At first Red Ben saw no other foxes, and rarely came across the tracks of any, for Ben Slown’s traps did their work well. There was, however, one cunning old fellow who paid a visit to the Ridge whenever there was especially good hunting weather. With him, on one never to be forgotten night in late August, Red Ben had an adventure.
He and his mother had gone to Ben Slown’s fields to hunt the little short tailed meadow mice which were so plentiful there that their paths had been gnawed through the grass in every direction. They had caught two, and were once more entering Oak Ridge wood, when Red Ben noticed that his mother hesitated to go farther and kept anxiously looking into the shadows. He heard a deer snort; then, in the half darkness of the wood, he caught the glint of two eyes.
This new creature was certainly no coon or possum; the eyes were higher above the ground than either of these would hold its head. Quickly it moved into the moonlight and showed itself to be a fox, not unlike the mother in form, but gray in color, with reddish legs and a tail entirely lacking the beautiful roundness of the red fox’s.
Instinctively the pup stood as straight and tall as he could, while along his back the hair fairly tingled with dislike. He saw his mother try to slip away, and then crouch suddenly with ears back and warning whine. He saw Gray Fox trot up, walk around her, and then bare his teeth in a snarl that sent off the soft-eyed mother in a hurry. How his heart pounded then, and how the fury welled up in his breast!
Gray Fox next turned in the direction of Red Ben, but stopped short when he found the young fox facing him without flinching. Stiff legged and disdainful he slowly walked forward, and got the surprise of his life as Red Ben flew at him like a fury, bit him on the side of the head, again on the foot when he reared up, and then on the tip of his precious nose. Back he staggered, snarling angrily, but scarcely knowing what to do.
Then Red Ben, remembering well the holds his mother had taught in their games, flew at his thick neck, caught the heavy, loose skin behind the ear and closed his sharp teeth until they nearly met.
Gray Fox’s red eyes glared back at him furiously, as he struggled this way and that, but he could not turn to bite while those jaws kept their hold. Fear grew until he was in a panic. What if the mother fox were to return now and fall on him from behind? He threw himself on the ground, then rolled over, clawing like a cat, and dragging Red Ben down with him so suddenly that all the breath was knocked out of him and his fine hold loosened.
This gave Gray Fox a wonderful chance. He was the first on his feet. He leaped for the throat hold.
Red Ben, still gasping, was pinned to the ground, almost throttled. The big, heavy enemy had all the advantage—it never had been an equal fight, and now Red Ben was down.
Oh, if his mother would only come! That wonderful, faithful, swift little mother who could be so very fierce when he was in danger. Somehow the very thought of her gave him courage. He made one mighty kick and at the same instant snapped at the fat ear of the beast above.
Luck was with him; he nipped its tender edge, and Gray Fox gave a scream. The jaws were loosened, and in that instant Red Ben’s lightning speed saved him. He rolled over, leaped to his feet and shot away. Dizzily he circled some bushes, with the other close behind; then something warned him to stop. Gray Fox had vanished.
“Gray Fox was waiting to trap him”
“Gray Fox was waiting to trap him”
Had he not been a red fox, raised by one of the wisest of mothers, Red Ben would probably have made a fatal mistake, for, well hidden behind the bushes, Gray Fox was waiting to trap him when he came around. The thing was planned so well that had Red Ben kept on, he would almost have walked into the other’s mouth.
Just in time he guessed the trick and crouched to look all around. He was out of breath; he could hardly stop his panting to listen. His neck ached and strained muscles quivered, but what mattered that, when he was free and able to match wits against wits?
Often his mother had hidden this way to catch him in their games. He remembered now that she had always lain in wait somewhere ahead, therefore Gray Fox would do the same—the safest road was that by which he had come.
Dodging bushes and shadowy places he started back. There was no sound, no movement anywhere ahead; the noise and fury of the fight had scared away the other wild things and even quieted the night singing insects. Red Ben himself felt the awe of it all. He moved without stirring a leaf, at first in a cautious trot, then a gallop and at last a full run. Faster, faster—until on the hard woods path he let out every ounce of speed he had. It was the wonderful speed of the red fox, no longer just a cub.
Red Ben
Red Ben
Gray Fox was left far behind: and to prevent his following the trail, Red Ben made circles in the dense swamp, circles that went around and around with apparently no end, for he leaped far to one side before shooting away to his old haunt by the fallen tree.
Here he crouched, waiting for whatever might happen next. Had Gray Fox been able to follow him, Red Ben would have fought to the death. He was on home ground here; he would run no more. His spirit had not been broken; far from it! From the bottom of his heart he despised the big gray bully. He hated the strong smell of him still lingering in his nostrils. But he knew Gray Fox was the stronger.
When, after hours of searching, his mother at last found him, the fierce glitter was still in his eyes. He was crouching in the same spot, watching with all the intense excitement of the young creature which, for the first time, is forced to take care of itself in a big world.
Anxiously sniffing his head and neck, the old fox quickly learned through the scent much of the story of the fight. She found the cuts about the throat and licked them free from poison. She also licked off the dirt that still clung to his soft fur, looked him all over for other scars, and then mothered him until his high strung nerves were soothed and he limped stiffly after her for a sleep under the fallen tree.
While he curled up in a round ball, with head buried between his fluffy tail and the even softer fur of his flank, the mother kept watch. She too was curled up in a tight, comfortable little ball, but she kept her chin resting on her fluffy tail so that her nose and eyes as well as both ears could be on guard.
The moon had gone down, and around them now were the blackness and the stillness of that weird part of the night which comes just before the light of day. Night prowlers, large and small, were resting, waiting for the Sun’s signal which would drive them to their beds. Day loving creatures felt the coming of the dawn, but dared not stir yet. The red fox’s eyes drowsily closed, then opened with a snap: from far away floated the clear baying of a hound.
Well the mother knew what that baying meant. Months before she had left her own hills beyond the big river, to escape the keen scented hounds and to raise her family here in the Pine Barrens, unmolested by them. Had one at last traced her? Was he on her trail now, following her footprints unerringly to the fallen tree?
She looked at the sleeping pup. He certainly could not take care of himself in a long chase. If the hound found where they were, she would have to run for both of them. But she must wait until there was no doubt that he was on her trail and not following Gray Fox or some other woods creature.
For an hour she lay there, while the musical notes of the hound rang out in the breezeless morning air. He was working out a difficult trail, the one left by Red Ben in his night escape. How well those circles had been made! But circles could only delay, not stop a trailer like this hound. The oftener he found himself going around in aimless rings, the more determined he grew, until at last he was working along the swamp dangerously near the foxes.
Red Ben was wide awake, but understood that he was to hide there while his mother took care of the dog. He had never seen a hound, so was full of curiosity. Just as he had once watched Ben Slown from the mouth of the burrow, he now peeped between the limbs of the old tree to see the lanky black and white creature with the flapping ears come roaring up the trail.
Behind the hound came Farmer Slown’s woolly dog Shep and a white fox terrier. Their noses were not keen enough for trailing, so they encouraged the hound to do the work while they enjoyed the fun of it. Red Ben had seen them before; they usually accompanied the farmer in his walks.
Instinctively he knew then that Farmer Slown was somehow connected with the hound and this hunt. He was instantly more than ever on the alert; undoubtedly the farmer was somewhere near.
Through the bushes came the clumsy dogs, with a great crashing of dry twigs, quite different from Red Ben’s silent way of moving. He could see the excited glare of their eyes, the red tongues and white teeth. The hound, a huge creature, seemed to guess the fallen tree was a “foxy” place: nose in air, he turned to it, full of suspicion. The other dogs followed expectantly.
Red Ben’s heart beat against his ribs. Should he run? Did they see him? Something inside him seemed to warn, “wait, wait, don’t move!”
And then a wild cry of joy came from the little fox terrier. He had seen the mother. She had deliberately run past him to draw attention from the pup, but he did not have sense enough to guess that. With another yell he bounded after her, and after him came Shep. The hound alone stood there doubtfully, but he could not bear to be left alone. With a mighty bellow from his deep lungs he too rushed after the old fox, and went crashing towards Oak Ridge on the fresh trail.
Again Red Ben had escaped. He heard the hound go farther and farther into the Barrens; fainter came the baying, always fainter until it died away entirely.
The swamp once more breathed freely and naturally. Blue jays called, flickers whinnied, two of Red Squirrel’s cousins came out of their hole under a cedar root, Gray Squirrel was calling out, “Fee-we-e-e-e-k, kek, kek, kek, fee-wee-e-e-e-k”—everywhere within sight things seemed peaceful and happy.
Yet, somewhere in the Pine Barrens, Red Ben knew his mother was running on and on, with death on her trail. One slim red fox against three dogs. Would she ever come back?
Red Ben’s Mother
Red Ben’s Mother
Red Ben crept from under the tree and looked all around. The red squirrels scolded at him, but he did not notice them; he had made up his mind to follow his mother. Full of trouble and scarcely knowing where to go, he at last wandered to Oak Ridge. Through its leafy tangles he trotted, in the direction he had last heard the hound. A branch of the old woods path ran here, and with the instinct of the fox to take always the best road, he followed it.
Suddenly, however, something unfamiliar appeared ahead and caused him to stop as if frozen. It did not move, he could not make out what it was, but he knew that never before had it been there when he followed this path.
Cautiously he slipped into the woods and circled until he caught the scent on the faint breeze. One sniff was enough. It was Farmer Slown!
Away ran Red Ben, not knowing, however, how narrow had been his escape. Ben Slown, gun in hand, was sitting there watching the trail. At that moment he was looking in the other direction, whence he expected the mother to run ahead of the hound.
Red Ben knew now the danger of moving about in daytime. At night man is asleep or else blundering about blinded by the dark. His traps and his poisoned baits may do harm then, but he himself is made harmless. There is not a creature of the wild that does not learn this.
To Red Ben the world seemed full of enemies. He dared not go farther, nor wander back; so he crouched in the laurel bushes and waited. And then he heard, far away, the baying of the hound. Nearer it came. It thrilled the young fox: he knew his mother was not far off.
Nervously Red Ben wandered out of the laurel and up the Ridge. Something seemed to lead him in that direction. Ahead rang the clear notes of the eager hound and another sound, the sharp yelp of Shep; the fox terrier had dropped far behind. Then Red Ben caught a glimpse of a brilliantly red body weaving its way among the laurel clumps, his mother, at last!
Down the Ridge he loped to meet her, into her path, directly before her. Joyfully he sprang to lick her lips in greeting.
She stopped, but only for an instant. Her mouth was open, the hot breath came in quick pants, and her beautiful tail dragged the ground.
Had something gone wrong? Red Ben had only to listen to the coming hound to know. In her own hilly country beyond the river, the mother could have dodged the dogs and lost them among the rocks, but on this luckless morning in the flat Barrens, when there was no wind, and when the damp ground held the scent no matter how she broke and twisted the trail, they could not be shaken off.
She loped bravely on, with Red Ben close behind. On the Ridge, every part of which she knew so well, it might be possible to fool the hound before her strength gave way. She went to the top, then tried the trick of making two circles and running back on her trail until there was a good chance to leap far to one side. If the dogs did not see her, nor find where the trail began again after her great leap, she would be safe. Up to this time Red Ben had stayed with her, listening, watching, scheming as he ran. Now he deliberately went in the other direction, leaving the double track just in time to miss being seen. Up the Ridge behind him rushed the dogs in full cry. But suddenly there was quiet; they were trying to unravel the trail at the place where the foxes doubled back.
When next Red Ben heard them they were strangely near. He ran to the other side of the Ridge, but heard them still—they were following him! No longer was the mother between. It was Red Ben now who had to show his cunning.
Down to Cranberry Swamp he ran and through it to a log he knew about, which lay across Goose Creek. Beyond this was more swamp and then another long stretch of the Pine Barrens.
Red Ben, hot, mud splashed and winded, was loping through the Barrens, clambering under fallen trees, running along the tops of logs and doing everything else he could think of to make the trail hard to follow, when all at once an animal sprang up from its bed almost under his nose.
Red Ben whirled back as he recognized the furious snarl of Gray Fox! The hound and Shep could be no worse than this enemy. What ill luck had brought him here? He ran the way he had come, dodging under the fallen trees as before, until close ahead he heard the dogs, coming surely and fast. Then with a mighty leap to one side, such as his mother had made, he left a gap in the trail and ran in a new direction. The hound lost his trail, found the fresh one of Gray Fox, and after a moment’s hesitation followed it straight away into the Pine Barrens. Red Ben was saved!
Now he could rest and enjoy the music of the chase and wonder how Gray Fox liked it all; but soon he started back to find his mother. Fear was gone. He had done big things.
Night found Red Ben still alone. The old fox had not come to the bed under the fallen tree in Cranberry Swamp, so all alone he curled up and slept. Towards morning he crawled stiffly out and wandered over to the Ridge. It was strangely quiet and deserted there too. Red Ben stood beside a great oak and called. It was just a short, lonely cry, but had the mother heard it she would have answered and come bounding to find him.
For a long time he waited there, hopefully. Then he called again and waited, and still again; but that time there was such a lonely wail in the cry that Jim Crow and his mate came flying over, to find out what was going on. They saw Red Ben crouching miserably against the butt of the old oak, and at once set up a great cawing.
If there is anything unusual happening in the woods, a crow will call together all the other crows within hearing, to look into the matter. That is whyeverycrow knows so much; what one finds, all are given a chance to see.
Red Ben, sick at heart and more lonely than ever, slipped into the bushes and hid. This was the best thing he could have done, for when the flock of crows could no longer see him, they feared he might be playing some trick on them. Up they flew with more cawing and scolding; but there was no fun in scolding an animal that could not be seen, so one after another drifted away and left him.
He called no more, but wandered about the Ridge where he had last seen his mother. In this way he came to the place in which Ben Slown had crouched with his gun the day before. He examined the spilled tobacco and tracks in the path, then sniffed them all over again. Impossible as it seemed for his mother’s and Ben Slown’s tracks to be found together, he had nevertheless caught a trace of her scent here.
He did not know that while he led the hound into the Barrens beyond the Swamp, the tired mother had started after him along the path where crouched the waiting, sinister figure of the farmer. He only knew that she had gone, leaving him—the fatherless, brotherless, playmateless little fox pup of Oak Ridge—alone.
The moon was shedding its silvery light in checkerboard patches under the high oaks on the Ridge. In the fields below hung a heavy mist, and everywhere was the glitter of wet leaves, for a thunder storm had only recently passed.
All the woodsfolk were out playing or feeding, while the insects drummed and sang their loudest, since the moisture had refreshed the whole woods world.
Under one of the oaks sat Red Ben. This new feel of the air and ground, after many hot, dry days and nights, had awakened in him too a longing to play or rather, perhaps, a longing to have someone to play with. Three miserable, lonely days had passed since he lost his mother, three nights of watching and waiting and hoping for her return.
Now he could find nothing better to do than watch the other creatures enjoying themselves in the moonlight. Already a few acorns were sweet enough to be eaten by the little animals that gnaw, and already the hunters, knowing this, were wandering from tree to tree searching for any little nut eater that was unwary enough to be caught.
So still was Red Ben that the others scarcely noticed him. One tiny shrew mouse after another went skipping by, in their search for insects; sometimes one would burrow swiftly under the leaves and come out at quite another spot. Restless little creatures they were, with long noses and eyes so small they could scarcely be seen.
The Mole
The Mole
If they had flat front feet like those of the mole, and were not the tiniest little furry creatures in the woods, they would often be taken for moles. Their fur is almost the same.
The mole, living entirely in his narrow burrows under the ground, has no need for eyes and so has lost the use of those nature first gave him; the shrew, living partly above the ground but mostly in burrows, needs to see a little, and so has very small eyes; the active deer mouse which scorns burrowing and usually lives in hollow trees like the squirrels, needs sharp eyes and so has immense ones.
To protect his big eyes from twigs and briars in the dark, Deer Mouse has a regular fence of whiskers, while Shrew’s little eyes only need a few small whiskers and old Mole needs no whiskers at all.
Deer Mouse
Deer Mouse
Shrew
Shrew
In his habit of running around in the woods at night, Red Ben was very much like Deer Mouse, and so had many long whiskers. Some stuck up from each side of his nose and curved over the eyes; some, and these were really eyebrows, started above his eyes and curved down.
Therefore, on the darkest night, Red Ben could safely wander through the woods. Before a hidden briar could touch either eye, it would hit one of the hairs and give warning in time for the fox to shut his eyes quickly and also duck his head. The long whiskers were often very useful to him.
The shrews interested Red Ben, but because they had the hunter smell, he did not try to catch them. They were so small that worms and beetles were their chief prey.
On the damp ground the woods creatures could jump about without a rustle. That is what they like to do. The mice wait at the entrance of their homes until the way seems safe, then dash to the nearest bush and hide. If they see no owl or other hunter they make a dash to the next bush and so on until they safely reach the feeding ground. A rustle would catch the attention of any waiting owl and bring him swooping down.
Red Ben saw deer mice watching inquisitively from the edges of laurel clumps, also little burrowing pine mice whose sharp eyes fairly twinkled in the moonlight. He saw Brown Weasel chase a nimble deer mouse up an oak, and then he saw Flying Squirrel and his family having a rollicking game of tag around the largest limbs. Fat toads sat about, lazily watching for beetles. The pleasant rain had been taken in through the pores of their skin instead of through their mouths, but they had had enough to satisfy them.
On all sides there were little things moving, even from up in the air and down in the ground came squeaks of various kinds. Everyone seemed to have a play fellow—except Red Ben.
At last, however, a little possum came ambling through the wood all alone. Red Ben watched him sniff about and climb among some fallen branches. When the gray creature, with little bright eyes, caught sight of the interested fox, he crouched on one of the limbs and gazed back just as interestedly.
Red Ben’s playfulness surged over him; he pranced forward, reared on his hind legs and waved his front paws enticingly in front of the little possum’s nose. But Possum fell over backwards, terror in his eyes. Once on the ground he scurried for a tree, and climbed up in a panic. Red Ben, however, was just as quick. Thinking it was all a game, he chased after him, leaped high into the air and caught the scaly tail just as it was getting out of reach.
Down plumped the little possum, with wide open, hissing mouth. But instead of running, he lay where he had fallen.
Red Ben was greatly surprised. He had meant no harm. Carefully he sniffed and pawed the motionless creature. Yes, his playfellow was certainly dead. For a minute or two he walked around. There was nothing he could do, so he decided to leave the place.
“Possum fell over backwards”
“Possum fell over backwards”
Just as he reached the next tree, however, he heard a scraping noise and whirled around in time to see the apparently dead possum go up the oak’s trunk even faster than the first time. Sticking his sharp little toe nails into the crevices of the rough bark, he could get a good hold where Red Ben’s toes, which were formed for running, could not have gripped at all. When nearly at the top of the tree, he stopped to look down at Red Ben, grinning. The fox had at first fooled the little possum, but now the little fellow had done some fooling himself.
Red Ben looked around for the mice and other little creatures, but found that they had vanished. Being the color of the dead leaves and limbs near which they played and fed, and knowing all the holes and how best to reach the nearest one, all of them could hide quickly. They had been frightened. Many minutes would pass before they dared to crawl out again.
When Red Ben was trotting back to the Swamp, he heard Farmer Slown’s hound baying. He stopped at once to listen. It was not the joy cry that comes with the scent of a fresh trail; there was, indeed, a wail at the end that puzzled him. He listened a while in silence, then, pointing his sharp nose in that direction, barked back his defiance. “Yap, yap, ya-rrrrr.” After a pause he barked again.
The hound, who was tied in the barnyard and howling simply because he felt lonely, heard the fox and at once grew quiet. Farmer Slown heard him too, through his open window. He, however, did not remain quiet. He fussed and fumed the rest of the night, and made more plans to catch the fox which was so bold as to bark at him.
Red Ben, meanwhile, stole along the fence towards the farm buildings. He was drawn by an irresistible curiosity. It was here his greatest enemy lived, the one who was somehow connected with the disappearance of his mother and of his brothers.
The farm was very quiet in the darkness. The chickens were still asleep on their roosts, and no animal stirred. Even the windmill over the well had stopped turning, and so gave forth none of its usual creaks and groans.
The damp air, however, was laden with scents. The fox’s keen nose picked out the odor of perspiring horses, of sheep and of pigs. It caught, too, the peculiar smell of man and the smell of smoke and cooked food and slops, which always is found where man lives. There was also a dull, nameless scent made up of a hundred different things, like the grease on wagon axles, old harness, rusting iron, clothes out to dry and other things about which Red Ben knew nothing.
This was indeed a new world to the young fox, who had often wandered near the place with his mother, but never before ventured so close. Weird shapes of wagons made him keep away from the barn shed. He feared, too, the windmill, which he had once seen move in a suspicious way. Nor did he care about coming closer to the pigs, lying in filthy sties and grunting in their sleep. Altogether he much preferred the clean woods, where sweeter scents filled his nostrils and no weird creations of man lay strewn about in all their ugliness.
It was the chicken house that interested Red Ben most. From its open windows came occasional sleepy clucks and murmurs as the closely packed fowls jostled each other in their dreams. Suddenly, too, a rooster crowed, so sharply that the fox leaped to one side. Other roosters in the little house took up the challenge and crowed. They were heard by roosters at the next farm, who thereupon crowed too and woke up the roosters in the village, who also felt like crowing. Day had not yet come, however; it was only the moonlight they saw, so all promptly went to sleep again.
Red Ben knew very well that each crow came from a toothsome fowl, so he took a most natural interest in this chorus. When once it was over, however, he felt uneasy. Instinct warned him he was being watched. He looked all around and then, happening to glance up, caught the hostile eye of a big gray cat, watching him from the hen house roof.
He had never before seen a cat, and so was suspicious at once, especially as this one now opened its mouth to give vent to a yowl of indignation. He sidled off towards the wood, keeping a watchful eye on grim pussy.
There was straw scattered around on the ground, and from a bunch of this he startled a feathered whirlwind, in the shape of a guinea hen who had been sitting there on a nest of her eggs. Red Ben jumped backwards, ready for a dash in any direction.
“Chah! Che, che, chahhh!” screamed the guinea as she ran about. “Chah! Chah!” came shrilly from the trees nearby where all the other guineas were roosting. The chickens awoke and cackled, the hound bayed, Shep barked from the locked stable, and in the midst of it the little fox, the innocent cause of all this hubbub, slipped away towards the quiet, friendly wood.
His anxiety lest something follow made him careless and brought him face to face with a cow, lying down in the meadow. Dodging her surprised snort, he ran full tilt into another who, in turn, drove him to a third, and so on until he had somehow escaped the herd and was fairly flying towards the wood. Not till he was in its cool shadows, among the silent woodsfolk, could he once more feel safe.
From the farm still came the “chahhh” of the excited guineas, and when, with the first rays of the sun, Ben Slown stepped out of his house, a mass of guinea feathers met his gaze. They were strewn all about the half eaten body of the guinea hen who once had faithfully sat on her nest back of the hen house.
Farmer Slown did not look for feathers on the nose of the big cat. He never found out that the sight of the guinea running about in the dark was too much for the hunter instinct of his pet. Instead, he remembered only the barking of the fox in the night, and shook his fist in the direction of the Ridge.
Instead of sleeping under the fallen tree in Cranberry Swamp, where the fleas had become too lively for comfort, Red Ben had made it a practice to pick out a new place nearly every day. This time he chose a laurel clump on the top of Oak Ridge. There was an advantage in this high bed; he could keep an eye on Ben Slown’s farm, whence he now expected trouble of some kind to come.
He had lately paid special attention to the danger signals of all the wild creatures, and on them relied for first warning, so he curled up in his usual tight ball, with eyes closed, but ears uncovered to take in every sound.
The “check, check” of red wing blackbirds, the rasp of brown thrashers, the screech of sparrow hawks and the rustlings of a great wood full of happy life went through his ears unheeded. The bark of Red Squirrel made him look up for a moment, to make sure that the little fellow was only talking to his mate; so also did the whirring of a grouse that some prowling hunter had scared up nearby; but during most of the time he could doze.
From a pine, near the fields below, came an occasional reassuring “caw” from Jim Crow, who was keeping guard while the crow flock fed in the sheep pasture. Everything seemed all right to him. To be sure there were two red-tail hawks soaring high in the sky, but they were not worth bothering over at that distance. All at once, however, a man, followed by dogs, came from behind the farm buildings.
“Caw, caw!” called the old crow sharply, to tell the others that something suspicious was in sight. A moment later he recognized Ben Slown and instantly flew out of his tree with the real danger call. “Cawr, cawr, cawr!” repeated again and again, as the other crows flew up too and scattered in the direction of the Barrens.
The first call awoke Red Ben, and the second brought him to his feet in a bound. All he needed was the sight of the crows, flying towards the Barrens, to convince him that it was Ben Slown who was coming. Only the approach of a well known gun carrier could make those wise birds leave the neighborhood of the Ridge like that.
He watched the farmer and his three dogs, then trotted down the far side of the Ridge, crossed Cranberry Swamp and entered the Barrens. There was a definite plan in all this. Gray Fox had freed him from Ben Slown’s dogs once before, now he could do it again.
Red Ben knew the old bully’s range rather well, and wasted no time in reaching the most likely thicket. Sure enough, the smell of Gray Fox was there in plenty, the smell Red Ben had such reason to fear and dislike. He sneaked cautiously up wind and spied the sleeping fox curled up under a pepper bush.
He stood there undecided what to do. It was dangerous to trifle with Gray Fox. But matters were decided for him by an eddy of wind which carried his own scent into the thicket.
Gray Fox’s nose twitched; he looked up, recognized Red Ben and sprang to his feet with a snarl. Back dashed the young fox, and after him came the angry gray. Through the woods they sped towards Cranberry Swamp where, Red Ben felt sure, the farmer was already hunting for him.
The gray bully was bent on revenge this time; he would teach the red upstart a thing or two! But just as they neared the log that crossed Goose Creek, the bay of a hound floated through the woods from straight ahead. Red Ben dashed across the log, but Gray Fox hung back and finally sneaked away to hide. And so it happened that when the black and white hound, Shep and the fox terrier crossed the log on Red Ben’s trail from the Ridge, they found the fresh, straight-away track of Gray Fox, and followed it.
While Ben Slown sat on the Ridge waiting for a shot and while Red Ben lay comfortably in the Swamp, Gray Fox, rage in his heart, was leading the dog chorus on a wild chase far into the Barrens, to a deep hole he knew about. The entrance was too narrow to admit the large dogs, and the little fox terrier could be held at bay. It was well for Gray Fox that this hole was so far from the Ridge that Ben Slown could not hear the hound baying there.
All this time Jim Crow was keeping his eye on the whereabouts of the farmer. Silently he would circle the Ridge, high over the trees, until he saw the crouching figure, then he would alight in a tall tree at some distance in the Swamp and by his “cawr, cawr, cawr,” keep back all the crows that started to return in the direction of the Ridge. By watching him Red Ben, too, knew where the enemy was lying in wait.
When later Jim Crow saw the disgusted farmer start for his home, he flew joyously over the woods spreading the news with a “caw—caw—caw.” Soon afterwards he drew all the crows to the meadow by calling as rapidly as he could get out the sounds, “Cehr, cehr, cehr, cehr, cehr.”
Jim Crow’s language was becoming well known to Red Ben. Before the sun rose each morning, Jim would talk to the other crows. “Caw-caw,” he would begin. Another would answer, “Caw-cehr, cehr, cehr,” and then from all over the Ridge would come other caws of various kinds. No two crows spoke at once. If Jim had something important to tell, all the rest listened. By the time the sun was nearly showing above the horizon the band had started towards the feeding ground. Usually this was in one of the fields, but visits to the river flats and to cranberry bogs were not uncommon.
If a large hawk, or owl, was discovered by a crow, he called, “Caw, caw, caw, caw, caw,” and brought to the spot every full grown crow within hearing. One after another would then dive at the big bird and harass him until he escaped from the neighborhood.
Once when Red Ben had discovered a dead crow and had pulled it out for inspection, another crow, flying over, caught sight of the apparently murdered bird and shot down with a furious “Cahrrrr,” which others, appearing from all sides at this harsh call, repeated until the woods resounded.
Sometimes a crow would vary his caws with a melodious “Kruck—kruck,” which resembled one of Blue Jay’s favorite notes, but was much louder.
As Red Ben now rolled himself into the usual tight little ball, for sleep, he heard once more the joyous “Caw—caw—caw” of the old black sentinel and, with that ringing in his ears, contentedly closed his eyes.
With the first signs of darkness, Red Ben uncurled himself and took a long stretch. Then he gaped until nearly every tooth in his head was bared. After that he realized how ravenously hungry he felt, also how bad this dry, hot night would be for hunting.
Far away he heard a great horned owl hooting. “Who—who, who—whoo,” it said, over and over again. Nearby, Screech Owl was crooning to his little mate, very softly. They, too, were hunters and knew that there was little use in settling down to work until the dew had gathered in the fields and made the withered grass luscious enough to entice the rabbits and mice into the open. All had to have water, and for most of the little creatures that gnaw, it was safer to sip the dew than to take the long trip to Goose Creek.
Suddenly a weird scream filled the woods. It had scarcely ceased when another pierced the air, this time much closer to Red Ben. The fox cowered back and waited. Again the scream, and then a ghostlike, whitish shadow flitting between the trees.
Barn Owl, strangest of all the creatures of the night, was flying to his hunting ground. Many a silly ghost story has been started by a glimpse of him—innocent old mouse eater—in his moonlight travels through the woods. By day he rested in a hollow tree, or hid in dense tangles high above the ground. Now and then he found a roosting place on the rafters of some tumble down barn. By night he searched the meadows for mice and moles, doing great good to the lands of the farmers.
Red Ben had often seen Barn Owl’s white form, but never before heard his call so near at hand. In the summer he had come across two of the old bird’s youngsters squatting forlornly beside the stump of an old hollow tree, which had been their home until a woodcutter had felled it the day before.
“They sat on their tails and held hands”
“They sat on their tails and held hands”
The fox had come too close to the suspicious birds and had nearly been caught by the quick blow both aimed at him with their long talons. One reached out so far that he lost his balance and toppled over. Struggling violently to get on his feet, he clawed his brother, by mistake, and received a sound whack in punishment.
Forgetting brotherly love and fear of the fox pup, they then flew at each other in a fury and had a good fight. At last, exhausted, they sat on their tails and held hands while hissing defiance at each other in a comical way.
Red Ben was very much interested in the strange pair, and made a practice of taking a look at them every night. The devoted old mother fed them regularly, often leaving beside them several more mice than their stomachs had room for. These, however, they ate during the day, swallowing fur, tails, feet and everything, but later spitting up in neat balls all the bones and undigestible parts.
At last a day came when they were not to be found near the tree. Overhead, however, sounded a rasping call. Red Ben looked up and saw two monkey faces, rimmed in white, looking down at him from a high limb. Their wings had grown long and they had learned to fly. Soon four big barn owls, instead of two, would be quartering the meadows in moonlit nights.
The pangs of hunger soon drove Red Ben to begin to hunt along Goose Creek. In daytime, rows of mud turtles, coiled water snakes and greenish black bull frogs were usually to be found there on floating logs, warming themselves in the sunshine. At night, some of these ventured to come ashore after insects.