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John Burroughs was a prominent nature writer of the 19th and early 20th centuries, and he was alongside John Muir and was known as "John of the Kingdom of Birds." He lived in his hometown of the Catskill Mountains, fishing, birdwatching, and getting along with furry animals, and advocated that "everyone should look for 'greatness' in what is palpable and familiar in the vicinity." He was called "a poet with binoculars" and "a guide to nature". "Burroughs mastered a real art—the art of success that doesn't go with the flow," Whitman said. Before he became a writer, he was first and foremost a farmer. That's the essence of his success."
The book "Snowy Night, Fox Furry" is an interesting story about Burroughs's life in the mountains and his relationship with animals. The socially phobic chipmunk is a loner and will not leave the nest more than a jump away; The red fox on a snowy night shocked the "hunters" and forgot to shoot, "I felt that I had actually caught the prey at that time, and it was the best part, and without the fox's knowledge, I snatched something more precious than fur from him."
Excerpt
It's been a long time since I've heard a fox howling, but when I was younger, I used to hear it in the Catskill Mountains, especially on a quiet moonlit night in the middle of winter. Perhaps it was more of a howl than a howl, and it was not as continuous as a dog's barking, but intermittent. It sounds like the animal is trying to howl, but it hasn't mastered the trick yet. The voice is wild and strange, and if I can feast my ears here, I would like to get up at any time in the night. When I was a child, I used to stand in front of my father's house and listen. Soon, an expectant fox cry could be heard on the shoulder of the mountain in the distance, and I felt like I could almost see him squatting on the moonlit hillside with his furry body looking down on me. As he listened, perhaps a fox would answer him from behind the woods in the valley, a voice that was fitting of the eerie winter mountains.
The red fox is the only species in this area that is abundantly abundant. After a fresh snowfall, on the way to school in the early morning, I saw traces of him crossing the road in many places. Here he had leisurely passed in front of the house within the range of his rifle, apparently scouting the hen's coop, and the sharp and sharp footprints would never have been mistaken for the clumsy footprints of a puppy, for all his wildness and agility were reflected in them. In another place, as if frightened, or suddenly remembered that there was something else to do, he jumped gracefully all the way, barely touching the fence, and rushed up the hill like a gust of wind.
Unlike dogs, the fox's usual gait, at least at night, is on foot. At this time, he is looking for prey, alert and tiptoeing through the woods and fields, taking only about a foot in one step while keeping his eyes wide open and his ears pricked up.
How beautiful a wild, light and agile fox is! I have often seen his corpse, and I have seen hounds drive him through the highlands from afar, but I have never experienced the thrill and excitement of meeting him in the forest, in his free wild life. It wasn't until a cold winter day that I was drawn to the top of the hill by the barking of the hounds, and stood there waiting for the barking to sound again, so that I could determine where the hounds were going, and then choose my spot—like all young hunting fans, I longed to catch a game that was as striking as it was. I waited for an unknown amount of time, patiently, until my body was almost frozen, and I was about to turn to leave, when I suddenly heard a slight noise. I looked up, and suddenly saw a fox of incredible beauty, leaping briskly with its characteristic grace and poise, apparently disturbed by the hound, but not in pursuit, so that he was so completely immersed in his own reverie that he did not notice me at all, though I was not more than ten yards away from him, and was stunned by the amazement and admiration. I could see him at a glance: a large male fox with dark legs, a large fluffy tail, and a white tail tip. I was completely amazed and fascinated by his sudden appearance and incomparable beauty, until I watched him disappear over a small hill and suddenly came to my senses, remembering my priorities as a hunter, and realizing what a great opportunity I had missed to make a name for myself. I grabbed my shotgun a little angrily, as if I blamed it, and on the way home I was annoyed with myself and all the foxes. But then I had a new perspective on that experience, and it felt like I had actually caught the prey, and the best part, and without the fox's knowledge, I had snatched something more precious from him than the fur.
The barking of dogs in the mountains is completely characteristic of winter and is especially pleasant to the ears for many people. The long howl of the horn could be heard a mile away and beyond: sometimes faintly falling back into the mountains, sometimes distinctly recognizable, but still faint, the sound of the hounds when they came to some commanding heights and were downwind; Soon the barking disappeared completely into the ravine, and then, as the hounds approached, burst out again from a short distance, becoming more and more real, until the fox went around the top of the hill and appeared directly above you, and the barking of the dog became loud and sharp. The fox continued to run along the mouth of the mountain to the north, his cry rising and falling with the direction of the wind and the terrain, and finally disappearing into the distance.
When being chased by hounds, foxes usually lead the distance by half a mile, adjusting their speed according to the hound's speed, occasionally pausing for a moment to distract themselves from a small mouse on the way, or to enjoy the scenery, or to listen to the hounds. If the opponent chases too closely, he will run over hill after hill, so that he can usually get rid of the hunter. But if the hound is slower, he will play on the ridge or the top of the hill and end up in the hands of an experienced hunter, although not so easily.
Sometimes, just after dawn, the farm dogs encounter foxes on the open ground with the most intense chases. The fox was so confident in his invincibility that I even guessed he was half-luring the dog into a race against him. But if the dog is smart enough and the race is downhill and the road is flat, then the fox has to do everything in his power. Even so, he was sometimes embarrassed by dogs chasing him. However, the downstroke was so fast that the dog couldn't stop and pick him up. But when they run up the hill or into the woods, the fox's extraordinary agility and agility will be present in the moment, and it will be easy to leave the dog far behind. He is not afraid of dogs that are smaller than himself, especially when they meet in a narrow road far from home. At times like this, I've seen one of them turn around and run away, and then the other one leaves.
One of the fox's most striking features is its large, fluffy tail. From a distance, the fox is running through the snow, his tail as striking as his body, not only does it look cumbersome, but it also seems to help improve his lightness and bounce. The tail softens his movements and accentuates or perpetuates the calmness and grace of his posture in the eyes of the people. However, if he is chased by a hound in the wet weather during the melting snow, his tail will often become heavy and dirty, causing him great inconvenience and forcing him to hide in his burrow. The fox was extremely reluctant to do so, and his self-esteem and racial traditions motivated him to run hard, using the wind and speed to win. It was only when he was injured or when his tail became heavy that he was forced to flee in this way.
If you want to learn the fox's remarkable shrewdness and cunning, try to give him a trap. As a slipper, he's always suspicious of tricks, so you'll have to be smarter than him to fool him. At first glance, it seems easy to trap him. He may seem to meet you by chance, or follow you in the fields, or walk on a busy road, or wander near haystacks and remote barns. In the middle of winter, throw the carcass of a pig, chicken, or dog into a distant field, and within a few nights the surrounding snow will be covered with his snowy night, fox's hairy footprints.
There is an inexperienced country boy, misled by the seemingly negligent attitude of the fox, who will suddenly come up with a plan to get rich with his fur, and wonder how he did not think of this idea earlier, and no one else has actually enlightened it. I knew a young farmer who found a dead pig on a remote hillside between two woods, and it seemed to be a feast for all the foxes in the neighborhood to feast every night, and he thought he had found a bonanza. The next day was covered with dark clouds and heavy snow, and as soon as the snowflakes began to fly, he immediately set out, trapping and broomsticks in his hand, and was already calculating in his mind how many silver coins he could get for the first fox skin. With 120,000 prudence, with the fawn pounding in his heart, he cleared the trampled snow, set up the traps, and then sprinkled the light fresh snow on the surface and covered it, and quickly withdrew as he swept away his tracks, while laughing triumphantly at the little surprise he had prepared for the cunning scoundrel. The sky was beautiful, and the heavy snow soon covered up the traces of his work.
The next morning, as soon as it was dawn, he set out to harvest the furs. He believes that Daiyuki has helped him a lot and kept his secret well. As he approached his destination, he looked closely, trying to identify the loot caught in the fence at the foot of the mountain. When he got closer, he found that the snow-covered surface showed no signs of destruction, and he couldn't help but be suspicious. A small round mound marks the location of the pork, but there are no footprints nearby. Looking up the hillside, he saw that the fox had indeed made a leisurely descent down the hill towards his usual meal, until he was only a few yards away from the pork, when he suddenly turned around and disappeared into the woods in a great stride. The young hunter saw at a glance that this was a great irony of his trap-setting skills, and angrily dug up the iron fellow and walked home with it, while the stream of silver coins that had been flowing into him in his dreams suddenly changed direction.
Successful trappers start their action in the fall or before the first heavy snowfall. In a field that is not too remote, he uses just an old axe to carve out a small area in the frozen ground, such as 14 inches long and 10 inches wide, then digs out 3 or 4 inches of soil, fills the pit with dry ashes, and puts in pieces of roasted cheese. The fox will be very skeptical at first and stay away from this place. It seemed to be designed, so before he got too close, he had to see what the hell this thing was up to. But the cheese was delicious, and the weather was bitterly cold. Every night, he ventured closer until he could reach a piece from the surface. Like other mortals, success emboldened him, and now he digs through the ashes and discovers fresh delicacies every night. Soon he lost his vigilance and his doubts were completely dispelled. A week after this lure, on the eve of a light snowfall, the trappers carefully hide the traps in their pits, first thoroughly smoked with hemlock branches to eliminate all the smell of iron. If the weather is good and cautious enough, he has the potential to succeed, although the probability is still extremely low.
Excerpt from:
"Snowy Night, Fox Fluffy"
John Burroughs, translated by Zhang Sa, CITIC Press
2
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