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and brain, enjoys at least the first part of a hunt, when the hounds are held at a pretty distance, and before he is brought to desperation, with laboured panting, flagging ho feet, sodden fur, and mudded, draggled brush. Mr Masefield knows his fox, and in his luminous, impulsive verse, draws his psychology with a suggestive pen, limning the Reynard of this Epic on a heroic scale; showing, also, as every one with imagination and sympathy will recognise, how the fox shares, with all free creatures, many of the qualities and weaknesses, good, bad, indifferent, even of humanity.

This work of the imagination, calculated to interest the sympathetic reader in the nature and habits of the fox, far beyond the mere process of hunting him, may be supplemented by some results of a fairly long experience. Considering the status of the fox in this country, his natural history is, I think, remarkably obscure. Of course everybody knows his general characteristics-up to a certain point. Beyond that point, however, one hears such widely divergent opinions expressed that it must be well-nigh impossible to obtain anything like a correct impression of the genuine animal without firsthand knowledge. I once heard a man say that it was no manner of use to read Nature books. Writers, if at all original, did nothing but contradict one another, so how was anybody to know whom to believe? The gibe contained this much truth: naturalists are too apt to forget that certain creatures are highly individualised, and consequently persist in ascribing to an entire species qualities that they have observed in some particular animal. Thus, when the experience of one man differs from that of somebody else to any considerable extent, the statement of one or the other is promptly discredited.

So some people talk of the fox's consummate cleverness, having seen or heard of striking instances of it. Others, equally competent to express an opinion, having witnessed nothing noteworthy, ridicule all stories to this effect, and maintain that vulpine cunning is simplicity itself when compared with the astuteness displayed by the hare. As a matter of fact, while 'Puss' is by nature a strategist and has immediate recourse to craft when in danger, her red rival, under corresponding circum

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stances, trusts to his legs rather than to his wits, resorting to cunning only in the last extremity of need. Then, however, he employs artifices which put the hare's best efforts to shame. Hackneyed as this particular subject t is, I cannot resist giving just one example, showing originality and resourcefulness of no mean order.

Some years ago a long run with a well-known West Country pack ended quite unaccountably upon a strip of sandy beach on the Dorset coast. The fox had vanished, as if blown away, and there was nothing whatever to suggest what had become of him. Exhaustive casts along the shore failed to recover the line, and after every possible hiding-place had been explored, without result, nothing remained but to admit defeat. Everybody was puzzled, and many were the theories under discussion when at last we started upon the homeward road. This by tortuous degrees ascended a cliff, the crest of which afforded a bird's-eye view over the beach we had just left. Here, at the highest point the road attained, we came upon a dismounted cyclist, who coolly asked the M.F.H. whether he would like to know what had become of his fox. That gentleman, as might be supposed, replied that no information upon earth would be more acceptable to him just then, whereupon the stranger jerked a careless thumb seawards. There you are, then,' he said. The tide was ebbing, leaving here and there a sheet of shallow water, retained by slight depressions in the sand. In the middle of one such pool we could see a small, triangular object to which the cyclist pointed. The Master was incredulous. It was the tip of a boulder or a piece of stranded seaweed, he protested. The other, however, stuck to his statement, maintaining that the piece of pointed rock was the fox's head, and so, indeed, it proved to be.

The trick was simple as clever. The fox must have waded out until the water was shoulder-deep-just right for his purpose-and there remained, crouching flat on the sand, entirely submerged excepting his head. This, too, he ducked at the approach of hounds, leaving only his nose above water, otter-fashion. Naturally nobody noticed the tiny black spot upon the rippling surface. The cyclist, it transpired, had watched the whole manoeuvre from the cliff, and, like a true sportsman,

allowed things to take their course. When accident, however, brought us into touch with him, the temptation to speak became irresistible.

That fox, of course, displayed remarkable ingenuity. On the other hand, a great many things that seem masterpieces of craft are the natural outcome of circumstance. A beaten fox runs a sheep-track along which the flock has just scampered, or, better still, a turnpike road where hounds are helpless. He saves his brush, but it is not likely that in either case he acts with deliberate intent. The sheep-track naturally takes the easiest course along the hill; the even surface of the road is less trying to tired feet than the fields-that is all.

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Of course, with foxes as with all creatures, there are the stratagems common to the whole race. These are merely the promptings of instinct, of which the most notable example is the trick of 'playing possum.' old huntsman was upon one occasion unpleasantly startled when a fox he was about to 'break up' suddenly came back to life, and fastened upon his arm. I once had a somewhat similar experience myself. A comparatively fresh fox had been headed into the very mouths of the pack, and rolled over. Somehow during the worry he got dragged into a deep runnel, where, as it happened, few hounds could get at him. He appeared to be quite dead, however, when I got there, so, picking him up carelessly enough, I carried him some distance into an adjoining field, mainly to draw hounds away from the horses, which were perilously near. The fox meanwhile hung limply in my grasp, even when held up for the benefit of somebody who wished to inspect some fancied peculiarity about his head. And just as limply did he subside when at last I laid him down. But the moment the grip upon his neck relaxed-the moment he felt himself lying untrammelled on the grass -he leaped to his feet like lightning, slashed open the muzzle of a hound that jumped to intercept him, and was gone.

Despite learned discussion as to the different varieties of foxes indigenous to this country, I think personally there is but one species, and that the dissimilarities which admittedly exist are due to the different surroundings in which they live. The rougher the country, the

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larger and stronger the foxes, as, curiously enough, is the case with rabbits, which upon good land make little more than half the weight attained by their upland brethren. In Devonshire, where 'turning down' is unknown, we have a wild, hardy sort of animal that will literally run all day if allowed time to find his legs. Unfortunately, however-from the sportsman's point of view-our supply of foxes is diminishing yearly, thanks in the main to the rabbit-trappers, who are gradually exterminating them. None the less, they have to some extent mastered the secret of the gin, and upon occasions will actually sport with the contrivance. Of this I can supply unquestionable proof.

A few seasons ago rabbits were playing such havoc with the young corn in some fields adjoining the Moor, that, while abhorring the whole principle of trapping, to save the crops I was compelled to set some snares along the boundary fences, with a few spring-traps in certain spots where 'wiring' was not practicable. One morning when going the round I found that foxes had forestalled me-a common enough occurrence, as every trapper knows. The dew, which lay like hoar-frost, recorded the unmistakable trail of the two raiders. They had worked the entire line systematically, fox-like mauling everything that was caught, breaking the wire in some cases, in others removing the rabbit by simply gnawing off its head. Thence they had proceeded to inspect the traps, whither I followed, never dreaming that my wily friends would have any truck with such dangerous machinery. Therein was I mistaken, however. From around every unsprung trap the covering mould had been deftly scraped away, leaving the whole thing exposed to view, excepting, in each instance, the plate, a significant detail which proved that the authors of the work knew exactly where the danger lay. One would never have believed wild creatures capable of such effrontery, and I can quite understand anybody hesitating to accept the story. It is absolutely true.

Yet with all his subtlety, the fox is easily caught by any one who understands his somewhat peculiar tastes. An old keeper, eager to exploit his lore, once showed me several ridiculously simple dodges by which, as he confessed without a vestige of shame, he had destroyed

'a brave lot' in his time. And for every one that the
gamekeeper gets hold of, half a dozen at least fall
victims to the trapper. A member of that craft, whom
I chance to know, tells a rather curious anecdote.
was working his outfit upon the Quantock Hills, and had
trapped over a considerable tract of country without
seeing a trace of a fox. When working back over the
same ground a few weeks later, however, he took no
less than six adult foxes in a single night, all, strangely
enough, around one spinney. Think of it! six in a night,
and that in the heart of a hunting country. Five of
them were dog-foxes, he told me, and this, together
with the fact that it occurred in the 'travelling' season,
i.e. about February, accounts for everything. At that
time of year vixens as a rule are considerably in the
minority, being more easily killed in early winter than
males of the race. So it comes about that each lady
has several suitors. When hunting in East Devon, I
remember finding five in a little gorse covert which was
seldom drawn by hounds, being situated in country
where foxes were not nominally preserved. One stray
vixen had, it seemed, drawn every male for miles around.

This trailing of vixens is doubtless responsible for the theory that the fox is polygamous, in support of which I can find no substantial evidence. The vixen, I am sure, eventually pairs off with one of her followers, and the two remain more or less together practically all the summer. If otherwise, it is hard to understand why dog-foxes are so often seen about earths which contain cubs, the stock argument that they are merely 'hanging around' for pickings being insufficient when one reflects how plentiful food is elsewhere at that season, That any doubt should exist upon so simple a point goes far to prove how unapproachable the fox is, and how little is really known of his personal history. Only by watching him year after year, meeting with less success than discouragement, can one pick up details of his personal life. Particularly when studying cubs-the most delightful study of all-is one liable to encounter disappointment. They are very jealously guarded, and over-keenness is so apt to spoil everything. For, should the red mother's suspicions once be aroused, all is over, and the litter may be in the next county before another sunrise.