legs and wits. 
 
 More than once that hateful fox from Spring- 
 field drove them to taking refuge under the 
 wreck of a barbed-wire hog-pen by the spring. 
 But once there they could look calmly at him 
 while he spiked his legs in vain attempts to 
 reach them. 
 
 Once or twice Rag when hunted had played 
 off the hound against a skunk that had seemed 
 likely to be quite as dangerous as the dog. 
 
 Once he was caught alive by a hunter who 
 had a hound and a ferret to help him. But 
 Rag had the luck to escape next day, with a 
 yet deeper distrust of ground holes. He was 
 several times run into the water by the cat, and 
 many times was chased by hawks and owls, but 
 
Raggyltsg: 
 
 for each kind of danger there was a safeguard. 
 His mother taught him the principal dodges, 
 and he improved on them and made many new 
 ones as he grew older. And the older and wiser 
 he grew the less he trusted to his legs, and the 
 more to his wits for safety. 
 
 Ranger was the name of a young hound in 
 the neighborhood. To train him his master 
 used to put him on the trail of one of the Cot- 
 tontails. It was nearly always Rag that they 
 ran, for the young buck enjoyed the runs as 
 much as they did, the spice of danger in them 
 being just enough for zest. He would say : 
 
 " Oh, mother ! here comes the dog again, I 
 must have a run to-day. ' ' 
 
 " You are too bold, Raggy, my son ! " she 
 might reply. " I fear you will run once too 
 often." 
 
 " But, mother, it is such glorious fun to tease 
 that fool dog, and it's all good training. I'll 
 thump if I am too hard pressed, then you can 
 come and change oif while I get my second 
 wind." 
 
 On he would come, and Ranger would take the 
 trail and follow till Rag got tired of it. Then 
 
 122 
 
Ragfgylog: 
 
 he either sent a thumping telegram for help, 
 which brought Molly to take charge of the dog, 
 or he got rid of the dog by some clever trick. 
 A description of one of these shows how well 
 Rag had learned the arts of the woods. 
 
 He knew that his scent lay best near the 
 ground, and was strongest when he was warm. 
 
 v..^ ^ ..^8 
 
 / 
 
 .::7....^..--\. C 
 
 •o^ • .•'■■\i .• ' ,-' 
 
 ^-.THkliet; /i ,' -•:_., ,' 
 
 ^-- • C-. — .- 
 
 fv- 
 
 ""/A ■■ 
 
 - t 
 
 ■. I 
 
 \ 
 
 ?. 
 
 So if he could get off the ground, and be left in 
 peace for half an hour to cool off, and for the 
 trail to stale, he knew he would be safe. When, 
 therefore, he tired of the chase, he made for 
 the Creekside brier-patch, where he 'wound' — 
 that is, zigzagged — till he leftacourseso crooked 
 that the dog was sure to be greatly delayed in 
 working it out. He then went straight to D 
 123 
 
 \ 
 
 ;+; 
 
 
 
 
 V 
 
Ragfgylugf 
 
 in the woods, passing one hop to windward of 
 the high log E. Stopping at D, he followed 
 his back trail to F, here he leaped aside and ran 
 toward G. Then, returning on his trail to J, 
 he waited till the hound passed on his trail at I. 
 Rag then got back on his old trail at H, and 
 followed it to E, where, with a scent-baulk or 
 great leap aside, he reached the high log, and 
 running to its higher end, he sat like a bump. 
 
 Ranger lost much time in the bramble maze, 
 and the scent was very poor when he got it 
 straightened out, and came to D. Here he be- 
 gan to circle to pick it up, and after losing 
 much time, struck the trail Avhich ended sud- 
 denly at G. Again he was at fault, and had to 
 circle to find the trail. Wider and wider the 
 circles, until at last, he passed right under the 
 log Rag was on. But a cold scent, on a cold 
 day, does not go downward much. Rag never 
 budged nor winked, and the hound passed. 
 
 Again the dog came round. This time he 
 crossed the low part of the log, and stopped to 
 smell it. 'Yes, clearly it was rabbity,' but it 
 was a stale scent now ; still he mounted the log. 
 
 It was a trying moment for Rag, as the great 
 124 
 
The hound came sniffing along the log. 
 
Raggfylog: 
 
 hound came sniff-sniffing along the log. But his 
 nerve did not forsake him; the wind was right ; 
 he had his mind made up to bolt as soon as 
 Ranger came halfway up. But he didn't come. 
 A yellow cur would have seen the rabbit sitting 
 there, but the hound did not, and the scent 
 seemed stale, so he leaped off the log, and Rag 
 had won. 
 
 VII 
 
 Rag had never seen any other rabbit than 
 his mother. Indeed he had scarcely thought 
 about there being any other. He was more 
 and more away from her now, and yet he never 
 felt lonely, for rabbits do not hanker for com- 
 pany. But one day in December, while he was 
 among the red dogwood brush, cutting a new 
 path to the great Creekside thicket, he saw all at 
 once against the sky over the Sunning Bank the 
 head and ears of a strange rabbit. The new- 
 comer had the air of a well-pleased discoverer 
 and soon came hopping Rag's way along one of 
 his paths into his Swamp. A new feeling rushed 
 over him, that boiling mixture of anger and 
 hatred called jealousy. 
 
 127 
 
Ragfgylog: 
 
 The stranger stopped at one of Rag's rubbing- 
 trees — that is, a tree against which he used to 
 stand on his heels and rub his chin as far up as 
 he could reach. He thought he did this simply 
 because he liked it ; but all buck-rabbits do so, 
 , and several ends are served. It makes the tree 
 ^ rabbity, so that other rabbits know that this 
 swamp already belongs to a rabbit family and 
 is not open for settlement. It also lets the 
 next one know by the scent if the last caller 
 was an acquaintance, and the height from the 
 ground of the rubbing-places shows how tall 
 the rabbit is. 
 
 Now to his disgust Rag noticed that the new- 
 comer was a head taller than himself, and a 
 big, stout buck at that. This was a wholly new 
 experience and filled Rag with a wholly new 
 feeling. The spirit of murder entered his 
 heart ; he chewed very hard with nothing in 
 his mouth, and hopping forward onto a smooth 
 piece of hard ground he struck slowly : 
 
 'Thump — thump — thump,' which is a rabbit 
 telegram for, ' Get out of my swamp, or fight.' 
 
 The new-comer made a big V with his ears, 
 sat upright for a few seconds, then, dropping on 
 128 
 
Raggylug: 
 
 his fore-feet, sent along the ground a louder, 
 stronger, ' Thump — thump — thump.' 
 
 And so war was declared. 
 
 They came together by short runs side-wise, 
 each one trying to get the wind of the other 
 and watching for a chance advantage. The 
 stranger was a big, heavy buck with plenty of 
 muscle, but one or two trifles such as treading 
 on a turnover and failing to close when Rag 
 was on low ground showed that he had not 
 much cunning and counted on winning his 
 battles by his weight. On he came at last and 
 Rag met him like a little fury. As they came 
 together they leaped up and struck out with 
 their hind feet. Thud, thud they came, and 
 down went poor little Rag. In a moment the 
 stranger was on him with his teeth and Rag 
 was bitten, and lost several tufts of hair before 
 he could get up: But he was swift of foot and 
 got out of reach. Again he charged and again 
 he was knocked down and bitten severely. He 
 was no match for his foe, and it soon became a 
 question of saving his own life. 
 
 Hurt as he was he sprang away, with the stran- 
 ger in full chase, and bound to kill him as well 
 129 
 
Raggfylogf 
 
 as to oust him from the Swamp where he was 
 born. Rag's legs were good and so was his 
 wind. The stranger was big and so heavy that 
 he soon gave up the chase, and it was well for 
 poor Rag that he did, for he was getting stiff 
 from his wounds as well as tired. From that 
 day began a reign of terror for Rag. His 
 training had been against owls, dogs, weasels, 
 men, and so on, but what to do when chased 
 by another rabbit, he did not know. All he 
 knew was to lay low till he was found, then 
 run. 
 
 Poor little Molly was completely terrorized ; 
 she could not help Rag and sought only to 
 hide. But the big buck soon found her 
 out. She tried to run from him, but she was 
 not now so swift as Rag. The stranger made 
 no attempt to kill her, but he made love to her, 
 and because she hated him and tried to get 
 away, he treated her shamefully. Day after 
 day he worried her by following her about, and 
 often, furious at her lasting hatred, he would 
 knock her down and tear out raouthfuls of her 
 soft fur till his rage cooled somewhat, when he 
 would let her go for a while. But his fixed 
 130 
 
Ragfgylug: 
 
 purpose was to kill Rag, whose escape seemed 
 hopeless. There was no other swamp he could 
 go to, and whenever he took a nap now he 
 had to be ready at any moment to dash for his 
 . life. A dozen times a day the big stranger came 
 creeping up to where he slept, but each time 
 the watchful Rag awoke in time to escape. To 
 escape yet not to escape. He saved his life in- 
 deed, but oh ! what a miserable life it had be- 
 come. How maddening to be thus helpless, 
 to see his little mother daily beaten and torn, 
 as well as to see all his favorite feeding-grounds, 
 the cosy nooks, and the pathways he had made 
 with so much labor, forced from him by this 
 hateful brute. Unhappy Rag realized that to 
 the victor belong the spoils, and he hated him 
 more than ever he did fox or ferret. 
 
 How was it to end ? He was wearing out 
 with running and watching and bad food, and 
 little Molly's strength and spirit were breaking 
 down under the long persecution. The stranger 
 was ready to go to all lengths to destroy poor 
 Rag, and at last stooped to the worst crime 
 known among rabbits. However much they 
 may hate each other, all good rabbits forget 
 
 131 
 
Raggylug: 
 
 ^ their feuds when their common enemy appears. 
 
 Yet one day when a great goshawk came swoop- 
 
 ., ing over the Swamp, the stranger, keeping well 
 
 ^^^^^v\\^f/, yJJv// under cover himself, tried again and again to 
 
 •• ^'"■„„Jj^-. -<%-. drive Rag into the open. 
 
 Once or twice the hawk nearly had him, but 
 still the briers saved him, and it was only when 
 the big buck himself came near being caught 
 that he gave it up. And again Rag escaped, 
 but was no better off. He made up his 
 mind to leave, with his mother, if possible, next 
 night and go into the world in quest of some 
 new home when he heard old Thunder, the 
 hound, sniffing and searching about the out- 
 skirts of the swamp, and he resolved on playing 
 a desperate game. He deliberately crossed the 
 hound's view, and the chase that then began was 
 fast and furious. Thrice around the Swamp 
 they went till Rag had made sure that his 
 mother was hidden safely and that his hated 
 foe was in his usual nest. Then right into that 
 nest and plump over him he jumped, giving him 
 a rap with one hind foot as he passed over his 
 head. 
 
 " You miserable fool, I kill you yet^" cried 
 132 
 
Ragfg-ylog: 
 
 the stranger, and up he jumped only to find him- 
 self between Rag and the dog and heir to all 
 the peril of the chase. 
 
 On came the hound baying hotly on the 
 straight-away scent. The buck's weight and 
 size were great advantages in a rabbit fight, but 
 now they were fatal. He did not know many 
 tricks. Just the simple ones like ' double,' 
 ' wind,' and ' hole-up,' that every baby Bunny 
 knows. But the chase was too close for doub- 
 ling and winding, and he didn't know where 
 the holes were. 
 
 It was a straight race. The brier-rose, kind 
 to all rabbits alike, did its best, but it was no 
 use. The baying of the hound was fast and 
 steady. The crashing of the brush and the 
 yelping of the hound each time the briers tore 
 his tender ears were borne to the two rabbits 
 where they crouched in hiding. But suddenly 
 these sounds stopped, there was a scuffle, then 
 loud and terrible screaming. 
 
 Rag knew what it meant and it sent a shiver 
 through him, but he soon forgot that when all 
 was over and rejoiced to be once more the 
 master of the dear old Swamp. 
 
 133 
 
RsLggylug 
 
 VIII 
 
 Old Olifant had doubtless a right to burn all 
 those brush-piles in the east and south of the 
 Swamp and to clear up the wreck of the old 
 barbed-wire hog-pen just below the spring. But 
 it was none the less hard on Rag and his mother. 
 The first were their various residences and out- 
 posts, and the second their grapd fastness and 
 safe retreat. 
 
 They had so long held the Swamp and felt it 
 to be their very own in every part and suburb, 
 -including Olifant's grounds and buildings — 
 that they would have resented the appearance 
 of another rabbit even about the adjoining 
 barnyard. 
 
 Their claim, that of long, successful occu- 
 pancy, was exactly the same as that by which 
 most nations hold their land, and it would be 
 hard to find a better right. 
 
 During the time of the January thaw the 
 Olifants had cut the rest of the large wood 
 about the pond and curtailed the Cottontails' 
 domain on all sides. But they still clung to the 
 dwindling Swamp, for it was their home and 
 
 134 
 
Ragfgylog: 
 
 they were loath to move to foreign parts. 
 
 Their life of daily perils went on, but they were 
 
 still fleet of foot, long of wind, and bright of 
 
 wit. Of late they had been somewhat troubled ii ' ''& >• 
 
 by a mink that had wandered up-stream to their §\^^^^ \^ Si,''^^^// 
 
 quiet nook. A little judicious guidance had '^- 4 j, ^^r"^ -^ 
 
 transferred the uncomfortable visitor to Oli- ^- ^— ^ ^' >?' ^'' 
 
 fant's hen-house. But they were not yet quite ^'K'l^ ? ^vm»J 
 
 sure that he had been properly looked after. So ^''-—' 
 for the present they gave up using the ground- ^s^^" 
 holes, which were, of course, dangerous blind- 
 alleys, and stuck closer than ever to the briers 
 and the brush-piles that were left. 
 
 That first snow had quite gone and the 
 weather was bright and warm until now. Molly, 
 feeling a touch of rheumatism, was somewhere 
 in the lower thicket seeking a teaberry tonic. 
 Rag was sitting in the weak sunlight on a bank 
 in the east side. The smoke from the fa- 
 miliar gable chimney of Olifant's house came 
 fitfully drifting a pale blue haze through the 
 underwoods and showing as a dull brown 
 against the brightness of the sky. The sun-gilt 
 gable was cut off midway by the banks of brier- 
 brush, that purple in shadow shone like rods of 
 135 
 
Ragfgylug: 
 
 blazing crimson and gold in the light. Beyond 
 the house the barn with its gable and roof, new 
 gilt as the house, stood up like a Noah's ark. 
 
 The sounds that came from it, and yet more 
 the delicious smell that mingled with the smoke, 
 told Rag that the animals were being fed cab- 
 bage in the yard. Rag's mouth watered at the 
 idea of the feast. He blinked and blinked as 
 he snuffed its odorous promises, for he loved 
 cabbage dearly. But then he had been to the 
 barnyard the night before after a few paltry 
 clover-tops, and no wise rabbit would go two 
 nights running to the same place. 
 
 Therefore he did the wise thing. He moved 
 across where he could not smell the cabbage and 
 made his supper of a bundle of hay that had 
 been blown from the stack. Later, when about 
 to settle for the night, he was joined by Molly, 
 who had taken her teaberry and then eaten her 
 frugal meal of sweet birch near the Sunning 
 Bank. 
 
 Meanwhile the sun had gone about his busi- 
 ness elsewhere, taking all his gold and glory 
 with him. Off in the east a big black shutter 
 came pushing up and rising higher and higher; 
 136 
 
it spread over the whole sky, shut out all light 
 and left the world a very gloomy place indeed. 
 Then another mischief-maker, the wind, taking 
 advantage of the sun's absence, came on the scene 
 and set about brewing trouble. The weather 
 turned colder and colder ; it seemed worse than 
 when the ground had been covered with snow. 
 
 " Isn't this terribly cold ? How I wish we 
 had our stove-pipe brush-pile," said Rag. 
 
 " A good night for the pine-root hole," re- 
 plied Molly, ' ' but we have not yet seen the 
 pelt of that mink on the end of the barn, and 
 it is not safe till we do." 
 
 The hollow hickory was gone — in fact at this 
 very moment its trunk, lying in the wood-yard, 
 was harboring the mink they feared. So the 
 Cottontails hopped to the south side of the pond 
 and, choosing a brush-pile, they crept under and 
 snuggled down for the night, facing the wind 
 but with their noses in different directions so as 
 to go out different ways in case of alarm. The 
 wind blew harder and colder as the hours went 
 by, and about midnight a fine icy snow came 
 ticking down on the dead leaves and hissing 
 through the brush heap. It might seem a poor 
 137 
 
Ra8:8:yl«8: 
 
 night for hunting, but that old fox from Spring- 
 field was out. He came pointing up the wind 
 in the shelter of the Swamp and chanced in the 
 lee of the brush-pile, where he scented the 
 sleeping Cottontails. He halted for a moment, 
 then came stealthily sneaking up toward the 
 brush under which his nose told him the rabbits 
 were crouching. The noise of the wind and 
 the sleet enabled him to come quite close be- 
 fore Molly heard the faint crunch of a dry 
 leaf under his paw. She touched Rag's whis- 
 kers, and both were fully awake just as the fox 
 sprang on them ; but they always slept with their 
 legs ready for a jump. Molly darted out into 
 the blinding storm. The fox missed his spring 
 but followed like a racer, while Rag dashed oif 
 to one side. 
 
 There was only one road for Molly; that was 
 straight up the wind, and bounding for her 
 life she gained a little over the unfrozen mud 
 that would not carry the fox, till she reached 
 the margin of the pond. No chance to turn 
 now, on she must go. 
 
 Splash ! splash ! through the weeds she went, 
 then plunge into the deep water. 
 138 
 
No chance to turn now. 
 
Raggylogf 
 
 And plunge went the fox close behind. But 
 it was too much for Reynard on such a night. 
 He turned back, and Molly, seeing only one 
 course, struggled through the reeds into the deep 
 water and struck out for the other shore. But 
 there was a strong headwind. The little waves, 
 icy cold, broke over her head as she swam, and 
 the water was full of snow that blocked her 
 way like soft ice, or floating mud. The dark 
 line of the other shore seemed far, far away, 
 with perhaps the fox waiting for her there. 
 
 But she laid her ears flat to be out of the gale, 
 and bravely put forth all her strength with wind 
 and tide against her. After a long, weary 
 swim in the cold water, she had nearly reached 
 the farther reeds when a great mass of floating 
 snow barred her road; then the wind on the 
 bank made strange, fox-like sounds that robbed 
 her of all force, and she was drifted far back- 
 ward before she could get free from the floating 
 bar. 
 
 Again she struck out, but slowly — oh so 
 slowly now. And when at last she reached the 
 lee of the tall reeds, her limbs were numbed, 
 her strength spent, her brave little heart was 
 
 141 
 
Raggylog 
 
 sinking, and she cared no more whether the fox 
 were there or not. Through the reeds she did 
 indeed pass, but once in the weeds her course 
 wavered and slowed, her feeble strokes no longer 
 sent her landward, the ice forming around her, 
 stopped her altogether. In a little while the 
 cold, weak limbs ceased to move, the furry nose- 
 tip of the little mother Cottontail wobbled no 
 more, and the soft brown eyes were closed in 
 death. 
 
 But there was no fox waiting to tear her with 
 ravenous jaws. Rag had escaped the first onset 
 of the foe, and as soon as he regained his wits 
 he came running back to change-off and so help 
 his mother. He met the old fox going round 
 the pond to meet Molly and led him far and 
 away, then dismissed him with a barbed-wire 
 gash on his head, and came to the bank and 
 sought about and trailed and thumped, but all 
 his searching was in vain; he could not find his 
 little mother. He never saw her again, and he 
 never knew whither she went, for she slept her 
 never-waking sleep in the ice-arms of her friend 
 the Water that tells no tales. 
 143 
 
Poor little Molly Cottontail ! She was a true 
 heroine, yet only one of unnumbered millions 
 that without a thought of heroism have lived 
 and done their best in their little world, and 
 died. She fought a good fight in the battle of 
 Hfe. She was good stuff ; the stuff that never 
 dies. For flesh of her flesh and brain of her 
 brain was Rag. She lives in him, and through 
 him transmits a finer fibre to her race. 
 
 And Rag still lives in the Swamp. Old Olifant 
 died that winter, and the unthrifty sons ceased 
 to clear the Swamp oi" mend the wire fences. 
 Within a single year it was a wilder place than 
 ever ; fresh trees and brambles grew, and falling 
 wires made many Cottontail castles and last re- 
 treats that dogs and foxes dared not storm. 
 And there to this day lives Rag. He is a big 
 strong buck now and fears no rivals. He has 
 a large family of his own, and a pretty brown 
 wife that he got no one knows where. There, no 
 doubt, he and his children's children will flour- 
 ish for many years to come, and there you may 
 see them any sunny evening if you have learnt 
 their signal code, and choosing a good spot on 
 the ground, know just how and when to thump it. 
 
 143 
 
-M 
 
 m 
 Uii 
 
 m 
 
 Bingo 
 
 The Story of 
 My Dog 
 
Bingo 
 
 " IJe jFrancftelien'a ^ogae leaptb evct a st^Ie, 
 Hn6 ses Bclcpt bim lljrtel JBingo, 
 
 HnS teiB sclept bim Isttel SSfngo, 
 
 !Se jfranclielsn's wsfe bteweb nuttesbcown a^Ie, 
 Bnb be yclept ^tte rare gsote Stingo, 
 
 SsU = 1I = in = = ®, 
 Bn& be sclept ^tte rare goobe Stingo. 
 
 •Row '86 not tbls a prett^c rbieme, 
 H tbsnlie stte sa biee Jingo, 
 
 1 tb^enlie stte us bje Jingo." 
 
 146 
 
Bingo 
 
 The Story of My Dog 
 
 I 
 
 T was early in November, 1882, and 
 the Manitoba winter had just set in. 
 I was tilting back in my chair for a 
 few lazy moments after breakfast 
 idly alternating my gaze from the 
 one window-pane of our shanty, 
 through which was framed a bit of 
 the prairie and the end of our cowshed, to the 
 old rhyme of the ' Franckelyn's dogge' pinned 
 on the logs near by. But the dreamy mixture 
 of rhyme and view was quickly dispelled by 
 the sight of a large gray animal dashing across 
 the prairie into the cowshed, with a smaller 
 black and white animal in hot pursuit. 
 '47 
 
Bingo 
 
 "A wolf," I exclaimed, and seizing a rifle 
 dashed out to help the dog. But before I 
 could get there they had left the stable, and 
 after a short run over the snow the wolf again 
 turned at bay, and the dog, our neighbor's 
 collie, circled about watching his chance to 
 snap. 
 
 I fired a couple of long shots, which had 
 the effect only of setting them off again over 
 the prairie. After another run this matchless 
 dog closed and seized the wolf by the haunch, 
 but again retreated to , avoid the fierce return 
 chop. Then there was another stand at bay, 
 and again a race over the snow. Every few 
 hundred yards this scene was repeated. The 
 dog managing so that each fresh rush should be 
 toward the settlement, while the wolf vainly 
 tried to break back toward the dark belt of 
 trees in the east. At last after a mile of this 
 fighting and running I overtook them, and the 
 dog, seeing that he now had good backing, 
 closed in for the finish. 
 
 After a few seconds the whirl of struggling 
 animals resolved itself into a wolf, on his back, 
 with a bleeding collie, gripping his throat, and 
 148 
 
vR^ 
 
 •^, . 
 
 
 Frank retreated each time the wolf turned. 
 
Bingo 
 
 it was now easy for me to step up and end the 
 fight by putting a ball through the wolf's head. 
 
 Then, when this dog of marvellous wind 
 saw that his foe was dead, he gave him no sec- 
 ond glance, but set out at a lope for a farm 
 four miles across the snow where he had left his 
 master when first the wolf was started. He 
 was a wonderful dog, and even if I had not 
 come he undoubtedly would have killed the 
 wolf alone, as I learned he had already done 
 with others of the kind, in spite of the fact that 
 the wolf, though of the smaller or prairie race, 
 was much larger than himself. 
 
 I was filled with admiration for the dog's 
 prowess and at once sought to buy him at any 
 price. The scornful reply of his owner was, 
 " Why don't you try to buy one of the chil- 
 dren?" 
 
 Since Frank was not in the market I was 
 obliged to content myself with the next best 
 thing, one of his alleged progeny. That is, a son 
 of his wife. This probable offspring of an illus- 
 trious sire was a roly-poly ball of black fur that 
 looked more like a long-tailed bear-cub than a 
 puppy. But he had some tan markings like 
 
 151 ' 
 
Bingfo 
 
 those on Frank's coat, that were, I hoped, guar- 
 antees of future greatness, and also a very char- 
 acteristic ring of white that he always wore on 
 his muzzle. 
 
 Having got possession of his person, the next 
 thing was to find him a name. Surely this 
 puzzle was already solved. The rhyme of the 
 ' Franckelyn's dogge ' was inbuilt with the foun- 
 dation of our acquaintance, so with adequate 
 pomp we ' yclept him little Bingo.' 
 
 II 
 
 The rest of that winter Bingo spent in our 
 shanty, living the life of a lubberly, fat, well- 
 meaning, ill-doing puppy; gorging himself with 
 food and growing bigger and chmisier each day. 
 Even sad experience failed to teach him that he 
 must keep his nose out of the rat-trap. His most 
 ^' .^ .'^■'Sj^ friendly overtures to the cat were wholly mis- 
 r-i A? ,• / understood and resulted only in an armed neu- 
 trality that, varied by occasional reigns of terror, 
 continued to the end ; which came when Bingo, 
 who early showed a mind of his own, got a 
 152 
 
Bing'o 
 
 notion for sleeping at the barn and avoiding the 
 shanty altogether. 
 
 When the spring came I set about his serious 
 education. After much pains on my behalf and 
 many pains on his, he learned to go at the word 
 in quest of our old yellow cow, that pastured at 
 will on the unfenced prairie. 
 
 Once he had learned his business, he became 
 very fond of it and nothing pleased him more 
 than an order to go and fetch the cow. Away 
 he would dash, barking with pleasure and leap- 
 ing high in the air that he might better scan the 
 plain for his victim. In a short time he would 
 return driving her at full gallop before him, and 
 gave her no peace until, puffing and blowing, she 
 was safely driven into the farthest corner of her 
 stable. 
 
 Less energy on his part would have been 
 more satisfactory, but we bore with him until 
 he grew so fond of this semi-daily hunt that 
 he began to bring ' old Dunne ' without being 
 told. And at length not once or twice but a 
 dozen times a day this energetic cowherd would 
 sally forth on his own responsibility and drive 
 the cow home to the stable. 
 IS3 
 
Bingfo 
 
 At last things came to such a pass that when- 
 ever he felt like taking a little exercise, or had 
 a few minutes of spare time, or even happened 
 to think of it, Bingo would sally forth at racing 
 speed over the plain and a few minutes later 
 return, driving the unhappy yellow cow at full 
 gallop before him. 
 
 At first this did not seem very bad, as it kept 
 the cow from straying too far ; but soon it was 
 seen that it hindered her feeding. She became 
 thin and gave less milk ; it seemed to weigh on 
 her mind too, as she was always watching ner- 
 vously for that hateful dog, and in the mornings 
 would hang around the stable as though afraid 
 to venture off and subject herself at once to an 
 onset. 
 
 This was going too far. All attempts to 
 make Bingo more moderate in his pleasure were 
 failures, so he was compelled to give it up al- 
 together. After this, though he dared not bring 
 her home, he continued to show his interest by 
 lying at her stable door while she was being 
 milked. 
 
 As the summer came on the mosquitoes be- 
 came a dreadful plague, and the consequent 
 154 
 
 
 
Bingfo 
 
 vicious switching of Dunne's tail at railking- 
 time even more annoying than the mosquitoes. 
 
 Fred, the brother who did the milking, was 
 of an inventive as well as an impatient turn of 
 mind, and he devised a simple plan to stop the 
 switching. He fastened a brick to the cow's 
 tail, then set blithely about his work assured of 
 unusual comfort while the rest of us looked on 
 in doubt. 
 
 Suddenly through the mist of mosquitoes 
 came a dull whack and an outburst of ' lan- 
 guage.' The cow went on placidly chewing till 
 Fred got on his feet and furiously attacked her 
 with the milking-stool. It was bad enough to 
 be whacked on the ear with a brick by a stupid 
 old cow, but the uproarious enjoyment and ridi- 
 cule of the bystanders made it unendurable. 
 
 Bingo, hearing the uproar, and divining that 
 he was needed, rushed in and attacked Dunne 
 on the other side. Before the affair quieted 
 down the milk was spilt, the pail and stool 
 were broken, and the cow and the dog severely 
 beaten. 
 
 Poor Bingo could not understand it at all. 
 He had long ago learned to despise that cow, 
 IS5 
 
 
Bingo 
 
 and now in utter disgust he decided to for- 
 sake even her stable door, and from that time 
 he attached himself exclusively to the horses 
 and their stable. 
 
 The cattle were mine, the horses were my 
 brother's, and in transferring his allegiance from 
 the cow-stable to the horse-stable Bingo seemed 
 to give me up too, and anything like daily 
 companionship ceased, and, yet, whenever any 
 emergency arose Bingo turned to me and I to 
 him, and both seemed to feel that the bond be- 
 tween man and dog is one that lasts as long as 
 life. 
 
 The only other occasion on which Bingo 
 acted as cowherd was in the autumn of the 
 same year at the annual Carberry Fair. Among 
 the dazzling inducements to enter one's stock 
 there was, in addition to a prospect of glory, a 
 cash prize of ' two dollars, ' for the ' best col- 
 lie in training.' 
 
 Misled by a false friend, I entered Bingo, 
 and early on the day fixed, the cow was driven 
 to the prairie just outside of the village. When 
 the time came she was pointed out to Bingo 
 and the word given — ' Go fetch the cow. ' It 
 156 
 
Bingfo 
 
 was the intention, of course, that he should 
 bring her to me at the judge's stand. 
 
 But the animals knew better. They hadn't 
 rehearsed all summer for nothing. When Dunne 
 saw Bingo's careering form she knew that her 
 only hope for safety was to get into her stable, 
 and Bingo was equally sure that his sole mission 
 in life was to quicken her pace in that direction. 
 So off they raced over the prairie, like a wolf 
 after a deer, and heading straight toward their 
 home two miles away, they disappeared from 
 view. 
 
 That was the last that judge or jury ever saw 
 of dog or cow. The prize was awarded to the 
 only other entry. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Bingo's loyalty to the horses was quite re- 
 markable; by day he trotted beside them, and 
 by night he slept at the stable door. Where the 
 team went Bingo went, and nothing kept him 
 away from them. This interesting assumption 
 of ownership lent the greater significance to the 
 following circumstance. 
 157 
 
 •^^ 
 
 
 4fJ *^ ^. 
 
 raiaiiiiyfe 
 ' Mi'u I 
 
 fj*.. 
 
Biago 
 
 I was not superstitious, and up to this time 
 had had no faith in omens, but was now deep- 
 ly impressed by a strange occurrence in which 
 Bingo took a leading part. There were but 
 two of us now living on the De Winton Farm. 
 One morning my brother set oi;t for Boggy 
 Creek for a load of hay. It was a long day's 
 journey there and back, and he made an early 
 start. Strange to tell. Bingo for once in his life 
 did not follow the team. My brother called to 
 him, but still he stood at a safe distance, and 
 eying the team askance, refused to stir. Sud- 
 denly he raised his nose in the air and gave vent 
 to a long, melancholy howl. He watched the 
 wagon out of sight, and even followed for a 
 hundred yards or so, raising his voice from time 
 to time in the most doleful howlings. All that 
 day he stayed about the barn, the only time 
 that he was willingly separated from the horses, 
 and at intervals howled a very death dirge. I 
 was alone, and the dog's behavior inspired me 
 with an awful foreboding of calamity, that 
 weighed upon me more and more as the hours 
 passed away. 
 
 About six o'clock Bingo's howlings became 
 158 
 
 
 'tlik^^ 
 
Bingfo 
 
 unbearable, so that for lack of a better thought 
 I threw something at him, and ordered him 
 away. But oh, the feeling of horror that filled 
 me ! Why did I let my brother go away alone ? 
 Should I ever again see him alive? I might 
 have known from the dog's actions that some- 
 thing dreadful was about to happen. 
 
 At length the hour for his return arrived, and 
 there was John on his load. I took charge of 
 the horses, vastly relieved, and with an air of as- 
 sumed unconcern, asked, "All right?" 
 
 "Right," was the laconic answer. 
 
 Who now can say that there is nothing in 
 omens ? 
 
 And yet, when long afterward, I told this to 
 one skilled in the occult, he looked grave, and 
 said, "Bingo always turned to you in a crisis ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then do not smile. It was you that were 
 in danger that day ; he stayed and saved your 
 life, though you never knew from what." 
 
 159 
 
Bing;o 
 
 IV 
 
 Early in the spring I had begun Bingo's 
 education. Very shortly afterward he began 
 mine. 
 
 Midway on the two-mile stretch of prairie 
 that lay between our shanty and the village of 
 Carberry, was the corner -stake of the farm; it 
 was a stout post in a low mound of earth, and 
 was visible from afar. 
 
 I soon noticed that Bingo never passed with- 
 out minutely examining this mysterious post. 
 Next I learned that it was also visited by the 
 prairie wolves as well as by all the dogs in the 
 neighborhood, and at length, with the aid of a 
 telescope, I made a number of observations that 
 helped me to an understanding of the matter 
 and enabled me to enter more fully into Bingo's 
 private life. 
 
 The post was by common agreement a regis- 
 try of the canine tribes. Their exquisite sense 
 of smell enabled each individual to tell at once 
 by the track and trace what other had recently 
 been at the post. When the snow came much 
 160 
 
Bingfo 
 
 more was revealed. I then discovered that this 
 post was but one of a system that covered the 
 country ; that in short, the entire region was 
 laid out in signal stations at convenient inter- 
 vals. These were marked by any conspicuous 
 post, stone, buffalo skull, or other object that 
 chanced to be in the desired locality, and ex- 
 tensive observation showed that it was a very 
 complete system for getting and giving the 
 news. 
 
 Each dog or wolf makes a point of calling at 
 those stations that are near his line of travel 
 to learn who has recently been there, just as a 
 man calls at his club on returning to town and 
 looks up the register. 
 
 I have seen Bingo approach the post, sniff, 
 examine the ground about, then growl, and 
 with bristling mane and glowing eyes, scratch 
 fiercely and contemptuously with his hind feet, 
 finally walking off very stiffly, glancing back 
 from time to time. All of which, being inter- 
 preted, said : 
 
 " Grrrh! woof! there's that dirty cur of 
 McCarthy's. Woof! I'll 'tend to him to-night. 
 Woof! woof!" On another occasion, after 
 i6i 
 
Bingo 
 
 the preliminaries, he became keenly interested 
 and studied a coyote's track that came and 
 went, saying to himself, as I afterward learned : 
 
 " A coyote track coming from the north, 
 smelling of dead cow. Indeed? Pollworth's 
 old Brindle must be dead at last. This is worth 
 looking into." 
 
 At other times he would wag his tail, trot 
 about the vicinity and come again and again to 
 make his own visit more evident, perhaps for 
 the benefit of his brother Bill just back from 
 Brandon ! So that it was not by chance that 
 one night Bill turned up at Bingo's home and 
 was taken to the hills where a delicious dead 
 horse afforded a chance to suitably celebrate 
 the reunion. 
 
 At other times he would be suddenly aroused 
 by the news, take up the trail, and race to the 
 next station for later information. 
 
 Sometimes his inspection produced only an 
 air of grave attention, as though he said to him- 
 self, " Dear me, who the deuce is this?" or 
 " It seems to me I met that fellow at the Por- 
 tage last summer." 
 
 One morning on approaching the post Bin- 
 162 
 
Bingo 
 
 go's every hair stood on end, his tail dropped 
 and quivered, and he gave proof that he vs^as 
 suddenly sick at the stomach, sure signs of 
 terror. He showed no desire to follow up or 
 know more of the matter, but returned to the 
 house, and half an hour afterward his mane was 
 still bristling and his expression one of hate or 
 fear. 
 
 I studied the dreaded track and learned that 
 in Bingo's language the half-terrified, deep- 
 gurgled ' grrr-wff ' means ' timber wolf. ' 
 
 These were among the things that Bingo 
 taught me. And in the after time when I 
 might chance to see him arouse from his frosty 
 nest by the stable door, and after stretching 
 himself and shaking the snow from his shaggy 
 coat, disappear into the gloom at a steady trot 
 trot, trot, I used to think : 
 
 ' ' Aha ! old dog, I know where you are off 
 to, and why you eschew the shelter of the 
 shanty. Now I know why your nightly trips 
 over the country are so well timed, and how 
 you know just where to go for what you want, 
 and when and how to seek it." 
 
 163 
 
Bingo 
 
 In the autumn of 1884, the shanty at De 
 Winton farm was closed and Bingo changed 
 his home to the estabhshment, that is, to the 
 stable, not the house, of Gordon Wright, our 
 most intimate neighbor. 
 
 Since the winter of his puppyhood he had 
 declined to enter a house at any time excepting 
 during a thunder-storm. Of thunder and guns 
 he had a deep dread — no doubt the fear of the 
 first originated in the second, and that arose 
 from some unpleasant shot-gun experiences, the 
 cause of which will be seen. His nightly 
 couch was outside the stable, even during the 
 coldest weather, and it was easy to see that he 
 enjoyed to the full the complete nocturnal liberty 
 entailed. Bingo's midnight wanderings ex- 
 tended across the plains for miles. There was 
 plenty of proof of this. Some farmers at very 
 remote points sent word to old Gordon that if 
 he did not keep his dog home nights, they 
 would use the shotgun, and Bingo's terror of 
 firearms would indicate that the threats were 
 164 
 
Bing;o 
 
 not idle. A man living as far away as Petrel, 
 said he saw a large black wolf kill a coyote on 
 the snow one winter evening, but afterward he 
 changed his opinion and ' reckoned it must 'a' 
 been Wright's dog.' Whenever the body of 
 a winter-killed ox or horse was exposed. Bingo 
 was sure to repair to it nightly, and driving 
 away the prairie wolves, feast to repletion. 
 
 Sometimes the object of a night foray was 
 merely to maul some distant neighbor's dog, 
 and notwithstanding vengeful threats, there 
 seemed no reason to fear that the Bingo breed 
 would die out. One man even avowed that he 
 had seen a prairie wolf accompanied by three 
 young ones which resembled the mother, ex- 
 cepting that they were very large and black 
 and had a ring of white around the muzzle. 
 
 True or not as that may be, I know that late 
 in March, while we were out in the sleigh 
 with Bingo trotting behind, a prairie wolf was 
 started from a hollow. Away it went with 
 Bingo in full chase, but the wolf did not greatly 
 exert itself to escape, and within a short dis- 
 tance Bingo was close up, yet strange to tell, 
 there was no grappling, no fight ! 
 165 
 
 J\=ra^- .fV>i<* JV^ :vV^ 
 
 ?'"#\ (p^ry\\ coyf-y^x 4^-^rffi 
 
BingfO 
 
 Bingo trotted amiably alongside and licked 
 the wolf's nose. 
 
 We were astounded, and shouted to urge 
 BingQ on. Our shouting and approach several 
 times started the wolf off at speed and Bingo 
 again pursued until he had overtaken it, but 
 his gentleness was too obvious. 
 
 "It is a she- wolf, he won't harm her," I 
 exclaimed as the truth dawned on me. And 
 Gordon said : " Well, I be darned." 
 
 So we called our unwilling dog and drove on. 
 
 For weeks after this we were annoyed by 
 the depredations of a prairie wolf who killed 
 our chickens, stole pieces of pork from the end 
 of the house, and several times terrified the 
 children by looking into the window of the 
 shanty while the men were away. 
 
 Against this animal Bingo seemed to be no 
 safeguard. At length the wolf, a female, was 
 killed, and then Bingo plainly showed his hand 
 by his lasting enmity toward Oliver, the man 
 who did the deed. 
 
 1 66 
 
Bingo and the she-wolf. 
 
Bingfo 
 
 VI 
 
 It is wonderful and beautiful how a man and 
 his dog will stick to one another, through thick 
 and thin. Butler tells of an undivided Indian 
 tribe, in the Far North which was all but ex- 
 terminated by an internecine feud over a dog 
 that belonged to one man and was killed by 
 his neighbor ; and among ourselves we have 
 lawsuits, fights, and deadly feuds, all pointing 
 the same old moral, ' Love me, love my dog. ' 
 
 One of our neighbors had a very fine hound 
 that he thought the best and dearest dog in the 
 world. I loved him, so I loved his dog, and 
 when one day poor Tan crawled home terribly 
 mangled and died by the door, I joined my 
 threats of vengeance with those of his master 
 and thenceforth lost no opportunity of tracing 
 the miscreant, both by offering rewards and by 
 collecting scraps of evidence. At length it 
 was clear that one of three men to the south- 
 ward had had a hand in the cruel affair. The 
 scent was warming up, and soon we should 
 have been in a position to exact rigorous justice 
 169 
 
Bingfo 
 
 at least, from the wretch who had murdered poor 
 old Tan. 
 
 Then something took place which at once 
 changed my mind and led me to believe that 
 the mangling of the old hound was not by any 
 means an unpardonable crime, but indeed on 
 second thoughts was rather commendable than 
 otherwise. 
 
 Gordon Wright's farm lay to the south of us, 
 and while there one day, Gordon, Jr., knowing 
 that I was tracking the murderer, took me 
 aside and looking about furtively, he whispered, 
 in tragic tones : 
 
 " It was Bing done it." 
 
 And the matter dropped right there. For I 
 confess that from that moment I did all in my 
 power to bafifle the justice I had previously 
 striven so hard to further. 
 
 I had given Bingo away long before, but the 
 feehng of ownership did not die ; and of this in- 
 dissoluble fellowship of dog and man he was 
 soon to take part in another important illus- 
 tration. 
 
 Old Gordon and Oliver were close neigh- 
 bors and friends ; they joined in a contract to 
 170 
 
\V. 
 
 V «-■ 
 
 Bingo watched while Curley feasted. 
 

 V 
 
 Rag Followed the Snow-white Beacon. 
 
Bingfo 
 
 cut wood, and worked together harmoniously 
 till late on in winter. Then Oliver's old horse 
 died, and he, determining to profit as far as 
 possible, dragged it out on the plain and laid 
 poison baits for wolves around it. Alas, for 
 poor Bingo ! He would lead a wolfish life, 
 though again and again it brought him into 
 wolfish misfortunes. 
 
 He was as fond of dead horse as any of his 
 wild kindred. That very night, with Wright's 
 own dog Curley, he visited the carcass. It 
 seemed as though Bing had busied himself 
 chiefly keeping off the wolves, but Curley feasted 
 immoderately. The tracks in the snow told the 
 story of the banquet ; the interruption as the 
 poison began to work, and of the dreadful 
 spasms of pain during the erratic course back 
 home where Curley, falling in convulsions at 
 Gordon's feet, died in the greatest agony. 
 
 ' Love me, love my dog,' no explanations 
 or apology were acceptable ; it was useless to 
 urge that it was accidental, the long-standing 
 feud between Bingo and Oliver was now remem- 
 bered as an important side-light. The wood- 
 contract was thrown up, all friendly relations 
 
 173 
 
Bingfo 
 
 ceased, and to this day there is no county big 
 enough to hold the rival factions which were 
 called at once into existence and to arms by 
 Curley's dying yell. 
 
 It was months before Bingo really recovered 
 from the poison. We believed indeed that he 
 never again would be the sturdy old-time Bingo. 
 But when the spring came he began to gain 
 strength, and bettering as the grass grew, he 
 was within a few weeks once more in full health 
 and vigor to be a pride to his friends and a 
 nuisance to his neighbors. 
 
 vn 
 
 Changes took me far away from Manitoba, 
 and on my return in 1886 Bingo was still a 
 member of Wright's household. I thought he 
 would have forgotten me after two years ab- 
 sence, but not so. One day early in the winter, 
 after having been lost for forty-eight hours, he 
 crawled home to Wright's with a wolf-trap and 
 a heavy log fast to one foot, and the foot frozen 
 to stony hardness. No one had been able to 
 approach to help him, he was so savage, when I, 
 
 174 
 
Btngfo 
 
 the stranger now, stooped down and laid hold 
 of the trap with one hand and his leg with the 
 other. Instantly he seized my wrist in his 
 teeth. 
 
 Without stirring I said, " Bing, don't you 
 know me ? ' ' 
 
 He had not broken the skin and at once re- 
 leased his hold and offered no further resistance, 
 although he whined a good deal during the re- 
 moval of the trap. He still acknowledged me 
 his master in spite of his change of residence 
 and my long absence, and notwithstanding my 
 surrender of ownership I still felt that he was 
 my dog. 
 
 Bing was carried into the house much against 
 his will and his frozen foot thawed out. Dur- 
 ing the rest of the winter he went lame and two 
 of his toes eventually dropped off. But before 
 the return of warm weather his health and 
 strength were fully restored, and to a casual 
 glance he bore no mark of his dreadful experi- 
 ence in the steel trap. 
 
 
 
 <--?■ 
 
 i^^?»^" 
 
 /- - 
 
 v-yi'^ 
 
Bing;o 
 
 VIII 
 
 During that same winter I caught many wolves 
 and foxes who did not have Bingo's good luck 
 in escaping the traps, which I kept out right 
 into the spring, for bounties are good even when 
 fur is not. 
 
 Kennedy's Plain was always a good trapping 
 ground because it was unfrequented by man and 
 yet lay between the heavy woods and the set- 
 tlement. I had been fortunate with the fur 
 here, and late in April rode in on one of my 
 regular rounds. 
 
 The wolf-traps are made of heavy steel and 
 have two springs, each of one hundred pounds 
 power. They are set in fours around a buried 
 bait, and after being strongly fastened to con- 
 cealed logs are carefully covered in cotton and 
 in fine sand so as to be quite invisible. 
 
 A prairie wolf was caught in one of these. I 
 killed him with a club and throwing him aside 
 proceeded to reset the trap as I had done so 
 many hundred times before. All was quickly 
 done. I threw the trap- wrench over toward the 
 176 
 
Bingfo 
 
 pony, and seeing some fine sand near by, I 
 reached out for a handful of it to add a good 
 finish to the setting. 
 
 Oh, unlucky thought ! Oh, mad heedless- 
 ness born of long immunity ! That fine sand 
 was on the next wolf -trap and in an instant I 
 was a prisoner. Although not wounded, for 
 the traps have no teeth, and my thick trapping 
 gloves deadened the snap, I was firmly caught 
 across the hand above the knuckles. Not 
 greatly alarmed at this, I tried to reach the 
 trap-wrench with my right foot. Stretching 
 out at full length, face downward, I worked 
 myself toward it, making my imprisoned 
 arm as long and straight as possible. I 
 could not see and reach at the same time, but 
 counted on my toe telling me when I touched 
 the little iron key to my fetters. My first effort 
 was a failure ; strain as I might at the chain my 
 toe struck no metal. I swung slowly around 
 my anchor, but still failed. Then a painfully 
 taken observation showed I was much too far to 
 the west. I set about working around, tapping 
 blindly with my toe to discover the key. Thus 
 wildly groping with my right foot I forgot 
 177 
 
Bingfo 
 
 about the other till there was a sharp ' clank ' 
 and the iron jaws of trap No. 3 closed tight on 
 my left foot. 
 
 The terrors of the situation did not, at 
 first, impress me, but I soon found that all my 
 struggles were in vain. I could not get free 
 from either trap or move the traps together, 
 and there I lay stretched out and firmly staked 
 to the ground. 
 
 What would become of me now ? There was 
 not much danger of freezing for the cold weather 
 was over, but Kennedy's Plain was never visited 
 excepting by the winter wood-cutters. No one 
 knew where I had gone, and unless I could man- 
 age to free myself there was no prospect ahead 
 but to be devoured by wolves, or else die of cold 
 and starvation. 
 
 As I lay there the red sun went down over the 
 spruce swamp west of the plain, and a shorelark 
 on a gopher mound a few yards off twittered his 
 evening song, just as one had done the night be- 
 fore at our shanty door, and though the numb 
 pains were creeping up my arm, and a deadly chill 
 possessed me, I noticed how long his little ear- 
 tufts were. Then my thoughts went to the com- 
 173 
 
Bing;o 
 
 fortable supper-table at Wright's shanty, and I 
 thought, now they are frying the pork for sup- 
 per, or just sitting down. My pony still stood 
 as I left him with his bridle on the ground 
 patiently waiting to take me home. He did not 
 understand the long delay, and when I called, 
 he ceased nibbling the grass and looked at me 
 in dumb, helpless inquiry. If he would only go 
 home the empty saddle might tell the tale and 
 bring help. But his very faithfulness kept him 
 waiting hour after hour while I was perishing of 
 cold and hunger. 
 
 Then I remembered how old Girou the trap- 
 per had been lost, and in the following spring 
 his comrades found his skeleton held by the leg 
 in a bear-trap. I wondered which part of my 
 clothing would show my identity. Then a new 
 thought came to me. This is how a wolf feels 
 when he is trapped. Oh! what misery have 
 I been responsible for ! Now I'm to pay for it. 
 
 Night came slowly on. A prairie wolf howled, 
 the pony pricked up his ears and walking nearer 
 to me, stood with his head down. Then another 
 prairie wolf howled and another, and I could 
 make out that they were gathering in the neigh- 
 
 179 
 
 .../^s^i 
 
Bingo 
 
 borhood. There I lay prone and helpless, won- 
 dering if it would not be strictly just that they 
 should come and tear me to pieces. I heard 
 them calling for a long time before I realized 
 that dim, shadowy forms were sneaking near. 
 The horse saw them first, and his terrified snort 
 drove them back at first, but they came nearer 
 next time and sat around me on the prairie. 
 Soon one bolder than the others crawled up and 
 tugged at the body of his dead relative. I 
 shouted and he retreated growling. The pony 
 ran to a distance in terror. Presently the 
 wolf returned, and after two or three of these 
 retreats and returns, the body was dragged off 
 and devoured by the rest in a few minutes. 
 
 After this they gathered nearer and sat on 
 their haunches to look at me, and the boldest 
 one smelt the rifle and scratched dirt on it. 
 He retreated when I kicked at him with my 
 free foot and shouted, but growing bolder as I 
 grew weaker he came and snarled right in my 
 face. At this several others snarled and came 
 up closer, and I realized that I was to be de- 
 voured by the foe that I most despised, when 
 suddenly out of the gloom with a guttural roar 
 i8o 
 
Bingfo 
 
 sprang a great black wolf. The prairie wolves 
 scattered like chaff except the bold one, which 
 seized by the black new-comer was in a few 
 moments a draggled corpse, and then, oh hor- 
 rors ! this mighty brute bounded at me and — 
 Bingo — noble Bingo, rubbed his shaggy, pant- 
 ing sides against me and licked my cold face. 
 
 "Bingo — Bing — old — boy — Fetch me the 
 trap- wrench ! " 
 
 Away he went and returned dragging the 
 rifle, for he knew only that I wanted some- 
 thing. 
 
 ' ' No — Bing — the trap-wrench. ' ' This time 
 it was my sash, but at last he brought the 
 wrench and wagged his tail in joy that it was 
 right. Reaching out with my free hand, after 
 much difficulty I unscrewed the pillar-nut.; 
 The trap fell apart and my hand was re- 
 leased, and a minute later I was free. Bing 
 brought the pony up, and after slowly walk- 
 ing to restore the circulation I was able to 
 mount. Then slowly at first but soon at a 
 gallop, with Bingo as herald careering and bark- 
 ing ahead, we set out for home, there to 
 learn that the night before, though never taken 
 i8i 
 
Bingfo 
 
 on the trapping rounds, the brave dog had acted 
 strangely, whimpering and watching the tim- 
 ber-trail ; and at last when night came on, in 
 spite of attempts to detain him he had set out 
 in the gloom and guided by a knowledge that 
 is beyond us had reached the spot in time to 
 avenge me as well as set me free. 
 
 Stanch old Bing — he was a strange dog. 
 Though his heart was with me, he passed me 
 next day with scarcely a look, but responded 
 with alacrity when little Gordon called him to 
 a gopher-hunt. And it was so to the end ; 
 and to the end also he lived the wolfish life 
 that he loved, and never failed to seek the win- 
 ter-killed horses and found one again with a 
 poisoned bait, and wolfishly bolted that ; then 
 feeling the pang, set out, not for Wright's but 
 to find me, and reached the door of my shanty 
 where I should have been. Next day on re- 
 turning I found him dead in the snow with his 
 head on the sill of the door — the door of his 
 puppyhood's days ; my dog to the last in his 
 heart of hearts — it was my help he sought, 
 and vainly sought, in the hour of his bitter ex- 
 tremity. 
 
 182 
 
1KB 
 
 m 
 
 im 
 
 The 
 Springfield Fox 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 HE hens had been mysteriously disap- 
 pearing for over a month ; and when 
 I came home to Springfield for the 
 summer holidays it was my duty to 
 find the cause. This was soon done. 
 The fowls were carried away bodily 
 one at a time, before going to roost 
 or else after leaving, which put tramps and 
 neighbors out of court ; they were not taken 
 from the high perches, which cleared all coons 
 and owls ; or left partly eaten, so that weasels, 
 skunks, or minks were not the guilty ones, and 
 the blame, therefore, was surely left at Rey- 
 nard's door. 
 
 The great pine wood of Erindale was on the 
 other bank of the river, and on looking care- 
 187 
 
 
 jj,,,, 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 fully about the lower ford I saw a few fox-tracks 
 and a barred feather from one of our Plymouth 
 Rock chickens. On climbing the farther bank 
 in search of more clews, I heard a great outcry 
 of crows behind me, and turning, saw a nurnber 
 of these birds darting down at something in the 
 ford. A better view showed that it was the old 
 story, thief catch thief, for there in the middle 
 of the ford was a fox with something in his 
 jaws — he was returning from our barnyard with 
 another hen. The crows, though shameless rob- 
 bers themselves, are ever first to cry ' Stop 
 thief,' and yet more than ready to take 'hush- 
 money ' in the form of a share in the plunder. 
 
 And this was their game now. The fox to 
 get back home must cross the river, where he 
 was exposed to the full brunt of the crow mob. 
 He made a dash for it, and would doubtless have 
 gotten across with his booty had I not joined in 
 the attack, whereupon he dropped the hen, 
 scarce dead, and disappeared in the woods. 
 
 This large and regular levy of provisions 
 wholly carried off could mean but one thing, a 
 family of little foxes at home ; and to find them 
 I now was bound. 
 
 1 88 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 That evening I went with Ranger, my hound, 
 across the river into the Erindale woods. As 
 soon as the hound began to circle, we heard 
 the short, sharp bark of a fox from a thickly 
 wooded ravine close by. Ranger dashed in at 
 once, struck a hot scent and went off on a lively 
 straight-away till his voice was lost in the dis- 
 tance away over the upland. 
 
 After nearly an hour he came back, panting 
 and warm, for it was baking August weather, 
 and lay down at my feet. 
 
 But almost immediately the same foxy ' Yap 
 yurrr ' was heard close at hand and off dashed 
 the dog on another chase. 
 
 Away he went in the darkness, baying like a 
 foghorn, straight away to the north. And the 
 loud ' Boo, boo, ' became a low ' oo, oo, ' 
 and that a feeble ' o-o ' and then was lost. 
 They must have gone some miles away, for even 
 with ear to the ground I heard nothing of them 
 though a mile was easy distance for Ranger's 
 brazen voice. 
 
 As I waited in the black woods I heard a 
 svreet sound of dripping water : ' Tmk tank 
 tenk tink, Ta tink tank tenk ionk.' 
 1R9 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 I did not know of any spring so near, and in 
 the hot night it was a glad find. But the sound 
 led me to the bough of an oak-tree, where I 
 found its source. Such a soft sweet song ; full 
 of delightful suggestion on such a night : 
 
 Tank tank tenk tink 
 Ta tink a tank a tank a tink a 
 Ta ta tink tank ta ta tank tink 
 Drink a tank a drink a drunk. 
 
 It was the ' water-dripping ' song of the 
 saw-whet owl. 
 
 But suddenly a deep raucous breathing and 
 a Tustle of leaves showed that Ranger was back. 
 He was completely fagged out. His tongue 
 ha-^g almost to the ground and was dripping with 
 foam, his flanks were heaving and spume^flecks 
 dribbled from his breast and sides. He stopped 
 panting a moment to give my hand a dutiful 
 -+ick, then flung himself flop on the leaves to 
 drown all other sounds with his noisy panting. 
 
 But again that tantalizing ' Yaf yurrr ' was 
 heard a few feet away, and the meaning of it 
 all dawned on me. 
 
 We were close to the den where the little 
 190 
 
0^ 
 
 >i 
 
 ■^. 
 
 S^i^>§^;/* 
 
 '' i^ 
 
 ^U' 
 
 /o 
 
 Once More a Sheep-dog in Charge of a Flock. 
 
The Sp«n8:f}eld Fox 
 
 foxes were, and the old ones were taking turns 
 in trying to lead us away. 
 
 It was late night now, so we went home feel- 
 ing sure that the problem was nearly solved. 
 
 II 
 
 It was well known that there was an old fox 
 with his family living in the neighborhood, but 
 no one supposed them so near. 
 
 This fox had been called ' Scarface,' be- 
 cause of a scar reaching from his eye through 
 and back of his ear ; this was supposed to have 
 been given him by a barbed-wire fence during 
 a rabbit hunt, and as the hair came in white 
 after it healed, it was always a strong mark. 
 
 The winter before I had met with him and had 
 had a sample of his craftiness. I was out shoot- 
 ing, after a fall of snow, and had crossed the 
 open fields to the edge of the brushy hollow 
 back of the old mill. As my head rose to a 
 view of the hollow I caught sight of a fox 
 trotting at long range down the other side, in 
 line to cross my course. Instantly I held mo- 
 tionless, and did not even lower or turn my 
 191 
 
The Spfingfield Fox 
 
 head lest I should catch his eye by moving, 
 until he went on out of sight in the thick cover 
 at the bottom. As soon as he was hidden I 
 bobbed down and ran to head him off where 
 he should leave the cover on the other side, and 
 was there in good time awaiting, but no fox 
 came forth. A careful look showed the fresh 
 track of a fox that had bounded from the cover, 
 and following it with my eye I saw old Scar- 
 face himself far out of range behind me, sitting 
 on his haunches and grinning as though much 
 amused. 
 
 A study of the trail made all clear. He had 
 seen me at the moment I saw him, but he, also 
 Hke a true hunter, had concealed the fact, put- 
 ting on an air of unconcern till out of sight, 
 when he had run for his life around behind me 
 and amused himself by watching my stillborn 
 trick. 
 
 In the springtime I had yet another instance 
 of Scarface's cunning. I was walking with 
 a friend along the road over the high pasture. 
 We passed within thirty feet of a ridge on which 
 were several gray and brown bowlders. When 
 at the nearest point my friend said : 
 192 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 " Stone number three looks to me very much 
 like a fox curled up. ' ' 
 
 But r could not see it, and we passed. We 
 had not gone many yards farther when the wind 
 blew on this bowlder as on fur. 
 
 My friend said, "I am sure that is a fox, 
 lying asleep." 
 
 "We'll soon settle that," I replied, and 
 turned back, but as soon as I had taken one 
 step from the road, up jumped Scarface, for it 
 was he, and ran. A fire had swept the middle 
 of the pasture, leaving a broad belt of black ; 
 over this he skurried till he came to the unburnt 
 yellow grass again, where he squatted down and 
 was lost to view. He had been watching us all 
 the time, and would not have moved had we 
 kept to the road. The wonderful part of this is, 
 not that he resembled the round stones and dry 
 grass, but that he knew he did, and was ready 
 to profit by it. 
 
 We soon found that it was Scarface and his 
 wife Vixen that had made our woods their 
 home and our barnyard their base of supplies. 
 
 Next morning a search in the pines showed 
 a great bank of earth that had been scratched 
 193 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 up within a few months. It must have come 
 from a hole, and yet there was none to be seen. 
 It is well known that a really cute fox, on dig- 
 ging a new den, brings all the earth out at the 
 first hole made, but carries on a tunnel into 
 some distant thicket. Then closing up for good 
 the first made and too well-marked door, uses 
 only the entrance hidden in the thicket. 
 
 So after a little search at the other side of a 
 knoll, I found the real entry and good proof 
 that there was a nest of little foxes inside. 
 
 Rising above the brush on the hillside was a 
 great hollow basswood. It leaned a good deal 
 and had a large hole at the bottom, and a smaller 
 one at top. 
 
 We boys had often used this tree in playing 
 Swiss Family Robinson, and by cutting steps 
 in its soft punky walls had made it easy to go up 
 and down in the hollow. Now it came in handy, 
 for next day when the sun was warm I went 
 there to watch, and from this perch on the roof, 
 I soon saw the interesting family that lived in 
 the cellar near by. There were four little foxes ; 
 they looked curiously like little lambs, with 
 their woolly coats, their long thick legs and in- 
 194 
 
■a 
 5 
 
 \? rS 
 
 
 \ 
 
 > 
 
 K, 
 
 h 
 
 1 
 
 i > 
 
 
 T5 
 
 f \ 
 
 
 rt 
 
 "1 '» 
 
 
 t5 
 
 ■««i;v 
 
 
 J3 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 nocent expressions, and yet a second glance 
 at their broad, sharp-nosed, sharp-eyed visages 
 showed that each of these innocents was the 
 makings of a crafty old fox. 
 
 They played about, basking in the sun, or 
 wrestling with each other till a slight sound 
 made them skurry under ground. But their 
 alarm was needless, for the cause of it was their 
 mother; she stepped from the bushes bringing 
 another hen — number seventeen as I rexnember. 
 A low call from her and the little fellows came 
 tumbling out. Then began a scene that I 
 thought charming, but which my uncle would 
 not have enjoyed at all. 
 
 They rushed on the hen, and tussled and 
 fought with it, and each other, while the mother, 
 keeping a sharp eye for enemies, looked on with 
 fond delight. The expression on her face was 
 remarkable. It was first a grinning of delight, 
 but her usual look of wildness and cunning was 
 there, nor were cruelty and nervousness lacking, 
 but over all was the unmistakable look of the 
 inother's pride and love. 
 
 The base of my tree was hidden in bushes 
 and much lower than the knoll where the den 
 197 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 was. So I could come and go at will without 
 scaring the foxes. 
 
 For many days I went there and saw much 
 of the training of the young ones. They early 
 learned to turn to statuettes at any strange 
 sound, and then on hearing it again or finding 
 other cause for fear, to run for shelter. 
 
 Some animals have so much mother-love that 
 it overflows and benefits outsiders. Not so old 
 Vixen it would seem. Her pleasure in the cubs 
 led to most refined cruelty. For she often 
 brought home to them mice and birds alive, and 
 with diabolic gentleness would avoid doing 
 them serious hurt so that the cubs might have 
 larger scope to torment them. 
 
 There was a woodchuck that lived over in 
 
 the hill orchard. He was neither handsome 
 
 nor interesting, but he knew how to take care 
 
 of himself. He had digged a den between the 
 
 roots of an old pine stump, so that the foxes 
 
 I k (<^'^p\ could not follow him by digging. But hard 
 
 / ' ,iiV— '^s^^S'iA work was not their way of life ; wits they be- 
 
 ^f"';-; .'VV.;'%^ lieved worth more than elbow-grease. This 
 
 ^,|;,v;y^-;?/^^iZ!j^:::i woodchuck usually sunned himself on the stump 
 
 «^S)'L,J<i!^ilS''';:4;^ ">y each morning. If he saw a fox near he went 
 
 198 
 
 S '""^ ^ 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 down in the door of his den, or if the enemy- 
 was very near he went inside and stayed long 
 enough for the danger to pass. 
 
 One morning Vixen and her mate seemed to 
 decide that it was time the children knew some- 
 thing about the broad subject of Woodchucks, 
 and further that this orchard woodchuck would 
 serve nicely for an object-lesson. So they went 
 together to the orchard-fence unseen by old 
 Chuckie on his stump. Scarface then showed 
 himself in the orchard and quietly walked in 
 a line so as to pass by the stump at a dis- 
 tance, but never once turned his head or al- 
 lowed the ever-watchful woodchuck to think 
 himself seen. When the fox entered the field 
 the woodchuck quietly dropped down to the 
 mouth of his den ; here he waited as the fox 
 passed, but concluding that after all wisdom is 
 the better part, went into his hole. 
 
 This was what the foxes wanted. Vixen had 
 kept out of sight, but now ran swiftly to the 
 stump and hid behind it. Scarface had kept 
 straight on, going very slowly. The woodchuck 
 had not been frightened, so before long his head 
 popped up between the roots and he looked 
 199 
 
The Spfmgffkld Fox 
 
 around. There was that fox still going on, 
 farther and farther away. The woodchuck grew 
 bold as the fox went, and came out farther, and 
 then seeing the coast clear, he scrambled onto 
 the stump, and with one spring Vixen had him 
 and shook him till he lay senseless. Scarface 
 had watched out of the corner of his eye and 
 now came running back. But Vixen took the 
 chuck in her jaws and made for the den, so he 
 saw he wasn't needed. 
 
 Back to the den came Vix, and carried the 
 chuck so carefully that he was able to struggle 
 a little when she got there. A low ' woof^ at 
 the den brought the little fellows out like school- 
 boys to play. She threw the wounded animal 
 to them and they set on him like four little 
 furies, uttering little growls and biting little 
 bites with all the strength of their baby jaws, 
 but the woodchuck fought for his life and beat- 
 ing them off slowly hobbled to the shelter of a 
 thicket. The little ones pursued like a pack 
 of hounds and dragged at his tail and flanks, but 
 could not hold him back. So Vix overtook 
 him with a couple of bounds and dragged him 
 again into the open for the children to worry. 
 
 200 
 

 Vix shows the cubs how to catch mice. 
 
The Springffield Fox 
 
 Again and again this rough sport went on till 
 one of the little ones was badly bitten, and his 
 squeal of pain roused Vix to end the woodchuck's 
 misery and serve him up at once. 
 
 Not far from the den was a hollow overgrown 
 with coarse grass, the playground of a colony 
 of field-mice. The earliest lesson in v^oodcraft 
 that the little ones took, away from the den, 
 was in this hollow. Here they had their first 
 course of mice, the easiest of all game. In 
 teaching, the main thing was example, aided by 
 a deep-set instinct. The old fox, also, had 
 one or two signs meaning "lie still and watch," 
 " come, do as I do," and so on, that were much 
 used. 
 
 So the merry lot went to this hollow one 
 calm evening and Mother Fox made them he 
 still in the grass. Presently a faint squeak 
 showed that the game was astir. Vix rose up 
 and went on tip-toe into the grass — not crouch- 
 ing but as high as she could stand, sometimes 
 on her hind legs so as to get a better view. The 
 runs that the mice follow are hidden under the 
 grass tangle, and the only way to know the 
 whereabouts of a mouse is by seeing the slight 
 203 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 shaking of the grass, which is the reason why 
 mice are hunted only on cahii days. 
 
 And the trick is to locate the mouse and 
 seize him first and see him afterward. Vix 
 soon made a spring, and in the middle of the 
 bunch of dead grass that she grabbed was a 
 field-mouse squeaking his last squeak. 
 
 He was soon gobbled, and the four awkward 
 little foxes tried to do the same as their mother, 
 and when at length the eldest for the first time 
 in his life caught game, he quivered with excite- 
 ment and ground his pearly little milk-teeth 
 into the mouse with a rush of inborn savage- 
 ness that must have surprised even himself. 
 
 Another home lesson was on the red-squir- 
 rel. One of these noisy, vulgar creatures, lived 
 close by and used to waste part of each day 
 scolding the foxes, from some safe perch. The 
 cubs made many vain attempts to catch him as 
 he ran across their glade from one tree to an- 
 other, or spluttered and scolded at them a foot 
 or so out of reach. But old Vixen was up in 
 natural history — she knew squirrel nature and 
 took the case in hand when the proper time 
 came. She hid the children and lay down flat 
 
 204 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 in the middle of the open glade. The saucy ^'jU' 
 
 low-minded squirrel came and scolded as usual. /f^^'^^f/i 
 
 But she moved no hair. He came nearer and li'»',^i- ■-"■'? ^ 
 
 at last right overhead to chatter : j^^'.-rM'l-- :j^^ i'^ff^-" 
 
 "You brute you, you brute you." ^'"t.'-'rp/')^ ^ /li^ 
 
 But Vix lay as dead. This was very per- ^^V"y'--"|4r /^ /' ,<> 
 plexing, so the squirrel came down the trunk ^iM^ f / /? n 
 and peeping about made a nervous dash across '^ / I /sf/ 
 the grass, to another tree, again to scold from "*' ' ^fi 
 a safe perch. ^ 
 
 ' ' You brute you, you useless brute, scarrr- 
 scarrrrr. ' ' 
 
 But flat and lifeless on the grass lay Vix. 
 This was most tantalizing to the squirrel. He 
 was naturally curious and disposed to be venture- 
 some, so again he came to the ground and skur- 
 ried across the glade nearer than before. 
 
 Still as death lay Vix, ' ' surely she was dead. ' ' 
 And the little foxes began to wonder if their 
 mother wasn't asleep. 
 
 But the squirrel was working himself into 
 a little craze of foolhardy curiosity. He had 
 dropped a piece of bark on Vix's head, he had 
 used up his list of bad words and he had done 
 it all over again, without getting a sign of life. 
 205 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 So after a couple more dashes across the' glade 
 he ventured wi thin a few feet of the really watch- 
 ful Vix, who sprang to her feet and pinned him 
 in a twinkling. 
 
 " And the little ones picked the bones e-oh." 
 
 Thus the rudiments of their education were 
 laid, and afterward as they grew stronger they 
 were taken farther afield to begin the higher 
 branches of trailing and scenting. 
 
 For each kind of prey they were taught a way 
 to hunt, for every animal has some great strength 
 or it could not live, and some great weakness 
 or the others could not live. The squirrel's 
 weakness was foolish curiosity ; the fox's that 
 he can't climb a tree. And the training of the 
 little foxes was all shaped to take advantage of 
 the weakness of the other creatures and to make 
 up for their own by defter play where they are 
 strong. 
 
 From their parents they learned the chief 
 axioms of the fox world. How, is not easy 
 to say. But that they learned this in company 
 with their parents was clear. Here are some 
 that foxes taught me, without saying a word : — 
 
 Never sleep on your straight track. 
 206 
 
 
 
 And the l.tf([e OTJfs picKcd his Bones e-o/i! 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 Your nose is before your eyes, then trust it 
 first. 
 
 A fool runs down the wind. 
 
 Running rills cure many ills. 
 
 Never take the open if you can keep the 
 cover. 
 
 Never leave a straight trail if a crooked one 
 will do. 
 
 If it's strange, it's hostile. 
 
 Dust and water burn the scent. 
 
 Never hunt mice in a rabbit- woods, or rab- 
 bits in a henyard. 
 
 Keep off the grass. 
 
 Inklings of the meanings of these were al- 
 ready entering the little ones' minds — thus, 
 ' Never follow what you can't smell,' was wise, 
 they could see, because if you can't smell it, 
 then the wind is so that it must smell you. 
 
 One by one they learned the birds and beasts 
 of their home woods, and then as they were able 
 to go -abroad with their parents they learned 
 new animals. They were beginning to think 
 they knew the scent of everything that moved. 
 But one night the mother took them to a field 
 where was a strange black flat thing on the 
 207 
 
The Spring;field Fox 
 
 ground. She brought them on purpose to 
 smell it, but at the first whiff their every hair 
 stood on end, they trembled, they knew not 
 why — it seemed to tingle through their blood 
 and fill them with instinctive hate and fear. 
 And when she saw its full effect she told them — 
 "That is fitan-scent. ' ' 
 
 III 
 
 Meanwhile the hens continued to disappear. 
 I had not betrayed the den of cubs. Indeed, 
 I thought a good deal more of the little rascals 
 than I did of the hens ; but uncle was dread- 
 fully wrought up and made most disparaging 
 remarks about my woodcraft. To please him 
 I one day took the hound across to the woods 
 and seating myself on a stump on the open hill- 
 side, I bade the dog go on. Within three min- 
 utes he sang out in the tongue all hunters know 
 so well, '■' Fox ! fox ! fox ! straight away down 
 the valley." 
 
 After awhile I heard them coming back. 
 There I saw the fox — Scarface — loping lightly 
 across the river-bottom to the stream. In he 
 208 
 

 The Springfield Fox 
 
 went and trotted along in the shallow water 
 near the margin for two hundred yards, then 
 came out straight toward me. Though in full 
 view, he saw me not but came up the hill 
 watching over his shoulder for the hound. 
 Within ten feet of me he turned and sat with 
 his back to me while he craned his neck and 
 showed an eager interest in the doings of the 
 hound. Ranger came bawling along the trail 
 till he came to the running water, the killer of 
 scent, and here he was puzzled ; but there was 
 only one thing to do ; that was by going up 
 and down both banks find where the fox had 
 left the river. '•♦'- 'ul ^'^*. 
 
 The fox before me shifted his position a little ;^ ^l^, 
 
 to get a better view and watched with a most ;*'%^^''%'!V. 
 
 human interest all the circling of the hound. 
 He was so close that I saw the hair of his 
 shoulder bristle a little when the dog came in *'. v'_ _ 
 
 sight. I could see the jumping of his heart onhis ^\'\ "^n' 
 
 ribs, and the gleam of his yellow eye. When the ""W 
 
 dog was wholly baulked by the water trick, it 
 was comical to see : — he could not sit still, but 
 rocked up and down in glee, and reared on his 
 hind feet to get a better view of the slow-plod- 
 209 
 
 /.^.■ 
 
 
 ■^i^ 
 
The Spt'mgiield Fox 
 
 ding hound. With mouth opened nearly to 
 his ears, though not at all winded, he panted 
 noisily for a moment, or rather he laughed 
 gleefully, just as a dog laughs by grinning and 
 panting. 
 
 Old Scarface wriggled in huge enjoyment as 
 the hound puzzled over the trail so long that 
 when he did find it, it was so stale he could 
 barely follow it, and did not feel justified in 
 tonguing on it at all. 
 
 As soon as the hound was working up the 
 hill, the fox quietly went into the woods. I 
 had been sitting in plain view only ten feet 
 away, but I had the wind and kept still and 
 the fox never knew that his life had for twenty 
 minutes been in the power of the foe he most 
 feared. Ranger also would have passed me as 
 near as the fox, but I spoke to him, and with a 
 little nervous start he quit the trail and looking 
 sheepish lay down by my feet. 
 
 This little comedy was played with variations 
 for several days, but it was all in plain view 
 from the house across the river. My uncle, im- 
 patient at the daily loss of hens, went out him- 
 self, sat on the open knoll, and when old Scar- ' 
 
The Springfficid Fox 
 
 face trotted to his lookout to watch the dull 
 hound on the river flat below, my uncle remorse- 
 lessly shot him in the back, at the very moment 
 when he was grinning over a new triumph. 
 
 IV 
 
 But still the hens were disappearing. My 
 uncle was wrathy. He determined to conduct 
 the war himself, and sowed the woods with 
 poison baits, trusting to luck that our own dogs 
 would not get them. He indulged in contemptu- 
 ous remarks on my by-gone woodcraft, and went 
 out evenings with a gun and the two dogs, to see 
 what he could destroy. 
 
 Vix knew right well what a poisoned bait was ; 
 she passed them by or else treated them with 
 active contempt, but one she dropped down 
 the hole of an old enemy, a skunk, who was 
 never afterward seen. Formerly old Scarface 
 was always ready to take charge of the dogs, 
 and keep them out of mischief But now that 
 Vix had the whole burden of the brood, she 
 could no longer spend time in breaking every 
 track to the den, and was not always at hand 
 
 2U 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 to meet and mislead the foes that might be com- 
 ing too near. 
 
 The end is easily foreseen. Ranger followed 
 a hot trail to the den, and Spot, the fox-terrier, 
 announced that the family was at home, and 
 then did his best to go in after them. 
 
 The whole secret was now out, and the whole 
 family doomed. The hired man came around 
 with pick and shovel to dig them out, while we 
 and the dogs stood by. Old Vix soon showed 
 herself in the near woods, and led the dogs 
 away off down the river, where she shook them 
 off when she thought proper, by the simple de- 
 vice of springing on a sheep's back. The 
 frightened animal ran for several hundred yards, 
 then Vix got off, knowing that there was now 
 a hopeless gap in the scent, and returned to the 
 den. But the dogs, baffled by the break in the 
 trail, soon did the same, to find Vix hanging 
 about in despair, vainly trying to decoy us away 
 from her treasures. 
 
 Meanwhile Paddy plied both pick and shovel 
 with vigor and effect. . The yellow, gravelly sand 
 was heaping on both sides, and the shoulders of 
 the sturdy digger were sinking below the level. 
 
 
 ^y 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 After an hour's digging, enlivened by frantic 
 rushes of the dogs after the old fox, who hovered 
 near in the woods, Pat called : 
 
 ' ' Here they are, sor ! ' ' 
 
 It was the den at the end of the burrow, and 
 cowering as far back as they could, were the 
 four little woolly cubs. 
 
 Before I could interfere, a murderous blow 
 from the shovel, and a sudden rush for the fierce 
 little terrier, ended the lives of three. The 
 fourth and smallest was barely saved by holding 
 him by his tail high out of reach of the excited 
 dogs. 
 
 He gave one short squeal, and his poor 
 mother came at the cry, and circled so near that 
 she would have been shot but for the accidental 
 protection of the dogs, who somehow always 
 seemed to get between, and whom she once 
 more led away on a fruitless chase. 
 
 The little one saved alive was dropped into a 
 bag, where he lay quite still. His unfortunate 
 brothers were thrown back into their nursery 
 bed, and buried under a few shovelfuls of earth. 
 
 We guilty ones then went back into the 
 house, and the little fox was soon chained in 
 213 
 

 ./»' 
 
 The Spfingffield Fox 
 
 the yard. No one knew just why he was kept 
 ahve, but in all a change of feeling had set 
 .^fii ^^' ^'^'i '^^ i*^^^ °f killing him was without a 
 
 i^r^ supporter. 
 
 '^i'S^ He was a pretty little fellow, like a cross be- 
 
 ^^ tween a fox and a lamb. His woolly visage 
 
 ^i^ and form were strangely lamb-like and inno- 
 
 , . s^ 7.ivV. \, cent, but one could find in his yellow eyes a 
 
 y Syi\. Al^ i^- gleam of cunning and savageness as unlamb-like 
 as it possibly could be. 
 
 As long as anyone ■ was near he crouched 
 sullen and cowed in his shelter-box, and it was 
 a full hour after being left alone before he vent- 
 ured to look out. 
 
 My window now took the place of the hol- 
 low basswood. A number of hens of the breed 
 he knew so well were about the cub in the 
 the yard. Late that afternoon as they strayed 
 near the captive there was a sudden rattle of 
 the chain, and the youngster dashed at the near- 
 est one and would have caught him but for the 
 chain which brought him up with a jerk. He 
 got on his feet and slunk back to his box, and 
 though he afterward made several rushes he so 
 gauged his leap as to win or fail within the 
 214 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 length of the chain and never again was brought 
 up by its cruel jerk. 
 
 As night came down the little fellow became 
 very uneasy, sneaking out of his box, but going 
 back at each slight alarm, tugging at his chain, 
 or at times biting it in fury while he held it 
 down with his fore paws. Suddenly he paused 
 as though listening, then raising his little black 
 nose he poured out a short quavering cry. 
 
 Once or twice this was repeated, the time 
 between being occupied in worrying the chain 
 and running about. Then an answer came. 
 The far-away Yap-yurrr of the old fox. A 
 few minutes later a shadowy form appeared on 
 the wood-pile. The little one slunk into his 
 box, but at once returned and ran to meet his 
 mother with all the gladness • that a fox could 
 show. Quick as a flash she seized him and 
 turned to bear him away by the road she came. 
 But the moment the end of the chain was 
 reached the cub was rudely jerked from the old 
 one's mouth, and she, scared by the opening of 
 a window, fled over the wood-pile. 
 
 An hour afterward the cub had ceased to run 
 about or cry. I peeped out, and by the light 
 
 Stunk bsicfc Mi hU but 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 of the moon saw the form of the mother at full 
 length on the ground by the little one, gnaw- 
 ing at something — the clank of iron told what, 
 it was that cruel chain. And Tip, the little- 
 one, meanwhile was helping himself to a warm 
 drink. 
 
 On my going out she fled into the dark 
 ^'■rs?^-^""^™ woods, but there by the shelter-box were two 
 
 '^'^ '^~- ■'<-"'^'-'* little mice, bloody and still .warm, food for the 
 
 cub brought by the devoted mother. And in 
 the morning I found the chain was very bright 
 for a foot or two next the little one's collar. 
 
 On walking across the woods to the ruined 
 den, I again found signs of Vixen. The poor 
 heart-broken mother had come and dug out the 
 bedraggled bodies of her little ones. 
 
 There lay the three little baby foxes all 
 licked smooth now, and by them were two of 
 our hens fresh killed. The newly heaved earth 
 was printed all over with tell-tale signs — signs 
 that told me that here by the side of her dead 
 she had watched like Rizpah. Here she had 
 brought their usual meal, the spoil of her night- 
 ly hunt. Here she had stretched herself be- 
 side them and vainly offered them their natural 
 216 
 
There she had lain, and mourned. 
 
The Spfing;fieI(I Fox 
 
 drink and yearned to feed and warm them as of 
 old ; but only stiff little bodies under their soft 
 wool she found, and little cold noses still and 
 unresponsive. 
 
 A deep impress of elbows, breast, and hocks 
 showed where she had laid in silent grief and 
 watched them for long and mourned as a wild 
 mother can mourn for its young. But from 
 that time she came no more to the ruined den, 
 for now she surely knew that her little ones 
 were dead. 
 
 Tip the captive, the weakling of the brood, 
 was now the heir to all her love. The dogs 
 were loosed to guard the hens. The hired 
 man had orders to shoot the old fox on sight — 
 so had I, but was resolved never to see her. 
 Chicken-heads, that a fox loves and a dog will 
 not touch, had been poisoned and scattered 
 through the woods ; and the only way to the 
 yard where Tip was tied, was by climbing the 
 wood-pile after braving all other dangers. And 
 yet each night old Vix was there to nurse her 
 219 
 
The SpAngiicld Fox 
 
 
 baby and bring it fresh-killed hens and game. 
 Again and again I saw her, although she came 
 now without awaiting the querulous cry of the 
 captive. 
 
 The second night of the captivity I heard 
 the rattle of the chain, and then made out that 
 the old fox was there, hard at work digging a 
 hole by the little one's kennel. When it was 
 deep enough to half bury her, she gathered into 
 it all the slack of the chain, and filled it again 
 with earth. Then in triumph thinking she had 
 gotten rid of the chain, she seized little Tip by 
 the neck and turned to dash off up the wood- 
 pile, but alas only to have him jerked roughly 
 from her grasp. 
 
 Poor little fellow, he whimpered sadly as he 
 crawled into his box. After half an hour there 
 was a great outcry among the dogs, and by their 
 straight-away tonguing through the far woods 
 I knew they were chasing Vix. Away up north 
 they went in the direction of the railway and 
 their noise faded from hearing. Next morning 
 the hound had not come back. We soon knew 
 why. Foxes long ago learned what a railroad 
 is ; they soon devised several ways of turning it 
 
 330 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 to account. One way is when hunted to walk 
 the rails for a long distance just before a train 
 comes. The scent, always poor on iron, is 
 destroyed by the train and there is always a 
 chance of hounds being killed by the engine. 
 But another way more sure, but harder to play, 
 is to lead the hounds straight to a high trestle 
 just ahead of the train, so that the engine over- 
 takes them on it and they are surely dashed 
 to destruction. 
 
 This trick was skilfully played, and down 
 below we found the mangled remains of old 
 Ranger and learned that Vix was already 
 wreaking her revenge. 
 
 That same night she returned to the yard 
 before Spot's weary limbs could bring him 
 back and killed another hen and brought it to 
 Tip, and stretched her panting length beside 
 him that he might quench his thirst. For she 
 seemed to think he had no food but what she 
 brought. 
 
 It was that hen that betrayed to my uncle 
 the nightly visits. 
 
 My own sympathies were all turning to Vix, 
 and I wotild have no hand in planning further 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 murders. Next night my uncle himself watched, 
 gun in hand, for an hour. Then when it became 
 cold and the moon clouded over he remembered 
 other important business elsewhere, and left 
 Paddy in his place. 
 
 But Paddy was ' ' onaisy ' ' as the stillness and 
 anxiety of watching worked on his nerves. And 
 the loud bang ! bang ! an hour later left us sure 
 only that powder had been burned. 
 
 In the morning we found Vix had not failed 
 her young one. Again next night found my 
 uncle on guard, for another hen had been taken. 
 Soon after dark a single shot was heard, but Vix 
 dropped the game she was bringing and escaped. 
 Another attempt made that night called forth 
 another gun-shot. Yet next day it was seen by 
 the brightness of the chain that she had come 
 again and vainly tried for hours to cut that 
 hateful bond. 
 
 Such courage and stanch fidelity were bound 
 to win respect, if not toleration. At any rate, 
 there was no gunner in wait next night, when 
 all was still. Could it be of any use ? Driven 
 off thrice with gun-shots, would she make an- 
 other try to feed or free her captive young one ? 
 
 222 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 Would she? Hers was a mother's love. 
 There was but one to watch them this time, the 
 fourth night, when the quavering whine of the 
 little one was followed by that shadowy form 
 above the wood-pile. 
 
 But carrying no fowl or food that could be 
 seen. Had the keen huntress failed at last? 
 Had she no head of game for this her only 
 charge, or had she learned to trust his captors 
 for his food ? 
 
 No, far from all this. The wild-wood mother's 
 heart and hate were true. Her only thought 
 had been to set him free. All means she knew 
 she tried, and every danger braved to tend him 
 well and help him to be free. But all had 
 failed. 
 
 Like a shadow she came and in a moment 
 was gone, and Tip seized on something dropped, 
 and crunched and chewed with relish what she 
 brought. But even as he ate, a knife-like pang 
 shot through and a scream of pain escaped him. 
 Then there was a momentary struggle and the 
 little fox was dead. 
 
 The mother's love was strong in Vix, but a 
 higher thought was stronger. She knew right 
 223 
 
The Springfield Fox 
 
 well the poison's power ; she knew the poison 
 bait, and would have taught him had he lived 
 to know and shun it too. But now at last 
 when she must choose for him a wretched pris- 
 oner's life or sudden death, she quenched the 
 mother in her breast and freed him by the one 
 remaining door. 
 
 It is when the snow is on the ground that 
 we take the census of the woods, and when the 
 winter came it told me that Vix no longer 
 roamed the woods of Erindale. Where she 
 went it never told, but only this, that she was 
 gone. 
 
 Gone, perhaps, to some other far-off haunt 
 to leave behind the sad remembrance of her 
 murdered little ones and mate. Or gone, may 
 be, deliberately, from the scene of a sorrowful 
 life, as many a wild-wood mother has gone, by 
 the means that she herself had used to free her 
 young one, the last of all her brood. 
 
 224 
 
Vix. 
 
The Pacing Mustang 
 
 
The Pacing Mustang 
 
 O CALONE threw down his 
 
 saddle on the dusty ground, 
 
 turned his horses loose, and 
 
 went clanking into the ranch- 
 
 f house. 
 
 " Nigh about chuck time? " 
 he asked. 
 
 "Seventeen minutes," said 
 the cook glancing at the Waterbury, with the 
 air of a train-starter, though this show of pre- 
 cision had never yet been justified by events. 
 
 "How's things on the Perico ? " said Jo's 
 pard. 
 
 " Hotter'n hinges," said Jo. " Cattle seem 
 0. K.; lots of calves." 
 
 329 
 
The Pacing; Mustang 
 
 "I seen that bunch o' mustangs that waters 
 at Antelope Springs; couple o' colts along; 
 one little dark one, a fair dandy ; a born pacer. 
 I run them a mile or two, and he led the bunch, 
 an' never broke his pace. Cut loose, an' 
 pushed them jest for fun, an' darned if I could 
 make him break. ' ' 
 
 " You didn't have no reefreshments along ? " 
 said Scarth, incredulously. 
 
 " That's all right, Scarth. You had to crawl 
 on our last bet, an' you'll get another chance 
 soon as you're man enough." 
 
 " Chuck," shouted the cook, and the subject 
 was dropped. Next day the scene of the round- 
 up was changed, and the mustangs were forgot- 
 ten. 
 
 A year later the same corner of New Mexico 
 was worked over by the roundup, and again 
 the mustang bunch was seen. The dark colt 
 was now a black yearling, with thin, clean legs 
 and glossy flanks ; and more than one of the 
 boys saw with his own eyes this oddity — the 
 mustang was a born pacer. 
 
 Jo was along, and the idea now struck him 
 that that colt was worth having. To an East- 
 230 
 
The Pacing; Mustang 
 
 erner this thought may not seem startling or 
 original, but in the West, where an unbroken 
 horse is worth ^5, and where an ordinary saddle- 
 horse is worth ^15 or ^20, the idea of a wild 
 mustang being desirable property does not oc- 
 cur to the average cowboy, for mustangs are 
 hard to catch, and when caught are merely wild 
 animal prisoners, perfectly useless and untama- 
 ble to the last. Not a few of the cattle-owners 
 make a point of shooting all mustangs at sight, 
 for they are not only useless cumberers of the 
 feeding-grounds, but commonly lead away do- 
 mestic horses, which soon take to the wild life 
 and are thenceforth lost. 
 
 Wild Jo Calone knew a ' bronk right down to 
 subsoil.' "I never seen a white that wasn't 
 soft, nor a chestnut that wasn't nervous, nor a 
 bay that wasn't good if broke right, nor a 
 black that wasn't hard as nails, an' full of the 
 old Harry. All a black bronk wants is claws 
 to be wus'n Daniel's hull outfit of lions." 
 
 Since then a mustang is worthless vermin, 
 
 wantin' to corral the yearling, 
 231 
 
 as he now 
 
 and a black mustang ten times worse than worth- (^ >- ''^^^"^'^^ L 
 less, Jo's pard "didn't see no sense in Jo's- ^^Afel-'^^* 
 
The Pacing: Mustang: 
 
 seemed intent on doing. But Jo got no chance 
 to try that year. 
 
 He was only a cow-puncher on ^25 a month, 
 and tied to hours. Like most of the boys, he 
 always looked forward to having a ranch and 
 an outfit of his own. His brand, the hogpen, 
 of sinister suggestion, was already registered at 
 Santa Fe, but of horned stock it was borne by 
 a single old cow, so as to give him a legal right 
 .'■srCi^^'^sidi'- '!<t/L~'' to put his brand on any maverick (or unbranded 
 animal) he might chance to find. 
 
 Yet each fall, when paid off, Jo could not re- 
 sist the temptation to go to town with the boys 
 and have a good time ' while the stuff held out. ' 
 So that his property consisted of little more 
 than his saddle, his bed, and his old cow. He 
 kept on hoping to make a strike that would 
 leave him well fixed with a fair start, and when 
 the thought came that the Black Mustang was 
 his mascot, he only needed a chance to ' make 
 the try.' 
 
 The roundup circled down to the Canadian 
 
 River, and back in the fall by the Don Carlos 
 
 Hills, and Jo saw no more of the Pacer, though 
 
 he heard of him from many quarters, for the 
 
 332 
 
The Pacing Mustangf 
 
 colt, now a vigorous, young horse, rising three, 
 was beginning to be talked of. 
 
 Antelope Springs is in the middle of a great 
 level plain. When the water is high it spreads 
 into a small lake with a belt of sedge around it ; 
 when it is low there is a wide flat of black mud, 
 glistening white with alkali in places, and the 
 spring a water-hole in the middle. It has no 
 flow or outlet and yet is fairly good water, the 
 only drinking-place for many miles. 
 
 This flat, or prairie as it would be called far- 
 ther north, was the favorite feeding-ground of 
 the Black Stallion, but it was also the pasture 
 of many herds of range horses and cattle. 
 Chiefly interested was the ' L cross F ' outfit. 
 Foster, the manager and part owner, was a man 
 of enterprise. He believed it would pay to 
 handle a better class of cattle and horses on 
 the range, and one of his ventures was ten half- 
 blooded mares, tall, clean-limbed, deer-eyed 
 creatures, that made the scrub cow-ponies look 
 like pitiful starvelings of some degenerate and 
 quite different species. 
 
 One of these was kept stabled for use, but 
 the nine, after the weaning of their colts, 
 
 233 
 
 Lf 
 
The Pacing: Mastangf 
 
 managed to get away and wandered off on the 
 range. 
 
 A horse has a fine instinct for the road to the 
 best feed, and the nine mares drifted, of course, 
 to the prairie of Antelope Springs, twenty miles 
 to the southward. And when, later that sum- 
 mer Foster went to round them up, he found 
 the nine indeed, but with them and guarding 
 them with an air of more than mere comrade- 
 ship was a coal-black stallion, prancing around 
 and rounding up the bunch like an expert, his 
 jet-black coat a vivid contrast to the golden 
 hides of his harem. 
 
 The mares were gentle, and would have been 
 easily driven homeward but for a new and un- 
 expected thing. The Black Stallion became 
 greatly aroused. He seemed to inspire them too 
 with his wildness, and flying this way and that 
 way drove the whole band at full gallop where 
 he would. Away they went, and the little cow- 
 ponies that carried the men were easily left be- 
 hind. 
 
 This was maddening, and both men at last 
 drew their guns and sought a chance to drop 
 that ' blasted stallion.' But no chance came 
 234 
 
The Pacing: Mustang 
 
 that was not 9 to i of dropping one of the 
 mares. A long day of manoeuvring' made no 
 change. The Pacer, for it was he, kept his 
 family together and disappeared among the 
 southern sandhills. The cattlemen on their 
 jaded ponies set out for home with the poor sat- 
 isfaction of vowing vengeance for their failure 
 on the superb cause of it. 
 
 One of the most aggravating parts of it was 
 that one or two experiences like this would 
 surely make the mares as wild as the Mustang, 
 and there seemed to be no way of saving them 
 from it. 
 
 Scientists differ on the power of beauty and 
 prowess to attract female admiration among the 
 lower animals, but whether it is admiration or 
 the prowess itself, it is certain that a wild ani- 
 mal of uncommon gifts soon wins a large follow- 
 ing from the harems of his rivals. And the 
 great Black Horse, with his inky mane and tail 
 and his green-lighted eyes, ranged through all 
 that region and added to his following from 
 many bands till not less than a score of mares 
 were in his ' bunch.' Most were merely hum- 
 ble cow-ponies turned out to range, but the nine 
 
 235 
 
The Pacing Mustang 
 
 great mares were there, a striking group by 
 themselves. According to all reports, this bunch 
 was always kept rounded up and guarded with 
 such energy and jealousy that a mare, once in it, 
 was a lost animal so far as man was concerned, 
 and the ranchmen realized soon that they had 
 gotten on the range a mustang that was doing 
 them more harm than all other sources of .loss 
 put together. 
 
 II a^/^^' 
 
 It was December, 1893. I \vas new in the 
 country, and was setting out from the ranch- 
 house on the Pinavetitos, to go with a wagon to 
 the Canadian River. As I was leaving, Foster 
 finished his remark by: "And if you get a 
 chance to draw a bead on that accursed mus- 
 tang, don't fail to drop him in his tracks." 
 
 This was the first I had heard of him, and as 
 
 I rode along I gathered from Burns, my guide, 
 
 the history that has been given. I was full of 
 
 curiosity to see the famous three-year-old, and 
 
 236 
 
The Pacing Mustangf 
 
 was not a little disappointed on the second day 
 when we came to the prairie on Antelope 
 Springs and saw no sign of the Pacer or his band. 
 But on the next day, as we crossed the Ala- 
 mosa Arroyo, and were rising to the rolling 
 prairie again, Jack Burns, who was riding on 
 ahead, suddenly dropped flat on the neck of his 
 horse, and swung back to me in the wagon, 
 saying : 
 
 "Get out your rifle, here's that stallion." 
 
 I seized my rifle, and hurried forward to a 
 view over the prairie ridge. In the hollow be- 
 low was a band of horses, and there at one end 
 was the Great Black Mustang. He had heard 
 some sound of our approach, and was not un- 
 suspicious of danger. There he stood with 
 head and tail erect, and nostrils wide, an image 
 of horse perfection and beauty, as noble an 
 animal as ever ranged the plains, and the mere 
 notion of turning that magnificent creature into 
 a mass of carrion was horrible. In spite of 
 Jack's exhortation to 'shoot quick,' I delayed, 
 and threw open the breach, whereupon he, al- 
 ways hot and hasty, swore at my slowness, 
 growled, ' Gi' me that gun,' and as he seized 
 237 
 
'>-:^ki/%'^M- 
 
 
 The Pacing Mustangf 
 
 it I turned the muzzle up, and accidentally the 
 gun went off. 
 
 Instantly the herd below was all alarm, the 
 great black leader snorted and neighed and 
 dashed about. And the mares bunched, and 
 away all went in a rumble of hoofs, and a cloud 
 of dust. 
 
 The Stallion careered now on this side, now 
 on that, and kept his eye on all and led and 
 drove them far away. As long as I could 
 see I watched, and never once did he break his 
 pace. 
 
 Jack made Western remarks about me and my 
 gun, as well as that mustang, but I rejoiced in 
 the Pacer's strength and beauty, and not for all 
 the mares in the bunch would I have harmed 
 his glossy hide. 
 
 Ill 
 
 There are several ways of capturing wild 
 horses. One is by creasing — that is, grazing 
 the animal's nape with a rifle-ball so that he is 
 stunned long enough for hobbling. 
 
 "Yes! I seen about a hundred necks broke 
 238 
 
The Pacing Mustang 
 
 trying it, but I never seen a mustang creased 
 yet," was Wild Jo's critical remark. 
 
 Sometimes, if the shape of the country abets 
 it, the herd can be driven into a corral ; some- 
 times with extra fine mounts they can be run 
 down, but by far the commonest way, paradoxi- 
 cal as it may seem, is to walk them down. 
 
 The fame of the Stallion that never was known 
 to gallop was spreading. Extraordinary stories 
 were told of his gait, his speed, and his wind, and 
 when old Montgomery of the 'triangle-bar' out- 
 fit came out plump at Well's Hotel in Clayton, 
 and in presence of witnesses said he'd give one 
 thousand dollars cash for him safe in a box-car, 
 providing the stories were true, a dozen young 
 cow-punchers were eager to cut loose and win 
 the purse, as soon as present engagements were 
 up. But Wild Jo had had his eye on this 
 very deal for quite a while; there was no time to 
 lose, so ignoring present contracts he rustled all 
 night to raise the necessary equipment for the 
 game. 
 
 By straining his already overstrained credit, 
 and taxing the already overtaxed generosity of 
 his friends, he got together an expedition con- 
 239 
 
The Pacing Mustang- 
 
 sisting of twenty good saddle-horses, a mess- 
 wagon, and a fortnight's stuff for three men — 
 himself, his ' pard,' Charley, and the cook. 
 
 Then they set out from Clayton, with the 
 avowed intention of walking down the wonder- 
 fully swift wild horse. The third day they arrived 
 at Antelope Springs, and as it was about noon 
 they were not surprised to see the black Pacer 
 marching down to drink with all his band behind 
 him. Jo kept out of sight until the wild horses 
 each and all had drunk their fill, for a thirsty 
 animal always travels better than one laden with 
 water. 
 
 Jo then rode quietly forward. The Pacer 
 took alarm at half a mile, and led his band away 
 out of sight on the soapweed mesa to the south- 
 east. Jo followed at a gallop till he once more 
 sighted them, then came back and instructed 
 the cook, who was also teamster, to make for 
 Alamosa Arroyo in the south. Then away to 
 the southeast he went after the mustangs. After 
 a mile or two he once more sighted them, and 
 walked his horse quietly till so near that they 
 again took alarm and circled away to the south. 
 An hour's trot, not on the trail, but cutting 
 240 
 
The Pacing; Mustang; 
 
 across to where they ought to go, brought Jo 
 again in close sight. Again he walked quietly 
 toward the herd, and again there was the alarm 
 and flight. And so they passed the afternoon, 
 but circled ever more and more to the south, so 
 that when the sun was low they were, as Jo had 
 expected, not far from Alamosa Arroyo. The 
 band was again close at hand, and Jo, after 
 starting them off, rode to the wagon, while his 
 pard, who had been taking it easy, took up the 
 slow chase on a fresh horse. 
 
 After supper the wagon moved on to the up- 
 per ford of the Alamosa, as arranged, and there 
 camped for the night. 
 
 Meanwhile, Charley followed the herd. They 
 had not run so far as at first, for their pursuer 
 made no sign of attack, and they were getting 
 used to his company. They were more easily 
 found, as the shadows fell, on account of a snow- 
 white mare that was in the bunch. A young 
 moon in the sky now gave some help, and rely- 
 ing on his horse to choose the path, Charley kept 
 him quietly walking after the herd, represented 
 by that ghost-white mare, till they were lost in 
 the night. He then got off, unsaddled and 
 241 
 
The Pacing Mustang: 
 
 picketed his horse, and in his blanket quickly 
 went to sleep. 
 
 At the iirst streak of dawn he was up, and 
 within a short half-mile, thanks to the snowy 
 mare, he found the band. At his approach, 
 the shrill neigh of the Pacer bugled his 
 troop into a flying squad. But on the first 
 mesa they stopped, and faced about to see what 
 this persistent follower was, and what he wanted. 
 For a moment or so they stood against the sky 
 to gaze, and then deciding that he knew him as 
 well as he wished to, that black meteor flung his 
 mane on the wind, and led off at his tireless, 
 even swing, while the mares came streaming 
 after. 
 
 Away they went, circling now to the west, 
 and after several repetitions of this same play, 
 flying, following, and overtaking, and flying 
 again, they passed, near noon, the old Apache 
 look-out, Buffalo Bluff. And here, on watch, 
 ■^=^ was Jo. A long thin column of smoke told 
 Charley to come to camp, and with a flashing 
 pocket-mirror he made response. 
 
 Jo, freshly mounted, rode across, and again 
 took up the chase, and back came Charley to 
 242 
 
The Pacing; Mostangf 
 
 camp to eat and rest, and then move on up 
 stream. 
 
 All that day Jo followed, and managed, when 
 it was needed, that the herd should keep the 
 great circle, of which the wagon cut a small 
 chord. At sundown he came to Verde Crossing, 
 and there was Charley with a fresh horse and 
 food, and Jo went on in the same calm, dogged 
 way. All the evening he followed, and far into 
 the night, for the wild herd was now getting 
 somewhat used to the presence of the harmless 
 strangers, and were more easily followed; more- 
 over, they werfe tiring out with perpetual travel- 
 ling. They were no longer in the good grass 
 country, they were not grain-fed like the horses 
 on their track, and above all, the slight but 
 continuous nervous tension was surely telling. 
 It spoiled their appetites, but' made them very 
 thirsty. They were allowed, and as far as pos'- 
 sible encouraged, to drink deeply at every 
 chance. The effect of large quantities of water 
 on a running animal is well known ; it tends to 
 stiffen the limbs and spoil the wind. Jo care- 
 fully guarded his own horse against such excess, 
 and both he and his horse were fresh when they 
 243 
 
The Pacing Mustang 
 
 camped that night on the trail of the jaded 
 mustangs. 
 
 At dawn he found them easily close at hand, 
 and though they ran at first they did not go far 
 before they dropped into a walk. The battle 
 seemed nearly won now, for the chief difficulty 
 in the ' walk -down ' is to keep track of the 
 herd the first two or three days when they are 
 fresh. 
 
 All that morning Jo kept in sight, generally 
 in close sight, of the band. About ten o'clock, 
 Charley relieved him near Jos6 Peak and that 
 day the mustangs walked only a quarter of a 
 mile ahead with much less spirit than the day 
 before and circled now more north again. At 
 night Charley was supplied with a fresh horse 
 and followed as before. 
 
 Next day the mustangs walked with heads 
 held low, and in spite of the efforts of the Black 
 Pacer at times they were less than a hundred 
 yards ahead of their pursuer. 
 
 The fourth and fifth days passed the , same 
 way, and now the herd was nearly back to Ante- 
 lope Springs. So far all had come out as ex- 
 pected. The chase had been in a great circle 
 244 
 
The Pacingf Mastang 
 
 with the wagon following a lesser circle. The 
 wild herd was back to its starting-point, worn 
 out ; and the hunters were back, fresh and on 
 fresh horses. The herd was kept from drink- 
 ing till late in the afternoon and then driven 
 to the Springs to swell themselves with a per- 
 fect water gorge. Now was the chance for the 
 skilful ropers on the grain-fed horses to close 
 in, for the sudden heavy drink was ruination, al- 
 most paralysis, of wind and limb, and it would 
 be easy to rope and hobble them one by one. 
 
 There was only one weak spot in the pro- 
 gramme, the Black Stallion, the cause of the 
 hunt, seemed made of iron, that ceaseless swing- 
 ing pace seemed as swift and vigorous now as on 
 the morning when the chase began. Up and 
 down he went rounding up the herd and urging 
 them on by voice and example to escape. But 
 they were played out. The old white mare that 
 had been such help in sighting them at night, 
 had dropped out hours ago, dead beat. The 
 half-bloods seemed to be losing all fear of the 
 horsemen, the band was clearly in Jo's power. 
 But the one who was the prize of all the hunt 
 seemed just as far as ever out of reach. 
 245 
 
The Pacing; Mustang; 
 
 ^i 
 % 
 
 ^M 
 
 w 
 
 
 
 
 Here was a puzzle. Jo's comrades knew 
 him well and would not have been surprised to 
 see him in a sudden rage attempt to shoot the 
 Stallion down. But Jo had no such mind. 
 During that long week of following he had 
 watched the horse all day at speed and never 
 once had he seen him gallop. 
 
 The horseitian's adoration of a noble horse 
 had grown and grown, till now he would as 
 soon have thought of shooting his best mount 
 as firing on that splendid beaist. 
 
 Jo even asked himself whether he would take 
 the handsome sum that was offered for the 
 prize. Such an animal would be a fortune in 
 himself to sire a race of pacers for the track. 
 
 But the prize was still at large — the time had 
 come to finish up the hunt. Jo's finest mount 
 was caught. She was a mare of Eastern blood, 
 but raised on the plains. She never would have 
 come into Jo's possession but for a curious weak- 
 ness. The loco is a poisonous weed that grows 
 in these regions. Most stock will not touch it ; 
 but sometimes an animal tries it and becomes 
 addicted to it. It acts somewhat like morphine, 
 but the animal, though sane for long intervals, 
 246 
 
 
 
The Pacing: Mustang 
 
 has always a passion for the herb and finally 
 dies mad. A beast with the craze is said to 
 be locoed. And Jo's best mount had a wild 
 gleam in her eye that to an expert told the 
 tale. 
 
 But she was swift and strong and Jo chose 
 her for the grand finish of the chase. It would 
 have been an easy matter now to rope the 
 mares, but was no longer necessary. They 
 could be separated from their black leader and 
 driven home to the corral. But that leader 
 still had the look of untamed strength. Jo, re- 
 joicing in a worthy foe, went bounding forth 
 to try the odds. The lasso was flung on the 
 ground and trailed to take out every kink, and 
 gathered as he rode into neatest coils across 
 his left palm. Then putting on the spur the 
 first time in that chase he rode straight for the 
 Stallion a quarter of a mile beyond. Away he 
 went, and away went Jo, each at his best, while 
 the fagged-out mares scattered right and left 
 and let them pass. Straight across the open 
 plain the fresh horse went at its hardest gallop, 
 and the Stallion, leading oif, still kept his start 
 and kept his famous swing. 
 247 
 
The Pacing: Mustang 
 
 It was incredible, and Jo put on more spur 
 and shouted to his horse, which fairly flew, but 
 shortened up the space between by not a single 
 inch. For the Black One whirled across the 
 flat and up and passed a soapweed mesa and 
 down across a sandy treacherous plain, then 
 over a grassy stretch where prairie dogs barked, 
 then hid below, and on came Jo, but there to 
 see, could he believe his eyes, the Stallion's 
 start grown longer still, and Jo began to curse 
 his luck, and urge and spur his horse until the 
 poor uncertain brute got into such a state of 
 nervous fright, her eyes began to roll, she 
 wildly shook her head from side to side, no 
 longer picked her ground — a badger-hole re- 
 ceived her foot and down she went, and Jo went 
 flying to the earth. Though badly bruised, he 
 gained his feet and tried to mount his crazy 
 beast. But she, poor brute, was done for — her 
 off fore-leg hung loose. 
 
 There was but one thing to do. Jo loosed 
 the cinch, put Lightfoot out of pain, and car- 
 ried back the saddle to the camp. While the 
 Pacer steamed away till lost to view. 
 
 This was not quite defeat, for all the mares 
 248 
 
The Pacingf Mostangf 
 
 were manageable now, and Jo and Charley 
 drove them carefully to the ' L cross F ' corral 
 and claimed a good reward. But Jo was more 
 than ever bound to own the Stallion. He had 
 seen what stuff he was made of, he prized him 
 more and more, and only sought to strike some 
 better plan to catch him. 
 
 IV 
 
 The cook on that trip was Bates — Mr. Thom- 
 as Bates, he called himself at the post-office 
 where he regularly went for the letters and re- 
 mittance which never came. Old Tom Tur- 
 keytrack, the boys called him, from his cattle- 
 brand, which he said was on record at Denver, 
 and which, according to his story, was also 
 borne by countless beef and saddle stock on 
 the plains of the unknown North. 
 
 When asked to join the trip as a partner. Bates 
 made some sarcastic remarks about horses not 
 fetching ^12 a dozen, which had been literally 
 true within the year, and he preferred to go on a 
 very meagre salary. But no one who once saw 
 the Pacer going had failed to catch the craze. 
 249 
 
o 
 
 A 
 
 The Pacing Mastang 
 
 Turkeytrack experienced the usual change of 
 heart. He now wanted to own that mustang. 
 How this was to be brought about he did not 
 clearly see till one day there called at the ranch 
 that had ' secured his services,' as he put it, one. 
 Bill Smith, more usually known as Horseshoe 
 Billy, from his cattle-brand. While the excel- 
 lent fresh beef and bread and the vile coffee, 
 dried peaches and molasses were being con- 
 sumed, he of the horseshoe remarked, in tone? 
 which percolated through a huge stop-gap of 
 bread : 
 
 " Wall, I seen that thar Pacer to-day, nigh 
 enough to put a plait in his tail." 
 " What, you didn't shoot? " 
 " No, but I come mighty near it." 
 " Don't you be led into no sich foolishness," 
 said a 'double-bar H' cow-puncher at the other 
 end of the table. " I calc'late that maverick 
 'ill carry my brand before the moon changes." 
 "You'll have to be pretty spry or you'll find 
 a ' triangle dot ' on his weather side when you 
 get there." 
 
 " Where did you run acrost him ? " 
 " Wall, it was like this ; I was riding the 
 250 
 
The Pacing: Mustang 
 
 flat by Antelope Springs and I sees a lump on 
 the dry mud inside the rush belt. I knowed I 
 never seen that before, so rides up, thinking it 
 might be some of our stock, an' seen it was a 
 horse lying plumb flat. The wind was blowing 
 
 like from him to me, so I rides up close 
 
 and seen it was the Pacer, dead as a mackerel. 
 Still, he didn't look swelled or cut, and there 
 wa'n't no smell, an' I didn't know what to 
 think till I seen his ear twitch off a fly and 
 then I knowed he was sleeping. I gits down 
 me rope and coils it, and seen it was old and 
 pretty shaky in spots, and me saddle a single 
 cinch, an' me pony about 700 again a 1,200 lbs. 
 stallion, an' I sez to meself, sez I : ' 'Tain'tno 
 use, I'll only break me cinch and git throwed 
 an' lose me saddle.' So I hits the saddle-horn a 
 crack with the hondu, and I wish't you'd a 
 seen that mustang. He lept six foot in the air 
 an' landed on all fours and snorted like he was 
 shunting cars. His eyes fairly bugged out an' 
 he lighted out lickety split for California, and 
 he orter be there about now if he kep' on like 
 he started — and I swear he never made a break 
 the hull trip." 
 
 251 
 
The Pacing Mustang 
 
 The story was not quite so consecutive as 
 given here. It was much punctuated by present 
 engrossments, and from first to last was more or 
 less infiltrated through the necessaries of life, 
 for Bill was a healthy young man without a 
 trace of false shame. But the account was com- 
 plete and everyone believed it, for Billy was 
 known to be reliable. Of all those who heard, 
 old Turkeytrack talked the least and probably 
 thought the most, for it gave him a new idea. 
 
 During his after-dinner pipe he studied it out 
 and deciding that he could not go it alone, he 
 took Horseshoe Billy into his council and the 
 result was a partnership in a new venture to capt- 
 ure the Pacer; that is, the ^5,000 that was now 
 said to be the offer for him safe in a box-car. 
 
 Antelope Springs was still the usual watering- 
 place of the Pacer. The water being low left 
 a broad belt of dry black mud between the 
 sedge and the spring. At two places this belt 
 was broken by a well-marked trail made by the 
 animals coming to drink. Horses and wild 
 animals usually kept to these trails, though the 
 horned cattle had no hesitation in taking a 
 short cut through the sedge. 
 252 
 
The Pacing Mustang 
 
 In the most used of these trails the two men 
 set to work with shovels and digged a pit 15 
 feet long, 6 feet wide and 7 feet deep. It was 
 a hard twenty hours work for them as it had to 
 be completed between the Mustang's drinks, and 
 it began to be very damp work before it was 
 finished. With poles, brush, and earth it was 
 then cleverly covered over and concealed. And 
 the men went to a distance and hid in pits 
 made for the purpose. 
 
 About noon the Pacer came, alone now since 
 the capture of his band. The trail on the op- 
 posite side of the mud belt was little used, and 
 old Tom, by throwing some fresh rushes across 
 it, expected to make sure that the Stallion 
 would enter by the other, if indeed he should 
 by any caprice try to come by the unusual path. 
 
 What sleepless angel is it watches over and 
 cares for the wild animals ? In spite of all rea- 
 sons to take the usual path, the Pacer came 
 along the other. The suspicious-looking rushes 
 did not stop him ; he walked calmly to the 
 water and drank. There was only one way 
 now to prevent utter failure ; when he lowered 
 his head for the second draft which horses al- 
 253 
 
The Pacing: Mustang; 
 
 ways take, Bates and Smith quit their holes and 
 ran swiftly toward the trail behind him, and 
 when he raised his proud head Smith sent a 
 revolver-shot into the ground behind him. 
 
 Away went the Pacer at his famous gait 
 straight to the trap. Another second and he 
 would be into it. Already he is on the trail, 
 and already they feel they have him, but the 
 Angel of the wild things is with him, that in- 
 comprehensible warning comes, and with one 
 mighty bound he clears the fifteen feet of 
 treacherous ground and spurns the earth as he 
 fades away unharmed, never again to visit An- 
 telope Springs by either of the beaten paths. 
 
 Wild Jo never lacked energy. He meant 
 to catch that Mustang, and when he learned 
 that others were bestirring themselves for the 
 same purpose he at once set about trying the 
 best untried plan he knew — the plan by which 
 the coyote catches the fleeter jackrabbit, and 
 the mounted Indian the far swifter antelope — 
 the old plan of the relay chase. 
 254 
 
The Pacing: Mustang' 
 
 The Canadian River on the south, its affluent, 
 the Pinavetitos Arroyo, on the northeast, and 
 the Don Carlos Hills with the Ute Creek Canon 
 on the west, formed a sixty-mile triangle that 
 was the range of the Pacer. It was believed 
 that he never went outside this, and at all times 
 Antelope Springs was his headquarters. Jo 
 mew this country well, all the water-holes 
 ffld canon crossings as well as the ways of the 
 Pacer. 
 
 If he could have gotten fifty good horses he 
 could have posted them to advantage so as to 
 cover all points, but twenty mounts and five 
 good riders were all that proved available. 
 
 The horses, grain-fed for two weeks before, 
 were sent on ahead ; each man was instructed 
 i ow to play his part and sent to his post the day 
 ijefore the race. On the day of the start Jo 
 vith his wagon drove to the plain of Antelope 
 Springs and, camping far off in a little draw, 
 waited. 
 
 At last he came, that coal-black Horse, out 
 
 from the sand-hills at the south, alone as always 
 
 now, and walked calmly down to the Springs 
 
 and circled quite around it to sniff for any hid- 
 
 255 
 
The Pacing Mtistang 
 
 den foe. Then he approached where there was 
 no trail at all and drank. 
 
 Jo watched and wished he would drink a 
 hogshead. But the moment that he turned 
 and sought the grass Jo spurred his steed. The 
 Pacer heard the hoofs, then saw the running 
 horse, and did not want a nearer view but led 
 away. Across the flat he went down to the 
 south, and kept the famous swinging gait that 
 made his start grow longer. Now through the 
 sandy dunes he went, and steadying to an even 
 pace he gained considerably and Jo's too-laden 
 horse plunged through the sand and sinking fet- 
 lock deep, lost at every bound. Then came a level 
 stretch where the runner seemed to gain, and 
 then a long decline where Jo's horse dared not 
 run his best, so lost again at every step. 
 
 But on they went, and Jo spared neither spur 
 nor quirt. A mile — a mile — and another mile, 
 and the far-off rock at Arriba loomed up 
 ahead. 
 
 And there Jo knew fresh mounts were held, 
 and on they dashed. But the night-black 
 mane out level on the breeze ahead was gaining 
 more and more. 
 
 256 
 
The Pacing Mustang 
 
 Arriba Canon reached at last, the watcher 
 stood aside, for it was not wished to turn the 
 race, and the Stallion passed — dashed down, 
 across and up the slope, with that unbroken 
 pace, the only one he knew. 
 
 And Jo came bounding on his foaming 
 steed, and leaped on the waiting mount, then 
 urged him down the slope and up upon the 
 track, and on the upland once more drove in 
 the spurs, and raced and raced, and raced, but 
 not a single inch he gained. 
 
 Ga-lump, ga-lwnp, ga-lu?np with measured 
 beat he went — an hour — an hour, and another 
 hour — Arroyo Alamosa just ahead with fresh 
 relays, and Jo yelled at his horse and pushed 
 him on and on. Straight for the place the 
 Black One made, but on the last two miles 
 some strange foreboding turned him to the left, 
 and Jo foresaw escape in this, and pushed 
 his jaded mount at any cost to head him off, 
 and hard as they had raced this was the hard- 
 est race of all, with gasps for breath and leather 
 squeaks at every straining bound. Then cut- 
 ting right across, Jo seemed to gain, and draw- 
 ing his gun he fired shot after shot to toss the 
 
 257 
 
The Pacing: Mustang 
 
 .„!©' 
 
 dust, and so turned the Stallion's head and 
 forced him back to take the crossing to the right. 
 
 Down they went. The Stallion crossed and 
 Jo sprang to the ground. His horse was done, 
 for thirty miles had passed in the last stretch, 
 and Jo himself was worn out. His eyes were 
 burnt with flying alkali dust. He was half blind 
 so he motioned to his 'pard' to " go ahead and 
 keep him straight for Alamosa ford." 
 
 Out shot the rider on a strong, fresh steed, 
 and away they went — up and down on the roll- 
 ing plain — the Black Horse flecked with snowy 
 foam. His heaving ribs and noisy breath 
 showed what he felt — but on and on he went. 
 
 And Tom on Ginger seemed to gain, then 
 lose and lose, when in an hour the long decline 
 of Alamosa came. And there a freshly mounted 
 lad took up the chase and turned it west, and 
 on they went past towns of prairie dogs, 
 through soapweed tracts and cactus brakes by 
 scores, and pricked and wrenched rode on. 
 With dust and sweat the Black was now a 
 dappled brown, but still he stepped the same. 
 Young Carrington, who followed, had hurt his 
 steed by pushing at the very start, and spurred 
 258 
 
The Pacing Mustangf 
 
 and urged him now to cut across a gulch at 
 which the Pacer shied. Just one misstep and 
 down they went. 
 
 The boy escaped, but the pony lies there 
 yet, and the wild Black Horse kept on. 
 
 This was close to old Gallego's ranch where 
 Jo himself had cut across refreshed to push the 
 chase. Within thirty minutes he was again 
 scorching the Pacer's trail. 
 
 Far in the west the Carlos Hills were seen, 
 and there Jo knew fresh men and mounts were 
 waiting, and that way the indomitable rider 
 tried to turn the race, but by a sudden whim, 
 of the inner warning born perhaps — the Pacer 
 turned. Sharp to the north he went, and Jo, 
 the skilful wrangler, rode and rode and yelled 
 and tossed the dust with shots, but down a 
 gulch the wild black meteor streamed and Jo 
 could only follow. Then came the hardest race 
 of all ; Jo, cruel to the Mustang, was crueller to 
 his mount and to himself. The sun was hot, 
 the scorching plain was dim in shimmering heat, 
 his eyes and lips were burnt with sand and salt, 
 and yet the chase sped on. The only chance 
 to win would be if he could drive the Mustang 
 259 
 
The Pacing Mustangf 
 
 back to Big Arroyo Crossing. Now almost for 
 the first time he saw signs of weakening in the 
 Black. His mane and tail were not just quite so 
 high, and his short half mile of start was down 
 by more than half, but still he stayed ahead 
 and paced and paced and paced. 
 
 An hour and another hour, and still they went 
 the same. But they turned again, and night 
 was near when big Arroyo ford was reached — 
 fully twenty miles. But Jo was game, he seized 
 the waiting horse. The one he left went gasp- 
 ing to the stream and gorged himself with wa- 
 ter till he died. 
 
 Then Jo held back in hopes the foaming 
 Black would drink. But he was wise ; he gulped 
 a single gulp, splashed through the stream and 
 then passed on with Jo at speed behind him. 
 And when they last were seen the Black was on 
 ahead just out of reach and Jo's horse bound- 
 ing on. 
 
 It was morning when Jo came to camp on 
 foot. His tale was briefly told : — eight horses 
 dead — five men worn out — the matchless Pacer 
 safe and free. 
 
 " 'Taint possible; it can't be done. ' Sorry I 
 260 
 
Away went the mustang at his famous pace. 
 
The Pacing Mustang 
 
 didn't bore his hellish carcass through when I 
 had the chance," said Jo, and gave it up. 
 
 VI 
 
 Old Turkeytrack was cook on this trip. He 
 had watched the chase with as much interest as 
 anyone, and when it failed he grinned into the 
 pot and said: "That mustang's mine unless 
 I'm a darned fool." Then falling back on 
 Scripture for a precedent, as was his habit, he 
 still addressed the pot : 
 
 "Reckon the Philistines tried to run Samson 
 down and they got done up, an' would a stayed 
 done ony for a nat'ral weakness on his part. 
 An' Adam would a loafed in Eden yit ony 
 for a leetle failing which we all onderstand. 
 'An' it aint $5000 I'll take for him nuther." 
 
 Much persecution had made the Pacer wilder 
 than ever. But it did not drive him away from 
 Antelope Springs. That was the only drinking- 
 place with absolutely no shelter for a mile on 
 every side to hide an enemy. Here he came 
 263 
 
The Pacing Mustangf 
 
 almost every day about noon, and after thor- 
 oughly spying the land approached to drink. 
 
 His had been a lonely life all winter since the 
 capture of his harem, and of this old Turkey- 
 track was fully aware. The old cook's chum had 
 a nice little brown mare which he judged would 
 serve his ends, and taking a pair of the strongest 
 hobbles, a spade, a spare lasso, and a stout post 
 he mounted the mare and rode away to the 
 famous Springs. 
 
 A few antelope skimmed over the plain be- 
 fore him in the early freshness of the day. Cat- 
 tle were lying about in groups, and the loud, 
 sweet song of the prairie lark was heard on 
 every side. For the bright snowless winter of 
 the mesas was gone and the springtime was at 
 hand. The grass was greening and all nature 
 seemed turning to thoughts of love. 
 
 It was in the air, and when the little brown 
 mare was picketed out to graze she raised her 
 nose from time to time to pour forth a long 
 shrill whinny that surely was her song, if song 
 she had, of love. 
 
 Old Turkeytrack studied the wind and the 
 lay of the land. There was the pit he had la- 
 bored at, now opened and filled with water that 
 264 
 
The Pacing- Mustang 
 
 was rank with drowned prairie dogs and mice. 
 Here was the new trail the animals were forced 
 to make by the pit. He selected a sedgy clump 
 near some smooth, grassy ground, and first 
 firmly sunk the post, then dug a hole large 
 enough to hide in, and spread his blanket in it. 
 He shortened up the little mare's tether, till she 
 could scarcely move ; then on the ground be- 
 tween he spread his open lasso, tying the long 
 end to the post, then covered the rope with 
 dust and grass, and went into his hiding-place. 
 
 About noon, after long waiting, the amorous 
 whinny of the mare was answered from the high 
 ground, away to the west, and there, black 
 against the sky, was the famous Mustang. 
 
 Down he came at that long swinging gait, 
 but grown crafty with much pursuit, he often 
 stopped to gaze and whinny, and got answer 
 that surely touched his heart. Nearer he came 
 again to call, then took alarm, and paced all 
 around in a great circle to try the wind for his 
 foes, and seemed in doubt. The Angel whis- 
 pered "Don't go." But the brown mare called 
 again. He circled nearer still, and neighed 
 once more, and got reply that seemed to quell 
 all fears, and set his heart aglow. 
 265 
 
The Pacingf Mastangf 
 
 Nearer still he pranced, till he touched Solly's 
 nose with his own, and finding her as responsive 
 as he well could wish, thrust aside all thoughts 
 of danger, and abandoned himself to the de- 
 light of conquest, until, as he pranced around, 
 his hind legs for a moment stood within the evil 
 circle of the rope. One deft sharp twitch, the 
 noose flew tight, and he was caught. 
 
 A snort of terror and a bound in the air gave 
 Tom the chance to add the double hitch. The 
 loop flashed up the line, and snake-like bound 
 those mighty hoofs. 
 
 Terror lent speed and double strength for a 
 moment, but the end of the rope was reached, 
 and down he went a captive, a hopeless prisoner 
 at last. Old Tom's ugly, little crooked form 
 sprang from the pit to complete the mastering 
 of the great glorious creature whose mighty 
 strength had proved as nothing when matched 
 with the wits of a little old man. With snorts 
 and desperate bounds of awful force the great 
 beast dashed and struggled to be free; but all in 
 vain. The rope was strong. 
 
 The second lasso was deftly swung, and the 
 forefeet caught, and then with a skilful move 
 366 
 
The Pacing Mustangf 
 
 the feet were drawn together, and down went 
 the raging Pacer to lie a moment later ' hog-tied ' 
 and helpless on the groimd. There he struggled 
 till worn out, sobbing great convulsive sobs 
 while tears ran down his cheeks. 
 
 Tom stood by and watched, but a strange re- 
 vulsion of feeling came over the old cow- 
 puncher. He trembled nervously from head to 
 foot, as he had not done since he roped his first 
 steer, and for a while could do nothing but gaze 
 on his tremendous prisoner. But the feeling soon 
 passed away. He saddled Delilah, and taking 
 the second lasso, roped the great horse about 
 the neck, and left the mare to hold the Stallion's 
 head, while he put on the hobbles. This was 
 soon done, and sure of him now old Bates was 
 about to loose the ropes, but on a sudden 
 thought he stopped. He had quite forgotten, 
 and had come unprepared for something of im- 
 portance. In Western law the Mustang was the 
 property of the first man to mark him with his 
 brand ; how was this to be done with the near- 
 est branding-iron twenty miles away ? 
 
 Old Tom went to his mare, took up her hoofs 
 one at a time, and examined each shoe. Yes ! 
 267 
 
^ 
 
 The Pacing Mustang 
 
 one was a little loose; he pushed and pried it 
 with the spade, and got it off. Buffalo chips 
 and kindred fuel were plentiful about the plain, 
 so a fire was quickly made, and he soon had one 
 arm of the horse-shoe red hot, then holding the 
 other wrapped in his sock he rudely sketched 
 on the left shoulder of the helpless mustang a 
 turkeytrack, his brand, the first time really 
 that it had ever been used. The Pacer shud- 
 dered as the hot iron seared his flesh, but it was 
 quickly done, and the famous Mustang Stalhon 
 was a maverick no more. 
 
 Now all there was to do was to take him 
 home. The ropes were loosed, the Mustang 
 felt himself freed, thought he was free, and 
 sprang to his feet only to fall as soon as he 
 tried to take a stride. His forefeet were strong- 
 ly tied together, his only possible gait a shuf- 
 fling walk, or else a desperate labored bounding 
 with feet so unnaturally held that within a few 
 yards he was inevitably thrown each time he 
 tried to break away. Tom on the light pony 
 headed him off again and again, and by dint of 
 driving, threatening, and manoeuvring, con- 
 trived to force his foaming, crazy captive north- 
 268 
 
The Pacing- Mostangf 
 
 ward toward the Pinavetitos Canon. But the 
 wild horse would not drive, would not give in. 
 With snorts of terror or of rage and maddest 
 bounds, he tried and tried to get away. It 
 was one long cruel fight ; his glossy sides were 
 thick with dark foam, and the foam was stained 
 with blood. Countless hard falls and exhaus- 
 tion that a long day's chase was powerless to pro- 
 duce were telling on him; his straining bounds 
 first this way and then that, were not now 
 quite so strong, and the spray he snorted as he 
 gasped was half a spray of blood. But his 
 captor, relentless, masterful and cool, still forced 
 him on. Down the slope toward the caiion 
 they had come, every yard a fight, and now 
 they were at the head of the draw that took the 
 trail down to the only crossing of the canon, the 
 northmost limit of the Pacer's ancient range. 
 
 From this the first corral and ranch-house 
 were in sight. The man rejoiced, but the 
 Mustang gathered his remaining strength for 
 one more desperate dash. Up, up the grassy 
 slope from the trail he went, defied the swing- 
 ing, slashing rope and the gunshot fired in air, 
 in vain attempt to turn his frenzied course. 
 269 
 
The Pacing Mustang 
 
 Up, up and on, above the sheerest cliff he dashed 
 then sprang away into the vacant air, down — 
 down — two hundred downward feet to fall, and 
 land upon the rocks below, a lifeless wreck — 
 but free. 
 
 ^sA 
 
 270 
 
m 
 
 
 Wully 
 
 The Story of a Yaller Dog 
 
WuIIy 
 The Story of a Yallcr Dog 
 
 WuLLY was a little yaller dog. A yaller 
 dog, be it understood, is not necessarily the 
 same as a yellow dog. He is not simply a 
 canine whose capillary coveri ng is highly charged 
 with yellow pigment. He is the mongrelest 
 mixture of all mongrels, the least common mul- 
 tiple of all dogs, the breedless union of all 
 breeds, and though of no breed at all, he is yet 
 of older, better breed than any of his aristocratic 
 relations, for he is nature's attempt to restore 
 the ancestral jackal, the parent stock of all dogs. 
 
 Indeed, the scientific name of the jackal 
 ( Canis aureus) means simply ' yellow dog, ' 
 and not a few of that animal's characteristics are 
 seen in his domesticated representative. For the 
 plebeian cur is shrewd, active, and hardy, and 
 275 
 
"WoIIy 
 
 far better equipped for the real struggle of life 
 than any of his ' thoroughbred ' kinsmen. 
 
 If we were to abandon a yaller dog, a grey- 
 hound, and a bulldog on a desert island, which 
 of them after six months would be alive and 
 well? Unquestionably it would be the de- 
 spised yellow cur. He has not the speed of 
 the greyhound, but neither does he bear the 
 seeds of lung and skin diseases. He has not 
 the strength or reckless courage of the bulldog, 
 but he has something a thousand times better, 
 he has common sense. Health and wit are no 
 mean equipment for the life struggle, and when 
 the dog-world is not ' managed ' by man, they 
 have never yet failed to bring out the yellow 
 mongrel as the sole and triumphant survivor. 
 
 Once in a while the reversion to the jackal 
 type is more complete, and the yaller dog has 
 pricked and pointed ears. Beware of him then. 
 He is cunning and plucky and can bite like a 
 wolf. There is a strange, wild streak in his 
 nature too, that under cruelty or long adversity 
 may develop into deadliest treachery in spite 
 of the better traits that are the foundation of 
 man's love for the dog. 
 
 276 
 
WuIIy 
 
 WAY up in the Cheviots little Wully 
 was born. He and one other of the 
 litter were kept; his brother because 
 he resembled the best dog in the 
 vicinity, and himself because he was 
 a little yellow beauty. 
 His early life was that of a sheep-dog, in 
 company with an experienced collie who 
 trained him, and an old shepherd who was 
 scarcely inferior to them in intelligence. By 
 the time he was two years old Wully was full 
 grown and had taken a thorough course in 
 sheep. He knew them from ram-horn to lamb- 
 hoof, and old Robin, his master, at length had 
 such confidence in his sagacity that he would 
 frequently stay at the tavern all night while 
 Wully guarded the woolly idiots in the hills. 
 His education had been wisely bestowed and 
 in most ways he was a very bright little dog 
 with a future before him. Yet he never learned 
 to despise that addle-pated Robin. The old 
 shepherd, with all his faults, his continual 
 279 
 
Wufly 
 
 striving after his ideal state — intoxication — and 
 his mind-shrivelHng life in general was rarely 
 brutal to Wully, and Wully repaid him with an 
 exaggerated worship that the greatest and wisest 
 in the land would have aspired to in vain. 
 
 Wully could not have imagined any greater 
 being than Robin, and yet for the sum of five 
 shillings a week all Robin's vital energy and 
 mental force were pledged to the service of a 
 not very great cattle and sheep dealer, the real 
 proprietor of Wully's charge, and when this 
 man, really less great than the neighboring 
 laird, ordered Robin to drive his flock by 
 stages to the Yorkshire moors and markets, of 
 all the 376 mentalities concerned, Wully's was 
 the most interested and interesting. 
 \ The journey through Northumberland was 
 uneventful. At the River Tyne the sheep were 
 driven on to the ferry and landed safely in 
 smoky South Shields. The great factory chim- 
 neys were just starting up for the day and belch- 
 ing out fogbanks and thunder-rollers of opaque 
 leaden smoke that darkened the air and hung 
 low like a storm-cloud over the streets. The 
 sheep thought that they recognized the fuming 
 280 
 
WuIIy 
 
 dun of an unusually heavy Cheviot storm. 
 They became alarmed, and in spite of their 
 keeper stampeded through the town in 374 
 different directions. 
 
 Robin was vexed to the inmost recesses of 
 his tiny soul. He stared stupidly after the 
 sheep for half a minute, then gave the order, 
 "WuUy, fetch them in." After this mental 
 effort he sat down, lit his pipe, and taking out 
 his knitting began work on a half-finished 
 sock. 
 
 To Wully the voice of Robin was the voice 
 of God. Away he ran in 374 different direc- 
 tions, and headed off and rounded up the 374 
 different wanderers^ and brought them back to 
 the ferry-housfe before Robin, who was stolidly 
 watching the process, had toed off his sock. 
 
 Finally Wully — not Robin — ^gave the sign 
 that all were in. The old shepherd proceeded 
 to count them— 370, 371, 372, 373. 
 
 "Wully," he said reproachfully, " thar no' 
 a' here. Thur's anither." And Wully, stung 
 with shame, bounded off to scour the whole city 
 for the missing one. He was not long gone 
 when a small boy pointed out to Robin that 
 281 
 
 
 ~^C3, V 
 
 ,hl 
 
Wally 
 
 the sheep were all there, the whole 374. Now 
 Robin was in a quandary. His order was to 
 hasten on to Yorkshire, and yet he knew that 
 Wully's pride would prevent his coming back 
 without another sheep, even if he had to steal 
 it. Such things had happened before, and re- 
 sulted in embarrassing complications. What 
 should he do? There was five shillings a week 
 at stake. WuUy was a good dog, it was a 
 pity to lose him, but then, his orders from the 
 master; and again, if Wully stole an extra sheep 
 to make up the number, then what — in a for- 
 eign land too ? He decided to abandon Wully, 
 and push on alone with the sheep. And how 
 he fared no one knows or cares. 
 
 Meanwhile, Wully careered through miles of 
 streets hunting in vain for his lost sheep. All 
 day he searched, and at night, famished and 
 worn out, he sneaked shamefacedly back to the 
 ferry, only to find that master and sheep had 
 gone. His sorrow was pitiful to see. He ran 
 about whimpering, then took the ferryboat 
 across to the other side, and searched every- 
 where for Robin. He returned to South 
 Shields and searched there, and spent the rest 
 282 
 
"Wally 
 
 of the night seeking for his wretched idol. 
 The next day he continued his search, he 
 crossed and recrossed the river many times. 
 He watched and smelt everyone that came over, 
 and with significant shrewdness he sought un- 
 ceasingly in the neighboring taverns for his 
 master. The next day he set to work system- 
 atically to smell everyone that might cross the 
 ferry. 
 
 The ferry makes fifty trips a day, with an 
 average of one hundred persons a trip, yet never 
 once did WuUy fail to be on the gang-plank 
 and smell every pair of legs that crossed — 5,000 
 pairs, 10,000 legs that day did Wully examine 
 after his own fashion. And the next day, and 
 the next, and all the week he kept his post, and 
 seemed indifferent to feeding himself. Soon 
 starvation and worry began to tell on him. 
 He grew thin and ill-tempered. No one could 
 touch him, and any attempt to interfere with 
 his daily occupation of leg-smelling roused him 
 to desperation. 
 
 Day after day, week after week Wully 
 watched and waited for his master, who never 
 came. The ferry men learned to respect 
 283 
 
 
WoIIy 
 
 Wully's fidelity. At first he scorned their 
 proffered food and shelter, and lived no one 
 knew how, but starved to it at last, he ac- 
 cepted the gifts and learned to tolerate the 
 givers. Although embittered against the world, 
 his heart was true to his worthless master. 
 
 Fourteen months afterward I made his ac- 
 quaintance. He was still on rigid duty at his 
 post. He had regained his good looks. His 
 bright, keen face set off by his white ruff and 
 pricked ears made a dog to catch the eye any- 
 where. But he gave me no second glance, 
 once he found my legs were not those he 
 sought, and in spite of my friendly overtures 
 during the ten months following that he con- 
 tinued his watch, I got no farther into his con- 
 fidence than any other stranger. 
 
 For two whole years did this devoted creat- 
 ure attend that ferry. There was only one 
 thing to prevent him going home to the hills, 
 not the distance nor the chance of getting lost, 
 but the conviction that Robin, the godlike 
 Robin, wished him to stay by the ferry ; and 
 he stayed. 
 
 But he crossed the water as often as he felt 
 284 
 
 -* ^ liH ^~A _ ■'""'"•""'••"•il; 
 
 
 
WuUy 
 
 it would serve his purpose. The fare for a dog 
 was one penny, and it was calculated that Wully 
 owed the company hundreds of pounds before 
 he gave up his quest. He never failed to sense 
 every pair of nethers that crossed the gang- 
 plank — 6,000,000 legs by computation had 
 been pronounced upon by this expert. But all 
 to no purpose. His unswerving fidelity never 
 faltered, though his temper was obviously sour- 
 ing under the long strain. 
 
 We had never heard what became of Robin, 
 but one day a sturdy drover strode down the 
 ferry-slip and Wully mechanically assaying the 
 new personality, suddenly started, his mane 
 bristled, he trembled, a low growl escaped 
 him, and he fixed his every sense on the drover. 
 
 One of the ferry hands not understanding, 
 called to the stranger, " Hoot mon, yemaunna 
 liort oor dawg." 
 
 " Whaes hortin 'im, ye fule ; he is mair like 
 to hort me." But further explanation was 
 not necessary. Wully's manner had wholly 
 changed. He fawned on the drover, and his 
 tail was wagging violently for the first time in 
 years. 
 
 285 
 
Wtjlly 
 
 A few words made it all clear. Dorley, the 
 drover, had known Robin very well, and the 
 mittens and comforter he wore were of Robin's 
 own make and had once been part of his ward- 
 robe. Wully recognized the traces of his mas- 
 ter, and despairing of any nearer approach to his 
 lost idol, he abandoned his post at the ferry and 
 plainly announced his intention of sticking to 
 the owner of the mittens, and Dorley was well- 
 pleased to take Wully along to his home among 
 the hills of Derbyshire, where he became once 
 more a sheep-dog in charge of a flock. 
 
 II 
 
 Monsaldale is one of the best-known valleys 
 in Derbyshire. The Pig and Whistle is its 
 single but celebrated inn, and Jo Greatorex, the 
 landlord, is a shrewd and sturdy Yorkshireman. 
 Nature meant him for a frontiersman, but cir- 
 cumstances made him an innkeeper and his in- 
 born tastes made him a — well, never mind ; 
 there was a great deal of poaching done in that 
 country. 
 
 Wully' s new home was on the upland east of 
 286 
 
WuUy 
 
 the valley above Jo's inn, and that fact was not 
 without weight in bringing me to Monsaldale. 
 \His master, Dorley, farmed in a small way on 
 ■' the lowland, and on the moors had a large 
 number of sheep. These Wully guarded with 
 his old-time sagacity, watching them while they 
 fed and bringing them to the fold at night. He 
 was reserved and preoccupied for a dog, and 
 rather too ready to show his teeth to strangers, 
 but he was so unremitting in his attention to 
 his flock that Dorley did not lose a lamb that 
 year, although the neighboring farmers paid the 
 usual tribute to eagles and to foxes. 
 
 The dales are poor fox-hunting country at 
 best. The rocky ridges, high stone walls, arid 
 precipices are too numerous to please the riders, 
 and the final retreats in the rocks are so plenti- 
 ful that it was a marvel the foxes did not over- 
 run Monsaldale. But they didn't. There had 
 been but little reason for complaint until the 
 year 1881, when a sly old fox quartered him- 
 self on the fat parish, like a mouse inside a 
 cheese, and laughed equally at the hounds of 
 the huntsmen and the lurchers of the farmers. 
 He was several times run by the Peak hounds, 
 289 
 
WoUy 
 
 and escaped by making for the Devil's Hole. 
 Once in this gorge, where the cracks in the 
 rocks extend unknown distances, he was safe. 
 The country folk began to see something more 
 than chance in the fact that he always escaped 
 at the Devil's Hole, and when one of the 
 hounds who nearly caught this Devil's Fox 
 soon after went mad, it removed all doubt as 
 to the spiritual paternity of said fox. 
 
 He continued his career of rapine, making 
 audacious raids and hair-breadth escapes, and 
 finally began, as do many old foxes, to kill from 
 a mania for slaughter. Thus it was that Digby 
 lost ten lambs in one night. Carroll lost seven 
 the next night. Later, the vicarage duck-pond 
 was wholly devastated, and scarcely a night 
 passed but someone in the region had to report 
 a carnage of poultry, lambs or sheep, and, finally 
 even calves. 
 
 Of course all the slaughter was attributed to 
 this one fox of the Devil's Hole. It was known 
 only that he was a very large fox, at least one 
 that made a very large track. He never was 
 clearly seen, even by the huntsmen. And it 
 was noticed that Thunder and Bell, the stanch- 
 2go 
 
WuIIy 
 
 est hounds in the pack, had refused to tongue or 
 even to follow the trail when he was hunted. 
 
 His reputation for madness sufficed to make 
 the master of the Peak hounds avoid the neigh- 
 borhood. The farmers in Monsaldale, led by 
 Jo, agreed among themselves that if it would 
 only come on a snow, they would assemble and 
 beat the whole country, and in defiance of all 
 rules of the hunt, get rid of the 'daft ' fox in 
 any way they could. But the snow did not 
 come, and the red-haired gentleman lived his 
 life. Notwithstanding his madness, he did not 
 lack method. He never came two successive 
 nights to the same farm. He never ate where 
 he killed, and he never left a track that betrayed 
 his retreat. He usually finished up his night's 
 trail on the turf, or on a public highway. 
 
 Once I saw him. I was walking to Monsal- 
 dale from Bakewell late one night during a 
 heavy storm, and as I turned the corner of 
 Stead's sheep-fold there was a vivid flash of light- 
 ning. By its light, there was fixed on my ret- 
 ina a picture that made me start. Sitting on 
 his haunches by the roadside, twenty yards 
 away, was a very large fox gazing at me with 
 291 
 
WuIIy 
 
 malignant eyes, and licking his muzzle in a sug- 
 gestive manner. All this I saw, but no more, 
 and might have forgotten it, or thought myself 
 mistaken, but the next morning, in that very 
 fold, were found the bodies of twenty-three 
 lambs and sheep, and the unmistakable signs 
 that brought home the crime to the well-known 
 marauder. 
 
 There was only one man who escaped, and 
 that was Dorley. This was the more remarka- 
 ble because he lived in the centre of the region 
 raided, and within one mile of the Devil's Hole. 
 Faithful Wully proved himself worth all the 
 dogs in the neighborhood. Night after night 
 he brought in the sheep, and never one was 
 missing. The Mad Fox might prowl about the 
 Dorley homestead if he wished, but Wully, 
 shrewd, brave, active Wully was more than a 
 match for him, and not only saved his master's 
 flock, but himself escaped with a whole skin. 
 Everyone entertained a profound respect for 
 him, and he might have been a popular pet but 
 for his temper which, never genial, became 
 more and more crabbed. He seemed to like 
 Dorley, and Huldah, Dorley's eldest daughter, 
 292 
 
Wally 
 
 a shrewd, handsome, young woman, who, in 
 the capacity of general manager of the house, 
 was Wully's special guardian. The other mem- 
 bers of Dorley's family Wully learned to toler- 
 ate, but the rest of the world, men and dogs, he 
 seemed to hate. 
 
 His uncanny disposition was well shown in 
 the last meeting I had with him. I was walk- 
 ing on a pathway across the moor behind Dor- 
 ley's house. Wully was lying on the doorstep. 
 As I drew near he arose, and without appear- 
 ing to see me trotted toward my pathway and 
 placed himself across it about ten yards ahead of 
 me. There he stood silently and intently regard- 
 ing the distant moor, his slightly bristling mane 
 the only sign that he had not been suddenly 
 turned to stone. He did not stir as I came up, 
 and not wishing to quarrel, I stepped around 
 past his nose and walked on. Wully at once 
 left his position and in the same eerie silence ,/ 
 trotted on some twenty feet and again stood 
 across the pathway. Once more I came up 
 and, stepping into the grass, brushed past his 
 nose. Instantly, but without a sound, he seized 
 my left heel, I kicked out with the other foot, 
 293 
 
 ^^ 
 
Wally 
 
 but he escaped. Not having a stick, I flung a 
 large stone at him. He leaped forward and the 
 stone struck him in the ham, bowling him over 
 into a ditch. He gasped out a savage growl 
 as he fell, but scrambled out of the ditch and 
 Hmped away in silence. 
 
 Yet sullen and ferocious as Wully was to the 
 world, he was always gentle with Dorley's 
 sheep. Many were the tales of rescues told of 
 him. Many a poor lamb that had fallen into 
 a pond or hole would have perished but for his 
 timely and sagacious aid, many a far-weltered 
 ewe did he turn right side up ; while his keen 
 eye discerned and his fierce courage baffled 
 every eagle that had appeared on the moor in 
 his time. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The Monsaldale farmers were still paying 
 their nightly tribute to the Mad Fox, when the 
 snow came, late in December. Poor Widow 
 Gelt lost her entire flock of twenty sheep, and 
 the fiery cross went forth early in the morning. 
 With guns unconcealed the burly farmers set 
 out to follow to the finish the tell-tale tracks in 
 294 
 
 

 Wully 
 
 the snow, those of a very large fox, undoubtedly 
 the multo-murderous villain. For awhile the 
 trail was clear enough, then it came to the river 
 and the habitual cunning of the animal was 
 shown. He reached the water at a long angle 
 pointing down stream and jumped into the 
 shallow, unfrozen current. But at the other 
 side there was no track leading out, and it was 
 only after long searching that, a quarter of a 
 mile higher up the stream, they found where 
 he had come out. The track then ran to the 
 top of Henley's high stone wall, where there 
 was no snow left to tell tales. But the patient 
 hunters persevered. When it crossed the smooth 
 snow from the wall to the high road there was 
 a difference of opinion. Some claimed that the 
 track went up, others down the road. But Jo 
 settled it, and after another long search they 
 found where apparently the same trail, though 
 some said a larger one had left the road to enter 
 a sheep-fold, and leaving this without harming 
 the occupants, the track-maker had stepped in 
 the footmarks of a countryman, thereby getting 
 to the moor road, along which he had trotted 
 straight to Dorley's farm. 
 295 
 
 « 
 
 9 
 
 '«> 
 
 
 .-/ 
 
 ./ 
 
"WuIIy 
 
 That day the sheep were kept in on account 
 of the snow and Wully, without his usual occupa- 
 tion, was lying on some planks in the sun. As 
 the hunters drew near the house, he growled 
 savagely and sneaked around to where the sheep 
 were. Jo Greatorex walked up to where Wul- 
 ly had crossed the fresh snow, gave a glance, , 
 looked dumbfounded, then pointing to the re- 
 treating sheep-dog, he said, with emphasis : 
 
 " Lads, we're off the track of the Fox. But 
 there's the killer of the Widder's yowes." 
 
 Some agreed with Jo, others recalled the 
 doubt in the trail and were for going back to 
 make a fresh follow. At this juncture, Dorley 
 himself came out of the house. 
 
 "Tom," said Jo, "that dog o' thine 'as 
 killed twenty of Widder Celt's sheep, last 
 night. An' ah fur one don't believe as it is 
 first kilhn'." 
 
 "Why, raon, thou art crazy," said Tom, 
 " Ah never 'ad a better sheep-dog — 'e fair 
 loves the sheep." 
 
 "Aye! We's seen summat o' that in las' 
 night's work," replied Jo. 
 
 In vain the company related the history of 
 296 
 
WuUy 
 
 the morning. Tom swore that it was nothing 
 but a jealous conspiracy to rob him of Wully. 
 
 " WuUy sleeps i' the kitchen every night. 
 Never is oot till he's let to bide wi' the yowes. 
 Why, mon, he's wi' oor sheep the year round, 
 and never a hoof have ah lost. ' ' 
 
 Tom became much excited over this abomin- 
 able attempt against Wully's reputation and life. 
 Jo and his partisans got equally angry, and it 
 was a wise suggestion of Huldah's that quieted 
 them. 
 
 "Feyther," said she, " ah'll sleep i' the 
 kitchen the night. If Wully 'as ae way of get- 
 tin' oot ah'll see it, an' if he's no oot an' 
 sheep's killed on the country-side, we'll ha' 
 proof it's na Wully." 
 
 That night Huldah stretched herself on the 
 settee and Wully slept as usual underneath the 
 table. As night wore on the dog became rest- 
 less. He turned on his bed and once or twice 
 got up, stretched, looked at Huldah and lay 
 down again. About two o'clock he seemed no 
 longer able to resist some strange impulse. He 
 arose quietly, looked toward the low window, 
 then at the motionless girl. Huldah lay still 
 297 
 
"Wully 
 
 and breathed as though sleeping. Wully slowly 
 came near and sniffed and breathed his doggy 
 breath in her face. She made no move. He 
 nudged her gently with his nose. Then, with 
 his sharp ears forward and his head on one side 
 he studied her calm face. Still no sign. He 
 ■walked quietly to the window, mounted the 
 table without noise, placed his nose under the 
 sash -bar and raised the light frame until he 
 could put one paw underneath. Then chang- 
 ing, he put his nose under the sash and raised 
 it high enough to slip out, easing down the 
 frame finally on his rump and tail with an 
 adroitness that told of long practice. Then he 
 disappeared into the darkness. 
 
 From her couch Huldah watched in amaze- 
 ment. After waiting for some time to make 
 sure that he was gone, she arose, intending to 
 call her father at once, but on secohd thought 
 she decided to await more conclusive proof. 
 She peered into the darkness, but no sign of 
 Wully was to be seen. She put more wood on 
 the fire, and lay down again. For over an 
 hour she lay wide awake listening to the kitchen 
 clock, and starting at each trifling sound, and 
 298 
 
WuUy studied her calm face. 
 
WuIIy 
 
 wondering what the dog was doing. Could it 
 be possible that he had really killed the widow's 
 sheep ? Then the recollection of his gentleness 
 to their own sheep came, and completed her 
 perplexity. 
 
 Another hour slowly tick-tocked. She heard 
 a slight sound at the window that made her 
 heart jump. The scratching sound was soon 
 followed by the lifting of the sash, and in a 
 short time Wully was back in the kitchen with 
 the window closed behind him. 
 
 By the flickering fire-light Huldah could see 
 a strange, wild gleam in his eye, and his jaws 
 and snowy breast were dashed with fresh blood. 
 The dog ccEised his slight panting as he scrutin- 
 ized the girl. Then, as she did not move, he 
 lay down, and began to lick his paws and muz- 
 zle, growling lowly once or twice as though at 
 the remembrance of some recent occurrence. 
 
 Huldah had seen enough. There could no 
 longer be any doubt that Jo was right and more 
 — a new thought flashed into her quick brain, 
 she realized that the weird fox of Monsal was 
 before her. Raising herself, she looked straight 
 at Wully, and exclaimed : 
 301 
 
WuIIy 
 
 "Wully! Wully! so it's a' true — oh, Wully, 
 ye terrible brute. ' ' 
 
 Her voice was fiercely reproachful, it rang in 
 the quiet kitchen, and Wully recoiled as though 
 shot. He gave a desperate glance toward the 
 closed window. His eye gleamed, and his mane 
 bristled. But he cowered under her gaze, and 
 grovelled on the floor as though begging for 
 mercy. Slowly he crawled nearer and nearer, 
 as if to lick her feet, until quite close, then, 
 with the fury of a tiger, but without a sound, 
 he sprang for her throat. 
 
 The girl was taken unawares, but she threw 
 up her arm in time, and Wully's long, gleaming 
 tusks sank into her flesh, and grated on the bone. 
 
 "Help! help! feyther ! feyther ! " she 
 shrieked. 
 
 Wully was a light weight, and for a moment 
 she flung him off. But there could be no mis- 
 taking his purpose. The game was up, it was 
 his life or hers now. 
 
 " Feyther ! feyther ! " she screamed, as the 
 yellow fury, striving to kill her, bit and tore 
 the unprotected hands that had so often fed 
 him. 
 
 302 
 
WuIIy 
 
 In vain she fought to hold him olT, he would 
 soon have had her by the throat, when in rushed 
 Dorley. 
 
 Straight at him, now in the same horrid sil- 
 ence sprang WuUy, and savagely tore him again 
 and again before a deadly blow from the fagot- 
 hook disabled him, dashing him, gasping and 
 writhing, on the stone floor, desperate, and done 
 for, but game and defiant to the last. Another 
 quick blow scattered his brains on the hearth- 
 stone, where so long he had been a faithful 
 and honored retainer — and Wully, bright, fierce, 
 trusty, treacherous Wully, quivered a moment, 
 then straightened out, and lay forever still. 
 
 303 
 

 
 tw 
 
 Redruff 
 
 The Story of the 
 Don Valley Partridge 
 
Redruff 
 The Story of the Don Valley Partridge 
 
 OWN the wooded slope of Taylor's 
 Hill the Mother Partridge led her 
 brood ; down toward the crystal 
 brook that by some strange whim 
 was called Mud Creek. Her little 
 ones were one day old but already 
 quick on foot, and she was taking them for the 
 first time to drink. 
 
 She walked slowly, crouching low as she went, 
 for the woods were full of enemies. She was 
 uttering a soft little cluck in her throat, a call 
 to the little balls of mottled down that on their 
 tiny pink legs came toddling after, and peeping 
 softly and plaintively if left even a few inches 
 
 307 
 
Redruff 
 
 behind, and seeming so fragile they made the 
 very chicadees look big and coarse. There 
 were twelve of them, but Mother Grouse 
 watched them all, and she watched every bush 
 and tree and thicket, and the whole woods and 
 the sky itself. Always for enemies she seemed 
 seeking — friends were too scarce to be looked 
 for — and an enemy she found. Away across 
 the level beaver meadow was a great brute of a 
 fox. He was coming their way, and in a few 
 moments would surely wind them or strike their 
 trail. There was no time to lose. 
 
 'Krrr! KrrrJ' (Hide! Hide!) cried the 
 mother in a low firm voice, and the little bits 
 of things, scarcely bigger than acorns and but a 
 day old, scattered far (a few inches) apart to 
 hide. One dived under a leaf, another between 
 two roots, a third crawled into a curl of birch- 
 bark, a fourth into a hole, and so on, till all 
 were hidden but one who could find no cover, 
 so squatted on a broad yellow chip and lay very 
 flat, and closed his eyes very tight, sure that 
 now he was safe from being seen. They ceased 
 their frightened peeping and all was still. 
 
 Mother Partridge flew straight toward the 
 308 
 
Redruff 
 
 dreaded beast, alighted fearlessly a few yards to 
 one side of him, and then flung herself on the 
 ground, flopping as though winged and lame — 
 oh, so dreadfully lame — and whining like a dis- 
 tressed puppy. Was she begging for mercy — 
 mercy from a bloodthirsty, cruel fox ? Oh, dear 
 no ! She was no fool. One often hears of the 
 cunning of the fox. Wait and see what a fool he 
 is compared with a mother-partridge. Elated 
 at the prize so suddenly within his reach, the 
 fox turned with a dash and caught — at least, 
 no, he didn't quite catch the bird; she flopped 
 by chance just a foot out of reach. He fol- 
 lowed with another jump and would have seized 
 her this time surely, but somehow a sapling 
 came just between, and the partridge dragged 
 herself awkwardly away and under a log, but 
 the great brute snapped his jaws and bounded 
 over the log, while she, seeming a trifle less 
 lame, made another clumsy forward spring and 
 tumbled down a bank, and Reynard, keenly 
 following, almost caught her tail, but, oddly 
 enough, fast as he went and leaped, she still 
 seemed just a trifle faster. It was most extraor- 
 dinary. A winged partridge and he, Rey- 
 309 
 
Redmff 
 
 nard, the Swift-foot, had not caught her in five 
 minutes' racing. It was really shameful. But 
 the partridge seemed to gain strength as the fox 
 put forth his, and after a quarter of a mile race, 
 racing that was somehow all away from Taylor's 
 Hill, the bird got unaccountably quite well, and, 
 rising with a derisive whirr, flew off through the 
 woods leaving the fox utterly dumfounded to 
 realize that he had been made a fool of, and, 
 worst of all, he now remembered that this was 
 not the first time he had been served this very 
 trick, though he never knew the reason for it. 
 
 Meanwhile Mother Partridge skimmed in a 
 great circle and came by a roundabout way 
 back.to the little fuzz-balls she had left hidden 
 in the woods. 
 
 With a wild bird's keen memory for places, 
 she went to the very grass-blade she last 
 trod on, and stood for a moment fondly to ad- 
 mire the perfect stillness of her children. Even 
 at her step not one had stirred, and the little 
 fellow on the chip, not so very badly concealed 
 after all, had not budged, nor did he now ; he 
 only closed his eyes a tiny little bit harder, till 
 the mother said : 
 
 310 
 
Redfoff 
 
 'K-reet.'' (Come, children) and instantly 
 like a fairy story, every hole gave up its little 
 baby-partridge, and the wee fellow on the chip, 
 the biggest of them all really, opened his big- 
 little eyes and ran to the shelter of her broad 
 tail, with a sweet little 'peep peep ' which an 
 enemy could not have heard three feet away, 
 but which his mother could not have missed 
 thrice as far, and all the other thimblefuls of 
 down joined in, and no doubt thought them- 
 selves dreadfully noisy, and were proportion- 
 ately happy. 
 
 The sun was hot now. There was an open 
 space to cross on the road to the water, and, 
 after a careful lookout for enemies, the mother 
 gathered the little things under the shadow of 
 her" spread fantail and kept off all danger of 
 sunstroke until they reached the brier thicket 
 by the stream. 
 
 Here a cottontail rabbit leaped out and gave 
 them a great scare. But the flag of truce he 
 carried behind was enough. He was an old 
 friend ; and among other things the little ones 
 learned that day that Bunny always sails under 
 a flag of truce, and lives up to it too. 
 3" 
 
£^>J3 
 
 Redfoff 
 
 And then came the drink, the purest of liv- 
 ing water, though silly men had called it Mud 
 Creek. 
 
 At first the little fellows didn't know how to 
 drink, but they copied their mother, and soon 
 learned to drink like her and give thanks after 
 every sip. There they stood in a row along the 
 edge, twelve little brown and golden balls on 
 twenty-four little pink-toed, in-turned feet, with 
 twelve sweet Httle golden heads gravely "bowing, 
 drinking and giving thanks like their mother. 
 
 Then she led them by short stages, keeping 
 the cover, to the far side of the beaver-meadow, 
 where was a great grassy dome. The mother had 
 made a note of this dome some time before. It 
 takes a number of such domes to raise a brood of 
 partridges. For this was an ant's nest. The 
 old one stepped on top, looked about a moment, 
 then gave half a dozen vigorous rakes with her 
 claws. The friable ant-hill was broken open, 
 and the earthen galleries scattered in ruins down 
 the slope. The ants swarmed out and quarrelled 
 with each other for lack of a better plan. Some 
 ran around the hill with vast energy and little 
 purpose, while a few of the more sensible began 
 312 
 
Redruff 
 
 to carry away fat white eggs. But the old par- 
 tridge, coming to the little ones, picked up one 
 of these juicy-looking bags and clucked and 
 dropped it, and picked it up again and again 
 and clucked, then swallowed it. The young 
 ones stood around, then one little yellow fel- 
 low, the one that sat on the chip, picked up an 
 ant-egg, dropped it a few times, then yielding 
 to a sudden impulse, swallowed it, and so had 
 learned to eat. Within twenty minutes even 
 the runt had learned, and a merry time they had , 
 
 scrambling after the delicious eggs as their 
 mother broke open more ant-galleries, and sent 
 them and their contents rolling down the bank, 
 till every little partridge had so crammed his 
 little crop that he was positively misshapen and 
 could eat no more. 
 
 Then all went cautiously up the stream, and 
 on a sandy bank, well screened by brambles, they 
 lay for all that afternoon, and learned how pleas- 
 ant it was to feel the cool powdery dust running 
 between their hot little toes. With their strong 
 bent for copying, they lay on their sides like 
 their mother and scratched with their tiny feet f j ns^^-''' 
 
 and flopped with their wings, though they had J^m^'"^^^^ \ 
 3t3 
 
Redfuff 
 
 no wings to flop with, only a little tag among 
 the down on each side, to show where the wings 
 would come. That night she took them to a 
 dry thicket near by, and there among the crisp, 
 dead leaves that would prevent an enemy's si- 
 lent approach on foot, and under the interlac- 
 ing briers that kept off all foes of the air, she 
 cradled them in their feather-shingled nursery 
 and rejoiced in the fulness of a mother's joy over 
 the wee cuddling things that peeped in their 
 sleep and snuggled so trustfully against her warm 
 body. 
 
 II 
 
 The third day the chicks were much stronger 
 on their feet. They no longer had to go around 
 an acorn ; they could even scramble over pine- 
 cones, and on the little tags that marked the 
 places for their wings, were now to be seen blue 
 rows of fat blood-quills. 
 
 Their start in life was a good mother, good 
 legs, a few reliable instincts, and a germ of rea- 
 son. It was instinct, that is, inherited, habit, 
 which taught them to hide at the word from their 
 
 314 
 
Redfuff 
 
 mother ; it was instinct that taught them to follow 
 her, but it was reason which made them keep 
 under the shadow of her tail when the sun was 
 smiting down, and from that day reason entered 
 more and more into their expanding lives. 
 
 Next day the blood-quills had sprouted the 
 tips of feathers. On the next, the feathers were 
 well out, and a week later the whole family of 
 down-clad babies were strong on the wing. 
 
 And yet not all — poor little Runtie had been 
 sickly from the first. He bore his half-shell on 
 his back for hours after he came out ; he ran less 
 and cheeped more than his brothers, and when 
 one evening at the onset of a skunk the mother 
 gave the word ' Kwit, kwW (Fly, fly), Runtie 
 was left behind, and when she gathered her 
 brood on the piney hill he was missing, and 
 they saw him no more. 
 
 Meanwhile, their training had gone on. They 
 knew that the finest grasshoppers abounded in 
 the long grass by the brook ; they knew that the 
 currant-bushes dropped fatness in the form of" 
 smooth, green worms ; they knew that the 
 dome of an ant-hill rising against the distant 
 woods stood for a garner of plenty ; they knew 
 315 
 
Redfuff 
 
 that strawberries, though not really insects, were 
 ahnost as delicious ; they knew that the huge 
 danaid butterflies were good, safe game, if they 
 could only catch them, and that a slab of bark 
 dropping from the side of a rotten log was sure 
 to abound in good things of many different 
 kinds; and they had learned, also, that yellow- 
 jackets, mud- wasps, woolly worms, and hundred- 
 leggers were better let alone. 
 
 It was now July, the Moon of Berries. The 
 
 chicks had grown and flourished amazingly 
 
 /moo"'^ WB^ during this last month, and were now so large 
 
 that in her efforts to cover them the mother 
 
 was kept standing all night. 
 
 They took their daily dust-bath, but of late 
 had changed to another higher on the hill. It 
 was one in use by many different birds, and at 
 first the mother disliked the idea of such a sec- 
 ond-hand bath. But the dust was of such a fine, 
 agreeable quality, and the children led the way 
 with such enthusiasm, that she forgot her mis- 
 trust. 
 
 After a fortnight the little ones began to 
 droop and she herself did not feel very well. 
 They were always hungry, and though they ate 
 316 
 
Redfuff 
 
 enormously, they one and all grew thinner and 
 thinner. The mother was the last to be affected. 
 But when it came, it came as hard on her — a 
 ravenous hunger, a feverish headache, and a 
 wasting weakness, She never knew the cause. 
 She could not know that the dust of the much- 
 used dust-bath, that her true instinct taught her 
 to mistrust at first, and now again to shun, was 
 sown with parasitic worms, and that all of the 
 family were infested. 
 
 No natural impulse is without a purpose. 
 The mother-bird's knowledge of healing was 
 only to follow natural i mpulse. The eager, fever- 
 ish craving for something, she knew not what, 
 led her to eat, or try, everything that looked eat- 
 able and to seek the coolest woods. And there 
 she found a deadly sumach laden with its poison 
 fruit. A month ago she would have passed it 
 by, but now she tried, the unattractive berries. 
 The acrid burning juice seemed to answer some 
 strange demand of her body ; she ate and ate, 
 and all her family joined in the strange feast of 
 physic. No human doctor could have hit it 
 better ; it proved a biting, drastic purge, the 
 dreadful secret foe was downed, the danger 
 3T7 
 
 
Redmff 
 
 passed. But not for all — Nature, the old 
 nurse, had come too late for two of them. The 
 weakest, by inexorable law, dropped out. En- 
 feebled by the disease, the remedy was too se- 
 vere for them. They drank and drank by the 
 stream, and next morning did not move when 
 the others followed the mother. Strange ven- 
 geance was theirs now, for a skunk, the same 
 that could have told where Runtie went, found 
 and devoured their bodies and die4 of the poi- 
 son they had eaten. 
 
 Seven little partridges now obeyed the 
 mother's call. Their individual characters 
 were early shown and now developed fast. The 
 weaklings were gone, but there were still a fool 
 and a lazy one. The mother could not help 
 caring for some more than for others, and her 
 favorite was the biggest, he who once sat on the 
 yellow chip for concealment. He was not only 
 the biggest, strongest, and handsomest of the 
 brood, but best of all, the most obedient. His 
 mother's warning ' rrrrr ' (danger) did not 
 always keep the others from a risky path or a 
 doubtful food, but obedience seemed natural to 
 him, and he never failed to respond to her soft 
 318 
 
Rcdruff 
 
 ' K-reet' (Come), and of this obedience he 
 reaped the reward, for his days were longest in 
 the land. 
 
 August, the Molting Moon, went by; the 
 young ones were now three parts grown. They 
 knew just enough to think themselves wonder- 
 fully wise. When they were small it was nec- 
 essary to sleep on the ground so their mother 
 could shelter them, but now they were too big 
 to need that, and the mother began to introduce 
 grown-up ways of life. It was time to roost in 
 the trees. The young weasels, foxes, skunks, 
 and minks were beginning to run. The ground 
 grew more dangerous each night, so at sundown 
 Mother Partridge called ' K-reet,' and flew into 
 a thick, low tree. 
 
 The little ones followed, except one, an obsti- 
 nate little fool who persisted in sleeping on the 
 ground as heretofore. It was all right that 
 time, but the next night his brothers were 
 awakened by his cries. There was a slight 
 scuffle, then stillness, broken only by a horrid 
 sound of crunching bones and a smacking of 
 lips. They peered down into the terrible dark- 
 ness below, where the glint of two close-set eyes 
 
 319 
 
Redruff 
 
 and a peculiar musty smell told them that a 
 niink was the killer of their fool brother. 
 
 Six little partridges now sat in a row at night, 
 with their mother in the middle, though it was 
 not unusual for some little one with cold feet to 
 perch on her back. 
 
 Their education went on, and about this time 
 they were taught ' whirring. ' A partridge can 
 rise on the wing silently if it wishes, but whir- 
 ring is so important at times that all are taught 
 how and when to rise on thundering wings. 
 Many ends are gained by the whirr. It warns 
 all other partridges near that danger is at hand, 
 it unnerves the gunner, or it fixes the foe's at- 
 tention on the whirrer, while the others sneak 
 off in silence, or by squatting, escape notice. 
 
 A partridge adage might well be ' foes and 
 food for every moon.' September came, with 
 seeds and grain in place of berries and ant- 
 eggs, and gunners in place of skunks and minks. 
 
 The partridges knew well what a fox was, 
 but had scarcely seen a dog. A fox they knew 
 they could easily baffle by taking to a tree, but 
 when in the Gunner Moon old Cuddy came 
 prowling through the ravine with his bob-tailed 
 320 
 
In the moonlight. 
 
Redruff 
 
 yellow cur, the mother spied the dog and cried 
 out, ' Kwit! kwit!' (Fly, fly). Two of the 
 brood thought it a pity their mother should lose 
 her wits so easily over a fox, and were pleased 
 to show their superior nerve by springing into a 
 tree in spite of her earnestly repeated ^ Kwit ! 
 kwit r and her example of speeding away on 
 silent wings. 
 
 Meanwhile, the strange bob-tailed fox came 
 under the tree and yapped and yapped at them. 
 They were much amused at him and at their 
 mother and brothers, so much so that they 
 never noticed a rustling in the bushes till there 
 was a loud Bang ! bang .' and down fell two 
 bloody, flopping partridges, to be seized and 
 mangled by the yellow cur until the gunner ran 
 from the bushes and rescued the remains. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Cuddy lived in a wretched shanty near the 
 Don, north of Toronto. His was what Greek 
 philosophy would have demonstrated to be an 
 ideal existence. He had no wealth, no taxes, 
 no social pretensions, and no property to speak 
 323 
 
Rcdruff 
 
 of. His life was made up of a very little work 
 and a great deal of play, with as much out-door 
 life as he chose. He considered himself a true 
 sportsman because he was ' fond o' huntin',' and 
 ' took a sight o' comfort out of seein' the critters 
 hit the mud' when his gun was fired. The 
 neighbors called him a squatter, and looked on 
 him merely as an anchored tramp. He shot 
 and trapped the year round, and varied his 
 game somewhat with the season perforce, but 
 had been heard to remark he could tell the 
 month by the 'taste o' the patridges,' if he 
 didn't happen to know by the almanac. This, 
 no doubt, showed keen observation, but was also 
 unfortunate proof of something not so credit- 
 able. The lawful season for murdering par- 
 tridges began September 15th, but there was 
 nothing surprising in Cuddy's being out a fort- 
 night ahead of time. Yet he managed to es- 
 cape punishment year after year, and even con- 
 trived to pose in a newspaper interview as an 
 interesting character. 
 
 He rarely shot on the wing, preferring to pot 
 his birds, which was not easy to do when the 
 leaves were on, and accounted for the brood in 
 324 
 
Redruff 
 
 the third ravine going so long unharmed ; but 
 the near prospect of other gunners finding them 
 now, had stirred him to go after ' a mess o' 
 birds.' He had heard no roar of wings when 
 the mother-bird led off her four survivors, so 
 pocketed the two he had killed and returned to 
 the shanty. 
 
 The little grouse thus learned that a dog is 
 not a fox, and must be differently played ; and 
 an old lesson was yet more deeply graven — 
 ' Obedience is long life. ' 
 
 The rest of September was passed in keeping 
 quietly out of the way of gunners as well as 
 some old enemies. They still roosted on the 
 long thin branches of the hardwood trees among 
 the thickest leaves, which protected them from 
 foes in the air ; the height saved them from foes 
 on the ground, and left them nothing to fear 
 but coons, whose slow, heavy tread on the lim- 
 ber boughs never failed to give them timely 
 warning. But the leaves were falling now — 
 every month its foes and its food. This was 
 nut time, and it was owl time, too. Barred 
 owls coming down from the north doubled or 
 trebled the owl population. The nights were 
 325 
 
 ^ 
 
 <k^^^ 
 
Redruff 
 
 getting frosty and the coons less dangerous, so 
 the mother changed the place of roosting to the 
 thickest foliage of a hemlock-tree. 
 
 Only one of the brood disregarded the warn- 
 ing ' Kreet, kreet.' He stuck to his swinging 
 elm-bough, now nearly naked, and a great yel- 
 low-eyed owl bore him off before morning. 
 
 Mother and three young ones now were left, 
 but they were as big as she was ; indeed one, 
 the eldest, he of the chip, was bigger. Their 
 ruffs had begun to show. Just the tips, to tell 
 what they would be like when grown, and not 
 a little proud they were of them. 
 
 The ruff is to the partridge what the train is 
 to the peacock — his chief beauty and his pride. 
 A hen's ruff is black with a slight green gloss. 
 A cock's is much larger and blacker and is 
 glossed with more vivid bottle-green. Once in 
 a while a partridge is born of unusual size and 
 vigor, whose ruff is not only larger, but by 
 a peculiar kind of intensification is of a deep 
 coppery red, iridescent with violet, green, and 
 gold. Such a bird is sure to be a wonder to 
 all who know him, and the little one who had 
 squatted on the chip, and had always done what 
 326 
 
Rcdtiiii 
 
 he was told, developed before the Acorn Moon 
 had changed, into all the glory of a gold and 
 copper ruff — for this was Redruff, the famous 
 partridge of the Don Valley. 
 
 IV 
 
 One day late in the Acorn Moon, that is, 
 about mid-October, as the grouse family were 
 basking with full crops near a great pine log on 
 the sunlit edge of the beaver-meadow, they 
 heard the far-away bang of a gun, and Redruff, 
 acting on some impulse from within, leaped 
 on the log, strutted up and down a couple of 
 times, then, yielding to the elation of the 
 bright, clear, bracing air, he whirred his wings 
 in loud defiance. Then, giving fuller vent to 
 this expression of vigor, just as a colt frisks to 
 show how well he feels, he whirred yet more 
 loudly, until, unwittingly, he found himself 
 drumming, and tickled with the discovery of his 
 new power, thumped the air again and again till 
 he filled the near woods with the loud tattoo of 
 the fully grown cock-partridge. His brother 
 and sister heard and looked on with admiration 
 327 
 
Redfult 
 
 and surprise ; so did his mother, but from that 
 time she began to be a little afraid of him. 
 
 In early November comes the moon of a 
 weird foe. By a strange law of nature, not 
 wholly without parallel among mankind, all 
 partridges go crazy in the November moon of 
 their first year. They become possessed of a 
 mad hankering to get away somewhere, it does 
 not matter much where. And the wisest of 
 them do all sorts of foolish things at this period. 
 They go drifting, perhaps, at speed over the 
 country by night, and are cut in two by wires, 
 or dash into lighthouses, or locomotive head- 
 lights. Daylight finds them in all sorts of 
 absurd places, in buildings, in open marshes, 
 perched on telephone wires in a great city, or 
 even on board of coasting vessels. The craze 
 seems to be a relic of a bygone habit of migra- 
 tion, and it has at least one good effect, it 
 breaks up the families and prevents the constant 
 intermarrying, which would surely be fatal to 
 their race. It always takes the young badly 
 their first year, and they may have it again the 
 second fall, for it is very catching; but in the 
 third season it is practically unknown. 
 328 
 
-^ 
 
 Redfuff 
 
 Redruft's mother knew it was coming as soon 
 as she saw the frost grapes blackening, and the 
 maples shedding their crimson and gold. There 
 was nothing to do but care for their health and 
 keep them in the quietest part of the woods. 
 
 The first sign of it came when a flock of wild 'Tf^ 
 
 geese went honking southward overhead. The ^ -^A*, 
 
 young ones had never before seen such long- 
 necked hawks, and were afraid of them. But 
 seeing that their mother had no fear, they took 
 courage, and watched them with intense inter- 
 est. Was it the wild, clanging cry that moved 
 them, or was it solely the inner prompting then 
 come to the surface ? A strange longing to fol- 
 low took possession of each of the young ones. 
 They watched those arrowy trumpeters fading 
 away to the south, and sought out higher 
 perches to watch them farther yet, and from 
 that time things were no more the same. The 
 November moon was waxing, and when it was 
 full, the November madness came. 
 
 The least vigorous of the flock were most 
 affected. The little family was scattered. Red- 
 ruff himself flew on several long erratic night 
 journeys. The impulse took him southward, 
 329 
 
REDRUrr'i CALENDAR 
 
 MOON^ Q.^ 
 
 Redruff 
 
 but there lay the boundless stretch of Lake On- 
 tario, so he turned again, and the waning of 
 the Mad Moon found him once more in the 
 Mud Creek Glen, but absolutely alone. 
 
 V 
 
 Food grew scarce as winter wore on. Red- 
 ruff clung to the old ravine and the piney sides 
 of Taylor's Hill, but every month brought its 
 food and its foes. The Mad Moon brought 
 madness, solitude, and grapes; the Snow Moon 
 came with rosehips; and the Stormy Moon 
 brought browse of birch and silver storms that 
 sheathed the woods in ice, and made it hard to 
 keep one's perch while pulling off the frozen 
 buds. Redrufif's beak grew terribly worn with 
 the work, so that even when closed there was still 
 an opening through behind the hook. But nat- 
 ure had prepared him for the slippery footing ; 
 his toes, so slim and trim in September, had 
 sprouted rows of sharp, horny points, and these 
 grew with the growing cold, till the first snow 
 had found him fully equipped with snow-shoes 
 and ice-creepers. The cold weather had driven 
 330 
 
Redruff 
 
 away most of the hawks and owls, and made 
 it impossible for his four-footed enemies to 
 approach unseen, so that things were nearly 
 balanced. 
 
 His flight in search of food had daily led him 
 farther on, ti 11 he had discovered and explored the 
 Rosedale Creek, with its banks of silver-birch, 
 and Castle Frank, with its grapes and rowan 
 berrieSj as well as Chester woods, where amel- 
 anchier and Virginia-creeper swung their fruit- 
 bunches, and checkerberries glowed beneath 
 the snow. 
 
 He soon found out that for some strange rea- 
 son men with guns did not go within the high 
 fence of Castle Frank. So among these scenes 
 he lived his life, learning new places, new foods, 
 and grew wiser and more beautiful every day. 
 
 He was quite alone so far as kindred were 
 concerned, but that scarcely seemed a hardship. 
 Wherever he went he could see the jolly chick- 
 adees scrambling merrily about, and he remem- 
 bered the time when they had seemed such 
 big, important creatures. They were the most 
 absurdly cheerful things in the woods. Before 
 the autumn was fairly over they had begun to 
 
 331 
 
 ^^ 
 
Redfoff 
 
 sing their famous refrain, ' Spring Soon,' and 
 kept it up with good heart more or less all 
 
 & 
 
 through the winter's direst storms, till at length 
 the waning of the Hungry Moon, our February, 
 seemed really to lend some point to the ditty, 
 and they redoubled their optimistic announce- 
 ment to the world in an ' I-told-you-so ' mood. 
 Soon good support was found, for the sun 
 gained strength and melted the snow from the 
 southern slope of Castle Frank Hill, and ex- 
 posed great banks of fragrant wintergreen, 
 whose berries were a bounteous feast for Red- 
 ruff, and, ending the hard work of pulling 
 frozen browse, gave his bill the needed chance 
 to grow into its proper shape again. Very 
 soon the first bluebird came flying over and 
 warbled as he flew ' The spring is coming.' The 
 sun kept gaining, and early one day in the dark 
 of the Wakening Moon of March there was a 
 loud ' Caw, caw,' and old Silverspot, the king- 
 332 
 
Redruff 
 
 crow, came swinging along from the south at 
 the head of his troops and officially announced 
 
 'THE SPRING HAS COME.' 
 
 All nature seemed to respond to this, the 
 opening of the birds' New Year, and yet it was 
 something within that chiefly seemed to move ^ ^^ 
 
 them. The chickadees went simply wild ; they ^.^ 
 sang their ' Spring now, spring now now — ^-• 
 Spring now now,' so persistently that one won- ^^ 
 dered how they found time to get a living. 
 
 And Redruff felt it thrill him through and 
 through. He sprang with joyous vigor on a 
 stump and sent rolling down the little valley, 
 again and again, a thundering ' Thump, thump, 
 thump, thunderrrrrrrrr,' that wakened dull 
 echoes as it rolled, and voiced his gladness in 
 the coming of the spring. 
 
 Away down the valley was Cuddy's shanty. 
 He heard the drum-call on the still rnorning 
 air and ' reckoned there was a cock patridge to 
 git,' and came sneaking up the ravine with his 
 gun. But Redruff skimmed away in silence, nor 
 rested till once more in Mud Creek Glen. And 
 there he mounted the very log where first he 
 
 333 
 
Redruff 
 
 had drummed and rolled his loud tattoo again 
 and again, till a small boy who had taken a short 
 cut to the mill through the woods, ran home, 
 badly scared, to tell his mother he was sure the 
 Indians were on the vvar-i^ath, for he heard their 
 war-drums beating in the glen. 
 
 Why does a happy boy holla? Why does 
 a lonesome youth sigh? They don't know 
 any more than Redruff knew why every day 
 now he mounted some dead log and thumped 
 and thundered to the woods ; then strutted and 
 admired his gorgeous blazing ruffs as they 
 flashed their jewels in the sunlight, and then 
 thundered out again. Whence now came the 
 strange wish for someone else to admire the 
 plumes? And why had such a notion never 
 come till the Pussywillow Moon ? 
 
 ' Thump, thump, thunder-r-r-r-r-r-7Trr^ 
 ' Tkump, thump, thunder-r-r-r-r-r-ri'rr ' 
 he rumbled again and again. 
 
 Day after day he sought the favorite log, and 
 a new beauty, a rose-red comb, grew out above 
 each clear, keen eye, and the clumsy snow- 
 shoes were wholly shed from his feet. His ruff 
 grew finer, his eye brighter, and his whole ap- 
 
 334 
 
Redruff 
 
 pearance splendid to behold, as he strutted and 
 flashed in the sun. But — oh ! he was so lone- 
 some now. 
 
 Yet what could he do but blindly vent his 
 hankering in this daily drum-parade, till on a 
 day early in loveliest May, when the trilliums 
 had fringed his log with silver stars, and he had 
 drummed and longed, then drummed again, his 
 keen ear caught a sound, a gentle footfall in the 
 brush. He turned to a statue and watched ; he 
 knew he had been watched. Could it be pos- 
 sible ? Yes ! there it was — a form — another — a 
 shy little lady grouse, now bashfully seeking to 
 hide. In a moment he was by her side. His 
 whole nature swamped by a new feeling — burnt 
 up with thirst — a cooling spring in sight. And 
 how he spread and flashed his proud array ! 
 How came he to know that that would please ? 
 He puffed his plumes and contrived to stand 
 just right to catch the sun, and strutted and ut- 
 tered a low, soft chuckle that must have been 
 just as good as the ' sweet nothings ' of another 
 race, for clearly now her heart was won. Won, 
 really, days ago, if only he had known. For full 
 three days she had come at the loud tattoo and 
 
 335 
 
Redmff 
 
 coyly admired him from afar, and felt a little 
 piqued that he had not yet found out her, so 
 close at hand. So it was not quite all mis- 
 chance, perhaps, that little stamp that caught 
 his ear. But now she meekly bowed her head 
 with sweet, submissive grace — the desert passed, 
 the parch-burnt wanderer found the spring at 
 last. 
 
 Oh, those were bright, glad days in the 
 lovely glen of the unlovely name. The sun 
 was never so bright, and the piney air was 
 balmier sweet than dreams. And that great 
 noble bird came daily on his log, sometimes 
 with her and sometimes quite alone, and 
 drummed for very joy of being alive. But why 
 sometimes alone ? Why not forever with his 
 Brownie bride ? Why should she stay to feast 
 and play with him for hours, then take some 
 stealthy chance to slip away and see him no 
 more for hours or till next day, when his mar- 
 tial music from the log announced him restless 
 for her quick return ? There was a woodland 
 mystery here he could not clear. Why should 
 her stay with him grow daily less till it was 
 336 
 
Redroff 
 
 down to minutes, and one day at last she never 
 came at all. Nor the next, nor the next, and 
 Redruff, wild, careered on lightning wing and 
 drummed on the old log, then away up-stream 
 on another log, and skimmed the hill to another 
 ravine to drum and drum. But on the fourth 
 day, when he came and loudly called her, as of 
 old, at their earliest tryst, he heard a sound in 
 the bushes, as at first, and there was his miss- 
 ing Brownie bride with ten little peeping par- 
 tridges following after. 
 
 Redruff skimmed to her side, terribly frighten- 
 ing the bright-eyed downlings, and was just a 
 little dashed to find the brood with claims far 
 stronger than his own. But he soon accepted 
 the change, and thenceforth joined himself to 
 the brood, caring for them as his father never 
 had for him. 
 
 VI 
 
 Good fathers are rare in the grouse world. 
 The mother-grouse builds her nest and hatches 
 out her young without help7 She even hides 
 the place of the nest from the father and meets 
 
 337 
 
Redfoff 
 
 him only at the drum-log and the feeding- 
 ground, or perhaps the dusting-place, which is 
 the club-house of the grouse kind. 
 
 When Brownie's little ones came out they 
 had filled her every thought, even to the for- 
 getting of their splendid father. But on the 
 third day, when they were strong enough, she 
 had taken them with her at the father's call. 
 
 Some fathers take no interest in their little 
 ones, but Redruff joined at once to help 
 Brownie in the task of rearing the brood. They 
 had learned to eat and drink just as their father 
 had learned long ago, and could toddle along, 
 with their mother leading the way, while the 
 father ranged near by or followed far behind. 
 
 The very next day, as they went from the 
 hill-side down toward the creek in a somewhat 
 drawn-out string, like beads with a big one 
 at each end, a red squirrel, peeping around a 
 pine-trunk, watched the procession of down- 
 lings with the Runtie straggling far in the 
 rear. Redruff, yards behind, preening his 
 feathers on a high log, had escaped the eye of 
 the squirrel, whose strange perverted thirst for 
 birdling blood was roused at what seemed so 
 338 
 
--^ * \r- 
 
 >v- 
 
 
 / 
 
 «.,-->. ! -■ 
 
 
 wy^' . '^r / 
 
 ■<; 
 
 >.^,-.vV.--- 
 
 t 
 
 ^r^ .' . 
 
 ,y 
 
 X/"^'- ""^ ■ 
 
 
 Redruff saving Runtie. 
 
Redrwff 
 
 fair a chance. With murderous intent to cut 
 off the hindmost straggler, he made a dash. 
 Brownie could not have seen him until too late, 
 but Redruff did. He flew for that red-haired 
 cutthroat ; his weapons were his fists, that is, 
 the knob-joints of the wings, and what a blow 
 he could strike ! At the first onset he struck 
 the squirrel square on the end of the nose, his 
 weakest spot, and sent him reeling; he stag- 
 gered and wriggled into a brush-pile, where he 
 had expected to carry the little grouse, and there 
 lay gasping with red drops trickling down his 
 wicked snout. The partridges left him lying 
 there, and what became of him they never 
 knew, but he troubled them no more. 
 
 The family went on toward the water, but 
 a cow had left deep tracks in the sandy loam, 
 and into one of these fell one of the chicks and 
 peeped in dire distress when he found he could 
 not get out. 
 
 This was a fix. Neither old one seemed to 
 know what to do, but as they trampled vainly 
 round the edge, the sandy bank caved in, and, 
 runiiing down, formed a long slope, up which 
 the young one ran and rejoined his brothers 
 341 
 
Redruff 
 
 under the broad veranda of their mother's 
 tail. 
 
 Brownie was a bright little mother, of small 
 stature, but keen of wit and sense, and was, 
 night and day, alert to care for her darling 
 chicks. How proudly she stepped and clucked 
 through the arching woods with her dainty 
 brood behind her ; how she strained her little 
 brown tail almost to a half-circle to give them 
 a broader shade, and never flinched at sight of 
 any foe, but held ready to fight or fly, which- 
 ever seemed the best for her little ones. 
 
 Before the chicks could fly they had a 
 meeting with old Cuddy ; though it was June, 
 he was out with his gun. Up the third ravine 
 he went, and Tike, his dog, ranging ahead, 
 came so dangerously near the Brownie brood 
 that Redruff ran to meet him, and by the old but 
 never failing trick led him on a foolish chase 
 away back down the valley of the Don. 
 
 But Cuddy, as it chanced, came right along, 
 straight for the brood, and Brownie, giving the 
 signal to the children, ' Krrr, krrr' (Hide, 
 hide), ran to lead the man away just as her male 
 had led the dog. Full of a mother's devoted 
 342 
 
Redruff 
 
 love, and skilled in the learning of the woods, 
 she ran in silence till quite near, then sprang 
 with a roar of wings right in his face, and 
 tumbling on the leaves she shammed a lameness 
 that for a moment deceived the poacher. But 
 when she dragged one wing and whined about 
 his feet, then slowly crawled away, he knew just 
 what it meant — that it was all a trick to lead 
 him from her brood, and he struck at her a sav- 
 age blow ; but little Brownie was quick, she 
 avoided the blow and limped behind a sapling, 
 there to beat herself upon the leaves again in 
 sore distress, and seem so lame that Cuddy 
 made another try to strike her down with a 
 stick. But she moved in time to balk him, and 
 bravely, steadfast still to lead him from her help- 
 less little ones, she flung herself before him and 
 beat her gentle breast upon the ground, and 
 moaned as though begging for mercy. And 
 Cuddy, failing again to strike her, raised his 
 gun, and firing charge enough to kill a bear, he 
 blew poor brave, devoted Brownie into quiver- 
 ing, bloody rags. 
 
 This gunner brute knew the young must be 
 hiding near, so looked about to find them. But 
 343 
 
Rcdroff 
 
 no one moved or peeped. He saw not one, but 
 as he tramped about with heedless, hateful feet, 
 he crossed and crossed again their hiding- 
 ground, and more than one of the silent little 
 sufferers he trampled to death, and neither knew 
 nor cared. 
 
 Redruff had taken the yellow brute away off 
 down-stream, and now returned to where he 
 left his mate. The murderer had gone, taking 
 her remains, to be thrown to the dog. Red- 
 ruff sought about and found the bloody spot 
 with feathers. Brownie's feathers, scattered 
 around, and now he knew the meaning of that 
 shot. 
 
 Who can tell what his horror and his mourn- 
 ing were ? The outward signs were few, some 
 minutes dumbly gazing at the place with down- 
 cast, draggled look, and then a change at the 
 thought of their helpless brood. Back to the 
 hiding-place he went, and called the well-known 
 ' Kreet, kreet. ' Did every grave give up its li ttle 
 inmate at the magic word? No, barely more than 
 half; six little balls of down unveiled their lus- 
 trous eyes, and, rising, ran to meet him, but four 
 feathered little bodies had found their graves in- 
 344 
 
Redroff 
 
 deed. Redruff called again and again, till he 
 was sure that all who could respond had come, 
 then led them from that dreadful place, far, far 
 away tip-stream, where barb-wire fences and 
 bramble thickets were found to offer a less 
 grateful, but more reliable, shelter. 
 
 Here the brood grew and were trained by 
 their father just as his mother had trained him ; 
 though wider knowledge and experience gave 
 him many advantages. He knew so well the 
 country round and all the feeding-grounds, and 
 how to meet the ills that harass partridge-life, 
 that the summer passed and not a chick was lost. 
 They grew and flourished, and when the Gun- 
 ner Moon arrived they were a fine family of six 
 grown-up grouse with Redrufif, splendid in his 
 gleaming copper feathers, at their head. He 
 had ceased to drum during the summer after the 
 loss of Brownie, but drumming is to the par- 
 tridge what singing is to the lark ; while it is his 
 love-song, it is also an expression of exuberance 
 born of health, and when the molt was over and 
 September food and weather had renewed his 
 splendid plumes and braced him up again, his 
 spirits revived, and finding himself one day 
 345 
 
Redfuff 
 
 near the old log he mounted impulsively, and 
 drummed again and again. 
 
 From that time he often drummed, while his 
 children sat around, or one who showed his 
 father's blood would mount some nearby stump 
 or stone, and beat the air in the loud tattoo. 
 
 The black grapes and the Mad Moon now 
 came cm. But Redruff's brood were of a vigor- 
 ous stock ; their robust health meant robust 
 wits, and though they got the craze, it passed 
 within a week, and only three had flown away 
 for good. 
 
 Redruff, with his remaining three, was living 
 in the glen when the snow came. It was light, 
 flaky snow, and as the weather was not very cold, 
 the family squatted for the night under the low, 
 flat boughs of a cedar-tree. But next day the 
 storm continued, it grew colder, and the drifts 
 piled up all day. At night, the snow-fall ceased, 
 but the frost grew harder still, so Redruff, leading 
 the family to a birch-tree above a deep drift, 
 dived into the snow, and the others did the 
 same. Then into the holes the wind blew the 
 loose snow — their pure white bed-clothes, and 
 thus tucked in they slept in comfort, for the 
 
 346 
 
Redruff 
 
 snow is a warm wrap, and the air passes through 
 it easily enough for breathing. Next morning 
 each partridge found a solid wall of ice before 
 him from his frozen breath, but easily turned to 
 one side and rose on the wing at Redruff's 
 morning ' Kreef, kreet, kwit.'' (Come children, 
 come children, fly.) 
 
 This was the first night for them in a snow- 
 drift, though it was an old story to Redruff, and 
 next night they merrily dived again into bed, and 
 the north wind tucked them in as before. But 
 a change of weather was brewing. The night 
 wind veered to the east. A fall of heavy flakes 
 gave place to sleet, and that to silver rain. The 
 whole wide world was sheathed in ice, and 
 when the grouse awoke to quit their beds, they 
 found themselves sealed in with a great cruel 
 sheet of edgeless ice. 
 
 The deeper snow was still quite soft, and Red- 
 ruff bored his way to the top, but there the 
 hard, white sheet defied his strength. Hammer 
 and struggle as he might he could make no im- 
 pression, and only bruised his wings and head. 
 His life had been made up of keen joys and dull 
 hardships, with frequent sudden desperate 
 
 347 
 
Redtuii 
 
 straits, but this seemed the hardest brunt of all, 
 as the slow hours wore on and found him weak- 
 ening with his struggles, but no nearer to free- 
 dom. He could hear the struggling of his 
 family, too, or sometimes heard them calling to 
 him for help with their long-drawn plaintive 
 ' p-e-e-e-e-e-t-e, p-e-e-e-e-e-t-e. ' 
 
 They were hidden from many of their ene- 
 mies, but not from the pangs of hunger, and 
 when the night came down the weary prison- 
 ers, worn out with hunger and useless toil, grew 
 quiet in despair. At first they had been afraid 
 the fox would come and find them imprisoned 
 there at his mercy, but as the second night 
 went slowly by they no longer cared, and even 
 wished he would come and break the crusted 
 snow, and so give them at least a fighting 
 chance for life. 
 
 But when the fox really did come padding 
 over the frozen drift, the deep-laid love of life 
 revived, and they crouched in utter stillness 
 till he passed. The second day was one of 
 driving storm. The north wind sent his snow- 
 horses, hissing and careering over the white 
 earth, tossing and curling their white manes 
 348 
 
Redruff 
 
 and kicking up more snow as they dashed on. 
 The long, hard grinding of the granular snow 
 seemed to be thinning the snow-crust, for though 
 far from dark below, it kept on growing lighter. 
 Redruff had pecked and pecked at the under 
 side all day, till his head ached and his bill was 
 wearing blunt, but when the sun went down he 
 seemed as far as ever from escape. The night 
 passed like the others, except no fox went trot- 
 ting overhead. In the morning he renewed 
 his pecking, though now with scarcely any 
 force, and the voices or struggles of the others 
 were no more heard. As the daylight grew 
 stronger he could see that his long efforts had 
 made a brighter spot above him in the snow, 
 and he continued feebly pecking. Outside, the 
 storm-horses kept on trampling all day, the 
 crust was really growing thin under their heels, 
 and late that afternoon his bill went through 
 into the open air. New life came with this gain, 
 and he pecked away, till just before the sun 
 went down he had made a hole that his head, 
 his neck, and his ever- beautiful ruffs could pass. 
 His great broad shoulders were too large, but 
 he could now strike downward, which gave him 
 
 349 
 
Redfuf! 
 
 fourfold force ; the snow-crust crumbled quickly, 
 and in a little while he sprang from his icy- 
 prison once more free. But the young ones ! 
 Redruff flew to the nearest bank, hastily gath- 
 ered a few red hips to stay his gnawing hun- 
 ger, then returned to the prison-drift and clucked 
 and stamped. He got only one reply, a feeble 
 'peete, peete,' and scratching with his sharp 
 claws on the thinned granular sheet he soon 
 broke through, and Graytail feebly crawled out 
 of the hole. But that was all ; the others, scat- 
 tered he could not tell where in the drift, made 
 no reply, gave no sign of life, and he was forced 
 to leave them. When the snow melted in the 
 spring their bodies came to view, skin, bones, 
 and feathers — nothing more. 
 
 VII 
 
 It was long before Redruff and Graytail fully 
 recovered, but food and rest in plenty are sure 
 cure-alls, and a bright clear day in midwinter 
 had the usual effect of setting the vigorous Red- 
 ruff to drumming on the log. Was it the 
 drumming, or the tell-tale tracks of their snow- 
 350 
 
Redruff 
 
 shoes on the omnipresent snow, that betrayed 
 them to Cuddy ? He came prowling again and 
 again up the ravine, with dog and gun, intent 
 to hunt the partridges down. They knew him 
 of old, and he \vas coming now to know them 
 well. That great copper-ruffed cock was be- 
 coming famous up and down the valley. Dur- 
 ing the Gunner Moon many a one had tried to 
 end his splendid life, just as a worthless wretch 
 of old sought fame by burning the Ephesian 
 wonder of the world. But Redruff was deep 
 in woodcraft. He knew just where to hide, 
 and when to rise on silent wing, and when to 
 squat till overstepped, then rise on thunder 
 wing within a yard to shield himself at once 
 behind some mighty tree-trunk and speed away. 
 
 But Cuddy never ceased to follow with his 
 gun that red-ruffed cock ; many a long snapshot 
 he tried, but somehow always found a tree, a 
 bank, or some safe shield between, and Redruff 
 lived and throve and drummed. 
 
 When the Snow Moon came he moved with 
 
 Gray tail to the Castle Frank woods, where food 
 
 was plenty as well as grand old trees. There 
 
 was in particular, on the east slope among the 
 
 351 
 
Redroff 
 
 creeping hemlocks, a splendid pine. It was six 
 feet through, and its first branches began at the 
 tops of the other trees. Its top in summer-time 
 ■was a famous resort for the bluejay and his 
 bride. Here, far beyond the reach of shot, in 
 warm spring days the jay would sing and dance 
 before his mate, spread his bright blue plumes 
 and warble the sweetest fairyland music, so 
 sweet and soft that few hear it but the one for 
 whom it is meant, and books know nothing at 
 all about it. 
 
 This great pine had an especial interest for 
 Redruff, now living near with his remaining 
 young one,_but its base, not its far-away crown, 
 concerned him. All around were low, creep- 
 ing hemlocks, and among them the i)artridge- 
 vine and the wintergreen grew, and the sweet 
 black acorns could be scratched from under the 
 snow. There was no better feeding-ground, 
 for when that insatiable gunner came on them 
 there it was easy to run low among the hemlock 
 to the great pine, then rise with a derisive 
 whirr behind its bulk, and keeping the huge 
 trunk in line with the deadly gun, skim off in 
 safety. A dozen times at least the pine had 
 352 
 
Redruff 
 
 saved tliem during the lawful murder season, 
 and here it was that Cuddy, knowing their 
 feeding habits, laid a new trap. Under the 
 bank he sneaked and watched in ambush while 
 an accomplice went around the Sugar Loaf to 
 drive the birds. He came trampling" through 
 the low thicket where Redruff and Graytail 
 were feeding, and long before the gunner was 
 dangerously near Redruff gave a low warning 
 ' rrr-rrr ' (danger) and walked quickly toward 
 the great pine in case they had to rise. 
 
 Graytail was some distance up the hill, and 
 suddenly caught sight of a new foe close at 
 hand, the yellow cur, coming right on. Red- 
 ruff, much farther off, could not see him for the 
 bushes, and Graytail became greatly alarmed. 
 
 ^ Kwit, kwit' (Fly, fly), she cried, running 
 down the hill for a start. ' Kreet, k-r-r-r ' 
 (This way, hide), cried the cooler Redruff, for 
 he saw that now the man with the gun was get- 
 ting in range. He gained the great trunk, and 
 behind it, as he paused a moment to call 
 earnestly to Graytail, ' This way, this way,' he 
 heard a slight noise under the bank before him 
 that betrayed the ambush, then there was a ter- 
 
 353 
 
Redmff 
 
 rified cry from Graytail as the dog sprang at 
 her, she rose in air and skimmed behind the 
 shielding trunk, away from the gunner in the 
 open, right into the power of the miserable 
 wretch under the bank. 
 
 Whirr, and up she went, a beautiful, sen- 
 tient, noble being. 
 
 Bang, and down she fell — battered and bleed- 
 ing, to gasp her life out and to lie a rumpled 
 mass of carrion in the snow. 
 
 It was a perilous place for Redruff . There was 
 no chance for a safe rise, so he squatted low. 
 The dog came within ten feet of him, and the 
 stranger, coming across to Cuddy, passed at 
 five feet, but he never moved till a chance came 
 to slip behind the great trunk away from both. 
 Then he safely rose and flew to tlie lonely glen 
 by Taylor's Hill. 
 
 One by one the deadly cruel gun had stricken 
 his near ones down, till now, once more, he 
 was alone. The Snow Moon slowly passed 
 with many a narrow escape, and Redruff, now 
 known to be the only survivor of his kind, was 
 relentlessly pursued, and grew wilder every day. 
 
 It seemed, at length, a waste of time to fol- 
 
 354 
 
The owl. 
 
Redfuff 
 
 low him with a gun, so when the snow was 
 deepest, and food scarcest, Cuddy hatched a new 
 plot. Right across the feeding-ground, almost 
 the only good one now in the Stormy Moon, 
 he set a row of snares. A cottontail rabbit, 
 an old friend, cut several of these with his sharp 
 teeth, but some remained, and Redruff, watch- 
 ing a fkr-off speck that might turn out a hawk, 
 trod right in one of them, and in an instant 
 was jerked into . the air to dangle by one 
 foot. 
 
 Have the wild things no moral or legal 
 rights ? What right has man to inflict such long 
 and fearful agony on a fellow-creature, simply 
 because that creature does not speak his lan- 
 guage ? All that day, with growing, racking 
 pains, poor Redruff hung and beat his great, 
 strong wings in helpless struggles to be free. 
 All day, all night, with growing torture, until 
 he only longed for death. But no one came. 
 The morning broke, the day wore on, and still 
 he hung there, slowly dying ; his very strength 
 a curse. The second night crawled slowly 
 down, and when, in the dawdhng hours of 
 darkness, a great Horned Owl, drawn by the 
 357 
 
Redruff 
 
 feeble flutter of a dying wing, cut short the 
 pain, the deed was wholly kind. 
 
 The wind blew down the valley from the 
 north. The snow-horses went racing over the 
 wrinkled ice, over the Don Flats, and over the 
 marsh toward the lake, white, for they were 
 driven snow, but on them, scattered dark, were 
 riding plumy fragments of partridge ruffs — the 
 famous rainbow ruffs. And they rode on the 
 wind that night, away, away to the south, over 
 the dark lake, as they rode in the gloom of his 
 Mad Moon flight, riding and riding on till they 
 were engulfed, the last trace of the last of the 
 Don Valley race. 
 
 For no partridge is heard in Castle Frank 
 now — and in Mud Creek Ravine the old pine 
 drum-log, unused, has rotted in silence away. 
 
 358 
 
CRITICAL NOTICES 
 
 Mr. Thompson holds our unflagging interest in his stories. ... In both modes 
 of expression [pen and pencil] he shows himself easily master of his subject. — New 
 York Nation, 
 
 Should become a nursery classic. — Pall Mall Gazette (London). 
 
 Lobo, the King of Currumpaw, is the best wolf story ever told. — Muscatine (lows') 
 Tribune. 
 
 One of the handsomest and most artistically gotten-up books for the holiday trade. 
 Mr. Thompson's illustrations, besides their artistic interest, strikingly reinforce the 
 text. For instruction and amusement, we could recommend nothing more acceptable. 
 — Portland Daily Advertiser, 
 
 There is enough of the thrilling, the grewsome and the heroic in the volume to 
 satisfy any child, and the illustrations are graceful and clever. — Westminster Gazette 
 [London). 
 
 Most delightful of books for lovers of our four-footed friends. The illustrations 
 are delectable and the stories told with sympathetic touch and happy insight into the 
 comedies and tragedies of animal life. — Albany (N. Y.) Ar^s, 
 
 A book that ought to make any boy happy, and that will surely furnish him some 
 delightful hours. — Detroit Free Press, 
 
 The book is a charming literary conceit, and is entirely unique, and off the usual 
 lines. — Buffalo (N. K) Commercial. 
 
 Mr. Thompson tells some wonder tales that cannot fail to interest. Eight brill- 
 iantly interesting sketches. — Boston Globe. 
 
 Conveys subtly and unconsciously the higher beauty of the moral laws which 
 nature has set up. — Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 A novelty in the way of books is such a rarity in these days that especial mention 
 should be made of this. . . . Mr. Thompson has accomplished a very remarkable 
 work. — Boston (^Mass.") Time and the Hour. 
 
 A biography is more interesting and human than a mass of historical details, so the 
 biography of animal life may be far vivider than its natural history. Mr. Ernest Seton 
 Thompson has taken a welcome advantage of this. We may put the book under 
 fiction, for it tells some most interesting stories ; but under the fiction there lies the 
 hard base of most observant natural history. — Baltimore (Md.) Sun. 
 
 A well-written and well-illustrated book. — The Spectator (London). 
 
 I 
 
C3UTICAL NOTICES 
 
 These eight short tales surpass in interest and verisimilitude anything Kipling's 
 "Jungle Tales," or " Uncle Remus " possess for their readers. 
 
 There is nothing in modern story-telling which equals the tale of the capture and 
 humiliation of the Pacing Mustang by the treacherous snare of Old Turkeytrack. 
 The story of the dog Bingo is a classic, while " WuUy," the double-lived " yaller 
 dog," the Jekyl and Hyde of dogdom in literature, stands unique and inapproachable. 
 
 In depicting animal life and animal character, Mr. Thompson has probably no 
 peer m this country, and this delightful volume of his shows us that his pen is as 
 mighty as his marvellous pencil and brush. — New 'fork Mall and Express. 
 
 In its mechanical make-up the book is a great success. The illustrations by the 
 author are among the best of modern book-making. From the stand-point of instruc- 
 tion, entertamment, and esthetics this book takes high rank. — Boston Universalist 
 Leader. 
 
 It can be read to advantage by either adult or child. " The Pacing Mustang," 
 and " WuUy," the story of a yaller dog, are stories that delight the reader. 
 
 The artistic work of the book is by Mrs. Grace Gallatin Thompson, to whose val- 
 uable assistance her husband, the author, pays tribute. — New Haven Union. 
 
 The delight of Mr. Thompson's stories lies largely in their absolute truth, but 
 almost as much in his intense and contagious sympathy. As to the gathering closer 
 and closer of the foes about the brave black mustang, and the final desperate plunge 
 which leaves him *' a lifeless wreck — but free," it is an absorbing tragedy. — Boston 
 {Mass.) Beacon. 
 
 On the side of biology and on that of literature the book is equally interesting. 
 Here we catch most interesting glimpses of the soul-life of the various four-footed 
 heroes and heroines and without any sacrifice of truth for the sake of effect. It is a 
 pleasure to praise this most interesting contribution toward the study of animal psychol- 
 ogy and individuality. The author is his own artist, and the illustrations in and out of 
 the text are as interesting and as artistic as the text itself. — Boston {Mass.) Evening 
 Gazette. 
 
 The originality and freshness of these stories is irresistible. Lobo is probably 
 the most wonderful true story of wild-animal cunning that has appeared in English 
 so far. . . . These stories will be read and treasured long after the "Jungle 
 Stories '' have been forgotten. — Mr. William T. Hornaday, Director N. Y. Zoological 
 Park^ in Recreation for December. 
 
 Here is a book worth while. He writes like a naturalist and a poet combined. 
 He has Kipling's gift of making you know and sympathize with wild animals. He 
 helps one to get their point of view. 
 
 Mr. Thompson's book sets a new inArk in natural history studies. — Buffalo (_N. Y ) 
 Express. 
 
 2 
 
CRITICAL NOTICES 
 
 A remarkably interesting and pretty boolc. — Brooklyn Citizen. 
 
 These stories are true, therefore valuable. . . . The author has applied to his 
 stories of animals the same principle a skilful writer applies to a story of a man. The 
 book is beautifully made by Mr. Thompson's wife, who is responsible for the artistic 
 design of cover and title-page.— 5«^« {Mass.) Home Journal. 
 
 We would advise all people who are fond of animals, and all who are trying to 
 have their children fond of them, too, to buy for the joy and instruction' of the family 
 a natural history on an entirely new line. 
 
 There could not be a better book for children to read. — Boston (Mass.) Daily AcU 
 vertiser. 
 
 ... A better attempt than Kipling's to restore the kinship of man and 
 the animals in Mr. Ernest Seton Thompson's book. This is woodcraft lived before 
 our eyes. . . . 
 
 The novelty of its contents has put aside another feature of this book which alone 
 would make it noteworthy — the author's pictures in it As an illustrator of birds and 
 mammals, Mr. Thompson is already well known — is entitled, perhaps, to first place in 
 the United States, but in illustrating these essays he has shown more than the accuracy 
 of the portrait painter or the intelligence of the mere illustrator, for his many full-page 
 drawings are informed with the spirit of the book in a highly imaginative way, and, in 
 addition, the broad margins of the prettily printed volume are crowded with fascinat- 
 ing little sketches. — New York Times, 
 
 A book that will afford genuine delight to all lovers of animals. Mr. Thompson is 
 the illustrator as well as the writer of the book, and shows himself equally clever with 
 pen and pencil. The volume is a quaint and beautiful specimen of book-making, and 
 should be kept in mind. — IVew York Examiner. 
 
 Nothing apart from " The Jungle Book " has ever approached these tales in in- 
 terest, and the 200 illustrations add greatly to their charm. — New York World. 
 
 "Wild Animals I Have Known " is primarily addressed to children, but people 
 never quite get over being children, and many adults will find the book as entertaining 
 as the little folks do. — St. Louis (Mo.) Globe-Democrat. 
 
 The Scribners have printed this fascinating book in a unique style. The illustra- 
 tions are clear and distinct and the book is in all respects a typographical and mechan- 
 ical beauty. The author thoughtfully acknowledges his indebtedness to his wife for the 
 original ideas in design and for the literary finish of his stories. No lover of dogs and 
 other animals can afford to miss reading this beautiful book — Detroit {Mich.') Journal. 
 
 A charming book. . . . The full-page illustrations and the decorated margins 
 make the work as attractive on the side of art as on the side of nature. It will be a 
 strong competitor with Kipling's " Jungle Stories " for the suffrages of the young folks. 
 — New York Outlook. 
 
CRITICAL NOTICES 
 
 Ernest Seton Thompson is known to be an expert in his line. Therefore hit book 
 compels our respect, even before we investigate the biographies. Lobo's story is one 
 of the most romantic and thrilling known among men, to say nothing of wojves. The 
 
 Jungle Book is not more sympathetic in tone, and not more magnetic in appeal. 
 
 Chicago (JU.) Times-Herald. 
 
 Undoubtedly the most unusual and attractive volume for young readers that has 
 come to us this year. — New York Review of Reviews. 
 
 There is a wonderful pathos in these narrations. The stories of "Bingo "and 
 Vixen, the Springfield Fox, are classics in their way. — Washington (ZJr C.) Evening Star. 
 
 A book of unusual interest. A thoroughly original record of animal temperaments 
 in a state of nature. — New York Book Buyer. 
 
 Handsomely illustrated and printed in a style for which the Scribners are famous. 
 No lover of our four-footed friends, whether dog, horse, or rabbit, but will read these 
 sketches with extreme delight, and Mr. Thompson deserves the thanks of all animal 
 \o\eTS.— Philadelphia (Pa.) Call. 
 
 Mr. Thompson has a singular sympathy with the creatures he describes. No 
 one can doubt that Mr. Thompson is a close observer, and that these things fell out 
 just as he relates them. The book is charmingly illustrated. — Providence (R. I.) 
 journal. 
 
 There is no lover of animals who will fail to find delight in this handsome volume. 
 — Albany (N. Y. ) Evening Journal. 
 
 Delightful pictures of animal life. . . . The wide margins of his book, whose 
 typography is a pleasure to the eye, are filled with lively sketches, which supplement 
 the letter-press in a diverting way. . . . — New York Evening Sun. 
 
 Nothing better than the "Story of Lobo " could be desired. ... It is his 
 final triumph as a story-teller that, when superior human cunning has at last pre- 
 vailed, the entrapped hero is still permitted to keep the reader's admiration and interest 
 on his side. — New York Nation. 
 
 Mr. Thompson is now drawing the best mammals of any American artist. . . . 
 This is artistic fidelity to nature in high degree. . . . Nothing of equal simphcity 
 could be more effective than these little marginal oddities and whimsies. The book is 
 thoroughly good, both in purpose and execution. — New York Evening Post,