It is only early in the season, generally before the snow blows, that one can see them playing; and it is probably the young foxes that are so eager for this kind of fun.  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.  The hungry fellow had heard them from the hill above, where he was asleep, and had come down to see if he could catch a few.  He was creeping out onto the ice when he smelled me, and trotted back into the woods.

Once I saw him catch a frog.  He crept down to where Chigwooltz, a fat green bullfrog, was sunning himself by a lily pad, and very cautiously stretched out one paw under water.  Then with a quick fling he tossed his game to land, and was after him like a flash before he could scramble back.

On the seacoast Reynard depends largely on the tides for a living.  An old fisherman assures me that he has seen him catching crabs there in a very novel way.  Finding a quiet bit of water where the crabs are swimming about, he trails his brush over the surface till one rises and seizes it with his claw (a most natural thing for a crab to do), whereupon the fox springs away, jerking the crab to land.  Though a fox ordinarily is careful as a cat about wetting his tail or feet, I shall not be surprised to find some day for myself that the fisherman was right.  Reynard is very ingenious, and never lets his little prejudices stand in the way when he is after a dinner.