licking his chops under the tree,--he trots off to other hunting
grounds. If he were an educated fox he would know better than that.

When an old New England fox in some of his nightly prowlings discovers
a flock of chickens roosting in the orchard, he generally gets one or
two. His plan is to come by moonlight, or else just at dusk, and,
running about under the tree, bark sharply to attract the chickens'
attention. If near the house, he does this by jumping, lest the dog or
the farmer hear his barking. Once they have begun to flutter and
cackle, as they always do when disturbed, he begins to circle the tree
slowly, still jumping and clacking his teeth. The chickens crane their
necks down to follow him. Faster and faster he goes, racing in small
circles, till some foolish fowl grows dizzy with twisting her head, or
loses her balance and tumbles down, only to be snapped up and carried
off across his shoulders in a twinkling.

But there is one way in which fox of the wilderness and fox of the
town are alike easily deceived. Both are very fond of mice, and
respond quickly to the squeak, which can be imitated perfectly by
drawing the breath in sharply between closed lips. The next thing,
after that is learned, is to find a spot in which to try the effect.

Two or three miles back from almost all New England towns are certain
old pastures and clearings, long since run wild, in which the young
foxes love to meet and play on moonlight nights, much as rabbits do,
though in a less harum-scarum way. When well fed, and therefore in no
hurry to hunt, the heart of a young fox turns naturally to such a
spot, and to fun and capers. The playground may easily be found by
following the tracks after the first snowfall. (The knowledge will not
profit you probably till next season; but it is worth finding and