Later in the season--either because the
cubs have lost their playfulness, or because they must hunt so
diligently for enough to eat that there is no time for play--they
seldom do more than take a gallop together, with a playful jump or
two, before going their separate ways. At all times, however, they
have a strong tendency to fun and mischief-making. More than once, in
winter, I have surprised a fox flying round after his own bushy tail
so rapidly that tail and fox together looked like a great yellow
pin-wheel on the snow.
When a fox meets a toad or frog, and is not hungry, he worries the
poor thing for an hour at a time; and when he finds a turtle he turns
the creature over with his paw, sitting down gravely to watch its
awkward struggle to get back onto its feet. At such times he has a
most humorous expression, brows wrinkled and tongue out, as if he were
enjoying himself hugely.
Later in the season he would be glad enough to make a meal of toad or
turtle. One day last March the sun shone out bright and warm; in the
afternoon the first frogs began to tune up, _cr-r-r-runk,
cr-r-runk-a-runk-runk_, like a flock of brant in the distance. I was
watching them at a marshy spot in the woods, where they had come out
of the mud by dozens into a bit of open water, when the bushes parted
cautiously and the sharp nose of a fox appeared.
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