As long as anyone was near he crouched sullen and cowed in his
shelter-box, and it was a full hour after being left alone before he
ventured to look out.

My window now took the place of the hollow basswood. A number of hens of
the breed he knew so well were about the cub in the yard. Late that
afternoon as they strayed near the captive there was a sudden rattle of
the chain, and the youngster dashed at the nearest one and would have
caught him but for the chain which brought him up with a jerk. He got on
his feet and slunk back to his box, and though he afterward made several
rushes he so gauged his leap as to win or fail within the length of the
chain and never again was brought up by its cruel jerk.

As night came down the little fellow became very uneasy, sneaking out of
his box, but going back at each slight alarm, tugging at his chain, or
at times biting it in fury while he held it down with his fore-paws.
Suddenly he paused as though listening, then raising his little black
nose he poured out a short, quavering cry.

Once or twice this was repeated, the time between being occupied in
worrying the chain and running about. Then an answer came. The far-away
_Yap yurrr_ of the old fox. A few minutes later a shadowy form appeared
on the wood-pile. The little one slunk into his box, but at once
returned and ran to meet his mother with all the gladness that a fox
could show. Quick as a flash she seized him and turned to bear him away
by the road she came. But the moment the end of the chain was reached
the cub was rudely jerked from the old one's mouth, and she, scared by
the opening of a window, fled over the wood-pile.

An hour afterward the cub had ceased to run about or cry. I peeped out,
and by the light of the moon saw the form of the mother at full length
on the ground by the little one gnawing at something--the clank of iron
told what, it was that cruel chain. And Tip, the little one, meanwhile
was helping himself to a warm drink.

On my going out she fled into the dark woods, but there by the
shelter-box were two little mice, bloody and still warm, food for the
cub brought by the devoted mother. And in the morning I found the chain
was very bright for a foot or two next the little one's collar.

On walking across the woods to the ruined den, I again found signs of
Vixen. The poor heart-broken mother had come and dug out the bedraggled
bodies of her little ones.

There lay the three little baby foxes all licked smooth now, and by them
were two of our hens fresh killed. The newly heaved earth was printed
all over with tell-tale signs--signs that told me that here by the side
of her dead she had watched like Rizpah. Here she had brought their
usual meal, the spoil of her nightly hunt. Here she had stretched
herself beside them and vainly offered them their natural drink and
yearned to feed and warm them as of old; but only stiff little bodies
under their soft wool she found, and little cold noses still and
unresponsive.

A deep impress of elbows, breast, and hocks showed where she had laid in
silent grief and watched them for long and mourned as a wild mother can
mourn for its young. But from that time she came no more to the ruined
den, for now she surely knew that her little ones were dead.




V


Tip, the captive, the weakling of the brood, was now the heir to all her
love. The dogs were loosed to guard the hens. The hired man had orders
to shoot the old fox on sight--so had I, but was resolved never to see
her. Chicken-heads, that a fox loves and a dog will not touch, had been
poisoned and scattered through the woods; and the only way to the yard
where Tip was tied was by climbing the wood-pile after braving all other
dangers. And yet each night old Vix was there to nurse her baby and
bring it fresh-killed hens and game. Again and again I saw her, although
she came now without awaiting the querulous cry of the captive.

The second night of the captivity I heard the rattle of the chain, and
then made out that the old fox was there, hard at work digging a hole by
the little one's kennel. When it was deep enough to half bury her, she
gathered into it all the slack of the chain, and filled it again with
earth. Then in triumph thinking she had gotten rid of the chain, she
seized little Tip by the neck and turned to dash off up the woodpile,
but alas only to have him jerked roughly from her grasp.

Poor little fellow, he whimpered sadly as he crawled into his box. After
half an hour there was a great outcry among the dogs, and by their
straight-away tonguing through the far woods I knew they were chasing
Vix. Away up north they went in the direction of the railway and their
noise faded from hearing. Next morning the hound had not come back. We
soon knew why. Foxes long ago learned what a railroad is; they soon
devised several ways of turning it to account. One way is when hunted to
walk the rails for a long distance just before a train comes. The scent,
always poor on iron, is destroyed by the train and there is always a
chance of hounds being killed by the engine. But another way more sure,
but harder to play, is to lead the hounds straight to a high trestle
just ahead of the train, so that the engine overtakes them on it and
they are surely dashed to destruction.

This trick was skilfully played, and down below we found the mangled
remains of old Ranger and learned that Vix was already wreaking her
revenge.

That same night she returned to the yard before Spot's weary limbs could
bring him back and killed another hen and brought it to Tip, and
stretched her panting length beside him that he might quench his
thirst. For she seemed to think he had no food but what she brought.

It was that hen that betrayed to my uncle the nightly visits.

My own sympathies were all turning to Vix, and I would have no hand in
planning further murders. Next night my uncle himself watched, gun in
hand, for an hour. Then when it became cold and the moon clouded over he
remembered other important business elsewhere, and left Paddy in his
place.

But Paddy was "onaisy" as the stillness and anxiety of watching worked
on his nerves. And the loud bang! bang! an hour later left us sure only
that powder had been burned.

In the morning we found Vix had not failed her young one. Again next
night found my uncle on guard, for another hen had been taken. Soon
after dark a single shot was heard, but Vix dropped the game she was
bringing and escaped. Another attempt made that night called forth
another gun-shot. Yet next day it was seen by the brightness of the
chain that she had come again and vainly tried for hours to cut that
hateful bond.

Such courage and stanch fidelity were bound to win respect, if not
toleration. At any rate, there was no gunner in wait next night, when
all was still. Could it be of any use? Driven off thrice with gun-shots,
would she make another try to feed or free her captive young one?

Would she? Hers was a mother's love. There was but one to watch them
this time, the fourth night, when the quavering whine of the little one
was followed by that shadowy form above the wood-pile.

But carrying no fowl or food that could be seen. Had the keen huntress
failed at last? Had she no head of game for this her only charge, or had
she learned to trust his captors for his food?

No, far from all this. The wild-wood mother's heart and hate were true.
Her only thought had been to set him free. All means she knew she tried,
and every danger braved to tend him well and help him to be free. But
all had failed.

Like a shadow she came and in a moment was gone, and Tip seized on
something dropped, and crunched and chewed with relish what she brought.
But even as he ate, a knife-like pang shot through and a scream of pain
escaped him. Then there was a momentary struggle and the little fox was
dead.

The mother's love was strong in Vix, but a higher thought was stronger.
She knew right well the poison's power; she knew the poison bait, and
would have taught him had he lived to know and shun it too. But now at
last when she must choose for him a wretched prisoner's life or sudden
death, she quenched the mother in her breast and freed him by the one
remaining door.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is when the snow is on the ground that we take the census of the
woods, and when the winter came it told me that Vix no longer roamed the
woods of Erindale. Where she went it never told, but only this, that she
was gone.

Gone, perhaps, to some other far-off haunt to leave behind the sad
remembrance of her murdered little ones and mate. Or gone, may be,
deliberately, from the scene of a sorrowful life, as many a wild-wood
mother has gone, by the means that she herself had used to free her
young one, the last of all her brood.