BINGO

"Ye Franckelyn's dogge leaped over a style, 
And yey yclept him lyttel Bingo,
 B-I.N-G-O,

And yey yclept him lyttel Bingo.
Ye Franchelyn's wyfe brewed nutte-brown ayle,

And he yclept ytte rare-goode Stingo,
 S - T -I-N - G-O,

And he yclept ytte rare goode Stingo.
Now ys not this a prettye rhyme,
I thynke ytte ys bye Jingo,
 J-I.N-G-O,
1 thynke ytte ys bye Jingo."

BINGO
The Story of My Dog

I

IT WAS EARLY in November, 1882, and the Manitoba winter had
just set in. I was tilting back in my chair for a few lazy moments
after breakfast, idly alternating my gaze from the one
window-pane of our shanty, through which was framed a bit of the
prairie and the end of our cowshed, to the old rhyme of the
'Franckelyn's dogge' pinned on the logs near by. But the dreamy
mixture of rhyme and view was quickly dispelled by the sight of a
large gray animal dashing across the prairie into the cowshed, with
a smaller black and white animal in hot pursuit.

"A wolf," I exclaimed, and seizing a rifle dashed out to help the
dog. But before I could get there they had left the stable, and after
a short run over the snow the wolf again turned at bay, and the
dog, our neighbor's collie, circled about watching his chance to
snap.

I fired a couple of long shots, which had the effect only of setting
them off again over the prairie. After another run this matchless
dog closed and seized the wolf by the haunch, but again retreated
to avoid the fierce return chop. Then there was another stand at
bay, and again a race over the snow. Every few hundred yards this
scene was repeated, the dog managing so that each fresh rush
should be toward the settlement, while the wolf vainly tried to
break back toward the dark belt of trees in the east. At 1a~t after a
mile of this fighting and running I overtook them, and the dog,
seeing that he now had good backing, closed in for the finish.

After a few seconds the whirl of struggling animals resolved itself
into a wolf, on his back, with a bleeding collie gripping his throat,
and it was now easy for me to step up and end the fight by putting
a ball through the wolf's head.

Then, when this dog of marvellous wind saw that his foe was dead,
he gave him no second glance, but set out at a lope for a farm four
miles across the snow where he had left his master when first the
wolf was started. He was a wonderful dog, and even if I had not
come he undoubtedly would have killed the wolf alone, as I
learned he had already done with others of the kind, in spite of the
fact that the wolf, though of the smaller or prairie race, was much
large than himself. I was filled with admiration for the dog's
prowess and at once sought to buy him at any price. The scornful
reply of his owner was, "Why don't you try to buy one of the
children?"

Since Frank was not in the market I was obliged to content myself
with the next best thing, one of his alleged progeny. That is, a son
of his wife. This probable offspring of an illustrious sire was a
roly-poly ball of black fur that looked more like a long-tailed
bearcub than a puppy. But he had some tan markings like those on
Frank's coat, that were, I hoped, guarantees of future greatness, and
also a very characteristic ring of white that he always wore on his
muzzle.

Having got possession of his person, the next thing was to find him
a name. Surely this puzzle was already solved. The rhyme of the
'Franckelyn's dogge' was in-built with the foundation of our
acquaintance, so with adequate pomp we yclept him little Bingo.'

II

The rest of that winter Bingo spent in our shanty, living the life of
a blubbery, fat, well-meaning, ill-doing puppy; gorging himself
with food and growing bigger and clumsier each day. Even sad
experience failed to teach him that he must keep his nose out of
the rat trap. His most friendly overtures to the cat were wholly
misunderstood and resulted only in an armed neutrality that varied
by occasional reigns of terror, continued to the end; which came
when Bingo, who early showed a mind of his own, got a notion for
sleeping at the barn and avoiding the shanty altogether.

When the spring came I set about his serious education. After
much pains on my behalf and many pains on his, he learned to go
at the word in quest of our old yellow cow, that pastured at will on
the unfenced prairie.

Once he had learned his business, he became very fond of it and
nothing pleased him more than an order to go and fetch the cow.
Away he would dash, barking with pleasure and leaping high in
the air that he might better scan the plain for hi~ victim. In a short
time he would return driving her at full gallop before him, and
gave her no peace until, puffing and blowing, she was safely
driven into the farthest corner of her stable.

Less energy on his part would have been more satisfactory, but we
bore with him until he grew so fond of this semi-daily hunt that he
began to bring 'old Dunne' without being told. And at length not
once or twice but a dozen times a day this energetic cowherd
would sally forth on his own responsibility and drive the cow
home to the stable.

At last things came to such a pass that whenever he felt like taking
a little exercise, or had a few minutes of spare time, or even
happened to think of it, Bingo would sally forth at racing speed
over the plain and a few minutes later return, driving the unhappy
yellow cow at full gallop before him.

At first this did not seem very bad, as it kept the cow from straying
too far; but soon it was seen that it hindered her feeding. She
became thin and gave less milk; it seemed to weigh on her mind
too, as she was always watching nervously for that hateful dog,
and in the mornings would hang around the stable as though afraid
to venture off and subject herself at once to an onset.

This was going too far. All attempts to make Bingo more moderate
in his pleasure were failures, so he was compelled to give it up
altogether. After this, though he dared not bring her home, he
continued to show his interest by lying at her stable door while she
was being milked.

As the summer came on the mosquitoes became a dreadful plague,
and the consequent vicious switching of Dunne's tail at
milking-time was even more annoying than the mosquitoes.

Fred, the brother who did the milking, was of an inventive as well
as an impatient turn of mind, and he devised a simple plan to stop
the switching. He fastened a brick to the cow's tail, then set
blithely about his work assured of unusual comfort while the rest
of us looked on in doubt, 

Suddenly through the mist of mosquitoes came a dull whack and
an outburst of 'language.' The cow went on placidly chewing till
Fred got on his feet and funously attacked her with the
milking-stool. It was bad enough to be whacked on the ear with a
brick by a stupid old cow, but the uproarious enjoyment and
ridicule of the bystanders made it unendurable,

Bingo, hearing the uproar, and divining that he was needed,
rushed in and attacked Dunne on the other side. Before the affair
quieted down the milk was spilt, the pail and stool were broken,
and the cow and the dog severely beaten.

Poor Bingo could not understand it at all. He had long ago learned
to despise that cow, and now in utter disgust he decided to forsake
even her stable door, and from that time be attached himself
exclusively to the horses and their stable.

The cattle were mine, the horses were my brother's, and in
transferring his allegiance from the cow-stable to the horse-stable
Bingo seemed to give me up too, and anything like daily
companionship ceased, and yet, whenever any emergency arose
Bingo turned to me and I to him, and both seemed to feel that the
bond between man and dog is one that lasts as long as life.

The only other occasion on which Bingo acted as cowherd was in
the autumn of the same year at the annual Carberry Fair, Among
the dazzling inducements to enter one's stock thcre was, in
addition to a prospect of glory, a cash prize of 'two dollars' for the
'best collie in training,'

Misled by a false friend, I entered Bingo, and early on the day
fixed, the cow was driven to the prairie just outside of the village.
When the time came she was pointed out to Bingo and the word
given--'Go fetch the cow.' lt was the intention, of course, that he
should bring her to me at the judge's stand.

But the animals knew better. They hadn't rehearsed all summer for
nothing. When Dunne saw Bingo's careering form she knew that
her only hope for safety was to get into her stable, and Bingo was
equally sure that his sole mission in life was to quicken her pace in
that direction. So off they raced over the prairie, like a wolf after
a deer, and heading straight toward their home two miles  way,
they disappeared from view.

That was the last that judge or jury ever saw of dog or cow. The
prize was awarded to the only other entry.

III

Bingo's loyalty to the horses was quite remarkable; by day he
trotted beside them, and by night he slept at the stable door. Where
the team went Bingo went, and nothing kept him away from them.
This interesting assumption of ownership lent the greater
significance to the following circumstance.

I was not superstitious, and up to this time had had no faith in
omens, but was now deeply impressed by a strange occurrence in
which Bingo took a leading part. There were but two of us now
living on the De Winton Farm. One morning my brother set out for
Boggy Creek for a load of hay. It was a long day's journey there
and back, and he made an early start. Strange to tell, Bingo for
once in his life did not follow the team. My brother called to him,
but still he stood at a safe distance, and eyeing the team askance,
refused to stir. Suddenly he raised his nose in the air and gave vent
to a long, melancholy howl. He watched the wagon out of sight,
and even followed for a hundred yards or so, raising his voice from
time to time in the most doleful howlings.

All that day he stayed about the barn, the only time that be was
willingly separated from the horses, and at intervals howled a very
death dirge. I was alone, and the dog's behavior inspired me with
an awful foreboding of  calamity, that weighed upon use more and
more as the hours passed away.

About six o'clock Bingo's howlings became unbearable, so that for
lack of a better thought I threw something at him, and ordered him
away. But oh, the feeling of horror that filled m& Why did I let my
brother go away alone? Should I ever again see him alive? I might
have known from the dog's actions that something dreadful was
about to happen.

At length the hour for his return arrived, and there was John on his
load. I took charge of the horses, vastly relieved, and with an air of
assumed unconcern, asked, "All right?"

"Right," was the laconic answer.

Who now can say that there is nothing in omens.

And yet when, long afterward, I told this to one skilled in the
occult, he looked grave, and said, "Bingo always turned to you in a
crisis?"

"Yes."

"Then do not smile. It was you that were in danger that day; he
stayed and saved your life, though you never knew from what."

IV

Early in the spring I bad begun Bingo's education. Very shortly
afterward he began mine.

Midway on the two-mile stretch of prairie that lay between our
shanty and the village of Carberry, was the corner-stake of the
farm; it was a stout post in a low mound of earth, and was visible
from afar.

I soon noticed that Bingo never passed without minutely
examining this mysterious post. Next I learned that it was also
visited by the prairie wolves as well as by all the dogs in the
neighborhood, and at length, with the aid of a telescope, I made a
number of observations that helped me to an understanding of the
matter and enabled me to enter more fully into Bingo's private life.

The post was by common agreement a registry of the canine
tribes. Their exquisite sense of smell enabled each individual to
tell at once by the track and trace what other had recently been at
the post. When the snow came much more was revealed. I then
discovered that this post was but one of a system that covered the
country; that, in short, the entire region was laid out in signal
stations at convenient intervals. These were marked by any
conspicuous post, stone, buffalo skull, or other object that chanced
to be in the desired locality, and extensive observation showed that
it was a very complete system for getting and giving the news.

Each dog or wolf makes a point of calling at those stations that are
near his line of travel to learn who has recently been there, just as
a man calls at his club on returning to town and looks up the
register.

I have seen Bingo approach the post, sniff, examine the ground
about, then growl, and with bristling mane and glowing eyes,
scratch fiercely and contemptuously with his hind feet, finally
walking off very stiffly, glancing back from time to time. All of
which, being interpreted, said:

"Grrrh! woof! there's that dirty cur of McCarthy's.

Woof! I'll 'tend to him tonight. Woof! woof!" On another occasion,
after the preliminaries, be became keenly interested and studied a
coyote's track that came and went, saying to himself, as I afterward
learned:

"A coyote track coming from the north, smelling of dead cow.
Indeed? Pollworth's old Brindle must be dead at last. This is worth
looking into."

At other times he would wag his tail, trot about the vicinity and
come again and again to make his own visit more evident, perhaps
for the benefit of his brother Bill just back from Brandon! So that
it was not by chance that one night Bill turned up at Bingo's home
and was taken to the hills, where a delicious dead horse afforded a
chance to suitably celebrate the reunion.

At other times he would be suddenly aroused by the news, take up
the trail, and race to the next station for later information.

Sometimes his inspection produced only an air of grave attention,
as though he said to himself, "Dear me, who the deuce is this?" or
"It seems to me I met that fellow at the Portage last summer."

One morning on approaching the post Bingo's every hair stood on
end, his tail dropped and quivered, and he gave proof that he was
suddenly sick at the stomach, sure signs of terror. He showed no
desire to follow up or know more of the matter, but returned to the
house, and half an hour afterward his mane was still bristling and
his expression one of hate or fear.

I studied the dreaded track and learned that in Bingo's language the
half-terrified, deep-gurgled 'grr-wff' means 'timber wolf.' 

These were among the things that Bingo taught me. And in the
after time when I might chance to see him arouse from his frosty
nest by the stable door, and after stre.tching himself and shaking
the snow from his shaggy coat, disappear into the gloom at a
steady trot, trot, trot, I used to think:

"Ahh! old dog, I know where you are off to, and why you eschew
the shelter of the shanty. Now I know why your nightly trips over
the country are so well timed, and how you know just where to go
for what you want, and when and how to seek it."

V

In the autumn of 1884, the shanty at De Winton farm was closed
and Bingo changed his home to the establishment--that is, to the
stable, not the house--of Gordon Wright, our most intimate
neighbor.

Since the winter of his puppyhood he had declined to enter a house
at any time excepting during a thunderstorm. Of thunder and guns
he had a deep dread--no doubt the fear of the first originated in the
second, and that arose from some unpleasant shot-gun experiences,
the cause of which will be seen. His nightly couch was outside the
stable, even during the coldest weather, and it was easy to see he
enjoyed to the full the complete nocturnal liberty entailed. Bingo's
midnight wanderings extended across the plains for miles. There
was plenty of proof of this. Some farmers at very remote points
sent word to old Gordon that if he did not keep his dog home
nights, they would use the shot-gun, and Bingo's terror of firearms
would indicate that the threats were not idle. A man living as far
away as Petrel said he saw a large black wolf kill a coyote on the
snow one winter evening, but afterward he changed his opinion
and 'reckoned it must 'a' been Wright's dog.' Whenever the body of
a winter-killed ox or horse was exposed, Bingo was sure to repair
to it nightly, and driving away the prairie wolves, feast to
repletion.

Sometimes the object of a night foray was merely to maul some
distant neighbor's dog, and notwithstanding vengeful threats, there
seemed no reason to fear that the Bingo breed would die out. One
man even avowed that he had seen a prairie wolf accompanied by
three young ones which resembled the mother, excepting that they
were very large and black and had a ring of white around the
muzzle.

True or not as that may be, I know that late in March, while we
were out in the sleigh with Bingo trotting behind, a prairie wolf
was started from a hollow. Away it went with Bingo in full chase,
but the wolf did not greatly exert itself to escape, and within a
short distance Bingo was close up, yet strange to tell, there was no
grappling, no fight!

Bingo trotted amiably alongside and licked the wolf's nose.

We were astounded, and shouted to urge Bingo on. Our shouting
and approach several times started the wolf off at speed and Bingo
again pursued until he had overtaken it, but his gentleness was too
obvious.

"It is a she-wolf, he won't harm her," I exclaimed as the truth
dawned on me. And Gordon said: "Well, I be darned."

So we called our unwilling dog and drove on.

For weeks after this we were annoyed by the depredations of a
prairie wolf who killed our chickens, stale pieces of pork from the
end of the house, and several times terrified the children by
looking into the window of the shanty while the men were away.

Against this animal Bingo seemed to be no safeguard. At length
the wolf, a female, was killed, and then Bingo plainly showed his
hand by his lasting enmity toward Oliver, the man who did the
deed,

VI

It is wonderful and beautiful how a man and his dog will stick to
one another, through thick and thin. Butler tells of an undivided
Indian tribe, in the Far North which was all but exterminated by an
internecine feud over a dog that belonged to one man and was
killed by his neighbor; and among ourselves we have lawsuits,
fights, and deadly feuds, all pointing the same old moral, 'Love me,
love my dog.'

One of our neighbors had a very fine hound that he thought the
best and dearest dog in the world. I loved him, so I loved his dog,
and when one day poor Tan crawled home terribly mangled and
died by the door, I joined my threats of vengeance with those of
his master and thenceforth lost no opportunity of tracing the
miscreant, both by offering rewards and by collecting scraps of
evidence. At length it was clear that one of three men to the
southward had had a hand in the cruel affair. The scent was
warming up, and soon we should have been in a position to exact
rigorous justice, at least, from the wretch who had murdered poor
old Tan.

Then something took place which at once changed my mind and
led me to believe that the mangling of the old hound was not by
any means an unpardonable crime, but indeed on second thoughts
was rather commendable than otherwise.

Gordon Wright's farm lay to the south of us, and while there one
day, Gordon Jr., knowing that I was tracking the murderer, took
me aside and looking about furtively, he whispered, in tragic tones:

"It was Bing done it."

And the matter dropped right there. For I confess that from that
moment I did all in my power to baffle the justice I had previously
striven so hard to further. I had given Bingo away long before, but
the feeling of ownership did not die; and of this indissoluble
fellowship of dog and man he was soon to take part in another
important illustration.

Old Gordon and Oliver were close neighbors and friends; they
joined in a contract to cut wood, and worked together
harmoniously till late on in winter. Then Oliver's old horse died,
and he, determining to profit as far as possible, dragged it out on
the plain and laid poison baits for wolves around it. Alas for poor

Bingo! He would lead a wolfish life, though again and again it
brought him into wolfish misfortunes.

He was as fond of dead horse as any of his wild kindred. That very
night, with Wright's own dog Curley, he visited the carcass. It
seemed as though Bing had busied himself chiefly keeping off the
wolves, but Curley feasted immoderately. The tracks in the snow
told the story of the banquet; the interruption as the poison began
to work, and of the dreadful spasms of pain during the erratic
course back home where Curley, falling in convulsions at Gordon's
feet, died in the greatest agony.

'Love me, love my dog,' No explanations or apology were
acceptable; it was useless to urge that it was accidental; the
long-standing feud between Bingo and Oliver was now
remembered as an important sidelight. The wood-contract was
thrown up, all friendly relations ceased, and to this day there is no
county big enough to hold the rival factions which were called at
once into existence and to arms by Curley's dying yell.

It was months before Bingo really recovered from the poison. We
believed indeed that he never again would be the sturdy old-time
Bingo. But when the spring came he began to gain strength, and
bettering as the grass grew, he was within a few weeks once more
in full health and vigor to be a pride to his friends and a nuisance
to his neighbors.

VII

Changes took me far away from Manitoba, and on my return in
1886 Bingo was still a member of Wright's  household. I thought
he would have forgotten me after two years' absence, but not so.
One day early in the winter, after having been lost for forty-eight
hours, he crawled home to Wright's with a wolf-trap and a heavy
log fast to one foot, and the foot frozen to stony hardness. No one
had been able to approach to help him, he was so savage, when I,
the stranger now, stooped down and laid hold of the trap with one
hand and his leg with the other. Instantly he seized my wrist in his
teeth.

Without stirring I said, "Bing, don't you know me?"

He had not broken the skin and at once released his hold and
offered no further resistance, although he whined a good deal
during the removal of the trap. He still acknowledged me his
master in spite of his change of residence and my long absence,
and notwithstanding my surrender of ownership I still felt that he
was my dog.

Bing was carried into the house much against his will and his
frozen foot thawed out. During the rest of the winter he went lame
and two of his toes eventually dropped off. But before the return of
warm weather his health and strength were fully restored, and to a
casual glance he bore no mark of his dreadful experience in the
steel trap.

VIII

During that same winter I caught many wolves and foxes who did
not have Bingo's good luck in escaping the traps, which I kept out
right into the spring, for bounties are good even when fur is not.

Kennedy's Plain was always a good trapping ground because it was
unfrequented by man and yet lay between the heavy woods and the
settlement. I had been fortunate with the fur here, and late in April
rode in on one of my regular rounds.

The wolf-traps are made of heavy steel and have two springs, each
of one hundred pounds power. They are set in fours around a
buried bait, and after being strongly fastened to concealed logs are
carefully covered in cotton and in fine sand so as to be quite
invisible. A prairie wolf was caught in one of these. I killed him
with a club and throwing him aside proceeded to reset the trap as I
had done so many hundred times before. All was quickly done. I
threw the trap-wrench over toward the pony, and seeing some fine
sand nearby, I reached out for a handful of it to add a good finish
to the setting.

Oh, unlucky thought! Oh, mad heedlessness born of long
immunity! That fine sand was on the next wolftrap and in an
instant I was a prisoner. Although not wounded, for the traps have
no teeth, and my thick trapping gloves deadened the snap, I was
firmly caught across the hand above the knuckles. Not greatly
alarmed at this, I tried to reach the trap-wrench with my right foot.
Stretching out at full length, face downward, I  worked myself
toward it, making my imprisoned arm as long and straight as
possible. I could not see and reach at the same time, but counted
on my toe telling me when I touched the little iron key to my
fetters. My first effort was a failure; strain as I might at the chain
my toe struck no metal. I swung slowly around. my anchor, but
still failed. Then a painfully taken observation showed I was much
too far to the west. I set about working around, tapping blindly
with my toe to discover the key. Thus wildly groping with my right
foot I forgot about the other till there was a sharp 'clank' and the
iron jaws of trap No. S closed tight on my left foot.

The terrors of the situation did not, at first, impress me, but I soon
found that all my struggles were in vain. I could not get free from
either trap or move the traps together, and there I lay stretched out
and firmly staked to the ground.

What would become of me now? There was not much danger of
freezing for the cold weather was over, but Kennedy's Plain was
never visited by the winter wood-cutters. No one knew where I had
gone, and unless I could manage to free myself there was no
prospect ahead but to be devoured by wolves, or else die of cold
and starvation.

As I lay there the red sun went down over the spruce swamp west
of the plain, and a shorelark on a gopher mound a few yards off
twittered his evening song, just as one had done the night before at
our shanty door, and though the numb pains were creeping up my
arm, and a deadly chill possessed me, I noticed how long his little
ear-tufts were. Then my thoughts went to the comfortable
supper-table at Wright's shanty, and I thought, now they are frying
the pork for supper, or just sitting down. My pony still stood as I
left him with his bridle on the ground patiently waiting to take me
home. He did not understand the long delay, and when I called, he
ceased nibbling the grass and looked at me in dumb, helpless
inquiry. If he would only go home the empty saddle might tell the
tale and bring help. But his very faithfulness kept him waiting hour
after hour while I was perishing of cold and hunger.

Then I remembered how old Girou the trapper had been lost, and
in the following spring his comrades found his skeleton held by the
leg in a bear-trap. I wondered which part of my clothing would
show my identity. Then a new thought came to me. This is how a
wolf feels when he is trapped. Oh! what misery have I been
responsible for! Now I'm to pay for it.

Night came slowly on. A prairie wolf howled, the pony pricked up
his ears and, walking nearer to me, stood with his head down.
Then another prairie wolf howled and another, and I could make
out that they were gathering in the neighborhood. There I lay prone
and helpless, wondering if it would not be strictly just that they
should come and tear me to pieces. I heard them calling for a long
time before I realized that dim, shadowy forms were sneaking
near. The horse taw them fIrst, and his terrified snort drove them
back at first, but they came nearer next time and sat around me on
the prairie. Soon one bolder than the others crawled up and tugged
at the body of his dead relative. I shouted and he retreated
growling. The pony ran to a distance in terror. Presently the wolf
returned, and after after two or three of these retreats and returns,
the body was dragged off and devoured by the rest in a few
minutes.

After this they gathered nearer and sat on their haunches to look at
me, and the boldest one smelt the rifle and scratched dirt on it. He
retreated when I kicked at him with my free foot and shouted, but
growing bolder as I grew weaker he came and snarled right in my
face. At this several others snarled and came up closer, and I
realized that I was to be devoured by the foe that I most despised;
when suddenly out of the gloom with a guttural roar sprang a great
black wolf. The prairie wolves scattered like chaff except the bold
one, which, seized by the black new-corner, was in a few moments
a draggled corpse, and then, oh horrors! this mighty brute bounded
at me and--Bingo--noble Bingo, rubbed his shaggy, panting sides
against me and licked my cold face.

"Bingo--Bing--old--boy---Fetch me the trap wrench!" Away he
went and returned dragging the rifle, for he knew only that I
wanted something.

"No--Bing--the trap-wrench." This time it was my sash, but at last
he brought the wrench and wagged his tail in joy that it was right.
Reaching out with my free hand, after much difficulty I unscrewed
the pillar-nut. The trap fell apart and my hand was released, and a
minute later I was free. Bing brought the pony up, and after slowly
walking to restore the circulation I was able to mount. Then slowly
at first but soon at a gallop, with Bingo as herald careering and
barking ahead, we set out for home, there to learn that the night
before, though never taken on the trapping rounds, the brave dog
had acted strangely, whimpering and watching the timber-trail; and
at last when night came on, in spite of attempts to detain him he
had set out in the gloom and guided by a knowledge that is beyond
us had reached the spot in time to avenge me as well as set me
free.

Stanch old Bing--he was a strange dog. Though his heart was with
me, he passed me next day with scarcely a look, but responded
with alacrity when little Gordon called him to a gopher-hunt. And
it was so to the end; and to the end also he lived the wolfish life
that he loved, and never failed to seek the winter-killed horses and
found one again with a poisoned bait, and wolfishly bolted that;
then feeling the pang, set out, not for Wright's but to find me, and
reached the door of my shanty where I should have been. Next day
on returning I found him dead in the snow with his head on the sill
of the door--the door of his puppyhood's days; my dog to the last in
his heart of hearts--it was my help he   sought, and vainly sought,
in the hour of his bitter extremity.

THE SPRINGFIELD FOX

I

THE HENS had been mysteriously disappearing for over a month;
and when I came home to Springfield for the summer holidays it
was my duty to find the cause. This was soon done. The fowls
were carried away bodily one at a time, before going to roost or
else after leaving,

which put tramps and neighbors out of court; they were not taken
from the high perches, which cleared all coons and owls; or left
partly eaten, so that weasels, skunks, or minks were not the guilty
ones, and the blame, therefore, was surely left at Reynard's door.

The great pine wood of Erindale was on the other bank of the
river, and on looking carefully about the lower ford I saw a few
fox-tracks and a barred feather from one of our Plymouth Rock
chickens. On climbing the farther bank in search of more dews, I
heard a great outcry of crows behind me, and turning, saw a
number of these birds darting down at something in the ford. A
better view showed that it was the old story, thief catch thief, for
there in the middle of the ford was a fox with something in his
jaws--he was returning from our barnyard with another hen. The
crows, though shameless robbers themselves, are ever first to cry
'Stop thief,' and yet more than ready to take 'hush-money' in the
form of a share in the plunder.

And this was their game now. The fox to get back home must cross
the river, where he was exposed to the full brunt of the crow mob.
He made a dash for it, and would doubtless have gotten across
with his booty had I not joined in the attack, whereupon he
dropped the hen, scarce dead, and disappeared in the woods.

This large and regular levy of provisions wholly carried off could
mean but one thing, a family of little foxes at home; and to find
them I now was bound.

That evening I went with Ranger, my hound, across the river into
the Erindale woods. As soon as the hound began to circle, we
heard the short, sharp bark of a fox from a thickly wooded ravine
close by. Ranger dashed in at once, struck a hot scent and went off
on a lively straight-away till his voice was lost in the distance away
over the upland.

After nearly an hour he came back, panting and warm, for it was
baking August weather, and lay down at my feet.

But almost immediately thc same foxy 'Yap yurrr' was heard close
at hand and off dashed the dog on another chase.

Away he went in the darkness, baying like a foghorn, straight away
to the north. And the loud 'Boo, boo,' became a low 'oo,oo,' and
that a feeble 'o-o' and then was lost. They must have gone some
miles away, for even with ear to the ground I heard nothing of
them though a mile was easy distance for Ranger's brazen voice.

As I waited in the black woods I heard a sweet sound of dripping
water: 'Tink tank tenk tink, Ta tink tank tenk tonk.'

I did not know of any spring so near, and in the hot night it was a
glad find. But the sound led me to the bough of a oak-tree, where I
found its source. Such a soft sweet song; full of delightful
suggestion on such a night:

Tonk tank tenk tink
Ta tink a tonk a tank a tink a
Ta ta tink tank ta ta tonk tink
Drink a tank a drink a drunk.

It was the 'water-dripping' song of the saw-whet owl.

But suddenly a deep raucous breathing and a rustle of leaves
showed that Ranger was back. He was cornpletely fagged out. His
tongue hung almost to the ground and was dripping with foam, his
flanks were heaving and spume-flecks dribbled from his breast and
sides. He stopped panting a moment to give my hand a dutiful lick,
then flung himself flop on the leaves to drown all other sounds
with his noisy panting.

But again that tantilizing 'Yap yurrr' was heard a few feet away,
and the meaning of it all dawned on me. We were close to the den
where the little foxes were, and the old ones were taking turns in
trying to lead us away.

It was late night now, so we went home feeling sure that the
problem was nearly solved.

II

It was well known that there was an old fox with his family living
in the neighborhood, but no one supposed them so near.

This fox had been called 'Scarface,' because of a scar reaching
from his eye through and back of his ear; this was supposed to
have been given him by a barbed-wire fence during a rabbit hunt,
and as the hair came in white after it healed it was always a strong
mark.

The winter before I had met with him and had had a sample of his
craftiness. I was out shooting, after a fall of snow, and had crossed
the open fields to the edge of the brushy hollow back of the old
mill. As my head rose to a view of the hollow I caught sight of a
fox trotting at long range down the other side, in line to cross my
course. Instantly I held motionless, and did not even lower or turn
my head lest I should catch his eye by moving, until he went on
out of sight in the thick cover at  the bottom. As soon as he was
hidden I bobbed down and ran to head him off where he should
leave the cover on the other side, and was there in good time
awaiting, but no fox came forth. A careful look showed the fresh
track of a fox that had bounded from the cover, and following it
with my eye I saw old Scarface himself far out of range behind me,
sitting on his haunches and grinning as though much amused.

A study of the trail made all clear. He had seen me at the moment I
saw him, but he, also like a true hunter, had concealed the fact,
putting on an air of unconcern till out of sight, when he had run for
his life around behind me and amused himself by watching my still
born trick.

In the springtime I had yet another instance of Scarface's cunning.
I was walking with a friend along the road over the high pasture.
We passed within thirty feet of a ridge on which were several gray
and brown boulders. When at the nearest point my friend said:

"Stone number three looks to me very much like a fox curled up."

But I could not see it, and we passed. We had not gone many yards
farther when the wind blew on this boulder as on fur.

My friend said, "I am sure that is a fox, lying asleep."

"We'll soon settle that," I replied, and turned back, but as soon as I
had taken one step from the road, up jumped Scarface, for it was
he, and ran. A fire had swept the middle of the pasture, leaving a
broad belt of black; over this he scurried till he came to the
unburnt yellow grass again, where he squatted down and was lost
to view. He had been watching us all the time, and would not have
moved had we kept to the road. The wonderful part of this is, not
that be resembled the round stones and dry grass, but that he knew
he did, and was ready to profit by it.

We soon found that it was Scarface and his wife Vixen that had
made our woods their home and our barnyard their base of
supplies.

Next morning a search in the pines showed a great bank of earth
that had been scratched up within a few months. It must have
come from a hole, and yet there was none to be seen. It is well
known that a really cute fox, on digging a new den, brings all the
earth out at the first hole made, but carries on a tunnel into some
distant thicket. Then closing up for good the first made and too
well-marked door, uses only the entrance hidden in the thicket.

So after a little search at the other side of a knoll, I found the real
entry and good proof that there was a nest of little foxes inside.

Rising above the brush on the hillside was a great hollow
basswood. It leaned a good deal and had a large hole at the bottom,
and a smaller one at top.

We boys had often used this tree in playing Swiss Family
Robinson, and by cutting steps in its soft punky walls had made it
easy to go up and down in the hollow. Now it came in handy, for
next day when the sun was warm I went there to watch, and from
this perch on the roof, I soon saw the interesting family that lived
in the cellar near by. There were four little foxes; they looked
curiously like little lambs, with their woolly coats, their long thick
legs and innocent expressions, and yet a second glance at their
broad, sharp-nosed, sharp-eyed visages showed that each of these
innocents was the makings of a crafty old fox.

They played about, basking in the sun, or wrestling with each other
till a slight sound made them scurry under ground. But their alarm
was needless, for the cause of it was their mother; she stepped
from the bushes bringing another hen--number seventeen as I
remember. A low call from her and the little fellows came
tumbling out. Then began a scene that I thought charming, but
which my uncle would not have enjoyed at all.

They rushed on the hen, and tussled and fought with it, and each
other, while the mother, keeping a sharp eye for enemies, looked
on with fond delight. The expression on her face was remarkable.
It was first a grinning of delight, but her usual look of wildness and
cunning was there, nor were cr~1ty and nervo~isuess lAcklng, hut
over all was the unmistakable look of the mother's pride and love.

The base of my tree was hidden in bushes and much lower than the
knoll where the den wash So I could come and go at will without
scaring the foxes.

For many days I went there and saw much of the training of the
young ones. They early learned to turn to turn to statuettes sound,
and then on hearing it again or finding other cause for fear, to run
for shelter.

Some animals have so much mother-love that it over  flows and
benefits outsiders. Not so old Vixen it would seem. Her pleasure in
the cubs led to most refined cruelty. For she often brought home to
them mice and birds alive, and with diabolic gentleness would
avoid doing them serious hurt so that the cubs might have larger
scope to torment them.

There was a woodchuck that lived over in the hill orchard. He was
neither handsome nor interesting, but he knew how to take care of
himself. He had dug a den between the roots of an old pine stump,
so that the foxes could not follow him by digging. But hard work
was not their way of life; wits they believed worth more then
elbowgrease. This woodchuck usually sunned himself on the
stump each morning. If he saw a fox near he went down in the
door of his den, or if the enemy was very near he went inside and
stayed long enough for the danger to pass.

One morning Vixen and her mate seemed to decide that it was
time the children knew something about the broad subject of
Woodchucks, and further that this orchard woodchuck would serve
nicely for an object-lesson. So they went together to the
orchard-fence unseen by old Chuckie on his stump. Scarface then
showed himself in the orchard and quietly walked in a line so as to
pass by the stump at a distance, but never once turned his head or
allowed the ever-watchful woodchuck to think himself seen. When
the fox entered the field the woodchuck quietly dropped down to
the mouth of his den: here he waited as the fox passed~ but
concluding that after all wisdom is the better part, went into his
hole.

This was what the foxes wanted. Vixen had kept out of sight, but
now ran swiftly to the stump and hid behind it. Scarface had kept
straight on, going very slowly. The woodchuck had not been
frightened, so before long his head popped up between the roots
and he looked around. There was that fox still going on, farther
and farther away. The woodchuck grew bold as the fox went, and
came out farther, and then seeing the coast clear, he scrambled
onto the stump, and with one spring Vixen had him and shook him
till he lay senseless. Scarface had watched out of the corner of his
eye and now came running back. But Vixen took the chuck in her
jaws and made for the den, so he saw he wasn't needed,

Back to the den came Vix, and carried the chuck so carefully that
he was able to struggle a little when she got there. A low 'woof' at
the den brought the little fellows out like schoolboys to play. She
threw the wounded animal to them and they set on him like four
little furies, uttering little growls and biting little bites with all the
strength of their baby jaws, but the woodchuck fought for his life
and beating them off slowly hobbled to the shelter of a thicket.
The little ones pursued like a pack of hounds and dragged at his
tail and flanks, but could not hold him back. So Vixen overtook
him with a couple of bounds and dragged him again into the open
for the children to worry. Again and again this rough sport went on
till one of the little ones was badly bitten, and his squeal of pain
roused Vix to end the woodchuck's misery and serve him up at
once.

Not far from the den was a hollow overgrown with coarse grass,
the playground of a colony of field-mice. The earliest lesson in
woodcraft that the little ones took, away from the den, was in this
hollow. Here they had their first course of mice, the easiest of all
game. In teaching, the main thing was example, aided by a
deep-set instinct. The old fox, also, had one or two signs meaning
"lie still and watch," "come, do as I do," and so on, that were much
used.

So the merry lot went to this hollow one calm evening and Mother
Fox made them lie still in the grass. Presently a faint squeak
showed that the game was astir.  Vix rose up and went on tiptoe
into the grass--not crouching but as high as she could stand,
sometimes on her hind legs so as to get a better view. The runs that
the mice follow are hidden under the grass tangle, and the only
way to know the whereabouts of a mouse is by seeing the slight
shaking of the grass, which is the reason why mice are hunted only
on calm days.

And the trick is to locate the mouse and seize him first and see him
afterward. Vix soon made a spring, and in the middle of the bunch
of dead grass that she grabbed was a field-mouse squeaking his
last squeak.

He was soon gobbled, and the four awkward little foxes tried to do
the same as their mother, and when at length the eldest for the first
time in his life caught game, he quivered with excitement and
ground his pearly little milk-teeth into the mouse with a rush of
inborn savageness that must have surprised even himself.

Another home lesson was on the red-squirrel. One of these noisy,
vulgar creatures, lived close by and used to waste part of each day
scolding the foxes, from some safe perch. The cubs made many
vain attempts to catch him as he ran across their glade from one
tree to an other, or spluttered and scolded at them a foot or so out
of reach. But old Vixen was up in natural history--she knew
squirrel nature and took the case in hand when the proper time
came. She hid the children and lay down flat in the middle of the
open glade. The saucy low-minded squirrel came and scolded as
usual. But she moved no hair. He came nearer and at last right over
head to chatter:

"You brute you, you brute you."

But Vix lay as dead. This was very perplexing, so the squirrel
came down the trunk and peeping about made a nervous dash
across the grass, to another tree, again to scold from a safe perch.

"You brute you, you useless brute, scarrr-scarrrr."

But flat and lifeless on the grass lay Vix. Ths was most tantilizing
to the squirrel. He was naturally curious and disposed to be
venturesome, so again he came to the ground and scurried across
the glade nearer than before. Still as death lay Vix, "surely she was
dead." And the little foxes began to wonder if their mother wasn't
asleep.

But the squirrel was working himself into a little craze of
foolhardy curiosity. He had dropped a piece of bark on Vix's head,
he had used up his list of bad words and he had done it all over
again, without getting a sign of life. So after a couple more dashes
across the glade he ventured within a few feet of the really
watchful Vix, who sprang to her feet and pinned him in a
twinkling.

"And the little ones picked the bones e-oh."

Thus the rudiments of their education were laid, and afterward as
they grew stronger they were taken farther afield to begin the
higher branches of trailing and scenting.

For each kind of prey they were taught a way to hunt, for every
animal has some great strength or it could not live, and some great
weakness or the others could not live. The squirrel's weakness was
foolish curiosity; the fox's that he can't climb a tree. And the
training of the little foxes was all shaped to take advantage of the
weakness of the other creatures and to make up for their own by
defter play where they are strong.

From their parents they learned the chief axioms of the fox world.
How, is not easy to say. But that they learned this in company with
their parents was clear.

Here are some that foxes taught me, without saying a  word: --

Never sleep on your straight track.

Your nose is before your eyes, then trust it first.

A fool runs down the wind.

Running rills cure many ills.

Never take the open if you can keep the cover.

Never leave a straight trail if a crooked one will do.

If it's strange, it's hostile.

Dust and water burn the scent.

Never hunt mice in a rabbit-woods, or rabbits in a henyard.

Keep off the grass.

Inklings of the meanings of these were already entering the little
ones' minds--thus, 'Never follow what you can't smell,' was wise,
they could see, because if  you can't smell it, then the wind is so
that it must smell you.

One by one they learned the birds and beasts of their home woods,
and then as they were able to go abroad with their parents they
learned new animals. They were beginning to think they knew the
scent of everything that moved. But one night the mother took
them to a field where there was a strange black flat thing on the
ground. She brought them on purpose to smell it, but at the first
whiff their every hair stood on end, they trembled, they knew not
why--it seemed to tingle through their blood and fill them with
instinctive hate and fear. 

And when she saw its full effect she told them--

"That is man-scent."

III

Meanwhile the hens continued to disappear. I had not betrayed the
den of cubs. Indeed, I thought a good deal more of the little rascals
than I did of the hens; but uncle was dreadfully wrought up and
made most disparaging remarks about my woodcraft. To please
him I one day took the hound across to the woods and seating
myself on a stump on the open hillside, I bade the dog go on.
Within three minutes he sang out in the tongue all hunters know so
well, "Fox! fox! fox! straight away down the valley."

After awhile I heard them coming back. There I saw the
fox--Scarface--loping lightly across the river-bottom to the stream.
In he went and trotted along in the shallow water near the margin
for two hundred yards, then came out straight toward me. Though
in full view, he saw me not but caIne up th~ hill wakhhsg over his
shoulder for the hound. Within ten feet of me he tiitned and sat
with his back to me while he craned his neck and showed an eager
interest in the doings of the hound. Ranger came bawling along the
trail till he came to the running water, the killer of scent, and here
he was puzzled; but there was only one thing to do; that was by
going up and down both banks find where the fox had left the
river.

The fox before me shifted his position a little to get a better view
and watched with a most human interest all the circling of the
hound. He was so close that I saw the hair of his shoulder bristle a
little when the dog came in sight. I could see the jumping of his
heart on his ribs, and the gleam of his yellow eye. When the dog
was wholly baulked by the water trick, it was comical to see:--he
could not sit still, but rocked up and down in glee, and reared on
his hind feet to get a better view of the slow-plodding hound. With
mouth opened nearly to his ears, though not at all winded, he
panted noisily for a moment, or rather he laughed gleefully, just as
a dog laughs by grinning and panting.