Red Ben, the Fox of Oak Ridge

by Joseph Wharton Lippincott

She did not know that, though her own graceful body fitted into the woods like an illusive shadow, the white hen stood out like a beacon light. She did not know that on the Ridge it caught the eye of a friend of Ben Slown and held it while she circled the den and then called out the puppies to the feast. Her mother love had indeed overcome natural caution.

The den was nothing more than the enlarged burrow of an old woodchuck, who, years before, had been driven from the fields below. To the four puppies, however, it was all that a home ought to be. Wonderful to these was its narrow passage with the half turn at the end and the snug bed so far from the dangers of the world outside; wonderful too its collection of feathers and pieces of fur which told of happy feasts; but best of all was the sandy, sun bathed entrance in which they had basked and played on never to be forgotten May mornings in their early puppyhood.

Their father had never come to Oak Ridge to help the mother in feeding and protecting them. To her tireless energy they owed everything. Therefore to her they looked for everything, and she had never disappointed them. Nor would she ever disappoint them as long as they needed her and there was breath in her faithful body, for such is mother love in the fox world!

Here Ben Slown’s pet white hen found her last resting place. Into the mouth of the den, among the waiting pups, she was dropped, feathers and all, and down their little throats she passed, piece-by-piece, amid growling and crunching and pulling and fighting, for in no other way did they know how to show their thorough enjoyment.

A glorious feast it was! And when they were through, the mother, who had all this time been on guard, picked up for her share the bones that were left. She was still nosing about among the feathers when a man’s cough, from somewhere below in the woods, gave sudden warning of danger. Down she crouched, motionless in a moment; and without need of further signal, into the den tumbled the frightened pups.

The mother waited, with ears pointed to catch the slightest new sound. In the burrow behind her appeared a small head with ears cocked in the same way. Both heard the crack of a breaking twig.

Now the old fox slipped into the bushes and cautiously circled until she caught the scent of Farmer Slown and his friend, and heard their clothes scraping through the bushes. Amid the laurel she caught a glimpse of them sneaking along as noiselessly as they knew how to, the farmer in the lead, holding his long gun. They certainly looked as if they meant mischief.

Between them and the den the anxious fox ran to lead them away. A dog would have followed her in a rush, but the men were so busy in “pussy-footing” that they did not see her pass.

“Now,” whispered Ben’s friend, “look for the den right above that bunch of bushes ahead. Careful!”

Ben looked. First he saw a lot of white feathers which made him growl to himself; then he made out the mouth of the burrow, and last of all the sharp nose and bright eyes of the inquisitive pup. Ben looked at the pup and the pup looked back at him; neither had ever seen the other before, but fate had already decreed that they should meet often in the days to come. And so they watched each other now, until a fluffy feather, a beautiful white one, was picked up by an eddy of wind and whirled around and around the little fox’s head.