Once, in just such a place, I had a rare chance to watch him.  It was on the summit of a great bare hill.  Down in the woods by a swamp, five or six hounds were waking the winter echoes merrily on a fresh trail.  I was hoping for a sight of Reynard when he appeared from nowhere, on a rock not fifty yards away.  There he lay, his nose between his paws, listening with quiet interest to the uproar below.  Occasionally he raised his head as some young dog scurried near, yelping maledictions upon a perfect tangle of fox tracks, none of which went anywhere.  Suddenly he sat up straight, twisted his head sideways, as a dog does when he sees the most interesting thing of his life, dropped his tongue out a bit, and looked intently.  I looked too, and there, just below, was old Roby, the best foxhound in a dozen counties, creeping like a cat along the top rail of a sheep-fence, now putting his nose down to the wood, now throwing his head back for a great howl of exultation.—­It was all immensely entertaining; and nobody seemed to be enjoying it more than the fox.

One of the most fascinating bits of animal study is to begin at the very beginning of fox education, i.e., to find a fox den, and go there some afternoon in early June, and hide at a distance, where you can watch the entrance through your field-glass.  Every afternoon the young foxes come out to play in the sunshine like so many kittens.  Bright little bundles of yellow fur they seem, full of tricks and whims, with pointed faces that change only from exclamation to interrogation points, and back again.  For hours at a stretch they roll about, and chase tails, and pounce upon the quiet old mother with fierce little barks.  One climbs laboriously up the rock behind the den, and sits on his tail, gravely surveying the great landscape with a comical little air of importance, as if he owned it all.  When called to come down he is afraid, and makes a great to-do about it.  Another has been crouching for five minutes behind a tuft of grass, watching like a cat at a rat-hole for some one to come by and be pounced upon.  Another is worrying something on the ground, a cricket perhaps, or a doodle-bug; and the fourth never ceases to worry the patient old mother, till she moves away and lies down by herself in the shadow of a ground cedar.

As the afternoon wears away, and long shadows come creeping up the hillside, the mother rises suddenly and goes back to the den; the little ones stop their play, and gather about her.  You strain your ears for the slightest sound, but hear nothing; yet there she is, plainly talking to them; and they are listening.  She turns her head, and the cubs scamper into the den’s mouth.  A moment she stands listening, looking; while just within the dark entrance you get glimpses of four pointed black noses, and a cluster of bright little eyes, wide open for a last look.  Then she trots away, planning her hunt, till she disappears down by the brook.  When she is gone, eyes and noses draw back; only a dark silent hole in the bank is left.  You will not see them again—­not unless you stay to watch by moonlight till mother-fox comes back, with a fringe of field-mice hanging from her lips, or a young turkey thrown across her shoulders.