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

One shrewd thing frequently noticed in the conduct of an old fox with
young is that she never troubles the poultry of the farms nearest her
den. She will forage for miles in every direction; will harass the
chickens of distant farms till scarcely a handful remains of those
that wander into the woods, or sleep in the open yards; yet she will
pass by and through nearer farms without turning aside to hunt, except
for mice and frogs; and, even when hungry, will note a flock of
chickens within sight of her den, and leave them undisturbed. She
seems to know perfectly that a few missing chickens will lead to a
search; that boys' eyes will speedily find her den, and boys' hands
dig eagerly for a litter of young foxes.

Last summer I found a den, beautifully hidden, within a few hundred
yards of an old farmhouse. The farmer assured me he had never missed a
chicken; he had no idea that there was a fox within miles of his large
flock. Three miles away was another farmer who frequently sat up