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 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 hundreds 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 Springfield '\ drove them to
taking refuge under the wreck of a barbedwire 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 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
gew the less he trusted to his legs, and the more to his wits for
safety.