Wild Animals I Have Known.............................................................................................................................1

Ernest Thompson Seton...........................................................................................................................1

Introduction ..............................................................................................................................................1

LOBO. The King of Currumpaw ............................................................................................................2

SILVERSPOT. The Story of a Crow .......................................................................................................9

RAGGYLUG. The Story of a Cottontail Rabbit...................................................................................14

BINGO ...................................................................................................................................................26

BINGO. The Story of My Dog..............................................................................................................26

THE SPRINGFIELD FOX....................................................................................................................34

THE PACING MUSTANG...................................................................................................................44

WULLY. The Story of a Yaller Dog.....................................................................................................55

REDRUFF. The Story of the Don Valley Partridge..............................................................................61

THESE STORIES are true. Although I have left the strict line of historical truth in many places, the animals

in this book were all real characters. They lived the lives I have depicted, and showed the stamp of heroism

and personality more strongly by far than it has been in the power of my pen to tell.

I believe that natural history has lost much by the vague general treatment that is so common. What

satisfaction would be derived from a tenpage sketch of the habits and customs of Man? How much more

profitable it would be to devote that space to the life of some one great man. This is the principle I have

endeavored to apply to my animals. The real personality of the individual, and his view of life are my theme,

rather than the ways of the race in general, as viewed by a casual and hostile human eye.

This may sound inconsistent in view of my having pieced together some of the characters, but that was made

necessary by the fragmentary nature of the records. There is, however, almost no deviation from the truth in

Lobo lived his wild romantic life from 1889 to 1894 in the Currumpaw region, as the ranchmen know too

Bingo was my dog from 1882 to 1888, in spite of interruptions, caused by lengthy visits to New York, as my

Manitoban friends will remember. And my old friend, the owner of Tan, will learn from these pages how his

The Mustang lived not far from Lobo in the early nineties. The story is given strictly as it occurred, excepting

that there is a dispute as to the manner of his death. According to some testimony he broke his neck in the

corral that he was first taken to. Old Turkeytrack is where he cannot be consulted to settle it.

Wully is, in a sense, a compound of two dogs; both were mongrels, of some collie blood, and were raised as

sheepdogs. The first part of Wully is given as it happened, after that it was known only that he became a

savage, treacherous sheepkiller. The details of the second part belong really to another, a similar yaller dog,

who long lived the doublelifea faithful sheepdog by day, and a bloodthirsty, treacherous monster by

night. Such things are less rare than is supposed, and since writing these stories I have heard of another

doublelived sheepdog that added to its night amusements the crowning barbarity of murdering the smaller

dogs of the neighborhood. He had killed twenty, and hidden them in a sandpit, when discovered by his

All told, I now have information of six of these JekyllHyde dogs. In each case it happened to be a collie.

Redruff really lived in the Don Valley north of Toronto, and many of my companions will remember him. He

was killed in i88g, between the Sugar Loaf and Castle Frank, by a creature whose name I have withheld, as it

Silverspot, Raggylug, and Vixen are founded on real characters. Though I have ascribed to them the

adventures of more than one of their kind, every incident in their biographies is from life.

The fact that these stories are true is the reason why all are tragic. The life of a wild animal always has a

Such a collection of histories naturally suggests a common thoughta moral it would have been called in the

last century. No doubt each different mind will find a moral to its taste, but I hope some will herein find

emphasized a moral as old as Scripturewe and the beasts are kin. Man has nothing that the animals have

not at least a vestige of, the animals have nothing that man does not in some degree share.

Since, then, the animals are creatures with wants and feelings differing in degree only from our own, they

surely have their rights. This fact, now beginning to be recognized by the Caucasian world, was first

CUBRUMPAW is a vast cattle range in northern New Mexico. It is a land of rich pastures and teeming flocks

and herds, a land of rolling mesas and precious running waters that at length unite in the Currumpaw River,

from which the whole region is named. And the king whose despotic power was felt over its entire extent was

Old Lobo, or the king, as the Mexicans called him, was the gigantic leader of a remarkable pack of gray

wolves, that had ravaged the Currumpaw Valley for a number of years. All the shepherds and ranchmen knew

him well, and, wherever he appeared with his trusty band, terror reigned supreme among the cattle, and wrath

and despair among their owners. Old Lobo was a giant among wolves, and was cunning and strong in

proportion to his size. His voice at night was wellknown and easily distinguished from that of any of his

fellows. An ordinary wolf might howl half the night about the herdsman's bivouac without attracting more

than a passing notice, but when the deep roar of the old king came booming down the canon, the watcher

bestirred himself and prepared to learn in the morning that fresh and serious inroads had been made among

Old Lobo's band was but a small one. This I never quite understood, for usually, when a wolf rises to the

position and power that he had, he attracts a numerous following. It may be that he had as many as he

desired, or perhaps his ferocious temper prevented the increase of his pack. Certain is it that Lobo had only

five followers during the latter part of his reign. Each of these, however, was a wolf of renown, most of them

were above the ordinary size, one in particular, the second in command, was a veritable giant, but even he

was far below the leader in size and prowess. Several of the band, besides the two leaders, were especially

noted. One of those was a beautiful white wolf, that the Mexicans called Blanca; this was supposed to be a

female, possibly Lobo's mate. Another was a yellow wolf of remarkable swiftness, which, according to

It will be seen, then, that these wolves were thoroughly wellknown to the cowboys and shepherds. They

were frequently seen and oftener heard, and their lives were intimately associated with those of the cattlemen,

who would so gladly have destroyed them. There was not a stockman on the Currumpaw who would not

readily have given the value of many steers for the scalp of any one of Lobo's band, but they seemed to

possess charmed lives, and defied all manner of devices to kill them. They scorned all hunters, derided all

poisons, and continued, for at least five years, to exact their tribute from the Currumpaw ranchers to the

extent, many said, of a cow each day. According to this estimate, therefore, the band had killed more than

two thousand of the finest stock, for, as was only too wellknown, they selected the best in every instance.

The old idea that a wolf was constantly in a starving state, and therefore ready to eat anything, was as far as

possible from the truth in this case, for these freebooters were always sleek and wellconditioned, and were

in fact most fastidious about what they ate. Any animal that had died from natural causes, or that was

diseased or tainted, they would not touch, and they even rejected anything that had been killed by the

stockmen. Their choice and daily food was the tenderer part of a freshly killed yearling heifer. An old bull or

cow they disdained, and though they occasionally took a young calf or colt, it was quite clear that veal or

horseflesh was not their favorite diet. It was also known that they were not fond of mutton, although they

often amused themselves by killing sheep. One night in November, 1893, Blanca and the yellow wolf killed

two hundred and fifty sheep, apparently for the fun of it, and did not eat an ounce of their flesh.

These are examples of many stories which I might repeat, to show the ravages of this destructive band. Many

new devices for their extinction were tried each year, but still they lived and throve in spite of all the efforts

of their foes. A great price was set on Lobo's head, and in consequence poison in a score of subtle forms was

put out for him, but he never failed to detect and avoid it. One thing only he fearedthat was firearms, and

knowing full well that all men in this region carried them, he never was known to attack or face a human

being. Indeed, the set policy of his band was to take refuge in flight whenever, in the daytime, a man was

descried, no matter at what distance. Lobo's habit of permitting the pack to eat only that which they

themselves had killed, was in numerous cases their salvation, and the keenness of his scent to detect the taint

On one occasion, one of the cowboys heard the too familiar rallyingcry of Old Lobo, and, stealthily

approaching, he found the Currumpaw pack in a hollow, where they had 'rounded' up a small herd of cattle.

Lobo sat apart on a knoll, while Blanca with the rest was endeavoring to 'cut out' a young cow, which they

had selected; but the cattle were standing in a compact mass with their heads outward, and presented to the

foe a line of horns, unbroken save when some cow, frightened by a fresh onset of the wolves, tried to retreat

into the middle of the herd. It was only by taking advantage of these breaks that the wolves had succeeded at

all in wounding the selected cow, but she was far from being disabled, and it seemed that Lobo at length lost

patience with his followers, for he left his position on the hill, and, uttering a deep roar, dashed toward the

herd. The terrified rank broke at his charge, and he sprang in among them. Then the cattle scattered like the

pieces of a bursting bomb. Away went the chosen victim, but ere she had gone twentyfive yards Lobo was

upon her. Seizing her by the neck, he suddenly held back with all his force and so threw her heavily to the

ground. The shock must have been tremendous, for the heifer was thrown heels over head. Lobo also turned a

somersault, but immediately recovered himself, and his followers falling on the poor cow, killed her in a few

seconds. Lobo took no part in the killingafter having thrown the victim, he seemed to say, "Now, why

The man now rode up shouting, the wolves as usual retired, and he, having a bottle of strychnine, quickly

poisoned the carcass in three places, then went away, knowing they would return to feed, as they had killed

the animal themselves. But next morning, on going to look for his expected victims, he found that, although

the wolves had eaten the heifer, they had carefully cut out and thrown aside all those parts that had been

The dread of this great wolf spread yearly among the ranchmen, and each year a larger price was set on his

head, until at last it reached $1,000, an unparalleled wolfbounty, surely; many a good man has been hunted

down for less, Tempted by the promised reward, a Texan ranger named Tannerey came one day galloping up

the ca�on of the Currumpaw. He had a superb outfit for wolfhuntingthe best of guns and horses, and a

pack of enormous wolfhounds. Far out on the plains of the Panhandle, he and his dogs had killed many a

wolf, and now he never doubted that, within a few days, Old Lobo's scalp would dangle at his saddlebow.

Away they went bravely on their hunt in the gray dawn of a summer morning, and soon the great dogs gave

joyous tongue to say that they were already on the track of their quarry. Within two miles, the grizzly band of

Currumpaw leaped into view, and the chase grew fast and furious. The part of the wolfhounds was merely

to hold the wolves at bay till the hunter could ride up and shoot them, and this usually was easy on the open

plains of Texas; but here a new feature of the country came into play, and showed how well Lobo had chosen

his range; for the rocky cadons of the Currumpaw and its tributaries intersect the prairies in every direction.

The old wolf at once made for the nearest of these and by crOssing it got rid of the horseman. His band then

scattered and thereby scattered the dogs, and when they reunited at a distant point of course all of the dogs

did not turn up, and the wolves, no longer outnumbered, turned on their pursuers and killed or desperately

wounded them all. That night when Tannerey mustered his dogs, only six of them returned, and of these, two

were terribly lacerated. This hunter made two other attempts to capture the royal scalp, but neither of them

was more successful than the first, and on the last occasion his best horse met its death by a fall; so he gave

up the chase in disgust and went back to Texas, leaving Lobo more than ever the despot of the region.

Next year, two other hunters appeared, determined to win the promised bounty. Each believed he could

destroy this noted wolf, the first by means of a newly devised poison, which was to be laid out in an entirely

new manner; the other a French Canadian, by poison assisted with certain spells and charms, for he firmly

believed that Lobo was a veritable "loupgarou," and could not be killed by ordinary means. But cunningly

compounded poisons, charms, and incantations were all of no avail against this grizzly devastator. He made

his weekly rounds and daily banquets as aforetime, and before many weeks had passed, Calone and Laloche

In the spring of 1893, after his unsuccessful attempt to capture Lobo, Joe Calone had a humiliating

experience, which seems to show that the big wolf simply scorned his enemies, and had absolute confidence

in himself. Calone's farm was on a small tributary of the Currumpaw, in a picturesque ca�on, and among the

rocks of this very ca�on, within a thousand yards of the house, Old Lobo and his mate selected their den and

raised their family that season. There they lived all summer and killed Joe's cattle, sheep, and dogs, but

laughed at all his poisons and traps and rested securely among the recesses of the cavernous cliffs, while Joe

vainly racked his brain for some method of smoking them out, or of reaching them with dynamite. But they

escaped entirely unscathed, and continued their ravages as before. "There's where he lived all last summer,"

said Joe, pointing to the face of the cliff, "and I couldn't do a thing with him. I was like a fool to him."

This history, gathered so far from the cowboys, I found hard to believe until, in the fall of 1893, I made the

acquaintance of the wily marauder, and at length came to know him more thoroughly than anyone else. Some

years before, in the Bingo days, I had been a wolfhunter, but my occupations since then had been of another

sort, chaining me to stool and desk. I was much in need of a change, and when a friend, who was also a

ranchowner on the Currumpaw, asked me to come to New Mexico and try if I could do anything with this

predatory pack, I accepted the invitation and, eager to make the acquaintance of its king, was as soon as

possible among the mesas of that region. I spent some time riding about to learn the country. and at intervals

my guide would point to the skeleton of a cow to which the hide still adhered, and remark, "That's some of

It became quite clear to me that, in this rough country, it was useless to think of pursuing Lobo with hounds

and horses, so that poison or traps were the only available expedients. At present we had no traps large

I need not enter into the details of a hundred devices that I employed to circumvent this 'loupgarou'; there

was no combination of strychnine, arsenic, cyanide, or prussic acid, that I did not essay; there was no manner

of flesh that I did not try as bait; but morning after morning, as I rode forth to learn the result, I found that all

my efforts had been useless. The old king was too cunning for me. A single instance will show his wonderful

sagacity. Acting on the hint of an old trapper, I melted some cheese together with the kidney fat of a freshly

killed heifer, stewing it in a china dish, and cutting it with a bone knife to avoid the taint of metal.

When the mixture was cool, I cut it into lumps, and making a hole in one side of each lump, I inserted a large

dose of strychnine and cyanide, contained, in a capsule that was impermeable by any odor; finally I sealed the

holes up with pieces of the cheese itself. During the whole process, I wore a pair of gloves steeped in the hot

blood of the heifer, and even avoided breathing on the baits. When all was ready, I put them in a rawhide

bag rubbed all over with blood, and rode forth dragging the liver and kidneys of the beef at the end of a rope.

With this I niade a tenmile circuit, dropping a bait at each quarter of a mile, and taking the utmost care,

Lobo, generally, came into this part of the range in the early part of each week, and passed the latter part, it

was supposed. around the base of Sierra Grande. This was Monday, and that same evening, as we were about

to retire, I heard the deep bass howl of his majesty. On hearing it one of the boys briefly remarked, "There he

The next morning I went forth, eager to know the result. I soon came on the fresh trail of the robbers, with

Lobo in the leadhis track was always easily distinguished. An ordinary wolf's forefoot is 4 1/2 inches long,

that of a large wolf 4 3/4 inches, but Lobo's, as measured a number of times, was 5 1/2 inches from claw to

heel; I afterward found that his other proportions were commensurate, for he stood three feet high at the

shoulder, and weighed 150 pounds. His trail, therefore, though obscured by those of his followers, was never

difficult to trace. The pack had soon found the track of my drag, and as usual followed it. I could see that

Lobo had come to the first bait, sniffed about it, and finally had picked it up.

Then I could not conceal my delight. "I've got him at last," I exclaimed; "I shall find him stark within a mile,"

and I galloped on with eager eyes fixed on the great broad track in the dust. It led me to the second bait and

that also was gone. How I exultedI surely have him now and perhaps several of his band. But there was the

broad pawmark still on the drag; and though I stood in the stirrup and scanned the plain I saw nothing that

looked like a dead wolf. Again I followedto find now that the third bait was goneand the kingwolf's

track led on to the fourth, there to learn that he had not really taken a bait at all, but had merely carried them

in his mouth, Then having piled the three on the fourth, he scattered filth over them to express his utter

contempt for my devices. After this he left my drag and went about his business with the pack he guarded so

This is only one of many similar experiences which convinced me that poison would never avail to destroy

this robber, and though I continued to use it while awaiting the arrival of the traps, it was only because it was

meanwhile a sure means of killing many prairie wolves and other destructive vermin.

About this time there came under my observation an incident that will illustrate Lobo's diabolic cunning.

These wolves had at least one pursuit which was merely an amusement; it was stampeding and killing sheep,

though they rarely ate them. The sheep are usually kept in flocks of from one thousand to three thousand

under one or more shepherds. At night they are gathered in the most sheltered place available, and a

herdsman sleeps on each side of the flock to give additional protection. Sheep are such senseless creatures

that they are liable to be stampeded by the veriest trifle, but they have deeply ingrained in their nature one,

and perhaps only one, strong weakness, namely, to follow their leader. And this the shepherds turn to good

account by putting half a dozen goats in the flock of sheep. The latter recognize the superior intelligence of

their bearded cousins, and when a night alarm occurs they crowd around them, and usually are thus saved

from a stampede and are easily protected. But it was not always so. One night late in last November, two

Perico shepherds were aroused by an onset of wolves. Their flocks huddled around the goats, which, being

neither fools nor cowards, stood their ground and were bravely defiant; but alas for them, no common wolf

was heading this attack. Old Lobo, the werewolf, knew as well as the shepherds that the goats were the moral

force of the flock, so, hastily running over the backs of the densely packed sheep, he fell on these leaders,

slew them all in a few minutes, and soon had the luckless sheep stampeding in a thousand different

directions. For weeks afterward I was almost daily accosted by some anxious shepherd, who asked, "Have

you seen any stray OTO sheep lately?" and usually I was obliged to say I had; one day it was, "Yes, I came

on some five or six carcasses by Diamond Springs"; or another, it was to the effect that I had seen a small

"bunch" running on the Malpai Mesa; or again, "No, but Juan Meira saw about twenty, freshly killed, on the

At length the wolf traps arrived, and with two men I worked a whole week to get them properly set out. We

spared no labor or pains, I adopted every device I could think of that might help to insure success. The second

day after the traps arrived, I rode around to inspect, and soon came upon Lobo's trail running from trap to

trap. In the dust I could read the whole story of his doings that night. He had trotted along in the darkness,

and although the traps were so carefully concealed, he had instantly detected the first one. Stopping the

onward march of the pack, he had cautiously scratched around it until he had disclosed the trap, the chain,

and the log, then left them wholly exposed to view with the trap still unsprung, and passing on he treated over

a dozen traps in the same fashion. Very soon I noticed that he stopped and turned aside as soon as he detected

suspicious signs on the trail, and a new plan to outwit him at once suggested itself. I set the traps in the form

of an H; that is, with a row of traps on each side of the trail, and one on the trail for the crossbar of the H.

Before long, I had an opportunity to count another failure. Loho came trotting along the trail, and was fairly

between the parallel lines before he detected the single trap in the trail, but he stopped in time, and why or

how he knew enough I cannot tell, the Angel of the wild things must have been with him, but without turning

an inch to the right or left, he slowly and cautiously backed on his own tracks, putting each paw exactly in its

old track until he was off the dangerous ground. Then returning at one side he scratched clods and stones with

his hind feet till he had sprung every trap. This he did on many other occasions, and although I varied my

methods and redoubled my precautions, he was never deceived, his sagacity seemed never at fault, and he

might have been pursuing his career of rapine today, but for an unfortunate alliance that proved his ruin and

added his name to the long list of heroes who, unassailable when alone, have fallen through the indiscretionof

Once or twice, I had found indications that every. thing was not quite right in the Currumpaw pack. There

were signs of irregularity, I thought; for instance there was clearly the trail of a smaller wolf running ahead of

the leader, at times, and this I could not understand until a cowboy made a remark which explained the

"I saw them today," he said, "and the wild one that breaks away is Blanca." Then the truth dawned upon me,

and I added, "Now, I know that Blanca is a shewolf, because were a hewolf to act thus, Lobo would kill

This suggested a new plan. I killed a heifer, and set one or two rather obvious traps about the carcass. Then

cutting off the head, which is considered useless offal, and quite beneath the notice of a wolf, I set it a little

apart and around it placed six powerful steel traps properly deodorized and concealed with the utmost care.

During my operations I kept my hands, boots, and implements smeared with fresh blood, and afterward

sprinkled the ground with the same, as though it had flowed from the head; and when the traps were buried in

the dust I brushed the place over with the skin of a coyote, and with a foot of the same animal made a number

of tracks over the traps. The head was so placed that there was a narrow passage between it and some

tussocks, and in this passage I buried two of my best traps, fastening them to the head itself.

Wolves have a habit of approaching every carcass they get the wind of, in order to examine it, even when

they have no intention of eating it, and I hoped that this habit would bring the Currumpaw pack within reach

of my latest stratagem. I did not doubt that Lobo would detect my handiwork about the meat, and prevent the

pack approaching it, but I did build some hopes on the head, for it looked as though it had been thrown aside

Next morning, I sallied forth to inspect the traps, and there, oh, joy! were the tracks of the pack, and the place

where the beefhead and its traps had been was empty. A hasty study of the trail showed that Lobo had kept

the pack from approaching the meat, but one, a small wolf, had evidently gone on to examine the head as it

We set out on the trail, and within a mile discovered that the hapless wolf was Blanca. Away she went,

however, at a gallop, and although encumbered by the beefhead, which weighed over fifty pounds, she

speedily distanced my companion, who was on foot. But we overtook her when she reached the rocks, for the

horns of the cow's head became caught and held her fast. She was the handsomest wolf I had ever seen. Her

She turned to fight, and, raising her voice in the rallying cry of her race, sent a long howl rolling over the

ca�on. From far away upon the mesa came a deep response, the cry of Old Lobo. That was her last call, for

now we had closed in on her, and all her energy and breath were devoted to combat.

Then followed the inevitable tragedy, the idea of which I shrank from afterward more than at the time. We

each threw a lasso over the neck of the doomed wolf, and strained our horses in opposite directions until the

blood burst from her mouth, her eyes glazed, her limbs stiffened and then fell limp. Homeward then we rode,

carrying the dead wolf, and exulting over this, the first deathblow we had been able to inflict on the

At intervals during the tragedy, and afterward as we rode homeward, we heard the roar of Lobo as he

wandered about on the distant mesas, where he seemed to be searching for Blanca. He had never really

deserted her, but, knowing that he could not save her, his deeprooted dread of firearms had been too much

for him when he saw us approaching. All that day we heard him wailing as he roamed in his quest, and I

remarked at length to one of the boys, "Now, indeed, I truly know that Blanca was his mate."

As evening fell he seemed to be coming toward the home ca�on, for his voice sounded continually nearer.

There was an unmistakable note of sorrow in it now. It was no longer the loud, defiant howl, but a long,

plaintive wail; "Blanca! Blanca!" he seemed to call. And as night came down, I noticed that he was not far

from the place where we had overtaken her. At length he seemed to find the trail, and when he came to the

spot where we had killed her, his heartbroken wailing was piteous to hear. It was sadder than I could possibly

have believed. Even the stolid cowboys noticed it, and said they had "never heard a wolf carry on like that

before." He seemed to know exactly what had taken place, for her blood had stained the place of her death.

Then he took up the trail of the horses and followed it to the ranchhouse. Whether in hopes of finding her

there, or in quest of revenge, I know not, but the latter was what he found, for he surprised our unfortunate

watchdog outside and tore him to little bits within fifty yards of the door. He evidently came alone this time,

for I found but one trail next morning, and he had galloped about in a reckless manner that was very unusual

with him. I had half expected this, and had set a number of additional traps about the pasture. Afterward I

found that he had indeed fallen into one of these, but, such was his strength, he had torn himself loose and

I believed that he would continue in the neighborhood until he found her body at least, so I concentrated all

my energies on this one enterprise of catching him before he left the region, and while yet in this reckless

mood. Then I realized what a mistake I had made in killing Blanca, for by using her as a decoy I might have

I gathered in all the traps I could command, one hunred and thirty strong steel wolftraps, and set them in

fours in every trail that led into the ca�on; each trap was separately fastened to a log, and each log was

separately buried. In burying them, I carefully removed the sod and every particle of earth that was lifted we

put in blankets, so that after the sod was replaced and all was finished the eye could detect no trace of human

handiwork. When the traps were concealed I trailed the body of poor Blanca over each place, and made of it a

drag that circled all about the ranch, and finally I took off one of her paws and made with it a line of tracks

over each trap. Every precaution and device known to me I used, and retired at a late hour to await the result.

Once during the night I thought I heard Old Lobo, but was not sure of it. Next day I rode around, but darkness

came on before I completed the circuit of the north canon, and I had nothing to report. At supper one of the

cowboys said, "There was a great row among the cattle in the north ca�on this morning, maybe there is

something in the traps there." It was afternoon of the next day before I got to the place referred to, and as I

drew near a great grizzly form arose from the ground, vainly endeavoring to escape, and there revealed before

me stood Lobo, King of the Currumpaw, firmly held in the traps. Poor old hero, he had never ceased to

search for his darling, and when he found the trail her body had made he followed it recklessly, and so fell

into the snare prepared for him. There he lay in the iron grasp of all four traps, perfectly helpless, and all

around him were numerous tracks showing how the cattle had gathered about him to insult the fallen despot,

without daring to approach within his reach. For two days and two nights he had lain there, and now was

worn out with struggling. Yet, when I went near him, he rose up with bristling mane and raised his voice, and

for the last time made the ca�on reverberate with his deep bass roar, a call for help, the muster call of his

band. But there was none to answer him, and, left alone in his extremity, he whirled about with all his

strength and made a desperate effort to get at me. All in vain, each trap was a dead drag of over three hundred

pounds, and in their relentless fourfold grasp, with great steel jaws on every foot, and the heavy logs and

chains all entangled together, he was absolutely powerless. How his huge ivory tusks did grind on those cruel

chains, and when I ventured to touch him with my riflebarrel he left grooves on it which are there to this

day. His eyes glared green with hate and fury, and his jaws snapped with a hollow 'chop,' as he vainly

endeavored to reach me and my trembling horse. But he was worn out with hunger and struggling and loss of

Something like compunction came over me, as I prepared to deal out to him that which so many had suffered

"Grand old outlaw, hero of a thousand lawless raids, in a few minutes you will be but a great load of carrion.

It cannot be otherwise." Then I swung my lasso and sent it whistling over his head. But not so fast; he was yet

far from being subdued, and before the supple coils had fallen on his neck he seized the noose and, with one

firce chop, cut through its hard thick strands, and dropped it in two pieces at his feet.

Of course I had my rifle as a last resource, but I did not wish to spoil his royal hide, so I galloped back to the

camp and returned wth a cowboy and a fresh lasso. We threw to our victim a stick of wood which he seized

in his teeth, and before he could relinquish it our lassoes whistled through the air and tightened on his neck.

Yet before the light had died from his fierce eyes, I cried, "Stay, we will not kill him; let us take him alive to

the camp." He was so completely powerless now that it was easy to put a stout stick through his mouth,

behind his tusks, and then lash his jaws with a heavy cord which was also fastened to the stick. The stick kept

the cord in, and the cord kept the stick in so he was harmless. As soon as he felt his jaws were tied he made

no further resistance, and uttered no sound, but looked calmly at us and seemed to say, "Well, you have got

me at last, do as you please with me." And from that time he took no more notice of us.

We tied his feet securely, but he never groaned, nor growled, nor turned his head. Then with our united

strength we were just able to put him on my horse. His breath came evenly as though sleeping, and his eyes

were bright and clear again, but did not rest on us. Afar on the great rolling mesas they were fixed, his

passing kingdom, where his famous band was now scattered. And he gazed till the pony descended the

By travelling slowly we reached the ranch in safety, and after securing him with a collar and a strong chain,

Then for the first time I could examine him closely, and proved how unreliable is vulgar report when a living

hero or tyrant is concerned. He had not a collar of gold about his neck, nor was there on his shoulders an

inverted cross to denote that he had leagued himself with Satan. But I did find on one haunch a great broad

scar, that tradition says was the fangmark of Juno, the leader of Tannerey's wolfhoundsa mark which

she gave him the moment before he stretched her lifeless on the sand of the ca�on.

I set meat and water beside him, but he paid no heed. He lay calmly on his breast, and gazed with those

steadfast yellow eyes away past me down through the gateway of the ca�on, over the open plainshis

plains nor moved a muscle when I touched him. When the sun went down he was still gazing fixedly

across the prairie. I expected he would call up his band when night came, and prepared for them, but he had

A lion shorn of his strength, an eagle robbed of his freedom, or a dove bereft of his mate, all die, it is said, of

a broken heart; and who will aver that this grim bandit could bear the threefold brunt, heartwhole? This

only I know, that when the morning dawned, he was lying there still in his position of calm repose, his body

I took the chain from his neck, a cowboy helped me to carry him to the shed where lay the remains of Blanca,

and as we laid him beside her, the cattleman exclaimed: "There, you would come to her, now you are

HOW MANY of us have ever got to know a wild animal? I do not mean merely to meet with one once or

twice, or to have one in a cage, but to really know it for a long time while it is wild, and to get an insight into

its life and history. The trouble usually is to know one creature from his fellow. One fox or crow is so much

like another that we cannot be sure that it really is the same next time we meet. But once in awhile there

arises an animal who is stronger or wiser than his fellow, who becomes a great leader, who is, as we would

say, a genius, and if he is bigger, or has some mark by which men can know him, he soon becomes famous in

his country, and shows us that the life of a wild animal may be far more interesting and exciting than that of

Of this class were Courtant, the bobtailed wolf that terrorized the whole city of Paris for about ten years in

the beginning of the fourteenth century; Clubfoot, the lame grizzly bear that left such a terrific record in the

San Joaquin Valley of California; Lobo, the kingwolf of New Mexico, that killed a cow every day for five

years, and the Seonee panther that in less than two years killed nearly three hundred human beingsand

such also was Silverspot, whose history, so far as I could learn it, I shall now briefly tell.

Silverspot was simply a wise old crow; his name was given because of the silvery white spot that was like a

nickel, stuck on his right side, between the eye and the bill, and it was owing to this spot that I was able to

know him from the other crows, and put together the parts of his history that came to my knowledge.

Crows are, as you must know, our most intelligent birds.'Wise as an old crow' did not become a saying

without good reason. Crows know the value of organization, and are as well drilled as soldiersvery much

better than some soldiers, in fact, for crows are always on duty, always at war, and always dependent on each

other for life and safety. Their leaders not only are the oldest and wisest of the band, but also the strongest

and bravest, for they must be ready at any time with sheer force to put down an upstart or a rebel. The rank

Old Silverspot was the leader of a large band of crows that made their headquarters near Toronto, Canada, in

Castle Fra uk, which is a pineclad hill on the northeast edge of the city. This band numbered about two

hundred, and for reasons that I never understood did not increase. In mild winters they stayed along the

Niagara River; in cold winters they went much farther south. But each year in the last week of February, Old

Silverspot would muster his followers and boldly cross the forty miles of open water that lies between

Toronto and Niagara; not, however, in a straight line would he go, but always in a curve to the west, whereby

he kept in sight of the familiar landmark of Dundas Mountain, until the pineclad hill itself came in view.

Each year he came with his troop, and for about six weeks took up his abode on the hill. Each morning

thereafter the crows set out in three bands to forage. One band went southeast to Ashbridge's Bay. One went

north up the Don, and one, the largest, went northwestward up the ravine. The last, Silverspot led in person.

On calm mornings they flew high and straight away. But when it was windy the band flew low, and followed

the ravine for shelter. My windows overlooked the ravine, and it was thus that in 1885 I first noticed this old

crow. I was a newcomer in the neighborhood, but an old resident said to me then "that there old crow has

been aflying up and down this ravine for more than twenty years." My chances to watch were in the ravine,

and Silverspot doggedly clinging to the old route, though now it was edged with houses and spanned by

bridges, became a very familiar acquaintance. Twice each day in March and part of April, then again in the

late summer and the fall, he passed and repassed, and gave me chances to see his movements, and hear his

orders to his bands, and so, little by little, opened my eyes to the fact that the crows, though a litle people, are

of great wit, a race of birds with a language and a social system that is wonderfully human in many of its

One windy day I stood on the high bridge across the ravine, as the old crow, heading his long, straggling

troop, came flying down homeward. Half a mile away I could hear the contented 'All's well, come right

along!' as we should say, or as he put it, and as also his lieutenant echoed it at the rear of the band. They were

flying very low to be out of the wind, and would have to rise a little to clear the bridge on which I was.

Silverspot saw me standing there, and as I was closely watching him he didn't like it. He checked his flight

and called out, 'Be on your guard,' and rose much higher in the air. Then seeing that I was not armed he flew

over my head about twenty feet, and his followers in turn did the same, dipping again to the old level when

Next day I was at the same place, and as the crows came near I raised my walking stick and pointed it at

them. The old fellow at once cried out 'Danger,' and rose fifty feet higher than before. Seeing that it was not a

gun, he ventured to fly over. But on the third day I took with me a gun, and at once he cried out, 'Great

dangera gun.' His lieuteiiant repeated the cry, and every crow in the troop began to tower and scatter from

the rest, till they were far above gun shot, and so passed safely over, coming down again to the shelter of the

valley when well beyond reach. Another time, as the long, straggling troop came down the valley, a

redtailed hawk alighted on a tree close by their intended route. The leader cried out, 'Hawk, hawk,' and

stayed his flight, as did each crow on nearing him, until all were massed in a solid body. Then, no longer

fearing the hawk, they passed on. But a quarter of a mile farther on a man with a gun appeared below, and the

cry, 'Great dangera gun, agun; scatter fur your lives,' at once caused them to scatter widely and tower

till far beyond range. Many others of his words of command I learned in the course of my long acquaintance,

and found that sometimes a very littre difference in the sound makes a very great difference in meaning. Thus

while No. 5 means hawk, or any large, dangerous bird, this means 'wheel around,' evidently a combination of

No. 5, whose root idea is danger, and of No. 4, whose root idea is retreat, and this again is a mere 'good day,'

to a far away comrade. This is usually addressed to the ranks and means 'attention.'

Early in April there began to be great doings among the crows. Some new cause of excitement seemed to

have come on them. They spent half the day among the pines, instead of foraging from dawn till dark. Pairs

and trios might be seen chasing each other, and from time to time they showed off in various feats of flight. A

favorite sport was to dart down suddenly from a great height toward some perching crow, and just before

touching it to turn at a hairbreadth and rebound in the air so fast that the wings of the swooper whirred with a

sound like distant thunder. Sometimes one crow would lower his head, raise every feather, and coming close

to another would gurgle out a long note like. What did it all mean? I soon learned. They were making love

and pairing off. The males were showing off their wing powers and their voices to the lady crows. And they

must have been highly appreciated, for by the middle of April all had mated and had scattered over the

country for their honeymoon, leaving the sombre old pines of Castle Frank deserted and silent.

The Sugar Loaf hill stands alone in the Don Valley. It is still covered with woods that join with those of

Castle Frank, a quarter of a mile off. in the woods, between the two hills, is a pinetree in whose top is a

deserted hawk's nest. Every Toronto schoolboy knows the nest, and, excepting that I had once shot a black

squirrel on its edge, no one had ever seen a sign of life about it. There it was year after year, ragged and old,

and falling to pieces. Yet, strange to tell, in all that time it never did drop to pieces, like other old nests.

One morning in May I was out at gray dawn, and stealing gently through the woods, whose dead leaves were

so wet that no rustle was made. I chanced to pass under the old nest, and was surprised to see a black tail

sticking over the edge. I struck the tree a smart blow, off flew a crow, and the secret was out. I had long

suspected that a pair of crows nested each year about the pines, but now I realized that it was Silverspot and

his wife. The old nest was theirs, and they were too wise to give it an air of springcleaning and

housekeeping each year. Here they had nested for long, though guns in the hands of men and boys hungry to

shoot crows were carried under their home every day. I never surprised the old fellow again, though I several

One day while watching I saw a crow. crossing the Don Valley with something white in his beak. He flew to

the mouth of the Rosedale Brook, then took a short flight to the Beaver Elm. There he dropped the white

object, and looking about gave inc a chance to recognize my old friend Silverspot. After a minute he picked

up the white thinga shelland walked over past the spring, and here, among the docks and the

skunkcabbages, he unearthed a pile of shells and other white, shiny things. He spread them out in the sun,

turned them over, turned them one by one in his beak, dropped them, nestled on them as though they were

eggs, toyed with them and gloated over them like a miser. This was his hobby, his weakness. He could not

have explained why he enjoyed them, any more than a boy can explain why he collects postagestamps, or a

girl why she prefers pearls to rubies; but his pleasure in them was very real, and after half an hour he covered

them all, including the new one, with earth and leaves, and flew off. I went at once to the spot and examined

the hoard; there was about a hatful in all, chiefly white pebbles, clamshells, and some bits of tin, but there

was also the handle of a china cup, which must have been the gem of the collection. That was the last time I

saw them. Silverspot knew that I had found his treasures, and he removed them at once; where, I never knew.

During the space that I watched him so closely he had many little adventurcs and escapes. He was once

severely handled by a sparrowhawk, and often he was chased and worried by kingbirds. Not that these did

him much harm, but they were such noisy pests that he avoided their company as quickly as possible, just as

a grown man avoids a conflict with a noisy and impudent small boy. He had some cruel tricks, too. He had a

way of going the round of the small birds' nests each morning to eat the new laid eggs, as regularly as a

doctor visiting his patients. But we must not judge him for that, as it is just what we ourselves do to the hens

His quickness of wit was often shown. One day I saw him flying down the ravine with a large piece of bread

in his bill. The stream below him was at this time being bricked over as a sewer. There was one part of two

hundred yards quite finished, and, as he flew over the open water just . above this, the bread fell from his bill,

and was swept by the current out of sight into the tunnel. He flew down and peered vainly into the dark

cavern, then, acting upon a happy thought, he flew to the downstream end of the tunnel, and awaiting the

reappearance of the floating bread, as it was swept onward by the current, he seized and bore it off in

Silverspot was a crow of the world. He was truly a successful crow. He lived in a region that, though full of

dangers, abounded with food. In the old, unrepaired nest lie raised a brood each year with his wife, whom, by

the way, I never could distinguish, and when the crows again gathered together he was their acknowledged

The reassembling takes place about the end of June the young crows with their bobtails, soft wings, and

falsetto voices are brought by their parents, whom they nearly equal in size, and introduced to society at the

old pine woods, a woods that is at once their fortress and college. Here they find security in numbers and in

lofty yet sheltered perches, and here they begin their schooling and are taught all the secrets of success in

crow life, and in crow life the least failure does not simply mean begin again. It means death.

The first week or two after their arrival is spent by the young ones in getting acquainted, for each crow must

know personally all the others in the band. Their parents meanwhile have time to rest a little after the work of

raising them, for now the youngsters are able to feed themselves and roost on a branch in a row, just like big

In a week or two the moulting season comes. At this time the old crows are usually irritable and nervous, but

it does not stop them from beginning to drill the youngsters, who, of course, do not much enjoy the

punishment and nagging they get so soon after they have been mamma's own darlings. But it is all for their

good, as the old lady said when she skinned the eels, and old Silverspot is an excellent teacher. Sometimes he

seems to make a speech to them. What he says I cannot guess, but judging by the way they receive it, it must

be extremely witty. Each morning there is a company drill, for the young ones naturally drop into two or

three squads according to their age and strength. The rest of the day they forage with their parents.

When at length September comes we find a great change. The rabble of silly little crows have begun to learn

sense. The delicate blue iris of their eyes, the sign of a foolcrow, has given place to the dark brown eye of

the old stager. They know their drill now and have learned sentry duty. They have been taught guns and traps

and taken a special course in wireworms and greencorn. They know that a fat old farmer's wife is much less

dangerous, though so much larger, than her fifteenyearold son, and they can tell the boy from his sister.

They know that an umbrella is not a gun, and they can count up to six, which is fair for young crows, though

Silverspot can go up nearly to thirty. They know the smell of gunpowder and the south side of a

hemlocktree, and begin to plume themselves upon being crows of the world. They always fold their wings

three times after alighting, to be sure that it is neatly done. They know how to worry a fox into giving up half

his dinner, and also that when the kingbird or the purple martin assails them they must dash into a bush, for it

is as impossible to fight the little pests as it is for the fat applewoman to catch the small boys who have

raided her basket. All these things do the young crows know; but they have taken no lessons in egghunting

yet, for it is not the season. They are unacquainted with clams, and have never tasted horses' eyes, or seen

sprouted corn, and they don't know a thing about travel, the greatest educator of all. They did not think of that

two months ago, and since then they have thought of it, but have learned to wait till their betters are ready.

September sees a great change in the old crows, too, Their moulting is over. They are now in full feather

again and proud of their handsome coats. Their health is again good, and with it their tempers are improved.

Even old Silverspot, the strict teacher, becomes quite jolly, and the youngsters, who have long ago learned to

He has hammered away at drill, teaching them all the signals and words of command in use, and now it is a

'Company 1!' the old chieftain would cry in crow, and Company I would answer with a great clamor.

'Forage!' and they alighted and scattered about to feed, while two of the permanent sentries mounted

dutyone on a tree to the right, the other on a mound to the far left. A minute or two later Silverspot would

cry out, 'A man with a gun!' The sentries repeated the cry and the company flew at once in open order as

quickly as possible toward the trees. Once behind these, they formed line again in safety and returned to the

Sentry duty is not taken in turn by all the crows, but a certain number whose watchfulness has been often

proved are the perpetual sentries, and are expected to watch and forage at the same time. Rather hard on them

it seems to us, but it works well and the crow organization is admitted by all birds to be the very best in

Finally, each November sees the troop sail away southward to learn new modes of life, new landmarks and

There is only one time when a crow is a fool, and that is at night. There is only one bird that terrifies the

crow, and that is the owl. When, therefore, these come together it is a woeful thing for the sable birds. The

distant hoot of an owl after dark is enough to make them withdraw their heads from under their wings, and sit

trembling and miserable till morning. In very cold weather the exposure of their faces thus has often resulted

in a crow having one or both of his eyes frozen, so that blindness followed and therefore death. There are no

But with the morning their courage comes again, and arousing themselves they ransack the woods for a mile

around till they find that owl, and if they do not kill him they at least worry him half to death and drive him

In l893 the crows had come as usual to Castle Frank. I was walking in these woods a few days afterward

when I chanced upon the track of a rabbit that had been running at full speed over the snow and dodging

about among the trees as though pursued. Strange to tell, I could see no track of the pursuer. I followed the

trail and presently saw a drop of blood on the snow, and a little farther on found the partly devoured remains

of a little brown bunny. What had killed him was a mystery until a careful search showed in the snow a great

doubletoed track and a beautifully pencilled brown feather. Then all was cleara horned owl. Half an hour

later, in passing again by the place, there, in a tree, within ten feet of the bones of his victim, was the

fierceeyed owl himself. The murderer still hung about the scene of his crime. For once circumstantial

evidence had not lied. At my approach he gave a guttural 'grrroo' and flew off with low flagging flight to

Two days afterward, at dawn, there was a great uproar among the crows. I went out early to see, and found

some black feathers drifting over the snow. I followed up the wind in the direction from which they came and

soon saw the bloody remains of a crow and the great doubletoed track which again told me that the

murderer was the owl. All around were signs of the struggle, but the fell destroyer was too strong. The poor

crow had been dragged from his perch at night, when the darkness bad put him at a hopeless disadvantage.

I turned over the remains, and by chance unburied the headthen started with an exclamation of sorrow.

Alas! It was the head of old Silverspot. His long life of usefulness to his tribe was overslain at last by the

The old nest on the Sugar Loaf is abandoned now. The crows still come in springtime to Castle Frank, but

without their famous leader their numbers are dwindling, and soon they will be seen no more about the old

RAGGYLUG, or Rag, was the name of a young cottontail rabbit. It was given him from his torn and ragged

ear, a lifemark that he got in his first adventure. He lived with his mother in Olifant's Swamp, where I made

their acquaintance and gathered, in a hundred different ways, the little bits of proof and scraps of truth that at

Those who do not know the animals well may think I have humanized them, but those who have lived so near

Truly rabbits have no speech as we understand it, but they have a way of conveying ideas by a system of

sounds, signs, scents, whiskertouches, movements, and example that answers the purpose of speech; and it

must be remembered that though in telling this story I freely translate from rabbit into English, I repeat

The rank swamp grass bent over and concealed the snug nest where Raggylug's mother had hidden him. She

had partly covered him with some of the bedding, and, as always, her last warning was to lie low and say

nothing, whatever happens. Though tucked in bed, he was wide awake and his bright eyes were taking in that

part of his little green world that was straight above. A bluejay and a redsquirrel, two notorious thieves,

were loudly berating each other for stealing, and at one time Rag's home bush was the centre of their fight; a

yellow warbler caught a blue butterfly but six inches from his nose, and a scarlet and black ladybug, serenely

waving her knobbed feelers, took a long walk up one grassblade, down another, and across the nest and over

After a while he heard a strange rustling of the leaves in the near thicket. It was an odd, continuous sound,

and though it went this way and that way and came ever nearer, there was no patter of feet with it. Rag had

lived his whole life in the Swamp (he was three weeks old) and yet had never heard anything like this. Of

course his curiosity was greatly aroused. His mother had cautioned him to lie low, but that was understood to

be in case of danger, and this strange sound without footfalls could not be anything to fear.

The low rasping went past close at hand, then to the right, then back, and seemed going away. Rag felt he

knew what he was about; he wasn't a baby; it was his duty to learn what it was. He slowly raised his roly.poly

body on his short fluffy legs, lifted his little round head above the covering of his nest and peeped out into the

woods. The sound had ceased as soon as he moved. He saw nothing, so took one step forward to a clear view,

"Mammy," he screamed in mortal terror as the monster darted at him. With all the strength of his tiny limbs

he tried to run. But in a flash the Snake had him by one ear and whipped around him with his coils to gloat

"MammyMammy," gasped poor little Raggylug as the cruel monster began slowly choking him to

death. Very soon the little one's cry would have ceased, but bounding through the woods straight as an arrow

came Mammy. No longer a shy, helpless little Molly Cottontail, ready to fly from a shadow: the mother's

love was strong in her. The cry of her baby had filled her with the courage of a hero, andhop, she went

over that horrible reptile. Whack, she struck down at him with her sharp hind claws as she passed, giving him

"Ma.mmy," came feebly from the little one. And Mammy came leaping again and again and struck harder

and fiercer until the loathsome reptile let go the little one's ear and tried to bite the old one as she leaped over.

But all he got was a mouthful of wool each time, and Molly's fierce blows began to tell, as long bloody rips

Things were now looking bad for the Snake; and bracing himself for the next charge, he lost his tight hold on

Baby Bunny, who at once wriggled out of the coils and away into the underbrush, breathless and terribly

frightened, but unhurt save that his left ear was much torn by the teeth of that dreadful Serpent.

Molly now had gained all she wanted. She had no notion of fighting for glory or revenge. Away she went into

the woods and the little one followed the shining beacon of her snowwhite tail until she led him to a safe

Old Olifant's Swamp was a rough, brambly tract of secondgrowth woods, with a marshy pond and a stream

through the middle. A few ragged remnants of the old forest still stood in it and a few of the still older trunks

were lying about as dead logs in the brushwood. The land about the pond was of that willowgrown sedgy

kind that cats and horses avoid, but that cattle do not fear. The drier zones were overgrown with briars and

young trees. The outermost belt of all, that next the fields, was of thrifty, gummytrunked young pines whose

living needles in air and dead ones on earth offer so delicious an odor to the nostrils of the passerby, and so

deadly a breath to those seedlings that would compete with them for the worthless waste they grow on.

All around for a long way were smooth fields, and the only wild tracks that ever crossed these fields were

The chief indwellers of the swamp were Molly and Rag. Their nearest neighbors were far away, and their

nearest kin were dead. This was their home, and here they lived together, and here Rag received the training

Molly was a good little mother and gave him a careful bringing up. The first thing he learned was to lie low

and say nothing. His adventure with the snake taught him the wisdom of this. Rag never forgot that lesson;

The second lesson he learned was 'freeze.' It grows out of the first, and Rag was taught it as soon as he could

'Freezing' is simply doing nothing, turning into a statue. As soon as he finds a foe near, no matter what he is

doing, a welltrained Cottontail keeps just as he is and stops all movement, for the creatures of the woods are

of the same color as the things in the woods and catch the eye only while moving. So when enemies chance

together, the one who first sees the other can keep himself unseen by 'freezing' and thus have all the

advantage of choosing the time for attack or escape. Only those who live in the woods know the importance

of this; every wild creature and every hunter must learn it; all learn to do it well, but not one of them can beat

Molly Cottontail in the doing. Rag's mother taught him this trick by example. When the white cotton cushion

that she always carried to sit on went bobbing away through the woods, of course Rag ran his hardest to keep

up. But when Molly stopped and 'froze,' the natural wish to copy made him do the same.

But the best lesson of all that Rag learned from his mother was the secret of the Brierbrush. It is a very old

secret now, and to make it plain you must first hear why the Brierbrush quarrelled with the beasts.

Long ago the Roses used to grow on bushes that had no thorns. But the Squirrels and Mice used to climb after

them, the Cattle used to knock them off with their horns, the Possum would twitch them off with his long tail,

and the Deer, with his sharp hoofs, would break them down. So the Brierbrush armed itself with spikes to

protect its roses and declared eternal war on all creatures that climbed trees, or had horns, or hoofs, or long

tails. This left the Brierbrush at peace with none but Molly Cottontail, who could not climb, was horniess,

In truth the Cottontail had never harmed a Brierrose, and having now so many enemies the Rose took the

Rabbit into especial friendship, and when dangers are threatening poor Bunny he flies to the nearest

Brierbrush, certain that it is ready with a million keen and poisoned daggers to defend him.

So the secret that Rag learned from his mother was, "The Brierbrush is your best friend."

Much of the time that season was spent in learning the lay of the land, and the bramble and brier mazes. And

Rag learned them so well that he could go all around the swamp by two different ways and never leave the

It is not long since the foes of the Cottontails were disgusted to find that man had brought a new kind of

bramble and planted it in long lines throughout the country. It was so strong that no creatures could break it

down, and so sharp that the toughest skin was torn by it. Each year there was more of it and each year it

became a more serious matter to the wild creatures. But Molly Cottontail had no fear of it. She was not

brought up in the briers for nothing. Dogs and foxes, cattle and sheep. and even man himself might be torn by

those fearful spikes: but Molly understands it and lives and thrives under it. And the further it spreads the

more safe country there is for the Cottontail. And the name of this new and dreaded bramble isthe

Molly had no other children to look after now, so Rag had all her care. He was unusually quick and bright as

well as strong, and he had uncommonly good chances; so he got on remarkably well.

All the season she kept him busy learning the tricks of the trail, and what to eat and drink and what not to

touch. Day by day she worked to train him; little by little she taught him, putting into his mind hundreds of

ideas that her own life or early training had stored in hers, and so equipped him with the knowledge that

Close by her side in the cloverfield or the thicket he would sit and copy her when she wobbled her nose 'to

keep her smeller clear,' and pull the bite from her mouth or taste her lips to make sure he was getting the

same kind of fodder. Still copying her, he learned to comb his ears with his claws and to dress his coat and to

bite the burrs out of his vest and socks. He learned, too, that nothing but clear dewdrops from the briers were

fit for a rabbit to drink, as water which has once touched the earth must surely bear some taint. Thus he began

As soon as Rag was big enough to go out alone, his mother taught him the signal code. Rabbits telegraph

each other by thumping on the ground with their hind feet. Along the ground sound carries far; a thump that

at six feet from the earth is not heard at twenty yards will, near the ground, be heard at least one hundred

yards. Rabbits have very keen hearing, and so might hear this same thump at two hundred yards, and that

would reach from end to end of Olifant's Swamp. A single thump means 'look out' or 'freeze.' A slow thump

thump means 'come.' A fast thump thump means 'danger'; and a very fast thump thump thump means 'run for

At another time, when the weather was fine and the bluejays were quarrelling among themselves, a sure sign

that no dangerous foe was about, Rag began a new study. Molly, by flattening her ears, gave the sign to squat.

Then she ran far away in the thicket and gave the thumping signal for 'come.' Rag set out at a run to the place

but could not find Molly. He thumped, but got no reply. Setting carefully about his search he found her

footscent and, following this strange guide, that the beasts all know so well and man does not know at all,

he worked out the trail and found her where she was hidden. Thus he got his first lesson in trailing, and thus it

the schooling for the serious chase of which there was so much in his after life.

Before that first season of schooling was over he had learnt all the principal tricks by which a rabbit lives and

He was an adept at 'tree,' 'dodge,' and 'squat,' he could play 'loglump,' with 'wind' and 'baulk' with

'backtrack' so well that he scarcely needed any other tricks. He had not yet tried it, but he knew just how to

play 'barbwire,' which is a new trick of the brilliant order; he had made a special study of 'sand,' which burns

up all scent, and was deeply versed in 'changeoff,' 'fence,' and 'double' as well as 'holeup,' which is a trick

requiring longer notice, and yet he never forgot that 'lielow' is the beginning of all wisdom and 'brierbrush'

He was taught the signs by which to know all his foes and then the way to baffle them. For hawks, owls,

foxes, hounds, curs, minks, weasels, cats, skunks, coons, and men, each have a different plan of pursuit,

And for knowledge of the enemy's approach he learnt to depend first on himself and his mother, and then on

the bluejay. "Never neglect the bluejay's warning," said Molly; "he is a mischiefmaker, a marplot, and a

thief all the time, but nothing escapes him. He wouldn't mind harming us, but he cannot, thanks to the briers,

and his enemies are ours, so it is well to heed him. If the woodpecker cries a warning you can trust him, he is

honest; but he is a fool beside the bluejay, and though the bluejay often tells lies for mischief you are safe to

The barbwire trick takes a deal of nerve and the best of legs. It was long before Rag ventured to play it, but

"It's fine play for those who can do it," said Molly. "First you lead off your dog on a straightaway and warm

him up a bit by nearly letting him catch you. Then keeping just one hop ahead, you lead him at a long slant

full tilt into a breasthigh barbwire. I've seen many a dog and fox crippled, and one big hound killed

outright this way. But I've also seen more than one rabbit lose his life in trying it."

Rag early learnt what some rabbits never learn at all, that 'holeup' is not such a fine ruse as it seems; it may

be the certain safety of a wise rabbit, but soon or late is a sure deathtrap to a fool. A young rabbit always

thinks of it first, an old rabbit never tries it till all others fail. It means escape from a man or dog, a fox or a

bird of prey, but it means sudden death if the foe is a ferret, mink, skunk, or weasel.

There were but two groundholes in the Swamp. One on the Sunning Bank, which was a dry sheltered knoll

in the Southend. It was open and sloping to the sun, and here on fine days the Cottontails took their

sunbaths. They stretched out among the fragrant pine needles and wintergreen in odd catlike positions,

and turned slowly over as though roasting and wishing all sides well done. And they blinked and panted, and

squirmed as if in dreadful pain; yet this was one of the keenest enjoyments they knew.

Just over the brow of the knoll was a large pine stump. Its grotesque roots wriggled out above the yellow

sandbank like dragons, and under their protecting claws a sulky old woodchuck had digged a den long ago.

He became more sour and illtempered as weeks went by, and one day waited to quarrel with Olifant's dog

instead of going in so that Molly Cottontail was able to take possession of the den an hour later.

This, the pineroot hole, was afterward very coolly taken by a selfsufficient young skunk who with less

valor might have enjoyed greater longevity, for he imagined that even man with a gun would fly from

him. Instead of keeping Molly from the den for good, therefore, his reign, like that of a certain Hebrew king,

The other, the fernhole, was in a fern thicket next the clover field. It was small and damp, and useless except

as a last retreat. It also was the work of a woodchuck, a well~meaning friendly neighbor, but a harebrained

youngster whose skin in the form of a whiplash was now developing higher horsepower in the Olifant

"Simple justice," said the old man, "for that hide was raised on stolen feed that the team would a' turned into

The Cottontails were now sole owners of the holes, and did not go near them when they could help it, lest

anything like a path should be made that might betray these last retreats to an enemy. There was also the

hollow hickory, which, though nearly fallen, was still green, and had the great advantage of being open at

both ends. This had long been the residence of one Lotor, a solitary old coon whose ostensible calling was

froghunting, and who, like the monks of old, was supposed to abstain from all flesh food. But it was

shrewdly suspected that he needed but a chance to indulge in a diet of rabbit. When at last one dark night he

was killed while raiding Olifant's henhouse, Molly, so far from feeling a pang of regret, took possession of

Bright Augnst sunlight was flooding the Swamp in the morning. Everything seemed soaking in the warm

radiance. A little brown swampsparrow was teetering on a long rush in the pond. Beneath him there were

open spaces of dirty water that brought down a few scraps of the blue sky, and worked it and the yellow

duckweed into an exquisite mosaic, with a little wrongside picture of the bird in the middle. On the bank

behind was a great vigorous growth of golden green skunkcabbage, that cast dense shadow over the brown

The eyes of the swampsparrow were not trained to take in the color glories, but he saw what we might have

missed; that two of the numberless leafy brown bumps under the broad cabbageleaves werc furry living

things, with noses that never ceased to move up and down, whatever else was still.

It was Molly and Rag. They were stretched under the skunkcabbage, not because they liked its rank smell,

but because the winged ticks could not stand it at all and so left them in peace.

Rabbits have no set time for lessons, they are always learning; but what the lesson is depends on the present

stress, and that must arrive before it is known. They went to this place for a quiet rest, but had not been long

there when suddenly a warning note from the everwatchful bluejay caused Molly's nose and ears to go up

and her tail to tighten to her back. Away across the Swamp was Olifant's big black and white dog, coming

"Now," said Molly, "squat while I go and keep that fool out of mischief." Away she went to meet him and she

"Bowowow," he fairly yelled as he bounded after Molly, but she kept just beyond his reach and led him

where the million daggers struck fast and deep, till his tender ears were scratched raw, and guided him at last

plump into a hidden barbedwire fence, where he got such a gashing that he went homeward howling with

pain. After making a short double, a loop and a baulk in case the dog should come back, Molly returned to

find that Rag in his eagerness was standing bolt upright and craning his neck to see the sport.

This disobedience made her so angry that she struck him with her hind foot and knocked him over in the

One day as they fed on the near clover field a redtailed hawk came swooping after them. Molly kicked up her

hind legs to make fun of him and skipped into the briers along one of their old pathways, where of course the

hawk could not follow. It was the main path from the Creekside Thicket to the Stovepipe brushpile. Several

creepers had grown across it, and Molly, keeping one eye on the hawk, set to work and cut the creepers off.

Rag watched her, then ran on ahead, and cut some more that were across the path. "That's right," said Molly,

"always keep the runways clear, you will need them often enough. Not wide, but clear. Cut everything like a

creeper across them and some day you will find you have cut a snare." "A what?" asked Rag, as he scratched

"A snare is something that looks like a creeper, but it doesn't grow and it's worse than all the hawks in the

world," said Molly, glancing at the now faraway redtail, "for there it hides night and day in the runway till

"I don't believe it could catch me," said Rag, with the pride of youth as he rose on his heels to rub his chin

and whiskers high up on a smooth sapling. Rag did not know he was doing this, but his mother saw and knew

it was a sign, like the changing of a boy's voice, that her little one was no longer a baby but would soon be a

There is magic in running water. Who does not know it and feel it? The railroad builder fearlessly throws his

bank across the wide bog or lake, or the sea itself, but the tiniest nil of running water he treats with great

respect, studies its wish and its way and gives it all it seems to ask. The thirstparched traveller in the

poisonous alkali deserts holds back in deadly fear from the sedgy ponds till he finds one down whose centre

is a thin, clear line, and a faint flow, the sign of running, living water, and joyfully he drinks.

There is magic in running water, no evil spell can cross it. Tam O'Shanter proved its potency in time of sorest

need. The wildwood creature with its deadly foe following tireless on the trail scent, realizes its nearing

doom and feels an awful spell. Its strength is spent, its every trick is tried in vain till the good Angel leads

it to the water, the running, living water, and dashing in it follows the cooling stream, and then with force

There is magic in running water. The hounds come to the very spot and halt and cast about; and halt and cast

in vain. Their spell is broken by the merry stream, and the wild thing lives its life.

And this was one of the great secrets that Raggylug learned from his mother"after the Brierrose, the Water

One hot, muggy night in August, Molly led Rag through the woods. The cottonwhite cushion she wore

under her tail twinkled ahead and was his guiding lantern, though it went out as soon as she stopped and sat

on it. After a few runs and stops to listen, they came to the edge of the pond. The hylas in the trees above

them were singing 'sleep, sleep,' and away out on a sunken log in the decp water, up to his chin in the

"Follow me still," said Molly, in rabbit, and 'flop' she went into the pond and struck out for the sunken log in

the middle. Rag flinched but plunged with a little 'ouch,' gasping and wobbling his nose very fast but still

copying his mother. The same movements as on land sent him through the water, and thus he found he could

swim, On he went till he reached the sunken log and scrambled up by his dripping mother on the high dry

end, with a rushy screen around them and the Water that tells no tales. After this on warm black nights when

that old fox from Springfield came prowling through the Swamp, Rag would note the place of the bullfrog's

voice, for in case of direst need it might be a guide to safety. And thenceforth the words of the song that the

This was the latest study that Rag took up with his motherit was really a postgraduate course, for many

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

More than once that hateful fox from Springfield '\ drove them to taking refuge under the wreck of a

barbedwire hogpen by the spring. But once there they could look calmly at him while he spiked his legs in

Once or twice Rag when hunted had played off the hound against a skunk that had seemed likely to be quite

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.

Ranger was the name of a young hound in the neighborhood. To train him his master used to put him on the

trail of one of the Cottontails. It was nearly always Rag that they ran, for the young buck enjoyed the runs as

much as they did, the spice of danger in them being just enough for zest. He would say:

"But, mother, it is such glorious fun to tease that fool dog, and it's all good training. I'll thump if I am too hard

On he would come, and Ranger would take the trail and follow till Rag got tired of it. Then he either sent a

thumping telegram for help, which brought Molly to take charge of the dog, or he got rid of the dog by souse

clever trick. A description of one of these shows how well Rag had learned the arts of the woods.

He knew that his scent lay best near the ground, and was strongest when he was warm. So if he could get off

the ground, and be left in peace for half an hour to cool off, and for the trail to stale, he knew he would be

safe. When, therefore, he tired of the chase, he made for the Creekside brierpatch, where he 'wound'that

is, zigzaggedtill he left a course so crooked that the dog was sure to be greatly delayed in working it out.

He then went straight to D in the woods, passing one hop to windward of the high log E. Stopping at D, he

followed his back trail to F; here he leaped aside and ran toward G. Then, returning on his trail to J, he waited

till the hound passed on his trail at I. Rag then got back on his old trail at H, anti followed it to E, where, with

a scentbaulk or great leap aside, he reached the high log, an d running to its higher end, he sat like a bump.

Ranger lost much time in the bramble maze, and the scent was very poor when he got it straightened out, and

came to D. Here he began to circle to pick it up, and after losing much time, struck the trail which ended

suddenly at G. Again he was at fault, and had to circle to find the trail. Wider and wider circles, until at last,

he passed right under the log Rag was on. But a cold scent, on a cold day, does not go downward much. Rag

Again the dog came round. This time he crossed the low part of the log, and stopped to smell it. 'Yes, clearly

It was a trying moment for Rag, as the great hound came sniffsniffing along the log. But his nerve did not

forsake him; the wind was right; he had his mind made up to bolt as soon as Ranger came half way up. But he

didn't come. A yellow cur would have seen the rabbit sitting there, but the hound did not, and the scent

Rag had never seen any other rabbit than his mother. Indeed he had scarcely thought about there being any

other. He was more and more away from her now, and yet he never felt lonely, for rabbits do not hanker for

company. But one day in December, while he was among the red dogwood brush, cutting a new path to the

great Creekside thicket, he saw all at once against the sky over the Sunning Bank the head and ears of a

strange rabbit. The newcomer had the air of a wellpleased discoverer and soon came hopping Rag's way

along one of his paths into his Swamp. A new feeling rushed over him, that boiling mixture of anger and

The stranger stopped at one of Rag's rubbingtrees that is, a tree against which he used to stand on his

heels and rub his chin as far up as he could reach. He thought he did this simply because he liked it; but all

buckrabbits do so, and several ends are served. It makes the tree rabbity, so that other rabbits know that this

swamp already belongs to a rabbit family and is not open for settlement. It also lets the next one know by the

scent if the last caller was an acquaintance, and the height from the ground of the rubbingplaces shows how

Now to his disgust Rag noticed that the newcorner was a head taller than himself, and a big, stout buck at

that. This was a wholly new experience and filled Rag with a wholly new feeling. The spirit of murder

entered his heart; he chewed very hard at nothing in his mouth, and hopping forward onto a smooth piece of

'Thumpthumpthump,' which is a rabbit telegram for 'Get out of my swamp, or fight.'

The newcorner made a big V with his ears, sat upright for a few seconds, then, dropping on his forefeet,

They came together by short runs sidewise, each one trying to get the wind of the other and watching for a

chance advantage. The stranger was a big, heavy buck with plenty of muscle, but one or two trifles such as

treading on a turnover and failing to close when Rag was on low ground showed that he had not much

cunning and counted on winning his battles by his weight. On he came at last and Rag met him like a little

fury. As they came together they leaped up and struck out with their hind feet. Thud, thud they came, and

down went poor little Rag. In a moment the stranger was on him with his teeth and Rag was bitten, and lost

several tufts of hair before he could get up. But he was swift of foot and got out of reach. Again he charged

and again he was knocked down and bitten severely. He was no match for his foe, and it soon became a

Hurt as he was, he sprang away, with the stranger in full chase, and bound to kill him as well as to oust him

from the Swamp where he was born. Rag's legs were good and so was his wind. The stranger was big and so

heavy that he soon gave up the chase, and it was well for poor Rag that he did, for he was getting stiff from

his wounds as well as tired. From that day began a reign of terror for Rag. His training had been against owls,

dogs, weasels, men, and so on, but what to do when chased by another rabbit, he did not know. All he knew

Poor little Molly was completely terrorized; she could not help Rag and sought only to hide. But the big buck

soon found her out. She tried to run from him, but she was not now so swift as Rag. The stranger made no

attempt to kill her, but he made love to her, and because she hated him and tried to get away, he treated her

shamefully. Day after day he worried her by following her about, and often, furious at her lasting hatred, he

would knock her down and tear out mouthfuls of her soft fur till his rage cooled somewhat, when he would

let her go for a while. But his fixed purpose was to kill Rag, whose escape seemed hopeless. There was no

other swamp he could go to, and whenever he took a nap now he had to be ready at any moment to dash for

his life. A dozen times a day the big stranger came creeping up to where he slept, but each time the watchful

Rag awoke in time to escape. To escape yet not to escape. He saved his life indeed, but oh! what a miserable

life it had become. How maddening to be thus helpless, to see his little mother daily beaten and torn, as well

as to see all his favorite feedinggrounds, the cosy nooks, and the pathways he had made with so much labor,

forced from him by this hateful brute. Unhappy Rag realized that to the victor belong the spoils, and he hated

How was it to end? He was wearing out with running and watching and bad food, and little Molly's strength

and spirit were breaking down under the long persecution. The stranger was ready to go to all lengths to

destroy poor Rag, and at last stooped to the worst crime known among rabbits. However much they may hate

each other, all good rabbits forget their feuds when their common enemy appears. Yet one day when a great

goshawk came swooping over the Swamp, the stranger, keeping well under cover himself, tried again and

Once or twice the hawk nearly had him, but still the briers saved him, and it was only when the big buck

himself came near being caught that he gave it up. And again Rag escaped, but was no better off. He made

up his mind to leave, with his mother, if possible, next night and go into the world in quest of some new

home when he heard old Thunder, the hound, sniffing and searching about the outskirts of the swamp, and he

resolved on playing a desperate game. He deliberately crossed the hound's view, and the chase that then

began was fast and furious. Thrice around the Swamp they went till Rag had made sure that his mother was

hidden safely and that his hated foe was in his usual nest. Then right into that nest and plump over him he

"You miserable fool, I'll kill you yet," cried the stranger, and up he jumped only to find himself between Rag

On came the hound baying hotly on the straightaway scent. The buck's weight and size were great

advantages in a rabbit fight, but now they were fatal. He did not know many tricks. Just the simple ones like

'double,' 'wind,' and 'holeup,' that every baby Bunny knows. But the chase was too close for doubling and

It was a straight race. The brierrose, kind to all rabbits alike, did its best, but it was no use. The baying of the

hound was fast and steady. The crashing of the brush and the yelping of the hound each time the briers tore

his tender ears were borne to the two rabbits where they crouched in hiding. But suddenly these sounds

stopped, there was a scuffle, then loud and terrible screaming. Rag knew what it meant and it sent a shiver

through him, but he soon forgot that when all was over and rejoiced to be once more the master of the dear

Old Olifant had doubtless a right to burn all those brushpiles in the east and south of the Swamp and to clear

up the wreck of the old barbedwire hogpen just below the spring. But it was none the less hard on Rag and

his mother. The first were their various residences and outposts, and the second their grand fastness and safe

They had so long held the Swamp and felt it to be their very own in every part and suburbincluding

Olifant's grounds and buildingsthat they would have resented the appearance of another rabbit even about

Their claim, that of long, successful occupancy, was exactly the same as that by which most nations hold

During the time of the January thaw the Olifants had cut the rest of the large wood about the pond and

curtailed the Cottontails' domain on all sides. But they still clung to the dwindling Swamp, for it was their

home and they were loath to move to foreign parts. Their life of daily perils went on, but they were still fleet

of foot, long of wind, and bright of wit. Of late they had been somewhat troubled by a mink that had

wandered upstream to their quiet nook. A little judicious guidance had transferred the uncomfortable visitor

to Olifant's henhouse. But they were not yet quite sure that he had been properly looked after. So for the

present they gave up using the groundholes, which were, of course, dangerous blindalleys, and stuck closer

That first snow had quite gone and the weather was bright and warm until now. Molly, feeling a touch of

rheumatism, was somewhere in the lower thicket seeking a teaberry tonic. Rag was sitting in the weak

sunlight on a bank in the east side. The smoke from the familiar gable chimney of Olifant's house came

fitfully drifting a pale blue haze through the underwoods and showing as a dull brown against the brightness

of the sky. The sungilt gable was cut off midway by the banks of brier brush, that, purple in shadow, shone

like rods of blazing crimson and gold in the light. Beyond the house the barn with its gable and roof, new gift

The sounds that came from it, and yet more the delicious smell that mingled with the smoke, told Rag that the

animals were being fed cabbage in the yard. Rags mouth watered at the idea of the feast. He blinked and

blinked as he snuffed its odorous promises, for he loved cabbage dearly. But then he had been to the barnyard

the night before after a few paltry clovertops, and no wise rabbit would go two nights running to the same

Therefore he did the wise thing. He moved across where he could not smell the cabbage axed made his

supper of a bundle of hay that had been blown from the stack. Later, when about to settle for the night, he

was joined by Molly, who had taken her teaberry and then eaten her frugal meal of sweet birch near the

Meanwhile the sun had gone about his business elsewhere, taking all his gold and glory with him. Off in the

east a big black shutter came pushing up and rising higher and higher; it spread over the whole sky, shut out

all light and left the world a very gloomy place indeed. Then another mischiefmaker, the wind, taking

advantage of the sun's absence, came on the scene and set about brewing trouble. The weather turned colder

"Isn't this terribly cold? How I wish we had our stovepipe brushpile," said Rag.

"A good night for the pineroot hole," replied Molly, "but we have not yet seen the pelt of that mink on the

The hollow hickory was gonein fact at this very moment its trunk, lying in the woodyard, was harboring

the mink they feared. So the Cottontails hopped to the south side of the pond and, choosing a brushpile, they

crept under and snuggled down for the night, facing the wind but with their noses in different directions so as

to go out different ways in case of alarm. The wind blew harder and colder as the hours went by, and about

midnight a fine icy snow came ticking down on the dead leaves and hissing through the brushheap. It might

seem a poor night for hunting, but that old fox from Springfield was out. He came pointing up the wind in the

shelter of the Swamp and chanced in the lee of the brushpile, where he scented the sleeping Cottontails. He

halted for a moment, then came stealthily sneaking up toward the brush under which his nose told him the

rabbits were crouching. The noise of the wind and the sleet enabled him to come quite close before Molly

heard the faint crunch of a dry leaf under his paw. She touched Rag's whiskers, and both were fully awake

just as the fox sprang on them; but they always slept with their legs ready for a jump. Molly darted out into

the blinding stonn. The fox missed his spring but followed like a racer, while Rag dashed off to one side.

There was only one road for Molly; that was straight up the wind, and bounding for her life she gained a little

over the unfrozen mud that would not carry the fox, till she reached the margin of the pond. No chance to turn

And plunge went the fox close behind. But it was too much for Reynard on such a night. He turned back, and

Molly, seeing only one course, struggled through the reeds into the deep water and struck out for the other

shore. But there was a strong headwind. The little waves, icy cold, broke over her head as she swam, and the

water was full of snow that blocked her way like soft ice, or floating mud. The dark line of the other shore

But she laid her ears flat to be out of the gale, and bravely put forth all her strength with wind and tide against

her. After a long, weary swim in the cold water, she had nearly reached the farther reeds when a great mass of

floating snow barred her road; then the wind on the bank made strange, foxlike sounds that robbed her of all

force, and she was drifted far backward before she could get free from the floating bar.

Again the struck Out, but slowlyoh so slowly now. And when at last she reached the lee of the tall reeds,

her limbs were numbed, her strength spent, her brave little heart was sinking, and she cared no more whether

the fox were there or not. Through the reeds she did indeed pass, but once in the weeds her course wavered

and slowed, her feeble strokes no longer sent her landward, the ice forming around her stopped her

altogether. In a little while the cold, weak limbs ceased to move, the furry nosetip of the little mother

But there was no fox waiting to tear her with ravenous jaws. Rag had escaped the first onset of the foe, and as

soon as he regained his wits he came running back to changeoff and so help his mother. He met the old fox

going round the pond to meet Molly and led him far and away, then dismissed him with a barbedwire gash

on his head, and came to the bank and sought about and trailed and thumped, but all his searching was in

vain; he could not find his little mother. He never saw her again, and he never knew whither she went, for she

slept her neverwaking sleep in the icearms of her friend the Water that tells no tales.

Poor little Molly Cottontail! She was a true heroine, yet only one of unnumbered millions that without a

thought of heroism have lived and done their best in their little world, and died. She fought a good fight in the

battle of life. She was good stuff; the stuff that never dies. For flesh of her flesh and brain of her brain was

And Rag still lives in the Swamp. Old Olifant died that winter, and the unthrifty sons ceased to clear the

Swamp or mend the wire fences. Within a single year it was a wilder place than ever; fresh trees and

brambles grew, and falling wires made many Cottontail castles and last retreats that dogs and foxes dared not

storm. And there to this day lives Rag. He is a big strong buck now and fears no rivals. He has a large family

of his own, and a pretty brown wife that he got I know not where. There, no doubt, he and his children's

children will flourish for many years to come, and there you may see them any sunny evening if you have

learnt their signal S code, and, choosing a good spot on the ground, know just how and when to thump it.

IT WAS EARLY in November, 1882, and the Manitoba winter had just set in. I was tilting back in my chair

for a few lazy moments after breakfast, idly alternating my gaze from the one windowpane of our shanty,

through which was framed a bit of the prairie and the end of our cowshed, to the old rhyme of the

'Franckelyn's dogge' pinned on the logs near by. But the dreamy mixture of rhyme and view was quickly

dispelled by the sight of a large gray animal dashing across the prairie into the cowshed, with a smaller black

"A wolf," I exclaimed, and seizing a rifle dashed out to help the dog. But before I could get there they had left

the stable, and after a short run over the snow the wolf again turned at bay, and the dog, our neighbor's collie,

I fired a couple of long shots, which had the effect only of setting them off again over the prairie. After

another run this matchless dog closed and seized the wolf by the haunch, but again retreated to avoid the

fierce return chop. Then there was another stand at bay, and again a race over the snow. Every few hundred

yards this scene was repeated, the dog managing so that each fresh rush should be toward the settlement,

while the wolf vainly tried to break back toward the dark belt of trees in the east. At 1a~t after a mile of this

fighting and running I overtook them, and the dog, seeing that he now had good backing, closed in for the

After a few seconds the whirl of struggling animals resolved itself into a wolf, on his back, with a bleeding

collie gripping his throat, and it was now easy for me to step up and end the fight by putting a ball through

Then, when this dog of marvellous wind saw that his foe was dead, he gave him no second glance, but set out

at a lope for a farm four miles across the snow where he had left his master when first the wolf was started.

He was a wonderful dog, and even if I had not come he undoubtedly would have killed the wolf alone, as I

learned he had already done with others of the kind, in spite of the fact that the wolf, though of the smaller or

prairie race, was much large than himself. I was filled with admiration for the dog's prowess and at once

sought to buy him at any price. The scornful reply of his owner was, "Why don't you try to buy one of the

Since Frank was not in the market I was obliged to content myself with the next best thing, one of his alleged

progeny. That is, a son of his wife. This probable offspring of an illustrious sire was a rolypoly ball of black

fur that looked more like a longtailed bearcub than a puppy. But he had some tan markings like those on

Frank's coat, that were, I hoped, guarantees of future greatness, and also a very characteristic ring of white

Having got possession of his person, the next thing was to find him a name. Surely this puzzle was already

solved. The rhyme of the 'Franckelyn's dogge' was inbuilt with the foundation of our acquaintance, so with

The rest of that winter Bingo spent in our shanty, living the life of a blubbery, fat, wellmeaning, illdoing

puppy; gorging himself with food and growing bigger and clumsier each day. Even sad experience failed to

teach him that he must keep his nose out of the rat trap. His most friendly overtures to the cat were wholly

misunderstood and resulted only in an armed neutrality that varied by occasional reigns of terror, continued to

the end; which came when Bingo, who early showed a mind of his own, got a notion for sleeping at the barn

When the spring came I set about his serious education. After much pains on my behalf and many pains on

his, he learned to go at the word in quest of our old yellow cow, that pastured at will on the unfenced prairie.

Once he had learned his business, he became very fond of it and nothing pleased him more than an order to

go and fetch the cow. Away he would dash, barking with pleasure and leaping high in the air that he might

better scan the plain for hi~ victim. In a short time he would return driving her at full gallop before him, and

gave her no peace until, puffing and blowing, she was safely driven into the farthest corner of her stable.

Less energy on his part would have been more satisfactory, but we bore with him until he grew so fond of

this semidaily hunt that he began to bring 'old Dunne' without being told. And at length not once or twice

but a dozen times a day this energetic cowherd would sally forth on his own responsibility and drive the cow

At last things came to such a pass that whenever he felt like taking a little exercise, or had a few minutes of

spare time, or even happened to think of it, Bingo would sally forth at racing speed over the plain and a few

At first this did not seem very bad, as it kept the cow from straying too far; but soon it was seen that it

hindered her feeding. She became thin and gave less milk; it seemed to weigh on her mind too, as she was

always watching nervously for that hateful dog, and in the mornings would hang around the stable as though

This was going too far. All attempts to make Bingo more moderate in his pleasure were failures, so he was

compelled to give it up altogether. After this, though he dared not bring her home, he continued to show his

As the summer came on the mosquitoes became a dreadful plague, and the consequent vicious switching of

Fred, the brother who did the milking, was of an inventive as well as an impatient turn of mind, and he

devised a simple plan to stop the switching. He fastened a brick to the cow's tail, then set blithely about his

Suddenly through the mist of mosquitoes came a dull whack and an outburst of 'language.' The cow went on

placidly chewing till Fred got on his feet and funously attacked her with the milkingstool. It was bad enough

to be whacked on the ear with a brick by a stupid old cow, but the uproarious enjoyment and ridicule of the

Bingo, hearing the uproar, and divining that he was needed, rushed in and attacked Dunne on the other side.

Before the affair quieted down the milk was spilt, the pail and stool were broken, and the cow and the dog

Poor Bingo could not understand it at all. He had long ago learned to despise that cow, and now in utter

disgust he decided to forsake even her stable door, and from that time be attached himself exclusively to the

The cattle were mine, the horses were my brother's, and in transferring his allegiance from the cowstable to

the horsestable Bingo seemed to give me up too, and anything like daily companionship ceased, and yet,

whenever any emergency arose Bingo turned to me and I to him, and both seemed to feel that the bond

The only other occasion on which Bingo acted as cowherd was in the autumn of the same year at the annual

Carberry Fair, Among the dazzling inducements to enter one's stock thcre was, in addition to a prospect of

Misled by a false friend, I entered Bingo, and early on the day fixed, the cow was driven to the prairie just

outside of the village. When the time came she was pointed out to Bingo and the word given'Go fetch the

cow.' lt was the intention, of course, that he should bring her to me at the judge's stand.

But the animals knew better. They hadn't rehearsed all summer for nothing. When Dunne saw Bingo's

careering form she knew that her only hope for safety was to get into her stable, and Bingo was equally sure

that his sole mission in life was to quicken her pace in that direction. So off they raced over the prairie, like a

wolf after a deer, and heading straight toward their home two miles way, they disappeared from view.

That was the last that judge or jury ever saw of dog or cow. The prize was awarded to the only other entry.

Bingo's loyalty to the horses was quite remarkable; by day he trotted beside them, and by night he slept at the

stable door. Where the team went Bingo went, and nothing kept him away from them. This interesting

assumption of ownership lent the greater significance to the following circumstance.

I was not superstitious, and up to this time had had no faith in omens, but was now deeply impressed by a

strange occurrence in which Bingo took a leading part. There were but two of us now living on the De

Winton Farm. One morning my brother set out for Boggy Creek for a load of hay. It was a long day's journey

there and back, and he made an early start. Strange to tell, Bingo for once in his life did not follow the team.

My brother called to him, but still he stood at a safe distance, and eyeing the team askance, refused to stir.

Suddenly he raised his nose in the air and gave vent to a long, melancholy howl. He watched the wagon out

of sight, and even followed for a hundred yards or so, raising his voice from time to time in the most doleful

All that day he stayed about the barn, the only time that be was willingly separated from the horses, and at

intervals howled a very death dirge. I was alone, and the dog's behavior inspired me with an awful foreboding

About six o'clock Bingo's howlings became unbearable, so that for lack of a better thought I threw something

at him, and ordered him away. But oh, the feeling of horror that filled mWhy did I let my brother go away

alone? Should I ever again see him alive? I might have known from the dog's actions that something dreadful

At length the hour for his return arrived, and there was John on his load. I took charge of the horses, vastly

And yet when, long afterward, I told this to one skilled in the occult, he looked grave, and said, "Bingo

"Then do not smile. It was you that were in danger that day; he stayed and saved your life, though you never

Early in the spring I bad begun Bingo's education. Very shortly afterward he began mine.

Midway on the twomile stretch of prairie that lay between our shanty and the village of Carberry, was the

cornerstake of the farm; it was a stout post in a low mound of earth, and was visible from afar.

I soon noticed that Bingo never passed without minutely examining this mysterious post. Next I learned that

it was also visited by the prairie wolves as well as by all the dogs in the neighborhood, and at length, with the

aid of a telescope, I made a number of observations that helped me to an understanding of the matter and

The post was by common agreement a registry of the canine tribes. Their exquisite sense of smell enabled

each individual to tell at once by the track and trace what other had recently been at the post. When the snow

came much more was revealed. I then discovered that this post was but one of a system that covered the

country; that, in short, the entire region was laid out in signal stations at convenient intervals. These were

marked by any conspicuous post, stone, buffalo skull, or other object that chanced to be in the desired

locality, and extensive observation showed that it was a very complete system for getting and giving the

Each dog or wolf makes a point of calling at those stations that are near his line of travel to learn who has

recently been there, just as a man calls at his club on returning to town and looks up the register.

I have seen Bingo approach the post, sniff, examine the ground about, then growl, and with bristling mane

and glowing eyes, scratch fiercely and contemptuously with his hind feet, finally walking off very stiffly,

Woof! I'll 'tend to him tonight. Woof! woof!" On another occasion, after the preliminaries, be became keenly

interested and studied a coyote's track that came and went, saying to himself, as I afterward learned:

"A coyote track coming from the north, smelling of dead cow. Indeed? Pollworth's old Brindle must be dead

At other times he would wag his tail, trot about the vicinity and come again and again to make his own visit

more evident, perhaps for the benefit of his brother Bill just back from Brandon! So that it was not by chance

that one night Bill turned up at Bingo's home and was taken to the hills, where a delicious dead horse

At other times he would be suddenly aroused by the news, take up the trail, and race to the next station for

Sometimes his inspection produced only an air of grave attention, as though he said to himself, "Dear me,

who the deuce is this?" or "It seems to me I met that fellow at the Portage last summer."

One morning on approaching the post Bingo's every hair stood on end, his tail dropped and quivered, and he

gave proof that he was suddenly sick at the stomach, sure signs of terror. He showed no desire to follow up or

know more of the matter, but returned to the house, and half an hour afterward his mane was still bristling

I studied the dreaded track and learned that in Bingo's language the halfterrified, deepgurgled 'grrwff'

These were among the things that Bingo taught me. And in the after time when I might chance to see him

arouse from his frosty nest by the stable door, and after stre.tching himself and shaking the snow from his

shaggy coat, disappear into the gloom at a steady trot, trot, trot, I used to think:

"Ahh! old dog, I know where you are off to, and why you eschew the shelter of the shanty. Now I know why

your nightly trips over the country are so well timed, and how you know just where to go for what you want,

In the autumn of 1884, the shanty at De Winton farm was closed and Bingo changed his home to the

establishmentthat is, to the stable, not the houseof Gordon Wright, our most intimate neighbor.

Since the winter of his puppyhood he had declined to enter a house at any time excepting during a

thunderstorm. Of thunder and guns he had a deep dreadno doubt the fear of the first originated in the

second, and that arose from some unpleasant shotgun experiences, the cause of which will be seen. His

nightly couch was outside the stable, even during the coldest weather, and it was easy to see he enjoyed to the

full the complete nocturnal liberty entailed. Bingo's midnight wanderings extended across the plains for

miles. There was plenty of proof of this. Some farmers at very remote points sent word to old Gordon that if

he did not keep his dog home nights, they would use the shotgun, and Bingo's terror of firearms would

indicate that the threats were not idle. A man living as far away as Petrel said he saw a large black wolf kill a

coyote on the snow one winter evening, but afterward he changed his opinion and 'reckoned it must 'a' been

Wright's dog.' Whenever the body of a winterkilled ox or horse was exposed, Bingo was sure to repair to it

Sometimes the object of a night foray was merely to maul some distant neighbor's dog, and notwithstanding

vengeful threats, there seemed no reason to fear that the Bingo breed would die out. One man even avowed

that he had seen a prairie wolf accompanied by three young ones which resembled the mother, excepting that

True or not as that may be, I know that late in March, while we were out in the sleigh with Bingo trotting

behind, a prairie wolf was started from a hollow. Away it went with Bingo in full chase, but the wolf did not

greatly exert itself to escape, and within a short distance Bingo was close up, yet strange to tell, there was no

We were astounded, and shouted to urge Bingo on. Our shouting and approach several times started the wolf

off at speed and Bingo again pursued until he had overtaken it, but his gentleness was too obvious.

"It is a shewolf, he won't harm her," I exclaimed as the truth dawned on me. And Gordon said: "Well, I be

For weeks after this we were annoyed by the depredations of a prairie wolf who killed our chickens, stale

pieces of pork from the end of the house, and several times terrified the children by looking into the window

Against this animal Bingo seemed to be no safeguard. At length the wolf, a female, was killed, and then

Bingo plainly showed his hand by his lasting enmity toward Oliver, the man who did the deed,

It is wonderful and beautiful how a man and his dog will stick to one another, through thick and thin. Butler

tells of an undivided Indian tribe, in the Far North which was all but exterminated by an internecine feud over

a dog that belonged to one man and was killed by his neighbor; and among ourselves we have lawsuits,

fights, and deadly feuds, all pointing the same old moral, 'Love me, love my dog.'

One of our neighbors had a very fine hound that he thought the best and dearest dog in the world. I loved

him, so I loved his dog, and when one day poor Tan crawled home terribly mangled and died by the door, I

joined my threats of vengeance with those of his master and thenceforth lost no opportunity of tracing the

miscreant, both by offering rewards and by collecting scraps of evidence. At length it was clear that one of

three men to the southward had had a hand in the cruel affair. The scent was warming up, and soon we should

have been in a position to exact rigorous justice, at least, from the wretch who had murdered poor old Tan.

Then something took place which at once changed my mind and led me to believe that the mangling of the

old hound was not by any means an unpardonable crime, but indeed on second thoughts was rather

Gordon Wright's farm lay to the south of us, and while there one day, Gordon Jr., knowing that I was tracking

the murderer, took me aside and looking about furtively, he whispered, in tragic tones:

And the matter dropped right there. For I confess that from that moment I did all in my power to baffle the

justice I had previously striven so hard to further. I had given Bingo away long before, but the feeling of

ownership did not die; and of this indissoluble fellowship of dog and man he was soon to take part in another

Old Gordon and Oliver were close neighbors and friends; they joined in a contract to cut wood, and worked

together harmoniously till late on in winter. Then Oliver's old horse died, and he, determining to profit as far

as possible, dragged it out on the plain and laid poison baits for wolves around it. Alas for poor

Bingo! He would lead a wolfish life, though again and again it brought him into wolfish misfortunes.

He was as fond of dead horse as any of his wild kindred. That very night, with Wright's own dog Curley, he

visited the carcass. It seemed as though Bing had busied himself chiefly keeping off the wolves, but Curley

feasted immoderately. The tracks in the snow told the story of the banquet; the interruption as the poison

began to work, and of the dreadful spasms of pain during the erratic course back home where Curley, falling

'Love me, love my dog,' No explanations or apology were acceptable; it was useless to urge that it was

accidental; the longstanding feud between Bingo and Oliver was now remembered as an important sidelight.

The woodcontract was thrown up, all friendly relations ceased, and to this day there is no county big enough

to hold the rival factions which were called at once into existence and to arms by Curley's dying yell.

It was months before Bingo really recovered from the poison. We believed indeed that he never again would

be the sturdy oldtime Bingo. But when the spring came he began to gain strength, and bettering as the grass

grew, he was within a few weeks once more in full health and vigor to be a pride to his friends and a nuisance

Changes took me far away from Manitoba, and on my return in 1886 Bingo was still a member of Wright's

household. I thought he would have forgotten me after two years' absence, but not so. One day early in the

winter, after having been lost for fortyeight hours, he crawled home to Wright's with a wolftrap and a

heavy log fast to one foot, and the foot frozen to stony hardness. No one had been able to approach to help

him, he was so savage, when I, the stranger now, stooped down and laid hold of the trap with one hand and

He had not broken the skin and at once released his hold and offered no further resistance, although he

whined a good deal during the removal of the trap. He still acknowledged me his master in spite of his change

of residence and my long absence, and notwithstanding my surrender of ownership I still felt that he was my

Bing was carried into the house much against his will and his frozen foot thawed out. During the rest of the

winter he went lame and two of his toes eventually dropped off. But before the return of warm weather his

health and strength were fully restored, and to a casual glance he bore no mark of his dreadful experience in

During that same winter I caught many wolves and foxes who did not have Bingo's good luck in escaping the

traps, which I kept out right into the spring, for bounties are good even when fur is not.

Kennedy's Plain was always a good trapping ground because it was unfrequented by man and yet lay between

the heavy woods and the settlement. I had been fortunate with the fur here, and late in April rode in on one of

The wolftraps are made of heavy steel and have two springs, each of one hundred pounds power. They are

set in fours around a buried bait, and after being strongly fastened to concealed logs are carefully covered in

cotton and in fine sand so as to be quite invisible. A prairie wolf was caught in one of these. I killed him with

a club and throwing him aside proceeded to reset the trap as I had done so many hundred times before. All

was quickly done. I threw the trapwrench over toward the pony, and seeing some fine sand nearby, I

Oh, unlucky thought! Oh, mad heedlessness born of long immunity! That fine sand was on the next wolftrap

and in an instant I was a prisoner. Although not wounded, for the traps have no teeth, and my thick trapping

gloves deadened the snap, I was firmly caught across the hand above the knuckles. Not greatly alarmed at

this, I tried to reach the trapwrench with my right foot. Stretching out at full length, face downward, I

worked myself toward it, making my imprisoned arm as long and straight as possible. I could not see and

reach at the same time, but counted on my toe telling me when I touched the little iron key to my fetters. My

first effort was a failure; strain as I might at the chain my toe struck no metal. I swung slowly around. my

anchor, but still failed. Then a painfully taken observation showed I was much too far to the west. I set about

working around, tapping blindly with my toe to discover the key. Thus wildly groping with my right foot I

forgot about the other till there was a sharp 'clank' and the iron jaws of trap No. S closed tight on my left foot.

The terrors of the situation did not, at first, impress me, but I soon found that all my struggles were in vain. I

could not get free from either trap or move the traps together, and there I lay stretched out and firmly staked

What would become of me now? There was not much danger of freezing for the cold weather was over, but

Kennedy's Plain was never visited by the winter woodcutters. No one knew where I had gone, and unless I

could manage to free myself there was no prospect ahead but to be devoured by wolves, or else die of cold

As I lay there the red sun went down over the spruce swamp west of the plain, and a shorelark on a gopher

mound a few yards off twittered his evening song, just as one had done the night before at our shanty door,

and though the numb pains were creeping up my arm, and a deadly chill possessed me, I noticed how long his

little eartufts were. Then my thoughts went to the comfortable suppertable at Wright's shanty, and I

thought, now they are frying the pork for supper, or just sitting down. My pony still stood as I left him with

his bridle on the ground patiently waiting to take me home. He did not understand the long delay, and when I

called, he ceased nibbling the grass and looked at me in dumb, helpless inquiry. If he would only go home the

empty saddle might tell the tale and bring help. But his very faithfulness kept him waiting hour after hour

Then I remembered how old Girou the trapper had been lost, and in the following spring his comrades found

his skeleton held by the leg in a beartrap. I wondered which part of my clothing would show my identity.

Then a new thought came to me. This is how a wolf feels when he is trapped. Oh! what misery have I been

Night came slowly on. A prairie wolf howled, the pony pricked up his ears and, walking nearer to me, stood

with his head down. Then another prairie wolf howled and another, and I could make out that they were

gathering in the neighborhood. There I lay prone and helpless, wondering if it would not be strictly just that

they should come and tear me to pieces. I heard them calling for a long time before I realized that dim,

shadowy forms were sneaking near. The horse taw them fIrst, and his terrified snort drove them back at first,

but they came nearer next time and sat around me on the prairie. Soon one bolder than the others crawled up

and tugged at the body of his dead relative. I shouted and he retreated growling. The pony ran to a distance in

terror. Presently the wolf returned, and after after two or three of these retreats and returns, the body was

After this they gathered nearer and sat on their haunches to look at me, and the boldest one smelt the rifle and

scratched dirt on it. He retreated when I kicked at him with my free foot and shouted, but growing bolder as I

grew weaker he came and snarled right in my face. At this several others snarled and came up closer, and I

realized that I was to be devoured by the foe that I most despised; when suddenly out of the gloom with a

guttural roar sprang a great black wolf. The prairie wolves scattered like chaff except the bold one, which,

seized by the black newcorner, was in a few moments a draggled corpse, and then, oh horrors! this mighty

brute bounded at me andBingonoble Bingo, rubbed his shaggy, panting sides against me and licked my

"BingoBingoldboyFetch me the trap wrench!" Away he went and returned dragging the rifle, for

"NoBingthe trapwrench." This time it was my sash, but at last he brought the wrench and wagged his

tail in joy that it was right. Reaching out with my free hand, after much difficulty I unscrewed the pillarnut.

The trap fell apart and my hand was released, and a minute later I was free. Bing brought the pony up, and

after slowly walking to restore the circulation I was able to mount. Then slowly at first but soon at a gallop,

with Bingo as herald careering and barking ahead, we set out for home, there to learn that the night before,

though never taken on the trapping rounds, the brave dog had acted strangely, whimpering and watching the

timbertrail; and at last when night came on, in spite of attempts to detain him he had set out in the gloom

and guided by a knowledge that is beyond us had reached the spot in time to avenge me as well as set me

Stanch old Binghe was a strange dog. Though his heart was with me, he passed me next day with scarcely

a look, but responded with alacrity when little Gordon called him to a gopherhunt. And it was so to the end;

and to the end also he lived the wolfish life that he loved, and never failed to seek the winterkilled horses

and found one again with a poisoned bait, and wolfishly bolted that; then feeling the pang, set out, not for

Wright's but to find me, and reached the door of my shanty where I should have been. Next day on returning I

found him dead in the snow with his head on the sill of the doorthe door of his puppyhood's days; my dog

to the last in his heart of heartsit was my help he sought, and vainly sought, in the hour of his bitter

THE HENS had been mysteriously disappearing for over a month; and when I came home to Springfield for

the summer holidays it was my duty to find the cause. This was soon done. The fowls were carried away

which put tramps and neighbors out of court; they were not taken from the high perches, which cleared all

coons and owls; or left partly eaten, so that weasels, skunks, or minks were not the guilty ones, and the

The great pine wood of Erindale was on the other bank of the river, and on looking carefully about the lower

ford I saw a few foxtracks and a barred feather from one of our Plymouth Rock chickens. On climbing the

farther bank in search of more dews, I heard a great outcry of crows behind me, and turning, saw a number of

these birds darting down at something in the ford. A better view showed that it was the old story, thief catch

thief, for there in the middle of the ford was a fox with something in his jawshe was returning from our

barnyard with another hen. The crows, though shameless robbers themselves, are ever first to cry 'Stop thief,'

and yet more than ready to take 'hushmoney' in the form of a share in the plunder.

And this was their game now. The fox to get back home must cross the river, where he was exposed to the

full brunt of the crow mob. He made a dash for it, and would doubtless have gotten across with his booty had

I not joined in the attack, whereupon he dropped the hen, scarce dead, and disappeared in the woods.

This large and regular levy of provisions wholly carried off could mean but one thing, a family of little foxes

That evening I went with Ranger, my hound, across the river into the Erindale woods. As soon as the hound

began to circle, we heard the short, sharp bark of a fox from a thickly wooded ravine close by. Ranger dashed

in at once, struck a hot scent and went off on a lively straightaway till his voice was lost in the distance

After nearly an hour he came back, panting and warm, for it was baking August weather, and lay down at my

But almost immediately thc same foxy 'Yap yurrr' was heard close at hand and off dashed the dog on another

Away he went in the darkness, baying like a foghorn, straight away to the north. And the loud 'Boo, boo,'

became a low 'oo,oo,' and that a feeble 'oo' and then was lost. They must have gone some miles away, for

even with ear to the ground I heard nothing of them though a mile was easy distance for Ranger's brazen

As I waited in the black woods I heard a sweet sound of dripping water: 'Tink tank tenk tink, Ta tink tank

I did not know of any spring so near, and in the hot night it was a glad find. But the sound led me to the

bough of a oaktree, where I found its source. Such a soft sweet song; full of delightful suggestion on such a

Tonk tank tenk tink Ta tink a tonk a tank a tink a Ta ta tink tank ta ta tonk tink Drink a tank a drink a drunk.

But suddenly a deep raucous breathing and a rustle of leaves showed that Ranger was back. He was

cornpletely fagged out. His tongue hung almost to the ground and was dripping with foam, his flanks were

heaving and spumeflecks dribbled from his breast and sides. He stopped panting a moment to give my hand

a dutiful lick, then flung himself flop on the leaves to drown all other sounds with his noisy panting.

But again that tantilizing 'Yap yurrr' was heard a few feet away, and the meaning of it all dawned on me. We

were close to the den where the little foxes were, and the old ones were taking turns in trying to lead us away.

It was late night now, so we went home feeling sure that the problem was nearly solved.

It was well known that there was an old fox with his family living in the neighborhood, but no one supposed

This fox had been called 'Scarface,' because of a scar reaching from his eye through and back of his ear; this

was supposed to have been given him by a barbedwire fence during a rabbit hunt, and as the hair came in

The winter before I had met with him and had had a sample of his craftiness. I was out shooting, after a fall of

snow, and had crossed the open fields to the edge of the brushy hollow back of the old mill. As my head rose

to a view of the hollow I caught sight of a fox trotting at long range down the other side, in line to cross my

course. Instantly I held motionless, and did not even lower or turn my head lest I should catch his eye by

moving, until he went on out of sight in the thick cover at the bottom. As soon as he was hidden I bobbed

down and ran to head him off where he should leave the cover on the other side, and was there in good time

awaiting, but no fox came forth. A careful look showed the fresh track of a fox that had bounded from the

cover, and following it with my eye I saw old Scarface himself far out of range behind me, sitting on his

A study of the trail made all clear. He had seen me at the moment I saw him, but he, also like a true hunter,

had concealed the fact, putting on an air of unconcern till out of sight, when he had run for his life around

In the springtime I had yet another instance of Scarface's cunning. I was walking with a friend along the road

over the high pasture. We passed within thirty feet of a ridge on which were several gray and brown boulders.

But I could not see it, and we passed. We had not gone many yards farther when the wind blew on this

"We'll soon settle that," I replied, and turned back, but as soon as I had taken one step from the road, up

jumped Scarface, for it was he, and ran. A fire had swept the middle of the pasture, leaving a broad belt of

black; over this he scurried till he came to the unburnt yellow grass again, where he squatted down and was

lost to view. He had been watching us all the time, and would not have moved had we kept to the road. The

wonderful part of this is, not that be resembled the round stones and dry grass, but that he knew he did, and

We soon found that it was Scarface and his wife Vixen that had made our woods their home and our barnyard

Next morning a search in the pines showed a great bank of earth that had been scratched up within a few

months. It must have come from a hole, and yet there was none to be seen. It is well known that a really cute

fox, on digging a new den, brings all the earth out at the first hole made, but carries on a tunnel into some

distant thicket. Then closing up for good the first made and too wellmarked door, uses only the entrance

So after a little search at the other side of a knoll, I found the real entry and good proof that there was a nest

Rising above the brush on the hillside was a great hollow basswood. It leaned a good deal and had a large

We boys had often used this tree in playing Swiss Family Robinson, and by cutting steps in its soft punky

walls had made it easy to go up and down in the hollow. Now it came in handy, for next day when the sun

was warm I went there to watch, and from this perch on the roof, I soon saw the interesting family that lived

in the cellar near by. There were four little foxes; they looked curiously like little lambs, with their woolly

coats, their long thick legs and innocent expressions, and yet a second glance at their broad, sharpnosed,

sharpeyed visages showed that each of these innocents was the makings of a crafty old fox.

They played about, basking in the sun, or wrestling with each other till a slight sound made them scurry

under ground. But their alarm was needless, for the cause of it was their mother; she stepped from the bushes

bringing another hennumber seventeen as I remember. A low call from her and the little fellows came

tumbling out. Then began a scene that I thought charming, but which my uncle would not have enjoyed at all.

They rushed on the hen, and tussled and fought with it, and each other, while the mother, keeping a sharp eye

for enemies, looked on with fond delight. The expression on her face was remarkable. It was first a grinning

of delight, but her usual look of wildness and cunning was there, nor were cr~1ty and nervo~isuess lAcklng,

The base of my tree was hidden in bushes and much lower than the knoll where the den wash So I could

For many days I went there and saw much of the training of the young ones. They early learned to turn to turn

to statuettes sound, and then on hearing it again or finding other cause for fear, to run for shelter.

Some animals have so much motherlove that it over flows and benefits outsiders. Not so old Vixen it would

seem. Her pleasure in the cubs led to most refined cruelty. For she often brought home to them mice and

birds alive, and with diabolic gentleness would avoid doing them serious hurt so that the cubs might have

There was a woodchuck that lived over in the hill orchard. He was neither handsome nor interesting, but he

knew how to take care of himself. He had dug a den between the roots of an old pine stump, so that the foxes

could not follow him by digging. But hard work was not their way of life; wits they believed worth more then

elbowgrease. This woodchuck usually sunned himself on the stump each morning. If he saw a fox near he

went down in the door of his den, or if the enemy was very near he went inside and stayed long enough for

One morning Vixen and her mate seemed to decide that it was time the children knew something about the

broad subject of Woodchucks, and further that this orchard woodchuck would serve nicely for an

objectlesson. So they went together to the orchardfence unseen by old Chuckie on his stump. Scarface then

showed himself in the orchard and quietly walked in a line so as to pass by the stump at a distance, but never

once turned his head or allowed the everwatchful woodchuck to think himself seen. When the fox entered

the field the woodchuck quietly dropped down to the mouth of his den: here he waited as the fox passed~ but

This was what the foxes wanted. Vixen had kept out of sight, but now ran swiftly to the stump and hid behind

it. Scarface had kept straight on, going very slowly. The woodchuck had not been frightened, so before long

his head popped up between the roots and he looked around. There was that fox still going on, farther and

farther away. The woodchuck grew bold as the fox went, and came out farther, and then seeing the coast

clear, he scrambled onto the stump, and with one spring Vixen had him and shook him till he lay senseless.

Scarface had watched out of the corner of his eye and now came running back. But Vixen took the chuck in

Back to the den came Vix, and carried the chuck so carefully that he was able to struggle a little when she got

there. A low 'woof' at the den brought the little fellows out like schoolboys to play. She threw the wounded

animal to them and they set on him like four little furies, uttering little growls and biting little bites with all

the strength of their baby jaws, but the woodchuck fought for his life and beating them off slowly hobbled to

the shelter of a thicket. The little ones pursued like a pack of hounds and dragged at his tail and flanks, but

could not hold him back. So Vixen overtook him with a couple of bounds and dragged him again into the

open for the children to worry. Again and again this rough sport went on till one of the little ones was badly

bitten, and his squeal of pain roused Vix to end the woodchuck's misery and serve him up at once.

Not far from the den was a hollow overgrown with coarse grass, the playground of a colony of fieldmice.

The earliest lesson in woodcraft that the little ones took, away from the den, was in this hollow. Here they

had their first course of mice, the easiest of all game. In teaching, the main thing was example, aided by a

deepset instinct. The old fox, also, had one or two signs meaning "lie still and watch," "come, do as I do,"

So the merry lot went to this hollow one calm evening and Mother Fox made them lie still in the grass.

Presently a faint squeak showed that the game was astir. Vix rose up and went on tiptoe into the grassnot

crouching but as high as she could stand, sometimes on her hind legs so as to get a better view. The runs that

the mice follow are hidden under the grass tangle, and the only way to know the whereabouts of a mouse is

by seeing the slight shaking of the grass, which is the reason why mice are hunted only on calm days.

And the trick is to locate the mouse and seize him first and see him afterward. Vix soon made a spring, and in

the middle of the bunch of dead grass that she grabbed was a fieldmouse squeaking his last squeak.

He was soon gobbled, and the four awkward little foxes tried to do the same as their mother, and when at

length the eldest for the first time in his life caught game, he quivered with excitement and ground his pearly

little milkteeth into the mouse with a rush of inborn savageness that must have surprised even himself.

Another home lesson was on the redsquirrel. One of these noisy, vulgar creatures, lived close by and used to

waste part of each day scolding the foxes, from some safe perch. The cubs made many vain attempts to catch

him as he ran across their glade from one tree to an other, or spluttered and scolded at them a foot or so out of

reach. But old Vixen was up in natural historyshe knew squirrel nature and took the case in hand when the

proper time came. She hid the children and lay down flat in the middle of the open glade. The saucy

lowminded squirrel came and scolded as usual. But she moved no hair. He came nearer and at last right over

But Vix lay as dead. This was very perplexing, so the squirrel came down the trunk and peeping about made

a nervous dash across the grass, to another tree, again to scold from a safe perch.

But flat and lifeless on the grass lay Vix. Ths was most tantilizing to the squirrel. He was naturally curious

and disposed to be venturesome, so again he came to the ground and scurried across the glade nearer than

before. Still as death lay Vix, "surely she was dead." And the little foxes began to wonder if their mother

But the squirrel was working himself into a little craze of foolhardy curiosity. He had dropped a piece of bark

on Vix's head, he had used up his list of bad words and he had done it all over again, without getting a sign of

life. So after a couple more dashes across the glade he ventured within a few feet of the really watchful Vix,

Thus the rudiments of their education were laid, and afterward as they grew stronger they were taken farther

For each kind of prey they were taught a way to hunt, for every animal has some great strength or it could not

live, and some great weakness or the others could not live. The squirrel's weakness was foolish curiosity; the

fox's that he can't climb a tree. And the training of the little foxes was all shaped to take advantage of the

weakness of the other creatures and to make up for their own by defter play where they are strong.

From their parents they learned the chief axioms of the fox world. How, is not easy to say. But that they

Inklings of the meanings of these were already entering the little ones' mindsthus, 'Never follow what you

can't smell,' was wise, they could see, because if you can't smell it, then the wind is so that it must smell you.

One by one they learned the birds and beasts of their home woods, and then as they were able to go abroad

with their parents they learned new animals. They were beginning to think they knew the scent of everything

that moved. But one night the mother took them to a field where there was a strange black flat thing on the

ground. She brought them on purpose to smell it, but at the first whiff their every hair stood on end, they

trembled, they knew not whyit seemed to tingle through their blood and fill them with instinctive hate and

Meanwhile the hens continued to disappear. I had not betrayed the den of cubs. Indeed, I thought a good deal

more of the little rascals than I did of the hens; but uncle was dreadfully wrought up and made most

disparaging remarks about my woodcraft. To please him I one day took the hound across to the woods and

seating myself on a stump on the open hillside, I bade the dog go on. Within three minutes he sang out in the

tongue all hunters know so well, "Fox! fox! fox! straight away down the valley."

After awhile I heard them coming back. There I saw the foxScarfaceloping lightly across the

riverbottom to the stream. In he went and trotted along in the shallow water near the margin for two hundred

yards, then came out straight toward me. Though in full view, he saw me not but caIne up th~ hill wakhhsg

over his shoulder for the hound. Within ten feet of me he tiitned and sat with his back to me while he craned

his neck and showed an eager interest in the doings of the hound. Ranger came bawling along the trail till he

came to the running water, the killer of scent, and here he was puzzled; but there was only one thing to do;

The fox before me shifted his position a little to get a better view and watched with a most human interest all

the circling of the hound. He was so close that I saw the hair of his shoulder bristle a little when the dog came

in sight. I could see the jumping of his heart on his ribs, and the gleam of his yellow eye. When the dog was

wholly baulked by the water trick, it was comical to see:he could not sit still, but rocked up and down in

glee, and reared on his hind feet to get a better view of the slowplodding hound. With mouth opened nearly

to his ears, though not at all winded, he panted noisily for a moment, or rather he laughed gleefully, just as a

Old Scarface wriggled in huge enjoyment as the hound puzzled over the trail so long that when he did find it,

it was so stale he could barely follow it, and did not feel justified in tonguing on it at all.

As soon as the hound was working up the hill, the fox quietly went into the woods. I had been sitting in plain

view only ten feet away, but I had the wind and kept still and the fox never knew that his life had for twenty

Ranger also would have passed me as near as the fox, but I spoke to him, and with a little nervous start he

This little comedy was played with variations for several days, but it was all in plain view from the house

across the river. My uncle, impatient at the daily loss of hens, went out himself, sat on the open knoll, and

when old Scarface trotted to his lookout to watch the dull hound on the river fiat below, my uncle

remorselessly shot him in the back, at the very moment when he was grinning over a new triumph.

But still the hens were disappearing. My uncle was wrathy. He determined to conduct the war himself, and

sowed the woods with poison baits, trusting to luck that our own dogs would not get them. He indulged in

contemptuous remarks on my bygone woodcraft, and went out evenings with a gun and the two dogs, to see

Vix knew right well what a poisoned bait was; she passed them by or else treated them with active contempt,

but one she dropped down the hole of an old enemy, a skunk, who was never afterward seen. Formerly old

Scarface was always ready to take charge of the dogs, and keep them out of mischief. But now that Vix had

the whole burden of the brood, she could no longer spend time in breaking every track to the den, and was not

The end is easily foreseen. Ranger followed a hot trail to the den, and Spot, the foxterrier, announced that

The whole secret was now out, and the whole family doomed. The hired man came around with pick and

shovel to dig them out, while we and the dogs stood by. Old Vix soon showed herself in the near woods, and

led the dogs away off down the river, where she shook them off when she thought proper, by the simple

device of springing on a sheep's back. The frightened animal ran for several hundred yards, then Vix got off,

knowing that there was now a hopeless gap in the scent, and returned to the den. But the dogs, baffled by the

break in the trail, soon did the same, to find Vix hanging about in despair. vainly trying to decoy us away

Meanwhile Paddy plied both pick and shovel with vigor and effect. The yellow, gravelly sand was heaping on

both sides, and the shoulders of the sturdy digger were sinking below the level. After an hour~s digging,

enlivened by frantic rushes of the dogs after the old fox, who hovered near in the woods, Pat called:

It was the den at the end of the burrow, and cowering as far back as they could, were the four little woolly

Before I could interfere, a murderous blow from the shovel, and a sudden rush for the fierce little terrier,

ended the lives of three. The fourth and smallest was barely saved by holding him by his tail high out of reach

He gave one short squeal, and his poor mother came at the cry, and circled so near that she would have been

shot but for the accidental protection of the dogs, who somehow always seemed to get between, and whom

The little one saved alive was dropped into a bag, where he lay quite still. His unfortunate brothers were

We guilty ones then went back into the house, and the little fox was soon chained in the yard. No one knew

just why he was kept alive, but in all a change of feeling had set in, and the idea of killing him was without a

He was a pretty little fellow, like a cross between a fox and a lamb. His woolly visage and form were

strangely lamblike and innocent, but one could find in his yellow eyes a gleam of cunning and savageness

As long as anyone was near he crouched sullen and cowed in his shelterbox, and it was a full hour after

My window now took the place of the hollow bass wood. A number of hens of the breed he knew so well

were about the cub in the yard. Late that afternoon as they strayed near the captive there was a sudden rattle

of the chain, and the youngster dashed at the nearest one and would have caught him but for the chain which

brought him up with a jerk. He got on his feet and slunk back to his box, and though he afterward made

several rushes he so gauged his leap as to win or fail within the length of the chain and never again was

As night came down the little fellow became very uneasy, sneaking out of his box, but going back at each

slight alarm, tugging at his chain, or at times biting it in fury while he held it down with his fore paws.

Suddenly he paused as though listening, then raising his little black nose he poured out a short quavering cry.

Once or twice this was repeated, the time between being occupied in worrying the chain and running about.

Then an answer came. The faraway Yapyurrr of the old fox. A few minutes later a shadowy form appeared

on the woodpile. The little one slunk into his box, but at once returned and ran to meet his mother with all

the gladness that a fox could show. Quick as a flash she seized him and turned to bear him away by the road

she came. But the moment the end of the chain was reached the cub was rudely jerked from the old one's

An hour afterward the cub had ceased to run about or cry. I peeped out, and by the light of the moon saw the

form of the mother at full length on the ground by the little one, gnawing at somethingthe clank of iron

told what, it was that cruel chain. And Tip, the little one, meanwhile was helping himself to a warm drink.

On my going out the fled Into the dark woods, but there by the shelterbox were two little mice, bloody and

still warm, food for the cub brought by the de~otcd mother. And in the morning I found the chain was very

On walking across the woods to the ruined den, I again found signs of Vixen. The poor heartbroken mother

There lay the three little baby foxes all licked smooth now, and by them were two of our hens fresh killed.

The newly heaved earth was printed all over with telltale signssigns that told me that here by the side of

her dead she had watched like Rizpah. Here she had brought their usual meal, the spoil of her nightly hunt.

Here she had stretched herself beside them and vainly offered them their natural drink and yearned to feed

and warm them as of old, but only stiff little bodies under their soft wool she found, and little cold noses still

A deep impress of elbows, breasts, and hocks showed where she had laid in silent grief and watched them for

long and mourned as a wild mother can mourn for its young. But from that time she came no more to the

ruined den, for now she surely knew that her little ones were dead. Tip the captive, the weakling of the brood,

was now the heir to all her love. The dogs were loosed to guard the hens. The hired man had orders to shoot

the old fox on sightso had I but w~s resolved never to see her. Chickenheads, that a fox loves and a dog

will not touch, had been poisoned and scattered through the woods; and the only way to the yard where Tip

And yet each night old Vix was there to nurse her baby and bring it freshkilled hens and game. Again and

again I saw her, although she came now without awaiting the querulous cry of the captive.

The second night of the captivity I heard the rattle of the chain, and then made out that the old fox was there,

hard at work digging a hole by the little one's kennel. When it was deep enough to half bury her, she gathered

into it all the slack of the chain, and filled it again with earth. Then in triumph thinking she had gotten rid of

the chain, she seized little Tip by the neck and turned to dash off up the woodpile, but alas! only to have him

Poor little fellow, he whimpered sadly as he crawled into his box. After half an hour there was a great out cry

among the dogs, and by their straightaway tonguing through the far wood I knew they were chasing Vix.

Away up north they went in the direction of the railway and their noise faded from hearing. Next morning the

hound had not come back. We soon knew why. Foxes long ago learned what a railroad is; they soon devised

several ways of turning it to account. One way is when hunted to walk the rails for a long distance just before

a train comes. The scent, always poor on iron, is destroyed by the train and there is always a chance of

hounds being killed by the engine. But another way more sure, but harder to play, is to lead the hounds

straight to a high trestle just ahead of the train, so that the engine overtakes them on it and they are surely

This trick was skilfully played, and down below we found the mangled remains of old Ranger and learned

That same night she returned to the yard before Spot's weary limbs could bring him back and killed another

hen and brought it to Tip, and stretched her panting length beside him that he might quench his thirst. For she

My own sympathies were all turning to Vix, and I would have no hand in planning further murders. Next

night my uncle himself watched, gun in hand, for an hour. Then when it became cold and the moon clouded

over he remembered other important business elsewhere, and left Paddy in his place.

But Paddy was "onaisy" as the stillness and anxiety of watching worked on his nerves. And the loud bang!

In the morning we found Vix had not failed her young one. Again next night found my uncle on guards for

another hen had been taken. Soon after dark a single shot was heard, but Vix dropped the game she was

bringing and escaped. Another attempt made that night called forth another gunshot. Yet next day it was seen

by the brightness of the chain that she had come again and vainly tried for hours to cut that hateful bond.

Such courage and stanch fidelity were bound to win respect, if not toleration. At any rate, there was no

gunner in wait next night, when all was still. Could it be of any use? Driven off thrice with gunshots, would

she make another try to feed or free her captive young one? Would she? Hers was a mother's love. There was

but one to watch them this time, the fourth night, when the quavering whine of the little one was followed by

But carrying no fowl or food that could be seen. Had the keen huntress failed at last? Had she no head of

game for this her only charge, or had she learned to trust his captors for his food?

No, far from all this. The wildwood mother's heart and hate were true. Her only thought had been to set him

free. All means she knew she tried, and every danger braved to tend him well and help him to be free. But all

Like a shadow she came and in a moment was gone, and Tip seized on something dropped, and crunched and

chewed with relish what she brought. But even as he ate, a knifelike pang shot through and a scream of pain

The mother's love was strong in Vix, but a higher thought was stronger. She knew right well the poison's

power; she knew the poison bait, and would have taught him had he lived to know and shun it too. But now at

last when she must choose for him a wretched prisoner's life or sudden death, she quenched the mother in her

It is when the snow is on the ground that we take the census of the woods, and when the winter came it told

me that Vix no longer roamed the woods of Erindale. Where she went it never told, but only this, that she was

Gone, perhaps, to some other faroff haunt to leave behind the sad remembrance of her murdered little ones

and mate. Or gone, may be, deliberately, from the scene of a sorrowful life, as many a wildwood mother has

gone, by the means that she herself had used to free her young one, the last of all her brood.

JO CALONE threw down his saddle on the dusty ground, turned his horses loose, and went clanking into the

"Seventeen minutes," said the cook glancing at the Waterbury, with the air of a train starter, though this show

"I seen that bunch o' mustangs that waters at Antelope Springs; couple o' colts along; one little dark one, a

fair dandy; a born pacer. I run them a mile or two, and be led the bunch, an' never broke his pace. Cut loose,

"That's all right, Scarth. You had to crawl on our last bet, an' you'll get another chance soon as you're man

"Chuck," shouted the cook, and the subject was dropped. Next day the scene of the roundup was changed,

A year later the same corner of New Mexico was worked over by the roundup, and again the mustang bunch

was seen. The dark colt was now a black yearling, with thin, clean legs and glossy flanks; and more than one

of the boys saw with his own eyes this odditythe mustang was a born pacer. Jo was along, and the idea

now struck him that that colt was worth having. To an Easterner this thought may not seem startling or

original, but in the West, where an unbroken horse is worth $5, and where an ordinary saddlehorse is worth

$15 or $20, the idea of a wild mustang being desirable property does not occur to the average cowboy, for

mustangs are hard to catch, and when caught are merely wild animal prisoners, perfectly useless and

untamable to the last, Not a few of the cattleowners make a point of shooting all mustangs at sight, they are

not only useless cumberers of the feedinggrounds, but commonly lead away domestic horses, which soon

Wild Jo Calone knew a 'bronk right down to subsoil.' "I never secn a white that wasn't soft, nor a chestnut

that wasn't nervous, nor a bay that wasn't good if broke right, nor a black that wasn't hard as nails, an' full of

the old Harry. All a black bronk wants is claws to be wus'n Daniel's hull outfit of lions.'

Since, then, a mustang is worthless vermin, and a black mustang ten times worse than worthless, Jo's pard

"didn't see no sense in Jo's wantin' to corral the yearling," as he now seemed intent on doing. But Jo got no

He was only a cowpuncher on $25 a month, and tied to hours. Like most of the boys, he always looked

forward to having a ranch and an outfit of his own. His brand, the hogpen, of sinister suggestion, was already

registered at Santa Fe, but of horned stock it was borne by a single old cow, so as to give him a legal right to

Yet each fall, when paid off, Jo could not resist the temptation to go to town with the boys and have a good

time 'while the stuff held out.' So that his property consisted of little more than his saddle, his bed, and his old

cow. He kept on hoping to make a strike that would leave him well fixed with a fair start, and when the

thought came that the Black Mustang was his mascot, he only needed a chance to 'make the try.'

The roundup circled down to the Canadian River, and back in the fall by the Don Carlos Hills, and Jo saw no

more of the Pacer, though he heard of him from many quarters, for the colt, now a vigorous, young horse,

Antelope Springs is in the middle of a great level plain. When the water is high it spreads into a small lake

with a belt of sedge around it; when it is low there is a wide flat of black mud, glistening white with alkali in

places, and the spring a waterhole in the middle. It has no flow or outlet and is fairly good water, the only

This flat, or prairie as it would be called farther north, was the favorite feedingground of the Black Stallion,

but it was also the pasture of many herds of range horses and cattle. Chiefly interested was the 'L cross F'

outfit. Foster, the manager and part owner, was a man of enterprise. He believed it would pay to handle a

better class of cattle and horses on the range, and one of his ventures was ten halfblooded mares, tall,

cleanlimbed, deereyed creatures that made the scrub cowponies look like pitiful starvelings of some

One of these was kept stabled for use, but the nine, after the weaning of their colts, managed to get away and

A horse has a fine instinct for the road to the best feed, and the nine mares drifted, of course, to the prairie of

Antelope Springs, twenty miles to the southward, And when, later that summer Foster went to round them up,

he found the nine indeed, but with them and guarding them with an air of more than mere comradeship was a

coalblack stallion, prancing around and rounding up the bunch like an expert, his jetblack coat a vivid

The mares were gentle, and would have been easily driven homeward but for a new and unexpected thing.

The Black Stallion became greatly aroused. He seemed to inspire them too with his wildness, and flying this

way and that way drove the whole band at full gallop where he would. Away they went, and the little

This was maddening, and both men at last drew their guns and sought a chance to drop that 'blasted stallion.'

But no chance came that was not 9 to 1 of dropping one of the mares. A long day of manoeuvring made no

change. The Pacer, for it was he, kept his family together and disappeared among the southern sandhills.

The cattlemen on their jaded ponies set out for home with the poor satisfaction of vowing vengeance for their

One of the most aggravating parts of it was that one or two experiences like this would surely make the mares

Scientists differ on the power of beauty and prowess to attract female admiration among the lower animals,

but whether it is admiration or the prowess itself, it is certain that a wild animal of uncommon gifts soon wins

a large following from the harems of his rivals. And the great Black Horse, with his inky mane and tail and

his greenlighted eyes, ranged through all that region and added to his following from many bands till not

less than a score of mares were in his 'bunch.' Most were merely humble cowponies turned out to range, but

the nine great mares were there, a striking group by themselves. According to all reports, this bunch was

always kept rounded up and guarded with such energy and jealously that a mare, once in it, was a lost animal

so far as man was concerned, and the ranchmen realized soon that they had gotten on the range a mustang

It was December, 1893. I was new in the country, and was setting out from the ranchhouse on the

Pi�avetitos, to go with a wagon to the Canadian River. As I was leaving, Foster finished his remark by: "And

if you get a chance to draw a bead on that accursed mustang, don't fail to drop him in his tracks."

This was the first I had heard of him, and as I rode along I gathered from Burns, my guide, the history that

has been given. I was full of curiosity to see the famous threeyearold, and was not a little disappointed on

the second day when we came to the prairie on Antelope Springs and saw no sign of the Pacer or his band.

But on the next day, as we crossed the Alamosa Ar. royo, and were rising to the rolling prairie again, Jack

Burns, who was riding on ahead, suddenly dropped flat on the neck of his horse, and swung back to me in the

I seized my rifle, and hurried forward to a view over the prairie ridge. In the hollow below was a band of

horses, and there at one end was the Great Black Mustang. He had heard some sound of our approach, and

was not unsuspicious of danger. There he stood with head and tail erect, and nostrils wide, an image of horse

perfection and beauty, as noble an animal as ever ranged the plains, and the mere notion of turning that

magnificent creature into a mass of carrion was horrible. In spite of Jack's exhortation to 'shoot quick,' I

delayed, and threw open the breach, whereupon he, always hot and hasty, swore at my slowness, growled,

'Gi' me that gun,' and as he seized it I turned the muzzle up, and accidentally the gun went off.

Instantly the herd below was all alarm, the great black leader snorted and neighed and dashed about. And the

The Stallion careered now on this side, now on that, and kept his eye on all and led and drove them far away.

Jack made Western remarks about me and my gun, as well as that mustang, but I rejoiced in the Pacer's

strength and beauty, and not for all the mares in the bunch would I have harmed his glossy hide.

There are several ways of capturing wild horses. One is by creasingthat is, grazing the animal's nape with a

"Yest I seen about a hundred necks broke trying it, but I never seen a mustang creased yet," was Wild Jo's

Sometimes, if the shape of the country abets it, the herd can be driven into a corral; sometimes with extra fine

mounts they can be run down, but by far the commonest way, paradoxical as it may seem, is to walk them

The fame of the Stallion that never was known to gallop was spreading. Extraordinary stories were told of his

gait, his speed, and his wind, and when old Montgomery of the 'trianglebar' outfit came out plump at Well's

Hotel in Clayton, and in presence of witnesses said he'd give one thousand dollars cash for him safe in a

boxcar, providing the stories were true, a dozen young cowpunchers were eager to cut loose and win the

purse, as soon as present engagements were up. But Wild Jo had had his eye on this very deal for quite a

while; there was no time to lose, so ignoring present contracts he rustled all night to raise the necessary

By straining his already overstrained credit, and taxing the already overtaxed generosity of his friends, lie got

together an expedition consisting of twenty good saddlehorses, a messwagon, and a fortnight's stuff for

Then they set out from Clayton, with the avowed intention of walking down the wonderfully swift wild

horse. The third day they arrived at Antelope Springs, and as it was about noon they were not surprised to see

the black Pacer marching down to drink with all his band behind him. Jo kept out of sight until the wild

horses each and all had drunk their fill, for a thirsty animal always travels better than one laden with water.

Jo then rode quietly forward. The Pacer took alarm at half a mile, and led his band away out of sight on the

soapweed mesa to the southeast. Jo followed at a gailop till he once more sighted them, then came back and

instructed the cook, who was also teamster, to make for Alamosa Arroyo in the south. Then away to the

southeast he went after the mustangs. After a mile or two he once more sighted them, and walked his horse

quietly till so near that they again took alarm and circled away to the south. An hour's trot, not on the trail,

but cutting across to where they ought to go, brought Jo again in close sight. Again he walked quietly toward

the herd, and again there was the alarm and ifight. And so they passed the afternoon, but circled ever more

and more to the south, so that when the sun was low they were, as Jo had expected, not far from Alamosa

Arroyo. The band was again close at hand, and Jo, after starting them off, rode to the wagon, while his pard,

After supper the wagon moved on to the upper ford of the Alamosa, as arranged, and there camped for the

Meanwhile, Charley followed the herd. They had not run so far as at first, for their pursuer made no sign of

attack, and they were getting used to his company. They were more easily found, as the shadows fell, on

account of a snowwhite mare that was in the bunch. A young moon in the sky now gave some help, and

relying on his horse to choose the path, Charley kept him quietly walking after the herd, represented by that

ghostwhite mare, till they were lost in the night. He then got off, unsaddled and picketed his horse, and in

At the first streak of dawn he was up, and within a short halfmile, thanks to the snowy mare, he found the

band. At his approach, the shrill neigh of the Pacer bugled his troop into a flying squad. But on the first mesa

they stopped, and faced about to see what this persistent follower was, and what he wanted. For a moment or

so they stood against the sky to gaze, and then deciding that he knew him as well as he wished to, that black

meteor flung his mane on the wind, and led off at his tireless, even swing, while the mares came streaming

Away they went, circling now to the west, and after several repetitions of this same play, flying, following,

and overtaking, and flying again, they passed, near noon, the old Apache lookout, Buffalo Bluff. Anti here,

on watch, was Jo. A long thin column of smoke told Charley to come to camp, and with a flashing

pocketmirror he made response. Jo, freshly mounted, rode across, and again took up the chase, and back

All that day Jo followed, and managed, when it was needed, that the herd should keep the great cirde, of

which the wagon cut a small chord. At sundown he came to Verde Crossing, and there was Charley with a

fresh horse and food, and Jo went on in the same calm, dogged way. All the evening he followed, and far into

the night, for the wild herd was now getting somewhat used to the presence of the harmless strangers, and

were more easily followed; moreover, they were thing out with perpetual traveling. They were no longer in

the good grass country, they were not grain.fed like the horses on their track, and above all, the slight but

continuous nervous tension was surely telling. It spoiled their appetities, but made them very thirsty. They

were allowed, and as far as possible encouraged, to drink deeply at every chance. The effect of large

quantities of water on a running animal is well known; it tends to stiffen the limbs and spoil the wind. Jo

carefully guarded his own horse against such excess, and both he and his horse were fresh when they camped

At dawn he found them easily close at hand, and though they ran at first they did not go far before

theydropped into a walk. The battle seemed nearly won now, for the chief difficulty in the 'walkdown' is to

All that morning Jo kept in sight, generally in close sight, of the band. About ten o'clock, Charley relieved

him near Jos� Peak and that day the mustangs walked only a quarter of a mile ahead with much less spirit

than the day before and circled now more north again. At night Charley was supplied with a fresh horse and

Next day the mustangs walked with heads held low, and in spite of the efforts of the Black Pacer at times

The fourth and fifth days passed the same way, and now the herd was nearly back to Antelope Springs. So far

all had come out as expected. The chase had been in a great circle with the wagon following a lesser circle.

The wild herd was back to its startingpoint, worn out; and the hunters were back, fresh and on fresh horses.

The herd was kept from drinking till late in the afternoon and then driven to the Springs to swell themselves

with a perfect water gorge. Now was the chance for the skilful ropers on the grainfed horses to close in, for

the sudden heavy drink was ruination, almost paralysis, of wind and limb, and it would be easy to rope and

There was only one weak spot in the programme, the Black Stallion, the cause of the hunt, seemed made of

iron, that ceaseless swinging pace seemed as swift and vigorous now as on the morning when the chase

began. Up and down he went rounding up the herd and urging them on by voice and example to escape. But

they were played out. The old white mare that had been such help in sighting them at night, had dropped out

hours ago, dead beat. The halfbloods seemed to be losing all fear of the horsemen, the band was clearly in

Jo's power. But the one who was the prize of all the hunt seemed just as far as ever out of reach.

Here was a puzzle. Jo's comrades knew him well and would not have been surprised to see him in a sudden

rage attempt to shoot the Stallion down. But Jo had no such mind. During that long week of following he had

The horseman's adoration of a noble horse had grown and grown, till now he would as soon have thought of

Jo even asked himself whether he would take the handsome sum that was offered for the prize. Such an

But the prize was still at largethe time had come to finish up the hunt. Jo's finest mount was caught. She

was a mare of Eastern blood, but raised on the plains. She never would have come into Jo's possession but for

a curious weakness. The loco is a poisonous weed that grows in these regions. Most stock will not touch it;

It acts somewhat like morphine, but the animal, though sane for long intervals, has always a passion for the

herb and finally dies mad. A beast with the craze is said to be locoed. And Jo's best mount had a wild gleam

But she was swift and strong and Jo chose her for the grand finish of the chase. It would have been an easy

matter now to rope the mares, but was no longer necessary. They could be separated from their black leader

and driven home to the corral. But that leader still had the look of untamed strength. Jo, rejoicing in a worthy

foe, went bounding forth to try the odds. The lasso was flung on the ground and trailed to take out every kink,

and gathered as he rode into neatest coils across his left palm. Then putting on the spur the first time in that

chase he rode straight for the Stallion a quarter of a mile beyond. Away he went, and away went Jo, each at

his best, while the faggedout mares scattered right and left and let them pass. Straight across the open plain

It was incredible, and Jo put on more spur and shouted to his horse, which fairly flew, but shortened up the

space between by not a single inch. For the Black One whirled across the flat and up and passed a soapweed

mesa and down across a sandy treacherous plain, then over a grassy stretch where prairie dogs barked, then

hid below, and on came Jo, but there to see, could he believe his eyes, the Stallion's start grown longer still,

and Jo began to curse his luck, and urge and spur his horse until the poor uncertain brute got in~to such a

state of nervous fright, her eyes began to roll, she wildly shook her head from side to side, no longer picked

her grounda badgerhole received her foot and down she went, and Jo went flying to the earth. Though

badly bruised, he gained his feet and tried to mount his crazy beast. But she, poor brute, was done forher

There was but one thing to do. Jo loosed the cinch, put Lightfoot out of pain, and carried back the saddle to

This was not quite defeat, for all the mares were manageable now, and Jo and Charley drove them carefully

to the 'L cross F' corra' nd claimed a good reward. But Jo was more than ever bound to own the Stallion. He

had seen what stuff he was made of, he prized him more and more, and only sought to strike

The cook on that trip was BatesMr. Thomas Bates, he called himself at the postoffice where he regularly

went for the letters and remittance which never came. Old Tom Turkeytrack, the boys called him, from his

cattlebrand, which he said was on record at Denver, and which, according to his story, was also borne by

When asked to join the trip as a partner, Bates made some sarcastic remarks about horses not fetching $12 a

and he preferred to go on a very meagre salary. But no one who once saw the Pacer going had failed to catch

the craze. Turkeytrack experienced the usual change of heart. He now wanted to own that mustang. How this

was to be brought about he did not clearly see till one day there called at the ranch that had 'secured his

as Horseshoe Billy, from his cattlebrand. While the excellent fresh beef and bread and the vile coffee, dried

peaches and molasses were being consumed, he of the horsshoe remarked, in tones which percolated through

"Don't you be led into no sich foolishness," said a 'doublebar H' cowpuncher at the other end of the table.

"You'll have to be pretty spry or you'll find a 'triangle dot' on his weather side when you get there."

"Wail, it was like this; I was riding the flat by Antelope Springs and I sees a lump on the dry mud inside the

rush belt. 1 knowed I never seen that before, so I rides up, thinking it might be some of our stock, an' seen it

was a horse lying plumb flat. The wind was blowing likefrom him to me, so I rides up close and seen it

was the Pacer, dead as a mackerel. Still, he didn't look swelled or cut, and there wa'n't no smell, an' I didn't

know what to think till I seen his ear twitch off a fly and then I knowed he was sleeping. I gits down me rope

and coils it, and seen it was old and pretty shaky in spots, and me saddle a single cinch, an' me pony about

700 again a 1,200 lbs. stallion, an' I sez to meseif, sez I: 'Tain't no use, I'll only break me cinch and git

throwed an' lose me saddle.' So I hits the saddlehorn a crack with the hondu, and I wish't you'd a seen that

mustang. He lept six foot in the air an' snorted like he was shunting cars. His eyes fairly bugged out an' he

lighted out lickety split for California, and he orter be there about now if he kep' on like he startedand I

The story was not quite so consecutive as given here. It was much punctuated by present engrossments, and

from first to last was more or less infiltrated through the necessaries of life, for Bill was a healthy young man

without a trace of false shame. But the account was cornplete and everyone believed it, for Billy was known

to be reliable. Of all those who heard, old Turkeytrack talked the least and probably thought the most, for it

During his afterdinner pipe he studied it out and deciding that he could not go it alone, he took Horseshoe

Billy into his council and the result was a partnership in a new venture to capture the Pacer; that is, the $5,000

Antelope Springs was still the usual wateringplace of the Pacer. The water being low left a broad belt of dry

black mud between the sedge and the spring. At two places this belt was broken by a wellmarked trail made

by the animals coming to drink. Horses and wild animals usually kept to these trails, though the horned cattle

In the most used of these trails the two men set to work with shovels and dug a pit 15 feet long, 6 feet wide

and 7 feet deep. It was a hard twenty hours work for them as it had to be completed between the Mustang's

drinks, and it began to be very damp work before it was finished. With poles, brush, and earth it was then

cleverly covered over and concealed. And the men went to a distance and bid in pits made for the purpose.

About noon the Pacer came, alone now since the cap. ture of his band. The trail on the opposite side of the

mud belt was little used, and old Tom, by throwing some fresh rushes across it, expected to make sure that

the Stallion would enter by the other, if indeed he should by any caprice try to come by the unusual path.

What sleepless angel is it watches over and cares for the wild animals? In spite of all reasons to take the usual

path, the Pacer came along the other. The suspiciouslooking rushes did not stop him; he walked calmly to

the water and drank. There was only one way now to prevent utter failure; when he lowered his head for the

second draft which horses always take, Bates and Smith quit their holes and ran swiftly toward the trail

behind him, and when he raised his proud head Smith sent a revolver shot into the ground behind him.

Away went the Pacer at his famous gait straight to the trap. Another second and he would be into it. Already

he is on the trail, and already they feel they have him, but the Angel of the wild things is with him, that

incomprehensible warning comes, and with one mighty bound he clears the fifteen feet of treacherous ground

and spurns the earth as he fades away unharmed, never again to visit Antelope Springs by either of the beaten

Wild Jo never lacked energy. He meant to catch that Mustang, and when he learned that others were be

stirring themselves for the same purpose he at once set about trying the best untried plan he knewthe plan

by which the coyote catches the fleeter jackrabbit, and the mounted Indian the far swifter antelopethe old

The Canadian River on the south, its affluent, the Pinavetitos Arroyo, on the northeast, and the Don Carlos

Hills with the Ute Creek Ca�on on the west, formed a sixtymile triangle that was the range of the Pacer. It

was believed that he never went outside this, and at all times Antelope Springs was his headquarters.

Jo knew this country well, all the waterholes and canon crossings as well as the ways of the Pacer.

If he could have gotten fifty good horses he could have posted them to advantage so as to cover all points, but

The horses, grainfed for two weeks before, were sent on ahead; each man was instructed how to play his

part and sent to his post the day before the race. On the day of the start Jo with his wagon drove to the plain

At last he came, that coalblack Horse, out from the sandhills at the south, alone as always now, and walked

calmly down to the Springs and circled quite around it to sniff for any hidden foe. Then he approached where

Jo watched and wished that he would drink a hogshead. But the moment that he turned and sought the grass

Jo spurred his steed. The Pacer heard the hoofs, then saw the running horse, and did not want a nearer view

but led away. Across the flat he went down to the south, and kept the famous swinging gait that made his

start grow longer. Now through the sandy dunes he went, and steadying to an even pace he gained

considerably and Jo's tooladen horse plunged through the sand and sinking fetlock deep, he lost at every

bound. Then came a level stretch where the runner seemed to gain, and then a long decline where Jo's horse

But on they went, and Jo spared neither spur nor quirt. A milea mileand another mile, and the faroff

And there Jo knew fresh mounts were held, and on they dashed. But the nightblack mane out level on the

Arriba Canon reached at last, the watcher stood aside, for it was not wished to turn the race, and the Stallion

passeddashed down, across and up the slope, with that unbroken pace, the only one he knew.

And Jo came bounding on his foaming steed, and on the waiting mount, then urged him dowh the slope and

up upon the track, and on the upland once more drove in the spurs, and raced and raced, and raced, but not a

Galump, galump, galump. with measured beat he wentan houran hour, and another hourArroyo

Alamosa just ahead with fresh relays, and Jo yelled at his horse and pushed him on and on. Straight for the

place the Black One made, but on the last two miles some strange foreboding turned him to the left, and Jo

foresaw escape in this, and pushed his jaded mount at any cost to head him off, and hard as they had raced

this was the hardest race of all, with gasps for breath and leather squeaks at every straining bound. Then

cutting right across, Jo seemed to gain, and drawing his gun he fired shot after shot to toss the dust, and so

turned the Stallion's head and forced him back to take the crossing to the right.

Down they went. The Stallion crossed and Jo sprang to the ground. His horse was done, for thirty miles had

passed in the last stretch, and Jo himself was worn out. His eyes were burnt with flying alkali dust. He was

half blind so he motioned to his 'pard' to "go ahead and keep him straight for Alamosa ford."

Out shot the rider on a strong, fresh steed, and away they wentup and down on the rolling plainthe

Black Horse flecked with snowy foam. His heaving ribs and noisy breath showed what he feltbut on and

And Tom on Ginger seemed to gain, then lose and lose, when in an hour the long decline of Alamosa came.

And there a freshly mounted lad took up the chase and turned it west, and on they went past towns of prairie

dogs, through soapweed tracts and cactus brakes by scores, and pricked and wrenched rode on. With dust and

sweat the Black was now a dappled brown, but still he stepped the same. Young Carrington, who followed,

bad hurt his steed by pushing at the very start, and spurred and urged him now to cut across a gulch at which

This was close to old Gallego's ranch where Jo himself had cut across refreshed to push the chase. Within

Far in the west the Carlos Hills were seen, and there Jo knew fresh men and mounts were waiting, and that

way the indomitable rider tried to turn, the race, but by a sudden whim, of the inner warning born perhaps

the Pacer turned. Sharp to the north he went, and Jo, the skilful wrangler, rode and rode and yelled and tossed

the dust with shots, but down on a gulch the wild black meteor streamed and Jo could only follow. Then

came the hardest race of all; Jo, cruel to the Mustang, was crueller to his mount and to himself. The sun was

hot, the scorching plain was dim in shimmering heat, his eyes and lips were burnt with sand and salt, and yet

the chase sped on. The only chance to win would be if he could drive the Mustang back to the Big Arroyo

Crossing. Now almost for the first time he saw signs of weakening in the Black. His mane and tail were not

just quite so high, and his short half mile of start was down by more than half, but still he stayed ahead and

An hour and another hour, and still they went the same. But they turned again, and night was near when Big

Arroyo ford was reachedfully twenty miles. But Jo was game, he seized the waiting horse. The one he left

Then Jo held back in hopes the foaming Black would drink. But he was wise; he gulped a single gulp,

splashed through the stream and then passed on with Jo at speed behind him. And when they last were seen

It was morning when Jo came to camp on foot. His tale was briefly told:eight horses deadfive men worn

"Tain't possible; it can't be done. Sorry I didn't bore his hellish carcass through when I had the chance," said

Old Turkeytrack was cook on this trip. He had watched the chase with as much interest as anyone, and when

it failed he grinned into the pot and said: "That mustang's mine unless I'm a darned fool." Then falling back

"Reckon the Philistines tried to run Samson down and they got done up, an' would a stayed don ony for a

nat'ral weakness on his part. An' Adam would a loafed in Eden yit it ony for a leetle failing, which we all

Much persecution had made the Pacer wilder than ever. But it did not drive him away from Antelope Springs.

That was the only drinkingplace with absolutely no shelter for a mile on every side to hide an enemy. Here

he came almost every day about noon, and after thoroughly spying the land approached to drink.

His had been a lonely life all winter since the capture of his harem, and of this old Turkeytrack was fully

aware. The old cook's chum had a nice little brown mare which he judged would serve his ends, and taking a

pair of the strongest hobbles, a spade, a spare lasso, and a stout post he mounted the mare and rode away to

A few antelope skimmed over the plain before him in the early freshness of the day. Cattle were lying about

in groups, and the loud, sweet song of the prairie lark was' heard on every side. For the bright snowless

winter of the mesas was gone and the springtime was at hand. The grass was greening and all nature seemed

It was in the air, and when the little brown mare was picketed out to graze she raised her nose from time to

time to pour forth a long shrill whinny that surely was her song, if song she had, of love.

Old Turkeytrack studied the wind and the lay of the land. There was the pit he had labored at, now opened

and filled with water that was rank with drowned prairie dogs and mice. Here was the new trail the animals

were forced to make by the pit. He selected a sedgy clump near some smooth, grassy ground, and first firmly

sunk the post, then dug a hole large enough to hide in, and spread his blanket in it. He shortened up the little

mare's tether, till she could scarcely move; then on the ground between he spread his open lasso, tying the

long end to the post, then covered the rope with dust and grass, and went into his hidingplace.

About noon, after long waiting, the amorous whinny of the mare was answered from the high ground, away

Down he came at that long swinging gait, but grown crafty with much pursuit, he often stopped to gaze and

Nearer he came again to call, then took alarm, and paced all around in a great circle to try the wind for his

foes, and seemed in doubt. The Angel whispered "Don't go." But the brown mare called again. He circled

nearer still, and neighed once more, and got reply that seemed to quell all fears, and set his heart aglow.

Nearer still he pranced, till he touched Soiiy's nose with his own, and finding her as responsive as he well

could wish, thrust aside all thoughts of danger, and abandoned himself to the delight of conquest, until, as he

pranced around, his hind legs for a moment stood within the evil circle of the rope. One deft sharp twitch, the

A snort of terror and a bound in the air gave Tom the chance to add the double hitch. The loop flashed up the

Terror lent speed and double strength for a moment, but the end of the rope was reached, and down he went a

captive, a hopeless prisoner at last. Old Tom's ugly, little crooked form sprang from the pit to complete the

mastering of the great glorious creature whose mighty strength had proved as nothing when matched with the

wits of a little old man. With snorts and desperate bounds of awful force the great beast dashed and struggled

The second lasso was deftly swung, and the forefeet caught, and then with a skilful move the feet were drawn

together, and down went the raging Pacer to lie a moment later 'hogtied' and helpless on the ground. There

he struggled till worn out, sobbing great convulsive sobs while tears ran down his cheeks.

Tom stood by and watched, but a strange revulsion of feeling came over the old cowpuncher. He trembled

nervously from head to foot, as he had not done since he roped his first steer, and for a while could do

nothing but gaze on his tremendous prisoner. But the feeling soon passed away. He saddled Delilah, and

taking the second lasso, roped the great horse about the neck, and left the mare to hold the Stallion's head,

while he put on the hobbles. This was soon done, and sure of him now old Bates was about to loose the ropes,

but on a sudden thought he stopped. He had quite forgotten, and had come unprepared for something of

importance. In Western law the Mustang was the property of the first man to mark him with his brand; how

Old Tom went to his mare, took up her hoofs one at a time, and examined each shoe. Yes! one was a little

loose; he pushed and pried it with the spade, and got it off. Buffalo chips and kindred fuel were plentiful

about the plain, so a fire was quickly made, and he soon had one arm of the horseshoe red hot, then holding

the other wrapped in his sock he rudely sketched on the left shoulder of the helpless mustang a turkeytrack,

his brand, the first time really that it had ever been used. The Pacer shuddered as the hot iron seared his flesh,

but it was quickly done, and the famous Mustang Stallion was a maverick no more.

Now all there was to do was to take him home. The ropes were loosed, the Mustang felt himself freed,

thought he was free, and sprang to his feet only to fall as soon as he tried to take a stride. His forefeet were

strongly tied together, his only possible gait a shuffling walk, or else a desperate labored bounding with feet

so unnaturally held that within a few yards he was inevitably thrown each time he tired to break away. Tom

on the light pony headed him off again and again, and by dint of driving, threatening, and manceuvring,

contrived to force his foaming, crazy captive northward toward the Pinavetitos Ca�on. But the wild horse

would not drive, would not give in. With snorts of terror or of rage and maddest bounds, he tried and tried to

get away. It was one long cruel fight; his glossy sides were thick with dark foam, and the foam was stained

with blood. Countless hard falls and exhaustion that a long day's chase was powerless to produce were telling

on him; his straining bounds first this way and then that, were not now quite so strong, and the spray he

snorted as he gasped was half a spray of blood. But his captor, relentless, masterful and cool, still forced him

on. Down the slope toward the ca�on they had come, every yard a fight, and now they were at the head of the

draw that took the trail down to the only crossing of the canon, the northmost limit of the Pacer's andent

From this the first corral and ranchhouse were in sight. The man rejoiced, but the Mustang gathered his

remaining strength for one more desperate dash. Up, up the grassy slope from the trail he went, defied the

swinging, slashing rope and the gunshot fired in air, in vain attempt to turn his frenzied course. Up, up and

on, above the sheerest cliff he dashed then sprang away into the vacant air, downdowntwo hundred

WULLY WAS a little yaller dog. A yaller dog, be it understood, is not necessarily the same as a yellow dog.

He is not simply a canine whose capillary covering is highly charged with yellow pigment. He is the

mongrelest mixture of all mongrels, the least common multiple of all dogs, the breedless union of all breeds,

and though of no breed at all, he is yet of older, better breed than any of his aristocratic relations, for be is

Indeed, the scientific name of the jackal (Canis aureus) means simply 'yellow dog,' and not a few of that

animal's characteristics are seen in his domesticated representative. For the plebeian cur is shrewd, active, and

hardy, and far better equipped for the real struggle of life than any of his 'thoroughbred' kinsmen.

If we were to abandon a yaller dog, a greyhound, and a bulldog on a desert island, which of them after six

months would be alive and well? Unquestionably it would be the despised yellow cur. He has not the speed

of the greyhound, but neither does he bear the seeds of lung and skin diseases. He has not the strength or

reckless courage of the bulldog, but he has something a thousand times better, he has common sense. Health

and wit are no mean equipment for the life struggle, and when the dogworld is not 'managed' by man, they

have never yet failed to bring out the yellow mongrel as the sole and triumphant survivor.

Once in a while the reversion to the jackal type is more complete, and the yaller dog has pricked and pointed

ears. Beware of him then. He is cunning and plucky and can bite like a wolf. There is a strange, wild streak in

his nature too, that under cruelty or long adversity may develop into deadliest treachery in spite of the better

Away up in the Cheviots little Wully was born. He and one other of the litter were kept; his brother because

he resembled the best dog in the vicinity, and himself because he was a little yellow beauty.

His early life was that of a sheepdog, in company with an experienced collie who trained him, and an old

shepherd who was scarcely inferior to them in intelligence. By the time he was two years old Wully was full

grown and had taken a thorough course in sheep. He knew them from ramhorn to lambhoof, and old

Robin, his master, at length had such confidence in his sagacity that he would frequently stay at the tavern all

night while Wully guarded the woolly idiots in the hills. His education had been wisely bestowed and in most

ways he was a very bright little dog with a future before him, Yet he never learned to despise that addlepated

Robin. The old shepherd, with all his faults, his continual striving after his ideal stateintoxicationand his

mindshrivelling life in general was rarely brutal to Wully, and Wully repaid him with an exaggerated

Wully could not have imagined any greater being than Robin, and yet for the sum of five shillings a week all

Robin's vital energy and mental force were pledged to the service of a not very great cattle and sheep dealer,

the real proprietor of Wully's charge, and when this man, really less great than the neighboring laird, or dered

Robin to drive his flock by stages to the Yorkshire moors and markets, of all the 376 mentalities concerned, if

The journey through Northumberland was uneventful. At the River Tyne the sheep were driven on to the

ferry and landed safely in smoky South Shields. The great factory chimneys were just starting up for the day

and belching out fogbanks and thunderrollers of opaque leaden smoke that darkened the air and hung low

like a stormcloud over the streets. The sheep thought that they recognized the fuming dun of an unusually

heavy Cheviot storm. They became alarmed, and in spite of their keepers stampeded through the town in 374

Robin was vexed to the inmost recesses of his tiny soul. He stared stupidly after the sheep for half a minute,

then gave the order, "Wully, fetch them in." After this mental effort he sat down, lit his pipe, and taking out

To Wully the voice of Robin was the voice of God. Away he ran in 374 different directions, and headed off

and rounded up the 374 different wanderers, and brought them back to the ferryhouse before Robin, who

Finally Wullynot Robingave the sign that all were in. The old shepherd proceeded to count them370,

"Wully," he said reproachfully, "thar no' a' here. Thur's anither." And Wully, stung with shame, bounded off

to scour the whole city for the missing one. He was not long gone when a small boy pointed out to Robin that

the sheep were all there, the whole 374. Now Robin was in a quandary. His order was to hasten on to

Yorkshire, and yet he knew that Wully's pride would prevent his coming back without another sheep, even if

he had to steal it. Such things had happened before, and resulted in embarrassing complications. What should

There was five shillings a week at stake. Wully was a good dog, it was a pity to lose him, but then, his orders

from the master; and again, if Wully stole an extra sheep to make up the number, then whatin a foreign

land too? He decided to abandon Wully, and push on alone with the sheep. And how he fared no one knows

Meanwhile, Wully careered through miles of streets hunting in vain for his lost sheep. All day he searched,

and at night, famished and worn out, he sneaked shamefacedly back to the ferry, only to find that master and

sheep had gone. His sorrow was pitiful to see. He ran about whimpering, then took the ferryboat across to the

other side, and searched everywhere for Robin. He returned to South Shields and searched there, and spent

the rest of the night seeking for his wretched idol. The next day he continued his search, he crossed and

recrossed the river many times. He watched and smelt everyone that came over, and with significant

shrewdness he sought unceasingly in the neighboring taverns for his master. The next day he set to work

The ferry makes fifty trips a day, with an average of one hundred persons a trip, yet never once did Wully fail

to be on the gangplank and smell every pair of legs that crossed5,000 pairs, 10,000 legs that day did

Wully examine after his own fashion. And the next day, and the next, and all the week he kept his post, and

seemed indifferent to feeding himself. Soon starvation and worry began to tell on him. He grew thin and

illtempered. No one could touch him, and any attempt to interfere with his daily occupation of legsmelling

Day after day, week after week Wully watched and waited for his master, who never came. The ferry men

learned to respect Wully's fidelity. At first he scorned their proffered food and shelter, and lived no one knew

how, but starved to it at last, he accepted the gifts and learned to tolerate the givers. Although embittered

Fourteen months afterward I made his acquaintance. He was still on rigid duty at his post. He had regained

his good looks. His bright, keen face set off by his white ruff and pricked ears made a dog to catch the eye

anywhere. But he gave me no second glance, once he found my legs were not those he sought, and in spite of

my friendly overtures during the ten months following that he continued his watch. I got no farther into his

For two whole years did this devoted creature attend that ferry. There was only one thing to prevent him

going home to the hills, not the distance nor the chance of getting lost, but the conviction that Robin, the

But he crossed the water as often as he felt it would serve his purpose. The fare for a dog was one penny, and

it was calculated that Wully owed the company hundreds of pounds before he gave up his quest. He never

failed to sense every pair of nethers that crossed the gangplank6,000,000 legs by computation had been

His unswerving fidelity never faltered, though his temper was obviously souring under the long strain.

We had never heard what became of Robin, but one day a sturdy drover strode down the ferryslip and

Wully mechanically assaying the new personality, suddenly started, his mane bristled, he trembled, a low

One of the ferry hands not understanding, called to the stranger, "Hoot mon, ye maunna hort oor dawg."

"Whaes hortin 'im, ye fule; he is mair like to hort me." But further explanation was not necessary. Wully's

manner had wholly changed. He fawned on the drover, and his tail was wagging violently for the first time in

years. A few words made it all clear. Dorley, the drover, had known Robin very well, and the mittens and

comforter he wore were of Robin's own make and had once been part of his wardrobe. Wully recognized the

traces of his master, and despairing of any nearer approach to his lost idol, he abandoned his post at the ferry

and plainly announced his intention of sticking to the owner of the mittens, and Dorley was well pleased to

take Wully along to his home among the hills of Derbyshire, where he became once more a sheepdog in

Monsaldale is one of the bestknown valleys in Derbyshire. The Pig and Whistle is its single but celebrated

inn, and Jo Greatorex, the landlord, is a shrewd and sturdy Yorkshireman. Nature meant him for a

frontiersman, but circumstances made him an innkeeper and his inborn tastes made him awell, never mind;

Wully's new home was on the upland east of the valley above Jo's inn, and that fact was not without weight in

bringing me to Monsaldale. His master, Doricy, farmed in a small way on the lowland, and on the moors had

a large number of sheep. These Wully guarded with his oldtime sagacity, watching them while they fed and

bringing them to the fold at night. He was reserved and preoccupied for a dog, and rather too ready to show

his teeth to strangers, but he was so unremitting in his attention to his flock that Dorley did not lose a lamb

that year, although the neighboring farmers paid the usual tribute to eagles and to foxes.

The dales are poor foxhunting country at best. The rocky ridges, high stone walls, and precipices are too

numerous to please the riders, and the final retreats in the rocks are so plentiful that it was a marvel the foxes

did not overrun Monsaldale. But they didn't. There had been but little reason for complaint until the year

1881, when a sly old fox quartered himself on the fat parish, like a mouse inside a cheese, and laughed

equally at the hounds of the huntsmen and the lurchers of the farmers. He was several times run by the Peak

hounds, and escaped by making for the Devil's Hole. Once in this gorge, where the cracks in the rocks extend

unknown distances, he was safe. The country folk began to see something more than chance in the fact that

he always escaped at the Devil's Hole, and when one of the hounds who nearly caught this Devil's Fox soon

He continued his career of rapine, making audacious raids and hairbreadth escapes, and finally began, as do

many old foxes, to kill from a mania for slaughter. Thus it was that Digby lost ten lambs in one night. Carroll

lost seven the next night. Later, the vicarage duckpond was wholly devastated, and scarcely a night passed

but someone in the region had to report a carnage of poultry, lambs or sheep, and, finally even calves.

Of course all the slaughter was attributed to this one fox of the Devil's Hole. It was known only that he was a

very large fox, at least one that made a very large track. He never was clearly seen, even by the huntsmen.

And it was noticed that Thunder and Bell, the stanchest hounds in the pack, had refused to tongue or even to

His reputation for madness sufficed to make the master of the Peak hounds avoid the neighborhood. The

farmers in Monsaldale, led by Jo, agreed among themselves that if it would only come on a snow, they would

assemble and beat the whole country, and in defiance of all rules of the hunt, get rid of the 'daft' fox in any

way they could. But the snow did not come, and the redhaired gentleman lived his life. Notwithstanding his

madness, he did not lack method. He never came two successive nights to the same farm. He never ate where

he killed, and he never left a track that betrayed his retreat. He usually finished up his night's trail on the

Once I saw him. I was walking to Monsaldale from Bakewell late one night during a heavy storm, and as I

turned the corner of Stead's sheepfold there was a vivid flash of lightning. By its light, there was fixed on

my retina a picture that made me start. Sitting on his haunches by the roadside, twenty yards away, was a

very large fox gazing at me with malignant eyes, and licking his muzzle in a suggestive manner. All this I

saw, but no more, and might have forgotten it, or thought myself mistaken, but the next morning, in that very

fold, were found the bodies of twenty.three lambs and sheep, and the unmistakable signs that brought home

There was only one man who escaped, and that was Dorley. This was the more remarkable because he lived

in the centre of the region raided, and within one mile of the Devil's Hole. Faithful Wully proved himself

worth all the dogs in the neighborhood. Night after night he brought in the sheep, and never one was missing.

The Mad Fox might prowl about the Dorley homestead if he wished, but Wully, shrewd, brave, active Wully

was more than a match for him, and not only saved his master's flock, but himself escaped with a whole skin.

Everyone entertained a profound respect for him, and he might have been a popular pet but for his temper

which, never genial, became more and more crabbed. He seemed to like Dorley, and Huldah, Dorley's eldest

daughter, a shrewd, handsome, young woman, who, in the capacity of general manager of the house, was

Wully's special guardian. The other members of Doricy's family Wully learned to tolerate, but the rest of the

His uncanny disposition was well shown in the last meeting I had with him. I was walking on a pathway

across the moor behind Dorley's house. Wully was lying on the doorstep. As I drew near he arose, and

without appearing to see me trotted toward my pathway and placed himself across it about ten yards ahead of

me. There he stood silently and intently regarding the distant moor, his slightly bristling mane the only sign

that he had not been suddenly turned to stone. He did not stir as I came up, and not wishing to quarrel, I

stepped around past his nose and walked on. Wully at once left his position and in the same eerie silence

trotted on some twenty feet and again stood across the pathway. Once more I came up and, stepping into the

grass, brushed past his nose. Instantly, but without a sound, he seized my left heel. I kicked out with the other

foot, but he escaped. Not having a stick, I flung a large stone at him. He Icaped forward and the stone struck

him in the ham, bowling him over into a ditch. He gasped out a savage growl as he fell, but scrambled out of

Yet sullen and ferocious as Wully was to the world, he was always gentle with Dorley's sheep. Many were

the tales of rescues told of him. Many a poor lamb that had fallen into a pond or hole would have perished but

for his timely and sagacious aid, many a farweltered ewe did he turn right side up; while his keen eye

discerned and his fierce courage baffled every eagle that had appeared on the moor in his time.

The Monsaldale farmers were still paying their nightly tribute to the Mad Fox, when the snow came, late in

December. Poor Widow Cdt lost her entire flock of twenty sheep, and the fiery cross went forth early in the

morning. With guns unconcealed the burly farmers set out to follow to the finish the telltale tracks in the

snow, those of a very large fox, undoubtedly the multomurderous villain. For a while the trail was clear

enough,then it came to the river and the habitual cunning of the animal was shown. He reached the water at a

long angle pointing down stream and jumped into the shallow, unfrozen current. But at the other side there

was no track leading out, and it was only after long searching that, a quarter of a mile higher up the stream,

they found where he had come out. The track then ran to the top of Henley's high stone wall, where there was

no snow left to tell tales. But the patient hunters persevered. When it crossed the smooth snow from the wall

to the high road there was a difference of opinion. Some claimed that the track went up, others down the road.

But Jo settled it, and after another long search they found where apparently the same trail, though some said a

larger one, had left the road to enter a sheepfold, and leaving this without harming the occupants, the

trackmaker had stepped in the footmarks of a countryman, thereby getting to the moor road, along which he

That day the sheep were kept in on account of the snow and Wully, without his usual occupation, was lying

on some planks in the sun. As the hunters drew near the house, he growled savagely and sneaked around to

where the sheep were. Jo Greatorex walked up to where Wully had crossed the fresh snow, gave a glance,

looked dumbfounded, then pointing to the retreating sheepdog, he said, with emphasis:

"Lads, we're off the track of the Fox. But there's the killer of the Widder's yowes"

Some agreed with Jo, others recalled the doubt in the trail and were for going back to make a fresh follow. At

"Tom," said Jo, "that dog o' thine 'as killed twenty of Widder Gelt's sheep, last night. An' ah fur one don't

"Why, mon, thou art crazy," said Tom. "Ah never 'ad a better sheepdog'e fair loves the sheep."

In vain the company related the history of the morning. Tom swore that it was nothing but a jealous

"Wully sleeps i' the kitchen every night. Never is oot till he's let to bide wi' the yowes. Why, mon, he's wi' oor

Tom became much excited over this abominable attempt against Wully's reputation and life. Jo and his

partisans got equally angry, and it was a wise suggestion of Huldah's that quieted them.

"Feyther," said she, "ah'll sleep i' the kitchen the night. If Wully 'as ae way of gettin' oot ah'll see it, an' if he's

That night Huldah stretched herself on the settee and Wully slept as usual underneath the table. As night wore

on the dog became restless. He turned on his bed and once or twice got up, stretched, looked at Huldah and

lay down again. About two o'clock he seemed no longer able to resist some strange impulse. He arose quietly,

looked toward the low window, then at the motionless girl. Huldah lay still and breathed as though sleeping.

Wully slowly came near and sniffed and breathed his doggy breath in her face. She made no move. He

nudged her gently with his nose. Then, with his sharp ears forward and his head on one side he studied her

calm face. Still no sign. He walked quietly to the window, mounted the table without noise, placed his nose

under the sashbar and raised the light frame until he could put one paw underneath. Then changing, he put

his nose under the sash and raised it high enough to slip out, easing down the frame finally on his rump and

tail with an adroitness that told of long practice. Then he disappeared into the darkness.

From her couch Huldah watched in amazement. After waiting for some time to make sure that he was gone,

she arose, intending to call her father at once, but on second thought she decided to await more conclusive

proof. She peered into the darkness, but no sign of Wully was to be seen. She put more wood on the fire, and

lay down again. For over an hour she lay wide awake listening to the kitchen clock, and starting at each

trifling sound, and wondering what the dog was doing. Could it be possible that he had really killed the

widow's sheep? Then the recollection of his gentleness to their own sheep came, and completed her

Another hour slowly ticktocked. She heard a slight sound at the window that made her heart jump. The

scratching sound was soon followed by the lifting of the sash, and in a short time Wully was back in the

By the flickering firelight Huldah could see a strange, wild gleam in his eye, and his jaws and snowy breast

were dashed with fresh blood. The dog ceased his slight panting as he scrutinized the girl. Then, as she did

not move, he lay down, and began to lick his paws and muzzle, growling lowly once or twice as though at the

Huldah had seen enough. There could no longer be any doubt that Jo was right and morea new thought

flashed into her quick brain, she realized that the weird fox of Monsal was before her. Raising herself, she

Her voice was fiercely reproachful, it rang in the quiet kitchen, and Wully recoiled as though shot. He gave a

desperate glance toward the closed window. His eye gleamed, and his mane bristled. But he cowered under

her gaze, and grovelled on the floor as though begging for mercy. Slowly he crawled nearer and nearer, as if

to lick her feet, until quite close, then, with the fury of a tiger, but without a sound, he sprang for her throat.

The girl was taken unawares, but she threw up her arm in time, and Wully's long, gleaming tusks sank into

Wully was a light weight, and for a moment she flung him off. But there could be no mistaking his purpose.

"Feyther! feyther!" she screamed, as the yellow fury, striving to kill her, bit and tore the unprotected hands

In vain she fought to hold him off, he would soon have had her by the throat, when in rushed Dorley.

Straight at him, now in the same horrid silence sprang Wully, and savagely tore him again and again before a

deadly blow from the fagothook disabled him, dashing him, gasping and writhing, on the stone floor,

desperate, and done for, but game and defiant to the last. Another quick blow scattered his brains on the

hearthstone, where so long he had been a faithful and honored retainerand Wully, bright, fierce, trusty,

treacherous Wully, quivered a moment, then straightened out, and lay forever still.

DOWN THE wooded slope of Taylor's Hill the Mother Partridge led her brood; down toward the crystal

brook that by some strange whim was called Mud Creek. Her little ones were one day old but already quick

She walked slowly, crouching low as she went, for the woods were full of enemies. She was uttering a soft

little cluck in her throat, a call to the little balls of mottled down that on their tiny pink legs came toddling

after, and peeping softly and plaintively if left even a few inches behind, and seeming so fragile they made

the very chickadees look big and coarse. There were twelve of them, but Mother Grouse watched them all,

and she watched every bush and tree and thicket, and the whole woods and the sky itself. Always for enemies

she seemed seekingfriends were too scarce to be looked forand an enemy she found. Away across the

level beaver meadow was a great brute of a fox. He was coming their way, and in a few moments would

'Krrr! Krrr!' (Hide!! Hide!) cried the mother in a low firm voice, and the little bits of things, scarcely bigger

than acorns and but a day old, scattered far (a few inches) apart to hide. One dived under a leaf, another

between two roots, a third crawled into a curl of birchbark, a fourth into a hole, and so on, till all were hidden

but one who could find no cover, so squatted on a broad yellow chip and lay very flat, and closed his eyes

very tight, sure that now he was safe from being seen. They ceased their frightened peeping and all was still.

Mother Partridge flew straight toward the dreaded beast, alighted fearlessly a few yards to one side of him,

and then flung herself on the ground, flopping as though winged and lameoh, so dreadfully lameand

whining like a distressed puppy. Was she begging for mercy mercy from a bloodthirsty, cruel fox? Oh,

dear no! She was no fool. One often hears of the cunning of the fox. Wait and see what a fool he is compared

with a motherpartridge. Elated at the prize so suddenly within his reach, the fox turned with a dash and

caughtat least, no, he didn't quite crtch the bird; she flopped by chance just a foot out of reach. 1Ic

followed with another jump and would have seized her this time surely, but somehow a sapling came just

between, and the partridge dragged herself awkwardly away and under a log, but the great brute snapped his

jaws and hounded over the log, while she, seeming a trifle less lame, made another clumsy forward spring

and tumbled down a bank, and Reynard, keenly following, almost caught her tail, but, oddly enough, fast as

he went and leaped, she still seemed just a trifle faster. It was most extraordinary. A winged partridge and he,

Reynard, the Swiftfoot, had not caught her in five minutes' racing. It was really shameful. But the partridge

seemed to gain strength as the fox put forth his, and after a quarter of a mile race, racing that was somehow

all away from Taylor's Hill, the bird got unaccountably quite well, and, rising with a derisive whirr, flew off

through the woods leaving the fox utterly dumfounded to realize that he had been made a fool of, and, worst

of all, he now remembered that this was not the first time he had been served this very trick, though he never

Meanwhile Mother Partridge skimmed in a great circle and came by a roundabout way back to the little

With a wild bird's keen memory for places, she went to the very grassblade she last trod on, and stood for a

moment fondly to admire the perfect stillness of her children. Even at her step not one had stirred, and the

little fellow on the chip, not so very badly concealed after all, had not budged, nor did he now; he only closed

'Kreet!' (Come, children) and instantly like a fairy story, every hole gave up its little babypartridge, and the

wee fellow on the chip, the biggest of them all really, opened his biglittle eyes and ran to the shelter of her

broad tail, with a sweet little 'peep peep' which an enemy could not have heard three feet away, but which his

mother could not have missed thrice as far, and all the other thimblefuls of down joined in, and no doubt

The sun was hot now. There was an open space to cross on the road to the water, and, after a careful lookout

for enemies, the mother gathered the little things under the shadow of her spread fantail and kept off all

Here a cottontail rabbit leaped out and gave them a great scare. But the flag of truce he carried behind was

enough. He was an old friend; and among other things the little ones learned that day that Bunny always sails

And then came the drink, the purest of living water, though silly men had called it Mud Creek.

At first the little fellows didn't know how to drink, but they copied their mother, and soon learned to drink

like her and give thanks after every sip. There they stood in a row along the edge, twelve little brown and

golden balls on twentyfour little pinktoed, inturned feet, with twelve sweet little golden heads gravely

Then she led them by short stages, keeping the cover, to the far side of the beavermeadow, where was a

great grassy dome. The mother had made a note of this dome some time before. It takes a number of such

domes to raise a brood of partridges. For this was an ant's nest. The old one stepped on top, looked about a

moment, then gave half a dozen vigorous rakes with her daws, The friable anthill was broken open, and the

earthen galleries scattered in ruins down the slope. The ants swarmed out and quarreled with each other for

lack of a better plan. Some ran around the hill with vast energy and little purpose, while a few of the more

sensible began to carry away fat white eggs. But the old partridge, coming to the little ones, picked up one of

these juicylooking bags and clucked and dropped it, and picked it up again and again and clucked, then

swallowed it. The young ones stood around, then one little yellow fellow, the one that sat on the chip, picked

up an antegg, dropped it a few times, then yielding to a sudden impulse, swallowed it, and so had learned to

eat. Within twenty minutes even the runt bad learned, and a merry time they had scrambling after the

delicious eggs as their mother broke open more antgalleries, and sent them and their contents rolling down

the bank, till every little partridge had so crammed his little crop that he was positively misshapen and could

Then all went cautiously up the stream, and on a sandy bank, well screened by brambles, they lay for all that

afternoon, and learned how pleasant it was to feel the cool powdery dust running between their hot little toes.

With their strong bent for copying, they lay on their sides like their mother and scratched with their tiny feet

and flopped with their wings, though they had no wings to flop with, only a little tag among the down on

each side, to show where the wings would come. That night she took them to a dry thicket near by, and there

among the crisp, dead leaves that would prevent an enemy's silent approach on foot, and under the interlacing

briers that kept off all foes of the air, she cradled them in their feathershingled nursery and rejoiced in the

fulness of a mother's joy over the wee cuddling things that peeped in their sleep and snuggled so trustfully

The third day the chicks were much stronger on their feet. They no longer had to go around an acorn; they

could even scramble over pinecones, and on the little tags that marked the places for their wings, were now

Their start in life was a good mother, good legs, a few reliable instincts, and a germ of reason. It was instinct,

that is, inherited habit, which taught them to hide at the word from their mother; it was instinct that taught

them to follow her, but it was reason which made them keep under the shadow of her tail when the sun was

smiting down, and from that day reason entered more and more into their expanding lives.

Next day the bloodquills had sprouted the tips of feathers. On the next, the feathers were well Out, and a

And yet not allpoor little Runtie had been sickly from the first. He bore his halfshell on his back for hours

after he came out; he ran less and cheeped more than his brothers, and when one evening at the onset of a

skunk the mother gave the word 'Kwit, kwit' (Fly, fly), Runtie was left behind, and when she gathered her

Meanwhile, their training had gone on. They knew that the finest grasshoppers abounded in the long grass by

the brook; they knew that the currantbushes dropped fatness in the form of smooth, green worms; they knew

that the dome of an anthill rising against the distant woods stood for a garner of plenty; they knew that

strawberries, though not really insects, were almost as delicious; they knew that the huge danaid butterflies

were good, safe game, if they could only catch them, and that a slab of bark dropping from the side of a rotten

log was sure to abound in good things of many different kinds; and they had learned, also, that

yellowjackets, mudwasps, woolly worms, and hundredleggers were better let alone.

It was now July, the Moon of Berries. The chicks had grown and flourished amazingly during this last month,

and were now so large that in her efforts to cover them the mother was kept standing all night.

They took their daily dustbath, but of late had changed to another higher on the hill. It was one in use by

many different birds, and at first the mother disliked the Idea of such a secondhand bath. But the dust was of

such a fine, agreeable quality, and the children led the way with such enthusiasm, that she forgot her mistrust.

After a fortnight the little ones began to droop and she herself did not feel very well. They were always

hungry, and though they ate enormously, they one and all grew thinner and thinner. The mother was the last

to be affected. But when it came, it came as hard on her a ravenous hunger, a feverish headache, and a

wasting weakness. She never knew the cause. She could not know that the dust of the muchused dustbath,

that her true instinct taught her to mistrust at first, and now again to shun, was sown with parasitic worms,

No natural impulse is without a purpose. The motherbirds knowledge of healing was only to follow natural

impulse. The eager, feverish craving for something, she knew not what, led her to eat, or try, everything that

looked eatable and to seek the coolest woods. And there she found a deadly sumac laden with its poison fruit.

A month ago she would have passed it by, but now she tried the unattractive berries. The acrid burning juice

seemed to answer some strange demand of her body; she ate and ate, and all her family joined in the strange

feast of physic. No human doctor could have hit it better; it proved a biting, drastic purge, the dreadful secret

foe was downed, the danger passed. But not for all Nature, the old nurse, had come too late for two of

them. The weakest, by inexorable law, dropped out. Enfeebled by the disease, the remedy was too severe for

them. They drank and drank by the stream, and next morning did not move when the others followed the

mother. Strange vengeance was theirs now, for a skunk, the same that could have told where Runtie went,

Seven little partridges now obeyed the mother's call. Their individual characters were early shown and now

developed fast. The weaklings were gone, but there were still a fool and a lazy one. The mother could not

help caring for some more than for others, and her favorite was the biggest, he who once sat on the yellow

chip for concealment. He was not only the biggest, strongest, and handsomest of the brood, but best of all, the

most obedient. His mother's warning 'rrrrr' (danger) did not always keep the others from a risky path or a

doubtful food, but obedience seemed natural to him, and he never failed to respond to her soft 'Kreet'

(Come), and of this obedience he reaped the reward, for his days were longest in the land.

August, the Molting Moon, went by; the young ones were now three parts grown. They knew just enough to

think themselves wonderfully wise. When they were small it was necessary to sleep on the ground so their

mother could shelter them, but now they were too big to need that, and the mother began to introduce

grownup ways of life. It was time to roost in the trees. The young weasels, foxes, skunks, and minks were

beginning to run. The ground grew more dangerous each night, so at sundown Mother Partridge called

The little ones followed, except one, an obstinate little fool who persisted in sleeping on the ground as

heretofore. It was all right that time, but the next night his brothers were awakened by his cries. There was a

slight scuffle, then stillness, broken only by a horrid sound of crunching bones and a smacking of lips. They

peered down into the terrible darkness below, where the glint of two closeset eyes and a peculiar musty

Six little partridges now sat in a row at night, with their mother in the middle, though it was not unusual for

Their education went on, and about this time they were taught 'whirring.' A partridge can rise on the wing

silently if it wishes, but whirring is so important at times that all are taught how and when to rise on

thundering wings. Many ends are gained by the whirr. It warns all other partridges near that danger is at hand,

it unnerves the gunner, or it fixes the foe's attention on the whirrer, while the others sneak off in silence, or by

A partridge adage might well be 'foes and food for every moon.' September came, with seeds and grain in

The partridges knew well what a fox was, but had scarcely seen a dog. A fox they knew they could easily

baffle by taking to a tree, but when in the Gunner Moon old Cuddy came prowling through the ravine with

his bobtailed yellow cur, the mother spied the dog and cried out, 'Kwit! kwit!' (Fly, fly). Two of the brood

thought it a pity their mother should lose her wits so easily over a fox, and were pleased to show their

superior nerve by springing into a tree in spite of her earnestly repeated 'Kwit! kwit!' and her example of

Meanwhile, the strange bobtailed fox came under the tree and yapped and yapped at them. They were much

amused at him and at their mother and brothers, so much that they never noticed a rustling in the bushes till

there was a loud Bang! bang! and down fell two bloody, flopping partridges, to be seized and mangled by the

Cuddy lived in a wretched shanty near the Don, north of Toronto. His was what Greek philosophy would

have demonstrated to be an ideal existence. He had no wealth, no taxes, no social pretensions, and no

property to speak of. His life was made up of a very little work and a great deal of play, with as much outdoor

life as he chose. He considered himself a true sportsman because he was 'fond o' huntin',' and 'took a sight o'

comfort out of seem' the critters hit the mud, when his gun was fired. The neighbors called him a squatter,

and looked on him merely as an anchored tramp. He shot and trapped the year round, and varied his game

somewhat with the season perforce, but had been heard to remark he could tell the month by the 'taste o' the

partridges,' if he didn't happen to know by the almanac. This, no doubt, showed keen observation, but was

also unfortunate proof of something not so creditable. The lawful season for murdering partridges began

September 15th, but there was nothing surprising in Cuddy's being out a fortnight ahead of time. Yet he

managed to escape punishment year after year, and even contrived to pose in a newspaper interview as an

He rarely shot on the wing, preferring to pot his birds, which was not easy to do when the leaves were on, and

accounted for the brood in the third ravine going so long unharmed; but the near prospect of other gunners

finding them now, had stirred him to go after 'a mess o' birds.' He had heard no roar of wings when the

motherbird led off her four survivors, so pocketed the two he had killed and returned to the shanty.

The little grouse thus learned that a dog is not a fox, and must be differently played; and an old lesson was yet

The rest of September was passed in keeping quietly out of the way of gunners as well as some old enemies.

They still roosted on the long thin branches of the hardwood trees among the thickest leaves, which protected

them from foes in the air; the height saved them from foes on the ground, and left them nothing to fear but

coons, whose slow, heavy tread on the timber boughs never failed to give them timely warning. But the

leaves were falling nowevery month its foes and its food. This was nut time, and it was owl time, too.

Barred owls coming down from the north doubled or trebled the owl population. The nights were getting

frosty and the coons less dangerous, so the mother changed the place of roosting to the thickest foliage of a

Only one of the brood disregarded the warning 'Kreet, kreet.' He stuck to his swinging elmbough, now

Mother and three young ones now were left, but they were as big as she was; indeed one, the eldest, he of the

chip, was bigger. Their ruffs had begun to show. Just the tips, to tell what they would be like when grown,

The ruff is to the partridge what the train is to the peacockhis chief beauty and his pride. A hen's ruff is

black with a slight green gloss. A cock's is much larger and blacker and is glossed with more vivid

bottlegreen. Once in a while a partridge is born of unusual size and vigor, whose ruff is not only larger, but

by a peculiar kind of intensification is of a deep coppery red, iridescent with violet, green, and gold. Such a

bird is sure tobe a wonder to all who know him, and the little one who had squatted on the chip, and had

always done what he was told, developed before the Acorn Moon had changed, into all the glory of a gold

One day late in the Acorn Moon, that is, about midOctober, as the grouse family were basking with full

crops near a great pine log on the sunlit edge of the beavermeadow, they heard the faraway bang of a gun,

and Redruff, acting on some impulse from within, leaped on the log, strutted up and down a couple of times,

then, yielding to the elation of the bright, clear, bracing air, he whirred his wings in loud defiance. Then,

giving fuller vent to this expression of vigor, just as a colt frisks to show how well he feels, he whirred yet

more loudly, until, unwittingly, he found himself drumming, and tickled with the discovery of his new power,

thumped the air again and again till he filled the near woods with the loud tattoo of the fully grown

cockpartridge. His brother and sister heard and looked on with admiration and surprise, so did his mother,

In early November comes the moon of a weird foe. By a strange law of nature, not wholly without parallel

among mankind, all partridges go crazy in the November moon of their first year. They become possessed of

a mad hankering to get away somewhere,' it does not matter much where. And the wisest of them do all sorts

of foolish things at this period. They go drifting, perhaps, at speed over the country by night and are cut in

two by wires, or dash into lighthouses, or locomotive headlights. Daylight finds them in all sorts of absurd

places, in buildings, in open marshes, perched on telephone wires in a great city, or even on board of coasting

vessels. The craze seems to be a relic of a bygone habit of migration, and it has at least one good effect, it

breaks up the families and prevents the constant intermarrying, which would surely be fatal to their race. It

always takes the young badly their first year, and they may have it again the second fall, for it is very

Redruff's mother knew it was coming as soon as she saw the frost grapes blackening, and the maples

shedding their crimson and gold. There was nothing to do but care for their health and keep them in the

The first sign of it came when a flock of wild geese went honking southward overhead. The young ones had

never before seen such longnecked hawks, and were afraid of them. But seeing that their mother had no

fear, they took courage, and watched them with intense interest. Was it the wild, clanging cry that moved

them, or was it solely the inner prompting then come to the surface? A strange longing to follow took

possession of each of the young ones. They watched those arrowy trumpeters fading away to the south, and

sought out higher perches to watch them farther yet, and from that time things were no more the same. The

The least vigorous of the flock were most affected. The little family was scattered. Redruff himself flew on

several long erratic night journeys. The impulse took him southward, but there lay the boundless stretch of

Lake Ontario, so he turned again, and the waning of the Mad Moon found him once more in the Mud Creek

Food grew scarce as winter wore on. Redniff clung to the old ravine and the piney sides of Taylor's Hill, but

every month brought its food and its foes. The Mad Moon brought madness, solitude, and grapes; the Snow

Moon came with rosehips; and the Stormy Moon brought browse of birch and silver storms that sheathed the

woods in ice, and made it hard to keep one's perch while pulling off the frozen buds. Redruff's beak grew

terribly worn with the work, so that even when closed there was still an opening through behind the hook.

But nature had prepared him for the slippery footing; his toes, so slim and trim in September, had sprouted

rows of sharp, horny points, and these grew with the growing cold, till the first snow had found him fully

equipped with snowshoes and icecreepers. The cold weather had driven away most of the hawks and owls,

and made it impossible for his fourfooted enemies to approach unseen, so that things were nearly balanced.

His flight in search of food had daily led him farther on, till he had discovered and explored the Rosedale

Creek, with its banks of silverbirch, and Castle Frank, with its grapes and rowan berries, as well as Chester

woods, where amelanchier and Virginiacreeper swung their fruitbunches, and checkerberries glowed

He soon found out that for some strange reason men with guns did not go within the high fence of Castle

Frank. So among these scenes he lived his life, learning new places, new foods, and grew wiser and more

He was quite alone so far as kindred were concerned, but that scarcely seemed a hardship. Wherever he went

be could see the jolly chickadees scrambling merrily about, and he remembered the time when they had

seemed such big, important creatures. They were the most absurdly cheerful things in the woods. Before the

autumn was fairly over they had begun to sing their famous refrain, 'Spring Soon,' and kept it up with good

heart more or less all through the winter's direst storms, till at length the waning of the Hunger Moon, our

February, seemed really to lend some point to the ditty, and they dedoubled their optimistic announcement to

the world in an 'Itoldyouso' mood. Soon good support was found, for the sun gained strength and melted

the snow from the southern slope of Castle Frank Hill, and exposed great banks of fragrant wintergreen,

whose berries were a bounteous feast for Redruff, and, ending the hard work of pulling frozen browse, gave

his bill the needed chance to grow into its proper shape again. Very soon the first bluebird came flying over

and warbled as he flew 'The spring is coming.' The sun kept gaining, and early one day in the dark of the

Wakening Moon of March there was a loud 'Caw, caw,' and old Silverspot, the kingcrow, came swinging

All nature seemed to respond to this, the opening of the birds' New Year, and yet it was something within that

chiefly seemed to move them. The chickadees went simply wild; they sang their 'Spring now, spring now

nowSpring now now,' so persistently that one wondered how they found time to get a living.

And Redruff felt it thrill him through and through. He sprang with joyous vigor on a stump and sent rolling

down the little valley, again and again, a thundering 'Thump, thump, thump, thunderrrrrrrrr,' that wakened

Away down the valley was Cuddy's shanty. He heard the drumcall on the still morning air and 'reckoned

there was a cock patridge to git,' and came sneaking up the ravine with his gun. But Redruff skimmed away

in silence, nor rested till once more in Mud Creek Glen. And thcre he mounted the very log where first he had

drummed and rolled his loud tattoo again and again, till a small boy who had taken a short cut to the mill

through the woods, ran home, badly scared, to tell his mother he was sure the Indians were on the warpath,

Why does a happy boy holla? Why does a lonesome youth sigh? They don't know any more than Redruff

knew why every day now he mounted some dead log and thumped and thundered to the woods; then strutted

and admired his gorgeous blazing ruffs as they flashed their jewels in the sunlight, and then thundered out

again. Whence now came the strange wish for someone else to admire the plumes? And why had such a

Day after day he sought the favorite log, and a new beauty, a rosered comb, grew out above each clear, keen

eye, and the clumsy snowshoes were wholly shed from his feet. His ruff grew finer, his eye brighter, and his

whole appearance splendid to behold, as he strutted and flashed in the sun. Butoh! he was so lonesome

Yet what could he do but blindly vent his hankering in this daily drumparade, till on a day early in loveliest

May, when the trilliums had fringed his log with silver stars, and he had drummed and longed, then drummed

again, his keen ear caught a sound, a gentle footfall in the brush. He turned to a statue and watched; he knew

he had been watched. Could it be possible? Yes! there it wasa formanothera shy little lady grouse,

now bashfully seeking to hide. In a moment he was by her side. His whole nature swamped by a new

feelingburnt up with thirsta cooling spring in sight. And how he spread and flashed his proud array!

How came he to know that that would please? He puffed his plumes and contrived to stand just right to catch

the sun, and � strutted and uttered a low, soft chuckle that must have been as good as the 'sweet nothings' of

another race, for clearly now her heart was won. Won, really, days ago, if only he had known. For full three

days she had come at the loud tattoo and coyly admired him from afar, and felt a little piqued that he had not

yet found out her, so close at hand. So it was not quite all mischance, perhaps, that little stamp that caught his

ear. But now she meekly bowed her head with sweet, submissive gracethe desert passed, the parchburnt

Oh, those were bright, glad days in the lovely glen of the unlovely name. The sun was never so bright, and

the piney air was balmier sweet than dreams. And that great noble bird came daily on his log, sometimes with

her and sometimes quite alone, and drummed for very joy of being alive. But why sometimes alone? Why not

forever with his Brownie bride? Why should she stay to feast and play with him for hours, then take some

stealthy chance to slip away and see him no more for hours or till next day, when his martial music from the

log announced him restless for her quick return? There was a woodland mystery here he could not clear. Why

should her stay with him grow daily less till it was down to minutes, and one day at last she never came at all.

Nor the next, nor the next, and Redruff, wild, careered on lightning wing and drummed on the old log, then

away upstream on another log, and skimmed the hill to another ravine to drum and drum. But on the fourth

day, when he came and loudly called her, as of old, at their earliest tryst, he heard a sound in the bushes, as at

first, and there was his missing Brownie bride with ten little peeping partridges following after.

Redruff skimmed to her side, terribly frightening the brighteyed downlings, and was just a little dashed to

find the brood with claims far stronger than his own. But he soon accepted the change, and thenceforth joined

Good fathers are rare in the grouse world. The mothergrouse builds her nest and hatches out her young

without help. She even hides the place of the nest from the father and meets him only at the drumlog and the

feedingground, or perhaps the dustingplace, which is the clubhouse of the grouse kind.

When Brownie's little ones came out they had filled her every thought, even to the forgetting of their splendid

father. But on the third day, when they were strong enough, she had taken them with her at the father's call.

Some fathers take no interest in their little ones, but Redruff joined at once to help Brownie in the task of

rearing the brood. They had learned to eat and drink just as their father had learned long ago, and could

toddle along, with their mother leading the way, while the father ranged near by or followed far behind.

The very next day, as they went from the hillside down toward the creek in a somewhat drawnout string,

like beads with a big one at each end, a red squirrel, peeping around a pinetrunk, watched the procession of

downlings with the Run tie straggling far in the rear. Redruff, yards behind, preening his feathers on a high

log, had escaped the of the squirrel, whose strange perverted thirst for birdling blood was roused at what

seemed so fair a chance. With murderous intent to cut off the hindmost straggler, he made a dash. Brownie

could not have seen him until too late, but Redruff did. He flew for that redhaired cutthroat; his weapons

were his fists, that is, the knobjoints of the wings, and what a blow he could strike! At the first onset he

struck the squirrel square on the end of the nose, his weakest spot, and sent him reeling; he staggered and

wriggled into a brushpile, where he had expected to carry the little grouse, and there lay gasping with red

drops trickling down his wicked snout. The partridges left him lying there, and what became of him they

The family went on toward the water, but a cow had left deep tracks in the sandy loam, and into one of these

fell one of the chicks and peeped in dire distress when he found he could not get out.

This was a fix. Neither old one seemed to know what to do, but as they trampled vainly round the edge, the

sandy bank caved in, and, running down, formed a long slope, up which the young one ran and rejoined his

Brownie was a bright little mother, of small stature, but keen of wit and sense, and was, night and day, alert

to care for her darling chicks. How proudly she stepped and clucked through the arching woods with her

dainty brood behind her; how she strained her little brown tail almost to a halfcircle to give them a broader

shade, and never flinched at sight of any foe, but held ready to fight or fly, whichever seemed the best for her

Before the chicks could fly they had a meeting with old Cuddy; though it was June, he was out with his gun.

Up the third ravine he went, and Tike, his dog, ranging ahead, came so dangerously near the Brownie brood

that Redruff ran to meet him, and by the old but never failing trick led him on a foolish chase away back

But Cuddy, as it chanced, came right along, straight for the brood, and Brownie, giving the signal to the

children, 'Krrr, krrr' (Hide, hide), ran to lead the man away .just as her mate had led the dog. Full of a

mother's devoted love, and skilled in the learning of the woods, she ran in silence till quite near, then sprang

with a roar of wings right in his face, and tumbling on the leaves she shammed a lameness that for a moment

deceived the poacher. But when she dragged one wing and whined about his feet, then slowly crawled away,

he knew just what it meantthat it was all a trick to lead him from her brood, and he struck at her a savage

blow; but little Brownie was quick, she avoided the blow and limped behind a sapling, there to beat herself

upon the leaves again in sore distress, and seem so lame that Cuddy made another try to strike her down with

a stick. But she moved in time to balk him, and bravely, steadfast still to lead him from her helpless little

ones, she flung herself before him and beat her gentle breast upon the ground, and moaned as though begging

for mercy. And Cuddy, failing again to strike her, raised his gun and firing charge enough to kill a bear, he

This gunner brute knew the young must be hiding near, so looked about to find them. But no one moved or

peeped. He saw not one, but as he tramped about with heedless, hateful feet, he crossed and crossed again

their hidingground, and more than one of the silent little sufferers he trampled to death, and neither knew

Redruff had taken the yellow brute away off downstream, and now returned to where he left his mate. The

murderer had gone, taking her remains, to be thrown to the dog. Redruff sought about and found the bloody

spot with feathers, Brownie's feathers, scattered around, and now he knew the meaning of that shot.

Who can tell what his horror and his mourning were? The outward signs were few, some minutes dumbly

gazing at the place with downcast, draggled look, and then a change at the thought of their helpless brood.

Back to the hidingplace he went, and called the wellknown 'kreet, kreet.' Did every grave give up its little

inmate at the magic word? No, barely more than half; six little balls of down unveiled their lustrous eyes,

and, rising, ran to meet him, but four feathered little bodies had found their graves indeed. Redruff called

again and again, till he was sure that all who could respond had come, and led them from that dreadful place,

far, far away upstream, where barbwire fences and bramble thickets were found to offer a less grateful, but

Here the brood grew and were trained by their father just as his mother had trained him; though wider

knowledge and experience gave him many advantages. He knew so well the country round and all the

feedinggrounds, and how to meet the ills that harass partridgelife, that the summer passed and not a chick

was lost. They grew and flourished, and when the Gunner Moon arrived they were a fine family of six

grownup grouse with Redruff, splendid in his gleaming copper feathers, at their head. He had ceased to

drum during the summer after the loss of Brownie, but drumming is to the partridge what singing is to the

lark; while it is his lovesong, it is also an expression of exuberance born of health, and when the molt was

over and September food and weather had renewed his splendid plumes and braced himself up again, his

spirits revived, and finding himself one day near the old log he mounted impulsively, and drummed again and

From that time he often drummed, while his children sat around, or one who showed his father's blood would

The black grapes and the Mad Moon now came on. But Redruff's blood were of a vigorous stock; their robust

health meant robust wits, and though they got the craze, it passed within a week, and only three had flown

Redruff, with his remaining three, was living in the glen when the snow came. It was light, flaky snow, and as

the weather was not very cold, the family squatted for the night under the low, flat boughs of a cedartree.

But next day the storm continued, it grew colder, and the drifts piled up all day. At night, the snowfall

ceased, but the frost grew harder still, so Redruff, leading the family to a birchtree above a deep drift, dived

into the snow, and the others did the same. Then into the holes the wind blew the loose snowtheir pure

white bedclothes, and thus tucked in they slept in comfort, for the snow is a warm wrap, and the air passes

through it easily enough for breathing. Next morning each partridge found a solid wall of ice before him from

his frozen breath, hut easily turned to one side and rose on the wing at Redruff's morning 'Kreet, kreet, kwit,'

This was the first night for them in a snowdrift, though it was an old story to Redruff, and next night they

merrily dived again into bed, and the north wind tucked them in as before. But a change of weather was

brewing. The night wind veered to the east. A fall of heavy flakes gave place to sleet, and that to silver rain.

The whole wide world was sheathed in ice, and when the grouse awoke to quit their beds, they found them

selves sealed in with a great cruel sheet of edgeless ice. The deeper snow was still quite soft, and Redruff

bored his way to the top, but there the hard, white sheet defied his strength. Hammer and struggle as he might

he could make no impression, and only bruised his wings and head. His life had been made up of keen joys

and dull hardships, with frequent sudden desper ate straits, but this seemed the hardest brunt of all, as the

slow hours wore on and found him weakening with his struggles, but no nearer to freedom. He could hear the

struggling of his family, too, or sometimes heard them calling to him for help with their longdrawn plaintive

They were hidden from many of their enemies, but not from the pangs of hunger, and when the night came

down the weary prisoners, worn out with hunger and useless toil, grew quiet in despair. At first they had been

afraid the fox would come and find them imprisoned there at his mercy, but as the second night went slowly

by they no longer cared, and even wished he would come and break the crusted snow, and so give them at

But when the fox really did come padding over the frozen drift, the deeplaid love of life revived, and they

crouched in utter stillness till he passed. The second day was one of driving storm. The north wind sent his

snowhorses, hissing and careering over the white earth, tossing and curling their white manes and kicking

up more snow as they dashed on. The long, hard grinding of the granular snow seemed to be thinning the

snowcrust, for though far from dark below, it kept on growing lighter. Redruff had pecked and pecked at the

under side all day, till his head ached and his bill was wearing blunt, but when the sun went down he seemed

as far as ever from escape. The night passed like the others, except no fox went trotting overhead. In the

morning he renewed his pecking, though now with scarcely any force, and the voices or struggles of the

others were no more heard. As the daylight grew stronger he could see that his long efforts had made a

brighter spot above him in the snow, and he continued feebly pecking. Outside, the stormhorses kept on

trampling all day, the crust was really growing thin under their heels, and late that afternoon his bill went

through into the open air. New life came with this gain, and he pecked away, till just before the sun went

down he had made a hole that his head, his neck, and his everbeautiful ruffs could pass. His great broad

shoulders were too large, but he could now strike downward, which gave him fourfold force; the snowcrust

crumbled quickly, and in a little while he sprang from his icy prison once more free.

But the young ones? Redruff flew to the nearest bank, hastily gathered a few red hips to Stay his gnawing

hunger, then returned to the prisondrift and clucked and stamped. He got only one reply, a feeble 'peek,

peete,' and scratching with his sharp claws on the thinned granular sheet he soon broke through, and Graytail

feebly crawled out of the hole. But that was all; the others, scattered he could not tell where in the drift, made

no reply, gave no sign of life, and he was forced to leave them. When the snow melted in the spring their

It was long before Redruff and Graytail fully recovered, but food and rest in plenty are sure curealls, and a

bright clear day in midwinter had the usual effect of setting the vigorous Redruff to drumming on the log.

Was it the drumming, or the telltale tracks of their snowshoes on the omnipresent snow, that betrayed them

to Cuddy? He came prowling again and again up the ravine, with dog and gun, intent to hunt the partridges

down. They knew him of old, and he was coming now to know them well. That great copperruffed cock was

becoming famous up and down the valley. During the Gunner Moon many a one had tried to end his splendid

life, just as a worthless wretch of old sought fame by burning the Ephesian wonder of the world. But Redruff

was deep in woodcraft. He knew just where to hide, and when to rise on silent wing, and when to squat till

overstepped, then rise on thunder wing within a yard to shield himself at once behind some mighty treetrunk

But Cuddy never ceased to follow with his gun that redruffed cock; many a long snapshot he tried, but

somehow always found a tree, a bank, or some safe shield between, and Redruff lived and throve and

When the Snow Moon came he moved with Graytail to the Castle Frank woods, where food was plenty as

well as grand old trees. There was in particular, on the east slope among the creeping hemlocks, a splendid

pine. It was six feet through, and its first branches began at the tops of the other trees. Its top in summertime

was a famous resort for the bluejay and his bride. Here, far beyond the reach of shot, in warm spring days the

jay would sing and dance before his mate, spread his bright blue plumes and warble the sweetest fairyland

music, so sweet and soft that few hear it but the one for whom it is meant, and books know nothing at all

This great pine had an especial interest for Redruff, now living near with his remaining young one, but its

base, not its faraway crown, concerned him. All around were low, creeping hemlocks, and among them the

partridgevine and the wintergreen grew, and the sweet black acorns could be scratched from under the

snow. There was no better feedingground, for when that insatiable gunner came on them there it was easy to

run low among the hemlocks to the great pine, then rise with a derisive whirr behind its bulk, and keeping the

huge trunk in line with the deadly gun, skim off in safety. A dozen times at least the pine had saved them

during the lawful murder season, and here it was that Cuddy, knowing their feeding habits, laid a new trap.

Under the bank he sneaked and watched in ambush while an accomplice went around the Sugar Loaf to drive

the birds. He came trampling through the low thicket where Redruff and Graytail were feeding, and long

before the gunner was dangerously near Redruff gave a low warning 'rrrrr' (danger) and walked quickly

Graytail was some distance up the hill, and suddenly caught sight of a new foe close at hand, the yellow cur,

coming right on. Redruff, much farther off, could not see him for the bushes, and Graytail became greatly

'Kwit, kwit' (Fly, fly), she cried, running down the hill for a start. 'Kreet, krrr' (This way, hide), cried the

cooler Redruff, for he saw that now the man with the gun was getting in range. He gained the great trunk, and

behind it, as he paused a moment to call earnestly to Graytail, 'This way, this way,' he heard a slight noise

under the bank before him that betrayed the ambush, then there was a terrified cry from Graytail as the dog

sprang at her, she rose in air and skimmed behind the shielding trunk, away from the gunner in the open, right

Bang, and down she fellbattered and bleeding, to gasp her life out and to lie, mere carrion in the snow.

It was a perilous place for Redruff. There was no chance for a safe rise, so he squatted low. The dog came

within ten feet of him, and the stranger, coming across to Cuddy, passed at five feet, but he never moved till a

chance came to slip behind the great trunk away from both. Then he safely rose and flew to the lonely glen by

One by one the deadly cruel gun had stricken his near ones down, till now, once more, he was alone. The

Snow Moon slowly passed with many a narrow escape, and Redruff, now known to be the only survivor of

It seemed, at length, a waste of time to follow him with a gun, so when the snow was deepest, and food

scarcest, Cuddy hatched a new plot. Right across the feedingground, almost the only good one now in the

Stormy Moon, he set a row of snares. A cottontail rabbit, an old friend, cut several of these with his sharp

teeth, but some remained, and Redruff, watching a faroff speck that might turn out a hawk, trod right in one

Have the wild things no moral or legal rights? What right has man to inflict such long and fearful agony on a

fellowcreature, simply because that creature does not speak his language? All that day, with growing,

racking pains, poor Redruff hung and beat his great, strong wings in helpless struggles to be free. All day, all

night, with growing torture, until he only longed for death. But no one came. The morning broke, the day

wore on, and still he hung there, slowly dying; his very strength a curse. The second night crawled slowly

down, and when, in the dawdling hours of darkness, a great Horned Owl, drawn by the feeble flutter of a

The wind blew down the valley from the north. The snowhorses went racing over the wrinkled ice, over the

Don Flats, and over the marsh toward the lake, white, for they were driven snow, but on them, scattered dark,

were riding plumy fragments of partridge ruffsthe famous rainbow ruffs. And they rode on the winter wind

that night, away and away to the south, over the dark and boisterous lake, as they rode in the gloom of his

Mad Moon flight, riding and riding on till they were engulfed, the last trace of the last of the Don Valley race.

For now no partridge comes to Castle Frank. Its woodbirds miss the martial spring salutc, and in Mud Creek