Woodlore for Young Sportsmen: Survival in the Wild and Hints on Hunting

LIFE HABITS OF BRITISH WILD ANIMALS

LIFE HABITS OF BRITISH WILD ANIMALS

THE FOX

IT is generally thought that foxes, rabbits, and the like dwell in the earth and venture into the open air only when the necessities of life demand it. This is not so. Very few wild creatures prefer the earth to the open air, and the mole and the forest badger may be set down as the only two who habitually spend the greater portion of their lives underground. The remainder of those who dwell in holes are ready enough to dispense with earth shelters when the weather and their foes permit it, for though Mother Earth may be regarded as the guardian of their infancy, ever there in times of distress, they love the breeze in their coats and the caress of the sunshine just as much as do we ourselves.

If foxes habitually dwelt in holes, the fox hounds would experience a thin time of it, and though it may be true that the forest badger spends thirty hours underground for every hour that he spends on the earth’s surface, it would probably be equally true to reverse the order so far as the fox is concerned.

Sometimes, but not always, foxes have their nursery dens under-ground, and there the cubs remain till they are old enough to scramble about the den mouth, and later to accompany their parents on breathless mouse-hunting expeditions. The vixen goes to the burrow to feed them, but more probably than not both she and her husband sleep out—that is, neither of them live in the burrow. The likelihood is that both father and mother have open air nests near the earth, which serve as look-out stations, and should danger threaten they watch carefully, thus keeping themselves well informed as regards all that is going on. If, watching from their open air retreats, the parents come to the conclusion that their den has been found and is no longer a safe harbourage for their cubs, they immediately remove the cubs elsewhere. I have known a mountain vixen to forsake her den because she saw a keeper pass within 200 yards of it, and in the mountains the keepers steer clear of the cairns in which foxes are known to breed until the day comes for them to visit the place with terriers. On forsaking a den the vixen may carry her cubs to another underground retreat, but very often she makes a nest for them out in the open, in the dense entanglement of some neighbouring forest or even in the deep heather of the mountain side. Mountain foxes regularly rear their cubs out in the open, having no earth den at all. I think it probable, however, that as a rule the young of even mountain foxes are born, say, in the chambers among the rocks, but that their parents, having on previous seasons had an earth raided by terriers, have lost faith in the sincerity of Mother Earth, so that as soon as their cubs are old enough to move they carry them out into an open place, which now becomes their den or yard.

I have found one or two open fox yards in the mountains of Perthshire, but I have never yet discovered the cubs at home. Often, however, they are found by the shepherds, whose dogs have no difficulty in destroying the whole litter as the little creatures crouch helplessly in the ling. In the case of the few I have located, it has always seemed that the foxes saw me coming, and that, probably led by their parents, the little ones sneaked away from their nursery quarters just before I got there. Had my discovery been a few days sooner, before the cubs were quite so old, I should probably have found the whole litter at home.

One day recently I happened to notice some white chicken feathers on the ground, and as there was a farm below me on the mountain face, I became suspicious of the work of Mr. Reynard, so proceeded to investigate. Having once struck the trail I had no difficulty in following it up the mountain side, a white feather here and there betraying the direction the vixen had taken, and so, after a mile or two, I came to the nursery of the little mountain cubs. It consisted of a large patch of coarse, green rushes, in the centre of which was the yard. One could see where the cubs were accustomed to curling themselves up and sleeping at one side of the trampled space, and where, presumably, the vixen was accustomed to sitting and watching on the top of a slight elevation, just her eyes and nose above the swinging rushes. The whole area was liberally strewn with fur and feathers, and fragments of the white chicken, including the two wings still intact, were scattered broadcast. Rabbit and mountain hare fur was much in evidence, while grouse, blackgame, chickens, and a hen pheasant, had all from time to time gone to replenish the larder.

The young foxes were evidently growing up, for from the central yard they had many runways or creeps all through the rushes in every direction. The whole patch, indeed, was a network of tiny pathways, most of them littered with fur and feathers, while here and there were trampled playgrounds. One can imagine the good times the little fellows had enjoyed chasing each other through these blind alleyways, and the frantic tussles that had taken place for possession of the old dried wings and other playthings that still littered their home.

I had no dog with me, but I searched the patch from end to end, expecting to find a cub hidden in every tuft as I came to it—probably with his head tucked out of sight, imagining he could not be seen because he could not see. Not a single cub could I find, however, though to this day I am by no means certain that they were not there. Their mother might, indeed, have led them off, and again they might have hidden themselves so effectively that in the uncertain light, it was next door to impossible to locate them without a dog.

I went back to the den a day or two later, but there were no indications of the family having returned. After my so thoroughly searching the place there is no doubt that the vixen decided immediately to forsake it.

Except in the mountains, it is rare for a vixen to have no earth burrow for her cubs, but immediately the cubs are grown up and the family bonds no longer unite them, each cub wanders off to seek its own fortune. In all probability it does not recognise another earth home till it is old enough to have children of its own. It may have several underground retreats scattered about its hunting range, to any one of which it can flee when hard pressed by its foes, but its recognised nests are in the deep thickets, or, if the weather be bad, under some protruding shelf which shelters it from the elements.

In mountainous districts, where fox hunting with hounds is impossible, Reynard is regarded as the worst of vermin, to be destroyed whenever possible. In the Highlands, for example, the systematic extermination of foxes is very necessary, as besides destroying an immense quantity of game, occasional individuals take to raiding the flocks, and do enormous damage. The more plentiful foxes are, the greater is the danger of a large percentage of them taking to sheep killing, but though it is often thought that every fox is a sheep killer by nature and choice, I have proved to my own satisfaction that this is not the case. In one district where I lived there was a veritable epidemic of sheep killing, and several of us took it upon ourselves to hunt down the raiders. We were out day and night, and managed to destroy nine foxes, but the sheep killing went on just as before. The tenth fox we killed, however, proved to be the culprit, and immediately he was gone the murders ceased.

This fox criminal was an old dog fox, who had lost one forepaw, evidently in a steel trap, and probably some years previously. Presumably this accounted for his extreme wariness in evading the various traps and poisons that had been left for him, while his partially maimed condition no doubt accounted for his liking for the most easily caught prey—just as the maimed or senile tiger becomes man-eater, often hunting with a choil jackal as guide and pilot. I myself shot this particular fox with a deer rifle as he stood on a knoll in the first morning light, looking straight in my direction. I believe he knew that I was there, but being acquainted only with shot guns, he thought himself well out of range.

Foxes are very devoted to their young, and more than once I have felt the utmost sympathy and sorrow for them when necessity demanded the breaking up of their homes. Often their devotion and heroism passes all belief, and I must be forgiven for illustrating this point.

Once, having dug out the cubs of a vixen who had done much damage in the neighbourhood, I waited with the keeper for her to return at fall of darkness to her broken home. But evidently she knew what had happened, and all night we heard her (possibly her mate too) circling about—calling, calling, and crying in the most pitiful manner, till their cries, ringing through the silent corrie, went right down to where we lived and called us murderers. We both solemnly swore that we would never again indulge in such an adventure, which was really a most heartrending affair from beginning to end—the taking of the pretty little ones, and the waiting for their devoted parents.

On another occasion we completely surrounded a small circular wood in which a vixen had her cubs. There could not have been more than fifty yards between each man, and several of the men had guns. Of course the foxes knew we were there, and shortly after darkness we heard them parading round. We thought it impossible for them to get into the wood without being seen, but not only did the vixen somehow contrive to creep through the ring of men, but she led her cubs back through that circle of death and out into freedom and safety! One can imagine what it meant for a timid woodland creature to face such odds—men, dogs, and guns, and one cannot help but admire her magnificent nerve in safely piloting her unruly little band out of the danger zone! Possibly she carried them, one by one, thus making several trips, but at the time we were inclined to think that, the cubs being well advanced, she led them out in twos.

Foxes are very clever in the way they construct their underground burrows, for invariably, on digging them out, all goes well for a while, then presently a root or a boulder is encountered which effectively delays, and often foils, the work of the diggers. At this point also, where the burrow cannot be enlarged, it generally becomes so small that not even a terrier can squeeze its way through, and so the cubs in the nest beyond are afforded every protection that the engineering skill of their parents can give them. But, as I say, when a vixen has had one or two homes broken into, she makes her next nursery in the open air, and it can therefore be concluded that it is because foxes are dug out only in the mountains, only in the mountains are they given to this practice of open air nests.

When a den has been dug out and the cubs taken, the father or mother or both invariably return when night falls. Very often this return trip seals the fate of one or both of them, for traps are set in readiness for them, but, on the other hand, it may not be a fruitless or tragic journey. Sometimes one little cub, wriggling far into the end of the den, is buried by a fall of sand during the digging process, and so escapes the fate of his brothers and sisters. Thus, when his parents come back they find him, and afforded one consolation in their sorrow they lead him off to a new home of safety, and thereafter all their love and care are undividedly his. The foxes know there is a chance of this, and so, in the face of steel and fire, they always return to the broken den on the hillside.

Thus each year sees its tragedies and romances in the fox world, and it is perhaps just as well that we can touch only the outside of this little world of romance. Occasionally when a man who has given much of his life to the study of wild nature, and who has had unique opportunities of looking into that great book of the Night, writes about the things with which he is familiar, he finds himself accused of giving to his wild heroes and heroines traits of character which others consider too suggestively human to be true. There is no doubt, however, that few nature observers err in this way. Their knowledge at the best is very superficial, and if they could write of things as they really are, they would bring wonder to the souls of the most unromantic.

As boyhood slips away, a man learns to leave life’s greatest mysteries alone. He may think over them if he be of that type of mind, but he does not discuss them. He has reached that borderland of knowledge whereby he realises his own inability to arrive at a true understanding, and so it is with the student of nature. He knows that he knows but little; most of all he realises that an understanding of nature’s ways can only be arrived at through the long and tortuous channels of observation and devotion to the subject, and that he cannot convince the nine hundred and ninety-nine who have not this basical knowledge, that what he writes is true to life. The intelligence of many of our dumb creatures affords so profound a subject that it would be a rash man rather than a wise one who attempted to define where their understanding begins and ends, and so our wisest nature observers are content to write off the fox as among the cleverest of our wild fauna, and there we must leave it.

THE MOUNTAIN FOX.

The genuine mountain fox, that is the whitefoot fox as distinct from the common blackfoot or red fox, is now a rare animal. It is larger than the red fox and greyer in colour. In character it is a more wolfish beast, and a great deal more destructive. One of these animals lived in a range behind my house a number of years ere it finally disappeared. It was well known to the shepherds and keepers, who described it as being the size of a sheepdog—rather vague, but nevertheless descriptive.

This animal did enormous damage while it lived, killing sheep, lambs, and moorgame. It was so cunning that it could not be trapped or poisoned. It seemed also to share the characteristic of the jackal in knowing quite well when it was out of range, for it would trot about in full view of the shepherds—even sit down and watch them, so long as they remained at a safe distance.

The so-called mountain fox is merely a common red fox, distinct in point of stature as the result of environment. Why it is that the foxes of the mountains have attained superiority in size over the foxes of the low country it is hard to say, but clear it is that they come from heavier stock. Cubs taken from cairns in the mountains are often sent into the Shires to stiffen up the breed of the foxes in hunting country, and there is no doubt that the importation of the new blood is very beneficial to the breed. As a rule the mountain fox is fairly free from mange, the reason being that he is seldom run long distances, but nevertheless I have known epidemics of red mange to occur over certain ranges in the Highlands. The terriers sometimes get it, and no doubt they carry it from cairn to cairn. Not long ago I shot a fox in the Perthshire Highlands which was almost hairless and in a sorry plight.

The lot of the mountain fox is not usually a very enviable one, and why they remain in the high bleak country, where food is none too plentiful and the weather conditions appalling, has often mystified me—especially where they have a choice of sheltered, well-stocked woodland as is usually the case. Where high ranges are, however, the foxes seldom spend the day at a lower level than one thousand feet. I have repeatedly worked the rocks with terriers along river and loch margins, where all the conditions seemed ideal for finding Reynard at home, but I have never found him there. He may come down at night time, but he is back in his own bleak heights before dawn.

Mountain foxes travel great distances for their food. Recently I found the remains of a hen pheasant on the extreme heights between Glen Lyon and Glen Lochay. It had been carried there by a mountain fox, yet the nearest point at which pheasants existed was nine miles distant. This fox, then, had carried his kill at least nine miles, and probably twelve.

THE CUBS.

The cubs are generally born early in April: those in the hills of the north are little if any later than the Shire foxes. The eyes of the cubs are opened when they are about three weeks of age, and a day or two later they appear at the den mouth, first during the twilight hours only, but later during any hour of the day or night. They are very playful at this age, and every den has its recognised playthings, for possession of which the cubs fight and scramble. I once knew a vixen to carry to her den the flattened and sundried corpse of a frog she had picked up, probably on the highway, and watching the cubs through my glasses, I repeatedly saw one or other of them leave the rest in order to roll on and play with this sacred remnant.

SIZE

The last fox I shot, which seemed to me rather a small one, measured 46 ins. from tip to tip, of which the tail accounted for 15 ins. Another mountain fox on the same day measured head and body 36 ins., tail 15 ins. Neither of these was exceptional in the Perthshire Highlands—in fact I would put them both down as being poor specimens.

TRACKS

As a rule a fox in pursuit of game walks like a cat instead of trotting like a dog, and so he leaves his tracks in a straight line rather than a dot-and-carry-one procession. His tracks are easily recognised from those of a cat by reason of the facts that (1) a fox leaves claw marks, while a cat does not; (2) a cat invariably follows a human pathway, which normally a fox shuns except that he may travel a few yards along it; (3) a cat leaves a complete impression of all its toes, whereas a fox, except on very soft going, leaves the impression of only three toes; (4) a cat delights in creeping under a trailing branch or briar; a fox, unless actually stalking game, goes round it; (5) a fox invariably travels up wind (going) or down wind (returning) whereas a cat hunts more by sight and hearing than by scent, and so works its way more or less regardless of wind direction.

THE BADGER

THE life history of the badger is one of the most interesting subjects afforded by the wild fauna of this land, chiefly because the animal is so strictly nocturnal and so much given to underground habits. The badger is not among the rarest of our wild beasts, yet it is regarded as a rarity chiefly because its existence in a locality where it still manages to hold its own may be unknown except to the oldest and most experienced observers, who, possibly because they are deaf, probably because they possess some sense of civic pride as regards the few remaining remnants associated with the order of their youth—are not over garrulous. The badger, indeed, is so secretive in its habits above ground, and spends so much of its time underground, that it may exist where one least suspects its presence, and it will doubtless come as a surprise to many to learn that this creature, whose life history we associate only with the damp and shadowy recesses of our deepest forests, exists not uncommonly within the village suburbs of our great cities. I have, indeed, found traces of the passing of the badger in woods which were so near to the centres of industry that gaps existed in every hedgerow, created by city children during their week-end rambles, and in the shady hollows of which discarded tins and household crockery were not conspicuous by their absence. That such badgers had wandered accidentally into the precincts of civilization cannot be doubted, and yet there was no question but that they found safety in the midst of their foes, and realising this, were reluctant to return to their native woods, where the hand of every keeper and labourer was raised against them.

As an example, not so very long ago a family of badgers lived in the woods surrounding Berrywood Asylum, at Duston, near Northampton. Duston is practically a suburb of the prosperous Midland town, yet so long as I was in the locality, the Berrywood grounds were never without their badgers. The whole district was overrun with children and dogs, say nothing of peacocks and lunatics; but each night agreeable to their tastes, the badgers would sally forth to feed on the berry-bearing bushes, or to hunt insects among the crops. Their presence was known to very few of the local inhabitants,