The last sun-blots had gone from the trail and the pond was all shadowed by the trees on the western side.  A Robin began its evening hymn on a tall tree, where it could see the red sun going down, and a Veery was trilling his weary, weary, weary in the Elder thicket along the brook, when another, a larger animal, loomed up in the distant trail and glided silently toward Yan.  Its head was low and he could not make out what it was.  As it stood there for a few seconds Yan wet his finger in his mouth and held it up.  A slight coolness on the side next the coming creature told Yan that the breeze was from it to him and would not betray him.  It came on, seeming to grow larger, turned a little to one side, and then Yan saw plainly by the sharp nose and ears and the bushy tail that it was nothing less than a Fox, probably the one that often barked near camp at night.

It was trotting away at an angle, knowing nothing of the watching boy nor of the crouching Rabbit, when Yan, merely to get a better look at the cunning one, put the back of his hand to his mouth and by sucking made a slight Mouse-like squeak, sweetest music, potent spellbinder, to a hungry Fox, and he turned like a flash.  For a moment he stood, head erect, full of poise and force in curb; a second squeak—­he came slowly back toward the sound and in so doing passed between Yan and the Rabbit.  He had crossed its old trail without feeling much interest, but now the breeze brought its body scent.  Instantly the Fox gave up the Mouse hunt—­no hunter goes after Mice when big game is at hand—­and began an elaborate and beautiful stalk of the Rabbit—­the Rabbit that he had not seen.  But his nose was his best guide.  He cautiously zigzagged up the wind, picking his steps with the greatest care, and pointing with his nose like a Pointer Dog.  Each step was bringing him nearer to Bunny as it slept or seemed asleep in the tussock.  Yan wondered whether he ought not to shout out and end the stalk before the Rabbit was caught, but as a naturalist he was eager to see the whole thing out and learn how the Fox would make the capture.  The red-furred gentleman was now within fifteen feet of the tussock and still the gray one moved not.  Now he was within twelve feet—­and no move; ten feet—­and Bunny seemed in tranquil sleep; eight feet—­and now the Fox for the first time seemed to actually see his victim.  Yan had hard work to keep from shouting a warning; six feet—­and now the Fox was plainly preparing for a final spring.

“Is it right to let him?” and Yan’s heart beat with excitement.

The Fox brought his feet well under him, tried the footing till it was perfect, gathered all his force, then with silent, vicious energy sprung straight for the sleeper.  Sleeping?  Oh, no!  Not at all.  Bunny was playing his own game.  The moment the Fox leaped, he leaped with equal vigour the opposite way and out under his enemy, so Reynard landed on the empty bunch of grass.  Again he sprang, but the Rabbit had rebounded like a ball in the other direction, and continued this bewildering succession of marvellous erratic hops.  The Fox in vain tried to keep up, for these wonderful side jumps are the Rabbit’s strength and the Fox’s weakness; and Bunny went zigzag—­hop—­skip—­ into the thicket and was gone before the Fox could get his heavier body under speed at all.