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Having read many stories about foxes and leer I thought I would write to Fur News of his little narrative which I had happen a few 'cars ago.

There was a large fox, old and gray, and perhaps toothless; that I do not know. But I lo know that he was nearly all faded. How I happened to know this I will relate in this story. It happened on a Sunday that I first made his acquaintance. I heard a fox hound running a trail, so taking the gun I determined to get him if I could. When I found a good place to stand on his runway I prepared to wait, which proved not long, for soon he came into sight. He pas taking his time, as the hound that was running him was old and lame, so could not travel very fast. The fox came up to me within six rods and stopped. I shot at him; but missed and he being frightened did not look where he was going, but came right through the runway.

I shot again, and another miss. Well, talk bout feeling cheap; that was me. Some days after this I heard the same fox barking off to the west and traveling south, barking all the while, going by me within a short distance. I was then thinking of getting he gun, but wanting to finish setting my traps

did not go, which I regretted after. I had barely forgotten all about him when I heard him coming back, barking again, just a little below me. I stopped working and listened and soon I saw a fox running through the woods west of me. But that wasn't the old fellow. I heard him crossing the road towards south :gain; then coming back into the road, barking ill the while, and then I saw him peering at me from between two chestnut trees. That did not satisfy him, so he ran toward me, barking as before, coming within two feet of me and stopped there at a bush, same as a dog would; there looking at me sharply he went on after the one [ saw at first. I stood perfectly still all the while this happened and looked at him sharply. 'n fact, so much that he seemed to grow the lire of a wolf.

The next and the last I heard of him was one light when I went to the barn I heard him barking, going west, and I figured he was traveling a path on which I had a snare set, which was correct, as I found the next morning the mare was broken. The same morning a friend shot him and the other one I saw while they were feeding on the carcass of a horse; shot hem with a double-barreled gun at the same time. Great luck, I call that.

Tolland Co., Conn. George E. Taylor.

Fur, News. Fur News, January 1916.

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