low pine on the very edge of the field. There he crouched with all
four feet close together under him. Then a crow came by within ten
feet of the ambush. The tracks showed that the bird was a bit
suspicious; he stopped often to look and listen. When his head was
turned aside for an instant the fox launched himself; just two jumps,
and he had him. Quick as he was, the wing marks showed that the crow
had started, and was pulled down out of the air. Reynard carried him
into the densest thicket of scrub pines he could find, and ate him
there, doubtless to avoid the attacks of the rest of the flock, which
followed him screaming vengeance.

A strong enmity exists between crows and foxes. Wherever a crow finds
a fox, he sets up a clatter that draws a flock about him in no time,
in great excitement. They chase the fox as long as he is in sight,
cawing vociferously, till he creeps into a thicket of scrub pines,
into which no crow will ever venture, and lies down till he tires out
their patience. In hunting, one may frequently trace the exact course
of a fox which the dogs are driving, by the crows clamoring over him.
Here in the snow was a record that may help explain one side of the
feud.

From the same white page one may read many other stories of Reynard's
ways and doings. Indeed I know of no more interesting winter walk than
an afternoon spent on his last night's trail through the soft snow.
There is always something new, either in the track or the woods
through which it leads; always a fresh hunting story; always a
disappointment or two, a long cold wait for a rabbit that didn't come,
or a miscalculation over the length of the snow tunnel where a
partridge burrowed for the night. Generally, if you follow far enough,
there is also a story of good hunting which leaves you wavering