The great pine wood of Erindale was on the other bank of the river, and on looking carefully about the lower ford I saw a few fox-tracks and a barred feather from one of our Plymouth Rock chickens.  On climbing the farther bank in search of more clews, I heard a great outcry of crows behind me, and turning, saw a number of these birds darting down at something in the ford.  A better view showed that it was the old story, thief catch thief, for there in the middle of the ford was a fox with something in his jaws—­he was returning from our barnyard with another hen.  The crows, though shameless robbers themselves, are ever first to cry ‘Stop thief,’ and yet more than ready to take ‘hush-money’ in the form of a share in the plunder.

And this was their game now.  The fox to get back home must cross the river, where he was exposed to the full brunt of the crow mob.  He made a dash for it, and would doubtless have gotten across with his booty had I not joined in the attack, whereupon he dropped the hen, scarce dead, and disappeared in the woods.

This large and regular levy of provisions wholly carried off could mean but one thing, a family of little foxes at home; and to find them I now was bound.

That evening I went with Ranger, my hound, across the river into the Erindale woods.  As soon as the hound began to circle, we heard the short, sharp bark of a fox from a thickly wooded ravine close by.  Ranger dashed in at once, struck a hot scent and went off on a lively straight-away till his voice was lost in the distance away over the upland.

After nearly an hour he came back, panting and warm, for it was baking August weather, and lay down at my feet.

But almost immediately the same foxy ‘Yap yurrr’ was heard close at hand and off dashed the dog on another chase.

Away he went in the darkness, baying like a foghorn, straight away to the north.  And the loud ‘Boo, boo,’ became a low ‘oo, oo,’ and that a feeble ‘o-o’ and then was lost.  They must have gone some miles away, for even with ear to the ground I heard nothing of them, though a mile was easy distance for Ranger’s brazen voice.  As I waited in the black woods I heard a sweet sound of dripping water:  ’Tink tank tenk tink, Ta tink tank tenk tonk.’

I did not know of any spring so near, and in the hot night it was a glad find.  But the sound led me to the bough of an oak-tree, where I found its source.  Such a soft, sweet song; full of delightful suggestion on such a night: 

     Tonk tank tenk tink
     Ta tink a tonk a tank a tink a
     Ta ta tink tank ta ta tonk tink
     Drink a tank a drink a drunk.

It was the ‘water-dripping’ song of the saw-whet owl.

But suddenly a deep raucous breathing and a rustle of leaves showed that
Ranger was back.

He was completely fagged out.  His tongue hung almost to the ground and was dripping with foam, his flanks were heaving and spume-flecks dribbled from his breast and sides.  He stopped panting a moment to give my hand a dutiful lick, then flung himself flop on the leaves to drown all other sounds with his noisy panting.  But again that tantalizing ‘Yap yurrr’ was heard a few feet away, and the meaning of it all dawned on me.