Vulpes, the Red Fox (American Woodland Tales)

by Jean Craighead George

  Mrs. Violet’s home had suffered the most. The porch was caught in the trees that surrounded her place, and the front of the house had sagged and caved in. Her friends told her of the damage and advised her to move farther up the canal to an old lock house at Seneca Creek that had withstood the flood. The little old lady left her land, shaking her fist at the river and denouncing it loudly. Her brown, peaked hat bobbed with each accusation.

  The men moved back but the foxes did not. Their hunting land was now covered with about an inch of sticky mud, and there was little or no food to be found in the Muddy Branch area.

  Gradually the family broke up. Had it not been for the flood and had the foxes remained in their familiar haunts around Muddy Branch, the family would have been together longer. But with no den or cave to go to, the young foxes had roamed freely in this upland region. They had scattered gradually across the fields and hills, and when they did not come back, Vulpes knew that they had severed family ties to go off and live on their own.

  Finally the last pup left them and Vulpes and Fulva were alone. In October they returned to Muddy Branch. Several rains had pounded the mud into the ground, and the falling autumn leaves had covered the sediment. Slowly the woodland returned to normal. Only the clusters of driftwood high in the trees, and an occasional plank in the beech limbs reminded them of the flood that had covered the land. Life went on where it had left off a month before.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE SUMMER WAS GONE and the winds were blowing colder. Cy Cummings had shocked his corn and the ears were stowed in the crib. His wheat was in and now that most of the hard summer work was done, he spent his time in the fields and woods, doing odd chores. One day when the air was brisk and fresh and the leaves were falling, Cy was out in the field mending a fence. He worked hard for several hours. The sweat stood out on his head and his back muscles grew stiff from bending over. He rose from his job and wiped his forehead with his big blue handkerchief. Cy stretched his back and looked up at the sky. The clouds were clean and white against the vivid blue, and the gold trimmings of the trees at the horizon sparkled and gleamed in the sunlight. High, high in the air the honk of geese caught his attention. He squinted into the light and saw the V pattern of the wild geese flying south.

  The old farmer stood still and watched them until they disappeared, honking faintly along their aerial highway. He smiled to himself, for as many times as he had seen the sight repeated each year, Cy never failed to respond to the thrill of the migrating birds. They meant the months of labor in the fields were done, that the autumn had come, the hunting season was opening, that the apples were red, and that the nuts were ripening on the trees. Cy leaned against the post and smelled the clean air. Presently he heard footsteps coming through the woods and turned to see the slightly stooped form of Will Stacks.

  “Hello there,” he called. “Mighty fine day, isn’t it?”

  “ ’Deed it is, Cy,” answered Will from the brightly splattered woodland. He walked over to meet his friend. Cy saw he had his trapping basket with him.

  “Opening the season so soon?” he asked.

  “No, thought I’d set out a few traps for mice and other varmints to see if there’s any food left down there after the flood for the foxes and other critters. If there’s food, there’ll be foxes.”

  “Just saw some wild geese go by,” Cy told the trapper.

  “I heard ’em myself,” he said, looking into the clouds. “I sure love those birds. Yes, sir, I love to see ’em pass. They make me sad and glad all at once.”

  “They usually stop by on the farm a little later in the season and fill up on corn,” Cy said, looking at the sky where the birds had been.

  “Yes,” answered Will, “I’ve seen ’em out on that cornfield many a fall.”

  “Beautiful birds, too,” Cy added. “Big beautiful birds.” He seemed to be looking through the clouds now. Then he dropped his head and slapped the fence post. “Got to finish patching this thing today. It’s been worrying me all summer.” He bent down on his knees and went back to work with the plyers and mending wire. Stacks watched him a few minutes and then turned toward the woods.

  “Guess I’ll head down to the river. Sorta wanted to see if that big old Vulpes was still around.”

  “He’s a cunnin’ fox,” Cy answered. “See him every now and then at the edge of the fence here. I believe that was his den that Charlie and I found last spring. Like to think so anyway.”

  Will was already off through the woods, his keen eyes detecting the signs of animal life around him.

  Meanwhile Fulva and Vulpes were relaxing on the hill above the Branch. The heat was gone from the sun and it was pleasant to stretch out in the light now and enjoy the leisurely days of autumn. Their big family was gone and the two foxes were alone again. It had been a hard year for them. Many trials had interrupted their life and the responsibility of feeding and caring for such a large family had been a strain. But now their work was done. It was still too early for hunts, so the foxes were resting and enjoying the riches of their valley. Food was not hard to find. The air was cool and the fruits of autumn were a pleasant relief to their diet.

  The days passed into November. On a cold clear night Vulpes started out across the land on a wide exploration of the fields and farms to the north of Muddy Branch. He traveled most of the night and at dawn sought the protection of a small woodlot. With his head resting on his big brush, he dozed fitfully until the light had flooded the farms below him and he could see the big red barns shining in the morning light.

  The wind shifted at daybreak and carried the smells of the farm across the meadow to the fox. He caught the odor of hounds and horses and men. Vulpes lifted his head curiously and looked at the distant farm more closely. He could see the men moving about. Some were dressed in bright scarlet coats, and others were in brown and black. They were all leading their horses from the stables to the bright outdoors and mounting them with ease and loud halloos.

  Vulpes had come to the hill above the Hunt Club of Maryland, where the Master of the Fox Hounds and his dawn party were preparing for a chase across the hills. The M.F.H. wore his scarlet coat and was organizing the ride when the fox caught their scent on the wind. All were dressed according to the rules of the sport. Those in “pinks” had ridden five seasons or more, and those in Ratcatchers and Black Coats were occasional riders to the hounds. After the party had assembled, thirty or forty Walker hounds were led from their kennels and the spectacular group left the barns and trotted down the road to the meadow.

  Here is a new hunt, Vulpes thought as he watched the hounds and horses from his warm spot on the hillside. He was not sure that he wanted to take this chase, but the snappy air of autumn had awakened the spirit of the hunt in the fox and he thought of leading this pack off to the river.

  As the horses and riders came over the meadow, toward the hill where Vulpes lay, the rumble of their hoofs shook the earth. Voices sounded clear and joyous as the members of the hunt club rode behind the weaving pack of hounds. The Huntsman, Harry Williams, led the party. Coming over the hill, Vulpes could hear him encouraging the dancing pack.

  “Hi up there, git ’em, old boy, git ’em up!”

  Slowly Vulpes rose from his warm covert and calculated the open lands and fence rows. He moved out into the wind and crossed to the other side of the knoll. The Whippers-in, aides to the Huntsman, were moving out to the right and left of the hounds trying to hold them into a pack, when Gunner, the big Walker, caught the scent of Vulpes.

  The hound bayed. The Huntsman lifted his arm and called out with a ringing voice that sounded across the entire farmlands, “Halloa!”

  The hunt was off. Far down on the other side of the hill. Vulpes heard the ringing voice of Harry Williams. He stopped his leisurely gait and looked back. The horses had jumped to the opening note of the hunt; they were running across the field, their manes flying. The hounds were coming ahead of them baying like a great melodious organ. The fox had never se
en such a sight, nor heard such a loud chorus of hounds. Their voices rose as one. He watched horses, riders and hounds a minute longer, then turned and ran along the edge of the fence. Vulpes knew he could outrun these hounds in a short time, but he didn’t like the open country he was in. He made an excellent target on the dark loam.

  As he glided past the osage orange hedge, one of the members of the hunt caught sight of his bright orange shape and lifted his hat into the air. This sent a chill of excitement through the galloping party and they thundered down the hill shouting, their red and black coats flashing in the morning light.

  As the hunt rode on, the fox warmed to the occasion. He leapt the fence and darted through a glade of trees that ran along the stream bed. With a swift jump he cleared the water and glided out to the long, sloping meadow beyond. The hounds were in full voice now and their hymn resounded across the bright autumn landscape.

  He heard them at the creek as he reached the knoll of the next hill, and stopped. Vulpes could not understand the purpose of this chase. They did not stalk him or lie in wait for him as Buck Queen did; they rode swiftly after him, spurring their horses to the race.

  Vulpes passed through a woodlot and sped off across the field beyond. Far down the valley he listened to the hunt. The riders had come to the barrier of thick trees and were circling it on their horses. Only the Huntsman and the Whippers-in kept up with the hounds as they bayed through the saplings and darted out of the woods on the other side.

  Again the fox heard the thundering pound of hoofs as the party reorganized and rolled across the field he had crossed. As Vulpes walked along he saw a herd of cattle grazing in the meadows just beyond. He was nervous in this open land and decided to lose the hunt by circling the herd and starting back to Muddy Branch.

  He sped lightly past the ruminating animals, cut to the right and ran along the top of the fence at the edge of the field. With a spurt Vulpes was off and drifting swiftly back across the plowed land to the distant thickets of the river.

  The hunt drew to a halt before the cattle. The Walkers lost the trail among the strong odors of the herd and were circling blindly over the field. The huntsman and the Whippers-in had reined their steeds and were calling the dogs back. The hunt was over. The scarlet riders turned their horses toward the kennels and trotted back across the fields and jumps.

  As Vulpes came to Muddy Branch, he stopped and looked back across the hills. There was no sign of the hunters or hounds. He had left them miles behind in the rolling Maryland farmlands. The fox walked slowly back along an old quail avenue to the laurel slick. Fulva had just returned from a hunt for food and she was napping in the high noon shadows and lights.

  Vulpes went down to the stream, lapped up the cold water, now black with leaves, and set out for the field to find some apples and berries. Under the knotty trees in an abandoned orchard he found many apples to gnaw on, and filled himself on the fruit until he was stuffed and round.

  That night he led Fulva on a merry race over the stream bed, across fallen trees and up and down the tow-path. Fulva nipped at his feet as he frisked up the trail that led to the hill above Buck’s place.

  A light glowed in the kitchen window sending a clean shaft of color out onto the frozen ground. Buck’s wife, May, was crating the eggs she had gathered that day for market. She worked around the kitchen quietly and swiftly, unaware of the nocturnal visitors outside who were watching the shadows come and go.

  There was a knock at the door. May put down her eggs and went to open it. The light from the kitchen streamed out into the starry November night. The dogs howled and pulled at their chains.

  “Hello, Mr. Gordon,” May said as she recognized the young man who owned a summer cottage next door. “Come in.”

  “Thank you,” Gordon said as he entered.

  “Hush, Fritz,” May called to one of the dogs. “They’re awfully restless tonight. Buck is in the parlor with some friends. Just step in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll take your coat.”

  Gordon strolled across the Congoleum-covered floor to the parlor where four men were sitting around the kerosene stove.

  “Hello there, Mr. Gordon,” Buck called when he recognized the tall, well-groomed neighbor. “Mr. Gordon, these are some friends of mine, Cy Cummings, Charlie Craggett and Will Stacks.”

  Gordon shook their hands and walked over to the couch to sit down between Cy Cummings and Will Stacks. He glanced around the room as he took his place on a stool. Two lighted kerosene lamps stood on an oilcloth-covered table under the front window. The mantel held a small weather vane—a cottage that housed a witch and two children. The children were out, indicating fair weather. Newspaper clippings of foxes and dogs were tacked on the walls. Dotted swiss curtains hung across the windows. Over one window Joe noticed a large hole in the wall. Buck followed his gaze and commented as he crossed his legs:

  “Suppose you’re wondering about that hole up there, Mr. Gordon? May did that the other day when she picked up a .410 and took a shot at a mouse that was running across the curtain rod.” He chuckled as he continued, “She missed the mouse but she certainly tore up the top of that window.”

  “A .410!” said Gordon in amazement.

  “Yes, sir, a little old .410 did that—loaded with bird shot, too. If she had used my 12 gauge here,” he motioned to the Long Tom that leaned against the wall behind his chair, “it would have been a lot bigger. I just wouldn’t be afraid of going up against anything with a shotgun. If a man is steady enough and can hold his fire until fifteen feet, he’ll be able to knock down most anything. Now, mind you, I’m not saying fifteen yards, I’m saying fifteen feet. Try it for yourself sometime.”

  “You’d certainly have to be steady,” Gordon declared.

  “That you do, Mr. Gordon,” said Charlie Craggett, “and you won’t find a steadier one than old Buck Queen. I remember the time that we were out hunting and a fox was coming right down the trail toward us. Buck called to that fox to make him turn so he could get a side shot and not spoil the fur. There ain’t many men that can call their shots like that, Mr. Gordon.”

  Buck chuckled, “Charlie, I’ve done that a good many times, I’m not afraid of his getting away whatsoever, if he’s within thirty to thirty-five yards of me.” The old hunter spoke modestly—simply stating a fact.

  “I gather that you’ve been hunting foxes a good many years,” Jim Gordon observed.

  “Well, I’ve been hunting most of my life.”

  “Are there many foxes around here, Mr. Queen?”

  “I get about fifteen or twenty a year, and Will Stacks picks up more than that in his traps each season. There are still a lot around in spite of that, too. They were going to bring in the government fellows just to trap the foxes. Said they couldn’t raise turkeys in the flats above.

  “But there was a time when there weren’t many. One night when I was a young man, that was well over forty years ago, I had some night hounds out to hunt coon, and those dogs just weren’t behaving right. They didn’t do a single thing they should have done. I couldn’t figure out what had happened. That was right in Chevy Chase where you live now, Mr. Gordon. It wasn’t built up then and was good hunting ground. I finally tracked the trouble down to a red fox that had got loose from the zoo in Washington. That was the first fox I ever hunted in these parts. We used to have to go miles and miles before we could start a fox in those days.”

  “Hmm, strange there wasn’t any fox hunting around here in those days,” said Gordon.

  “Well, now, I reckon there was some, but foxes were scarce. However, there were places in Maryland and Virginia, a good many of the wealthy Washington people have hunted foxes through the years, just the way they do it in England. I’m told George Washington did a good bit of hunting in places not too far away before he got to be President.

  “They had hunt clubs in those days just like they do now. The Old Dumblane Club, right near your home on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, was a famous club. Those people liked
to go on the hunt for the ride, however, and seldom killed a fox.

  “I used to watch them ride out from town in big wagons they called Tallyhos, drawn by a fine set of matched bobtails. It was a mighty pretty sight—all the hunters dressed in red coats with shining boots and spurs; the hounds baying, the Huntsman blowing his horn. Many times they didn’t chase a fox at all, but had their kennel man go out with a bag of anise seed and drag it over the jumps and across the open fields where the horses could go. Then they’d turn the hounds loose, and they would follow that trail as they’d been trained. It was an exciting thing to watch those people go over the fences and obstacles after the hounds. But they seldom came out here. This isn’t good riding land—never has been. You just can’t get through these dense woods on a horse. By the time the riders got around the thickets and wire fences, the fox would be miles and miles away. They wouldn’t see much of the dogs on a race like that.

  “But, it is a different story now. Foxes have become right plentiful.”

  Gordon wanted to know why the foxes had suddenly appeared in this land where such a short time ago there were none.

  “Soon as you open up the land it seems to increase the food for them. Mice, rabbits and quail move in, and the foxes follow.”

  “Well, why is that?” asked Gordon. “I should think the farmers would kill them as soon as they came into their land.”

  “They are a cunnin’ thing, now, Mr. Gordon, when you figure them out. Our American fox is a clever animal. He’s hunted and trapped, and the only way he can survive is by his wits. Those that aren’t smart enough won’t live long. Living close to men and farms they learn to be tricky. You notice sometimes foxes that aren’t hunted much are easy to knock down. The fox that lives around here—and you’ll find that same fox on the outskirts of almost every town throughout this whole region and right on up into Canada—is a right smart animal. Stands to reason he’s got to be a right cunnin’ thing. He has no protection whatsoever. You can run him any time, take him any time. Lots of states even pay you a bounty if you kill him, and still he more than holds his own.”