They chase the fox as long as he is in sight,
cawing vociferously, till he creeps into a thicket of scrub pines,
into which no crow will ever venture, and lies down till he tires out
their patience. In hunting, one may frequently trace the exact course
of a fox which the dogs are driving, by the crows clamoring over him.
Here in the snow was a record that may help explain one side of the
feud.
From the same white page one may read many other stories of Reynard's
ways and doings. Indeed I know of no more interesting winter walk than
an afternoon spent on his last night's trail through the soft snow.
There is always something new, either in the track or the woods
through which it leads; always a fresh hunting story; always a
disappointment or two, a long cold wait for a rabbit that didn't come,
or a miscalculation over the length of the snow tunnel where a
partridge burrowed for the night. Generally, if you follow far enough,
there is also a story of good hunting which leaves you wavering
between congratulation over a successful stalk after nights of hungry,
patient wandering, and pity for the little tragedy told so vividly by
converging trails, a few red drops in the snow, a bit of fur blown
about by the wind, or a feather clinging listlessly to the underbrush.
In such a tramp one learns much of fox-ways and other ways that can
never be learned elsewhere.
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