One shrewd thing frequently noticed in the conduct of an old fox with young is that she never troubles the poultry of the farms nearest her den.  She will forage for miles in every direction; will harass the chickens of distant farms till scarcely a handful remains of those that wander into the woods, or sleep in the open yards; yet she will pass by and through nearer farms without turning aside to hunt, except for mice and frogs; and, even when hungry, will note a flock of chickens within sight of her den, and leave them undisturbed.  She seems to know perfectly that a few missing chickens will lead to a search; that boys’ eyes will speedily find her den, and boys’ hands dig eagerly for a litter of young foxes.

Last summer I found a den, beautifully hidden, within a few hundred yards of an old farmhouse.  The farmer assured me he had never missed a chicken; he had no idea that there was a fox within miles of his large flock.  Three miles away was another farmer who frequently sat up nights, and set his boys to watching afternoons, to shoot a fox that, early and late, had taken nearly thirty young chickens.  Driven to exasperation at last, he borrowed a hound from a hunter; and the dog ran the trail straight to the den I had discovered.

Curiously enough, the cubs, for whose peaceful bringing up the mother so cunningly provides, do not imitate her caution.  They begin their hunting by lying in ambush about the nearest farm; the first stray chicken they see is game.  Once they begin to plunder in this way, and feed full on their own hunting, parental authority is gone; the mother deserts the den immediately, leading the cubs far away.  But some of them go back, contrary to all advice, and pay the penalty.  She knows now that sooner or later some cub will be caught stealing chickens in broad daylight, and be chased by dogs.  The foolish youngster takes to earth, instead of trusting to his legs; so the long-concealed den is discovered and dug open at last.

When an old fox, foraging for her young some night, discovers by her keen nose that a flock of hens has been straying near the woods, she goes next day and hides herself there, lying motionless for hours at a stretch in a clump of dead grass or berry bushes, till the flock comes near enough for a rush.  Then she hurls herself among them, and in the confusion seizes one by the neck, throws it by a quick twist across her shoulders, and is gone before the stupid hens find out what it is all about.

But when a fox finds an old hen or turkey straying about with a brood of chicks, then the tactics are altogether different.  Creeping up like a cat, the fox watches an opportunity to seize a chick out of sight of the mother bird.  That done, he withdraws, silent as a shadow, his grip on the chick’s neck preventing any outcry.  Hiding his game at a distance, he creeps back to capture another in the same way; and so on till he has enough, or till he is discovered, or some half-strangled chick finds breath enough for a squawk.  A hen or turkey knows the danger by instinct, and hurries her brood into the open at the first suspicion that a fox is watching.