By ANISEED
THE fox has an evil reputation. Landowners, shooting-tenants, and their keepers all dislike him (to put it mildly), because he thins the none too numerous head of game in the hills, though as a matter of fact it is chiefly two-legged foxes, in the shape of quarrymen and others, whose depredations over many years have reduced the fur and feather and fin to its present state. Again, the hill farmers hate foxes because they kill their young lambs. The Welsh sheep is a small animal even as an adult, so that its progeny are naturally easily carried off by a fox, being exceedingly diminutive in an infantile state.
Many of the hill farmers seem to think that foxes will take nearly full-grown lambs and even adult sheep, but I fancy enmity is father to the thought. Most of the lambs taken, and certainly all the sheep, are slain by sheep-dogs. It is surprising to me that more sheep are not killed by dogs. The farmers leave their dead ewes and lambs, during the lambing season, lying in the fields—a standing invitation to every passing cur, and a source of worry to every dog owner who loses sight of his animals for even a few minutes. I have remonstrated with my neighbours on this point, but as a result, instead of burying them, they shoved the dead lambs up into the fork of the nearest tree or on top of a wall, whence the crows or the first gale of wind brought the now putrid mass to the ground again, and the tainted wind once more invited every dog to investigate.
Apropos of sheep-killing dogs, I remember some years ago going with a picnic party, in early summer, into the mountains. After lunch, two ladies and myself wandered off to explore. We came across one of the stone sheep pens, so common in Wales, like diminutive huts without roofs. They consist of several chambers, or pens, with exits from one to another. Out of idle curiosity we crept through the low doorway, and were proceeding to enter the next division when a warning growl brought us up short. Peering through the next low opening, we saw a wild-eyed, gaunt-ribbed, grey-coloured, ensanguined sheep-dog eyeing us with hackles up across the wool-strewn pen, in the corner of which lay the carcase of a sheep.
It is said that the fox, like other animals, varies in colouring according to his surroundings, and I have heard it declared, by men who ought to know, that the real mountain foxes are much greyer in colour and larger, whilst down in the beech woods which clothe the sides of many a Welsh valley, a smaller and bright red-coated fox is found. I cannot honestly say I have noticed this peculiarity. I remember, years ago, when returning from fishing in a mountain tarn, seeing a remarkably slatey-grey fox. On the other hand, I have twice seen very red-coated foxes bolted from earths in the topmost hills. Canis vulpes is, I suspect, much the same wherever he is found; it is probably individuals that vary in colour, size, weight, and temperament.
In Beckford’s phrase, “fox-hunting is now become the amusement of gentlemen,” and stands on a very different footing from that which it had in olden times. Yet those days are not so very distant, particularly in the west, where stag-hunting is still the premier sport, and the Masters of Foxhounds have to arrange their meets, &c., in deference to the wishes of the stag-hunters. To this day, professional “fox-hunters,” very different both in appearance and methods from the pink-coated huntsmen whom we are accustomed to associate with the chase of the fox, flourish. In the Highlands of Scotland and in certain parts of North Wales, where no fox-hunting exists in the legitimate sense of the word, these worthies still flourish and carry on a thriving trade—for trade it is.
St. John, in his “Wild Sports of the Highlands” (Chapter XXX.), gives a very good description of one in his day, and says: “In the Highlands he is honoured with the title of ‘The Fox-hunter.’ He is generally a wiry, active man, past middle age, slung round with pouches and belts carrying the implements of his trade. He wears a huge cap of badger skin, and carries an old-fashioned long-barrelled fowling-piece. At his feet follow two or three couple of strong, gaunt, slow hounds, a brace of greyhounds, rough and with a good dash of lurcher, and a miscellaneous tail of terriers.”
I quote this description because lately in North Wales I came across his modern counterpart, and had a day in the hills with him after the elusive mountain foxes. The modern professional fox-catcher in question is by trade many things—farmer, innkeeper, quarryman, keeper, and fox-catcher—a fine example of the tall and fair Welshman, a type now seldom seen even in the hills. The small, dark Iberian type in these days seems the more numerous, and represents, in fact, the Sassenach idea of the typical Welshman.
The profession of fox-catcher is the outcome of the fact before mentioned, that mountain foxes kill lambs. As a result, the farmers combine to subscribe to a “fox fund,” the tariff being: Vixens (in spring), 10s. 6d. or more; cubs before July 1st, 3s. 6d., after 5s.; adult foxes, either sex, 7s. 6d. The professional fox-hunter has to show the skin, head, or brush (though they do not call it so in Wales) before he can claim his reward.
In the last two years, 1912 and 1913, the particular man I speak of had taken up to last spring fifty-two foxes. Most of these he killed, but a few were shipped abroad, chiefly, he says, to Germany, which seems to me somewhat extraordinary. In the past many foxes were imported for those hunts which were short of foxes, but I never heard of any being exported!
On learning that he seldom trapped the animals, I was not greatly surprised, for no animal is more difficult to trap than a mountain fox. Yet foxes in England are continually getting caught in traps set for rabbits, and not infrequently in traps set (at any rate nominally) for cats. Poison, also, is barred. It is still occasionally used on the quiet by keepers, but its effects are so uncanny and far-reaching that the farmers forbade its use. There is a clause in the rules of the “fox fund” which says: “Any fox which is suspected of having been slain by poison, is not to be paid for,” or words to that effect.
The remaining methods of the fox-catcher I can describe at first hand. They are two in number. First there is the typical Welsh fox hunt, which will be, I am afraid, somewhat “unpleasant to Melton ears and harsh in sound to Quorn.” The farmers either combine with the professional fox-catcher, or they arrange a hunt on their own. This does not happen very often, as I gather they do not care for the sport particularly; in fact, sport does not come within the province of the Welsh farmer, partly from circumstances, but chiefly from national temperament. Nevertheless, when goaded to righteous indignation by the foxes having made more than usual havoc among the lambs, they get up a hunt. They usually start before daylight. After a couple of hours’ walking the hunters get to the…
top of the mountains, and after much argument among themselves the guns are placed in all the likely passes, while other guns sit down near each of the well known earths. Having got into their places, one or two more, often with guns also, draw the mountain sides with their dogs (sheep-dogs, terriers, &c.). Any foxes still about (the mountain fox is far less nocturnal than his midland brethren) are soon on their legs, and making for their “earths.” As these are very numerous a fox can get “to ground” almost anywhere among the rocks, with the result that only a small proportion of those “found” ever reach the guns. Any that do, as they pass, are shot at. Perhaps one or two of those which get to ground are bolted by the terriers, or else killed by the latter underground. It will be seen, therefore, that though several foxes may be found, it by no means follows that any are slain. Many get to ground in impossible places, others elude the watching guns, and probably several are missed at easy ranges.
In fact, the professional fox-catcher was very scathing on the subject, and said it was almost impossible to kill any number of foxes by this method. He declared it was very difficult to get the farmers to stay in their places; after a quarter of an hour of watching they get sick of it, and, vacating their posts, congregate to smoke and talk. The foxes then slip past unobserved with the greatest ease.
The second method is that of the professional, with perhaps an assistant or two. The implements of war are a collie and two small white fox-terriers (he says he cannot find any Welsh terriers small enough for underground work), one gun, one crowbar (forgotten on this occasion), some string, a “worm,” or corkscrew, for getting out dead bodies from earths (he has to show the skins, remember), and possibly a bottle of beer or so in his large inside pockets.
On the day in question, the “field” consisted of one farmer, with a gun, an English head gardener from a neighbouring estate in the valley, a Welsh under gardener and ex-keeper, and myself. It was a hot morning late in May, but up on the mountains the clouds lay low on the topmost heights. The “fox-catcher” and the gardener, misled by the fineness of the day, left their great coats in the valley, but I, with English distrust of Welsh weather, stuck to mine in spite of the knowledge that I should have to lug it about among the rocks, plus a camera and a gun with cartridges.
Up the steep mountain road for an hour or more brought us on to the table-land of moor, and here, as I expected, it began to rain. Also, our best terrier went off after a hare and forgot to return. Another hour’s walking brought us to the foot of some rugged detached hills, which themselves lay at the foot of the big mountains. The wind had now got up pretty considerably, and was blowing half a gale, the rain stinging our faces as we faced the wind. The “fox hunter” said it would be too rough on the tops, and we had better try the lower hills, so, turning round, we walked in line across the moor. The dogs hunted in a most half-hearted fashion, owing to the cold and rain. Moreover, we went down wind, and on a day when it was most unlikely a fox would lie out!
Altogether it seemed to me a fool’s game! I held my peace, however, trusting he had something up his sleeve. Presently we came to some rough “screes,” piled up heaps of rock, under any or all of which a fox might lie in comfort, undisturbed by wind or weather. The terrier now began to work, and soon marked in a big pile of boulders. “Look out, there’s a fox here!” Hastily I took a position down below, while the fox-hunter, gun in hand, climbed to the top. (The third gun had disappeared, having apparently lost us.) Much barking ensued beneath the rocks, but no fox appeared. The fox-catcher now put down his gun, and, bending down, encouraged his dog, whose muffled barking seemed to issue from the bowels of the earth.
Suddenly, almost between his feet, the fox bolted. Now, although I had come out to shoot foxes, when it came to the moment for action I hesitated… That second or two was enough—the fox was out of sight, as far as I was concerned! The fox-catcher, snatching up his gun, scrambled higher up to get a shot, and took a hasty snap as the fox disappeared. Away went sheep-dog and terrier in pursuit, but although the fox appeared to travel very slowly I doubt if she was hit. In any case she easily outpaced her pursuers, and I could find no signs of blood or fur on the stones.
The fox-catcher was full of wrath. “That’s what always happens, if for one minute you put down your gun.” Then he demanded, “Why didn’t you fire?” and on my replying that I was afraid of hitting him, instead of the fox, he obviously did not believe me. He then said: “There may be cubs here; we’ll put the bitch in again.” More barking ensued, followed by a sound of worrying, and a few high squeaking growls; then silence. “Deawl! (the devil!). She will kill them all if we do not get her out.” After much whistling the terrier came out with a bloody nose, the tiny cubs having shown fight.
We now sent the ex-keeper for a crowbar to the nearest farm. The English gardener, wet through, crouched beneath a large boulder, the picture of misery; the fox-catcher squatted with me beneath another, and beguiled the time with talk and beer. I asked if he ever tried tracking foxes in the snow to their (in this country miscalled) “earths.” He replied that he had, but without much success, as the foxes during snow, if the weather was fine, lay out to bask in the wintry sunlight (presumably to dry their fur), and that a man tracking them showed up so black and distinct against the white expanse, that they invariably saw him a long way off and decamped, not necessarily to ground. Moreover, the fox tracks were so numerous, and intercrossed to such an extent, that they were difficult to follow; and although one might follow them to ground (a tedious job), the snow made the shifting of rocks and stones difficult and dangerous.
I asked him if he had tried the familiar vulpicide’s method of lying up near the earth in summer, and shooting the cubs at play. He said he had not been very successful, and had given up trying this method. In his turn the Welshman asked questions about English fox-hunting, and said quite frankly he did not understand preserving foxes to kill them; it seemed to him an extraordinary idea, and such a roundabout way of killing them also. Moreover, he did not think much of foxhounds… according to all descriptions he had read, every hunt ended in the fox going to ground. It was evident his reading had been limited to the doings of hill-country packs.
He also told me that last summer, returning from the mountains with two dead foxes, he met a couple of English tourists, who demanded where he had got the foxes and how. “In the mountains—shot them,” was the laconic reply. Whereupon the tourists said, “If you had done that in our country you would have been hung to the nearest tree!” This evidently rankled.
After a long wait, during which we got stiff and cold, the crowbar arrived and the missing farmer reappeared, so that we returned in force. With the aid of the crowbar the fox-catcher and the farmer proceeded to shift huge stones, but had eventually to give up. Then by sheer luck, in moving a small stone, we suddenly saw beneath a narrow crack between two huge stones two little fluffy bodies. Great excitement! The farmer produced from inside his coat a salmon gaff (!), and, tying it on to a bit of stick, proceeded to angle for them. Presently he howked one out, and finding it was unhurt I placed it in my pocket. The other cub eluded us. The rain now coming on worse than ever, we gave up, and started on our return journey, the bag being one cub killed (by terrier) and one captured.
To quote St. John again, “though our game was ignoble, the novelty of the proceeding, and the wildness and magnificence of the scenery, had kept me both amused and interested.”
THE END.