remembering.) If one goes to the place on some still, bright night in
autumn, and hides on the edge of the open, he stands a good chance of
seeing two or three foxes playing there. Only he must himself be still
as the night; else, should twenty foxes come that way, he will never
see one.

It is always a pretty scene, the quiet opening in the woods flecked
with soft gray shadows in the moonlight, the dark sentinel evergreens
keeping silent watch about the place, the wild little creatures
playing about among the junipers, flitting through light and shadow,
jumping over each other and tumbling about in mimic warfare, all
unconscious of a spectator as the foxes that played there before the
white man came, and before the Indians. Such scenes do not crowd
themselves upon one. He must wait long, and love the woods, and be
often disappointed; but when they come at last, they are worth all the
love and the watching. And when the foxes are not there, there is
always something else that is beautiful.--

Now squeak like a mouse, in the midst of the play. Instantly the fox
nearest you stands, with one foot up, listening. Another squeak, and
he makes three or four swift bounds in your direction, only to stand
listening again; he hasn't quite located you. Careful now! don't
hurry; the longer you keep him waiting, the more certainly he is
deceived. Another squeak; some more swift jumps that bring him
within ten feet; and now he smells or sees you, sitting motionless on
your boulder in the shadow of the pines.

[Illustration]

He isn't surprised; at least he pretends he isn't; but looks you over