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RED BEN the fox of Oak Ridge

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY PHILADELPHIA 1919

COPYRIGHT 1919 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY

RED BEN--THE FOX OF OAK RIDGE

INTRODUCTION

There is reason for the fox being termed the shrewdest of wild creatures. Unlike the deer and other vegetarians whose dinners often grow under their noses, he rarely gets a meal without outwitting other animals. He lacks the climbing ability of the opossum, the sharp claws of the lynx, the protective odor of the skunk, the diving powers of the otter--he is indeed just a little wild dog, a wonderfully bright, hardworking little animal whose cunning alone can lead him from his enemies and keep away the pangs of hunger.

He has been so persistently hunted by man that he is almost untameable; but as far as he dares to be, he is friendly under ordinary circumstances and fond of wandering around man's dwellings. Chicken stealing is charged against him; but after all he holds the same position in the animal world that the wise old crow does among the birds--his good deeds and his crimes nearly balance. In "Bun, a Wild Rabbit," the fox appeared as one of many woods creatures encountered by that doughty cottontail; but, to do him justice, a separate volume was required.

Foxes are much more plentiful than generally supposed. It is almost safe to say that wherever there are woods there are foxes, yet so wonderfully clever are they that few are seen. Whoever can distinguish their tracks from those of other animals is usually not disposed to tell of the discovery of fox "sign." The friend of the fox fears the fox's enemy; the trapper fears a competitor; and so the wily creature weaves his trail endlessly about the country side, unwatched except by the very few "who know."

Imagination must play a part in making the story of a wild animal complete, especially that of such an intensely shy and crafty creature as a fox; but nothing is included here which does not fall within the actual powers of the swift and wily red fox of today. Indeed there are numbers of them very much like Red Ben. Parts of his story are written in the snows of many woodlands besides Oak Ridge, and adventures such as his are still happening in the quiet of moonlit nights.

As fast as man thinks out new methods of destruction, the fox finds fresh tricks through which to escape. And may he ever escape! For when the edges of our old fields no longer bear the imprint of his tireless feet, when the woodlands that delighted his wild little heart have been usurped by the tame dog and the tame cat, then indeed will have departed half their charm, half the thrill of winter walks.

J. W. G.

Bethayres, Pa.

Contents

RED BEN, The Fox of Oak Ridge

In the state of New Jersey there are still thousands of acres of low-lying woodlands, called pine barrens, where man has done little except chop down a few trees. Slowly but surely, however, the farmers are each year pushing their clearings deeper into this section, gradually overcoming the last barriers which Nature sets up to protect her own.

Ben Slown was one of these farmers. When the forest had been cut, he built a square house and a square barn. He planted straight-rowed orchards, he fenced in square, flat fields. He succeeded so well in stamping out all the natural loveliness that other practical farmers came there to start practical farms like his.

Soon there was a village; but Ben Slown's square fields and the edge of the wild, interesting Pine Barrens were never separated, because no plow could conquer Oak Ridge and Cranberry Swamp.

The Ridge was a long mound covered with laurel, pines and white oaks. Cranberry Swamp, on the other hand, was low, wet ground which bore a nearly impenetrable mass of greenery, largely made up of tall cedars, holly bushes and cat briars. Through the swamp flowed a little creek in whose deep eddies green waterweeds swung with the current, giving glimpses now and then of turtles and slender, watchful pike.

When Ben Slown first planned to come to the Pine Barrens, his friends gloomily shook their heads.

"The foxes and other varmints will drive you out," they warned. "You won't be able to raise a chicken. The coons and crows will eat your corn. The woodchucks will destroy your vegetables. There are critters enough in the Barrens to keep you from being lonely, but they won't be the kind of neighbors you want."

"You just watch me," boasted the farmer, "I'll fix the varmints."

He was no sooner settled in his new place than he began to put traps and poison around the cleared ground. All the little creatures that still lived there, and the others which came out of the woods at night to marvel at the strange new things to be seen--mice, snakes, birds, rabbits, mink, muskrats, woodchucks, coons, possums, skunks, foxes, deer and a lot of others--all suffered the same ill-treatment. But most of all he feared and hated the foxes, for they were clever enough to give him a little trouble. One after another was destroyed, however, and the farmer was having everything his own way when all at once there was a newcomer on the Ridge.

This was a red fox, a beautiful creature several inches taller than any of the gray foxes that lived in the Barrens. She found the farmer's poisoned baits, but instead of taking them she took a chicken, and that right before his face.

This was the first fowl a fox had taken from Ben Slown, and therefore he complained all the more loudly; so loudly indeed that the neighbors began to think the destruction of the red fox the only thing that interested him. Instead of asking about his health, whoever met him would say, "Well, Ben, have you caught that pesky fox yet?" or perhaps, "Say, Ben, that old red fox of yours is bothering me now. Why don't you keep her at home?"

Ben would mutter something, then pass on, his brows puckered from worrying over how to get rid of her. He might have worried far more had he known that in a burrow near the south end of Oak Ridge the red fox had four fine little fox pups.

Weeks went by, and still the fox and her tracks were seen occasionally, and still the farmer worried over that chicken he had lost. Then, one fine day, when the mice seemed scarce and the pups were very hungry, the fox dashed among the hens and took away another, this time a big white one.

The farm yard was in an uproar. Chickens cackled and rushed about, cows mooed, sheepdogs barked, and Ben Slown, snatching his rifle from the rack, shot twice at the fox before she reached the woods, two fields away.

He was too much excited to aim well; the bullets went wild and the fox went on. The farmer, however, would not believe he had made a clean miss. Out to the fields he ran to see if a tuft of fur could be found on the ground.

He was walking around and around, growing more and more angry because where the fox had been he found only the white feathers of his pet hen, when out from the woods burst a neighboring farmer.

"Ben," this man called, "Ben, get your shovel, quick! I've just found the red fox's den!"

When the fox was making her wild rush to the woods, with the white hen held high in her strong jaws, she was thinking more about the four hungry pups in the home burrow than about the fuss she had left behind in the farmyard. In the friendly shelter of the woods, however, she began to feel very uneasy about it all. Everything had certainly gone wrong.

She laid down the limp body of the hen and looked back. Through the laurel and the straight trunks of the pines she could see the flat stretch of the fields she had just left. Ben Slown's hurrying figure was there, but too far back to worry her now. There were no dogs loose, nothing else moving except three crows that were circling to find out what had happened to arouse the farmer.

Ahead of her lay Oak Ridge and the Swamp. What breeze there was came from that direction, laden with the smell of sweet fern. Still she felt uneasy. Her quick ear caught the scratching of claws on bark--a red headed woodpecker was examining a dead oak; that was all right. So also was the barking of a gray squirrel which was watching her from the limb of a pine. But why were the blue jays calling so loudly on the Ridge? Perhaps some enemy was near the pups.

Quickly picking up the hen she galloped towards the Ridge in that wonderfully silent way known only to the wild things.

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.

That reminded Ben of his troubles. He threw his rifle to his shoulder, only to find that at his first movement the pup had vanished in the burrow.

"Shucks! You little varmint!" he muttered. "We'll get you all right. Up with the shovel, John, and let's see dirt fly. Remember though, when we get the pups, that sharp faced one must be mine. He thinks he's smart."

Friend John took off his coat and dug with a will, while Ben sat on the wheat sack they had brought along to put the pups in. Both became greatly excited at actually having the young red foxes in their power. After the friend had dug a long while he looked inquiringly at Ben.

"When are you going to do a little digging yourself, Ben?" he asked suspiciously. Ben saw that the end was nearly reached, so took up the shovel with a laugh. The bag he stuffed well into the burrow to stop it up and to keep any fox from dashing out.

Meanwhile the four pups were cowering against the wall of earth at the very end of their home. Three were in one corner and the inquisitive one in another, all listening to the shovel coming nearer and nearer. Every time it jarred on a stone, the shivers ran up and down their spines; but they could do nothing, the burrow had no outlet besides the one the men were in.

Ben had a very healthy fear of being bitten; therefore the sight of the first little fox unnerved him completely. He knew that all of them were lightning quick, like bombshells on four legs. But Ben was cunning. He quickly thought out an elaborate plan of capture.

First of all he threw several shovels of earth over them, and pushed it in solidly so that they were buried tight. After that they could not move until Ben's big hand picked them out by the scruff of the neck, one at a time.

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