When the fox cubs were old enough to come outside and play, I put in many hours watching them with a good glass. There was no time that I saw more than three, and I think that was the size of the family. There was a flat boulder over the den, which sloped from the ground upward. I was standing on this boulder one eve, when one of the cubs came out of the den, and was in the act of climbing the ledge when he saw me. He stopped, with his forepaws on the edge of the ledge, and coolly looked me over. After he had satisfied his curiosity he went into the den, and immediately returned with one of his mates. The little imp had probably asked his brother to come out and name the comical two-legged beast. The two cubs placed their feet on the ledge and looked at me for two minutes. They were not over six feet from me, and looked as fat and stocky as two young pigs.
Triplefoot's life was one of worry and care, to say nothing about the danger from mankind and the hounds. She had to find food for her hungry cubs, and whichever way she turned, danger lurked on her trail. If she hunted for wood-mice, the hounds were there to pick up her trail. Then she had to seek water to throw them off. It would not do to go to the den, where the hounds would soon dig out her little cubs, and shake the life from their tender bodies. If she turned to some poultry-yard, the chances were that she would find herself looking into the muzzle of the farmer's shotgun. She was desperately wild, and so were the little cubs when she was with them. A warning note from the mother worked like magic. The little ones would crouch and creep to the mouth of the den, and disappear as silently as three ghosts.
I saw Triplefoot return to the den one Sunday morning, empty-handed. The cubs came out and whined pitifully when they missed the Sunday breakfast. The old fox ordered them into the den, and then took the path for Fresh Water Cove. I knew that a large flock of hens ran in the bushes, near the highway, and Triplefoot knew it, too. In twenty minutes she was back to the den with a large hen over her neck. She called her cubs, and tore the hen to pieces, giving each cub a piece, but reserving something for herself. The dining-room was about thirty feet west of the den. It was under some small hemlocks, and the ground was level and smooth. When all the foxes had had enough, there was a small piece left. Triplefoot buried this piece under the oak leaves.
There was one thing that puzzled me in Triplefoot's way of hunting. I could not understand why she did not go after poultry every day. East, west, north, and south, there were flocks of fowls running at large, and it would be a trifling exertion to snatch one from the bushes at any hour of the day. Triplefoot may have reasoned that a fowl now and then would not be missed, while a wholesale slaughter would attract attention, and send the farmer to hunting for the den.
Triplefoot's cubs were killed that fall and winter, and she was left childless. Her mate did not den in this locality, and without doubt was shot, for Triplefoot did not rear a family the next spring. It happened during my tramps in the woods that I often met Triplefoot. She soon understood that I did not covet her glossy pelt, and she separated me from mankind in general. I have known her to remain at the den when she knew I was looking at her through a glass. She often led the hounds through my dooryard, and, if I was about, the hounds got turned off the trail.
"SHE STOPPED TO LOOK AROUND, AND SAW ME."