When he came out, a minute later, there was the box and a feather or
two, but no fox and no pullet. Deep tracks led out of the yard and up
over the hill in flying jumps. Then it dawned upon our hunter that
Reynard had played the possum-game on him, getting away with a whole
skin and a good dinner.
There was no need to look farther for a good fox track. Soon the music
of the hounds went ringing over the hill and down the hollow; but though
the dogs ran true, and the hunter watched the runways all day with
something more than his usual interest, he got no glimpse of the wily
old fox. Late at night the dogs came limping home, weary and footsore,
but with never a long yellow hair clinging to their chops to tell a
story.
The fox saved his pullet, of course. Finding himself pursued, he
buried it hastily, and came back the next night undoubtedly to get it.
Several times since then I have known of his playing possum in the
same way. The little fellow whom I mentioned as living near the
wilderness, and snaring foxes, once caught a black fox--a rare,
beautiful animal with a very valuable skin--in a trap which he had
baited for weeks in a wild pasture. It was the first black fox he had
ever seen, and, boylike, he took it only as a matter of mild wonder to
find the beautiful creature frozen stiff, apparently, on his pile of
chaff with one hind leg fast in the trap.
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