As Cinnabar watched unseen, he hoped and prayed that one of the cards would accidentally slip out of the man’s boot.
It was almost frightening the way it did! Like something he had willed. Vicky would have called it “spirit magic,” for at the third plantation, just as the messenger stepped up on the mounting block, one of the neatly penned cards did slip out from his boot and it fell into a puddle. The man caught sight of the fluttering white thing, but not wishing to dirty his hands, he left the card where it was. Then he swung into his saddle and took off, singing at the top of his lungs,
No sooner had the man’s coattails flapped out of sight than Cinnabar boldly trotted from behind a boxwood hedge, pounced on the card, and studied the lines with great hunger and longing in his heart. These were the words he read:
Weather permitting, our first fall fox chase will be held on Saturday next. Gather at Honey Hill at half after ten o’clock. And it was signed G. Washington, M.F.H.
Cinnabar’s spirits rose in eager anticipation as he ran home, carrying the card in his teeth. There he threw last year’s card into the fire, and with a bit of resin fastened the new one in its place. Then he studied his hunting map, not because he needed to, but as one would study the dear, familiar face of a friend. He knew full well that Honey Hill was only a hoot and a holler from his den. Down the lane between the double row of hemlocks, then over a little footbridge, up a gentle slope, and there you were! Though why they called it Honey Hill, he would never know. Not once had he seen or heard a single honeybee. Oh, well, man’s ways were wondrous strange and he was not one to bother his head trying to change things that were. They just were, and that was an end to it.
All these happenings of yesterday flashed through Cinnabar’s mind while Vicky was saying, “What you need is a little excitement and fun.”
Now he smiled gratefully at her over the heads of their noisy foxlings. A quick shuttle of understanding went almost like a dotted line between them.
“I saw you put up the new card announcing the hunt,” Vicky said. “You go, Cinnabar,” she added wisely, knowing that he would have to go whether she urged him or not. Regardless of her, regardless of their pups, some things a dog-fox had to do. Things that were expected of him—like being on time to meet a challenge. That card above the mantel said only half. Between the lines they both knew it shouted the words:
COUNT ON THIS: COUNT ON CINNABAR, THE ONE O’CLOCK FOX. SURELY HE WILL BE ON HAND TO GIVE US A GOOD HUNT. ONLY DEATH COULD KEEP HIM AWAY.
Chapter 3
JUST IN CASE . . .
Saturday dawned in a film of fog. Tangled skeins of mist enveloped trees and bushes as if they were caught up in a cocoon. The dawn found Cinnabar close by his den, dozing in the lee of a fallen log. His brush of a tail still curtained his eyes, letting in only slivers of light. From the peenk, peenk of a timberdoodle, he knew, however, that morning had come. Half awake, half asleep, he had the exquisite feeling that today was his. He squinched his eyes and gave his brush a flick and a flirt just to tell himself he was not dreaming; that he was, in fact, Cinnabar, the One O’Clock Fox. And today was his. For fun.
With a lusty sigh he rolled over on his back, crossed his paws behind his head, and looked up at the dewy underside of some ferns. A drop of dew splashed right in his eye, and he blinked it away, grinning. He would have to use all his foxy tactics today, for with this moistness his scent would cling sharply to underbrush and grasses.
Fully awake at last, he sat up on his haunches, thinking. Soon the hunters would be jogging to the meet. He saw the whole scene in his mind. The Whippers-In with their long-thonged whips. Billy Lee, the Kennel Huntsman, with his pack of hounds close around him. And there, consulting his watch, would be the Master of the Foxhounds, George Washington. He would be in full regalia of blue frock coat and scarlet vest, both embellished with gold foxhead buttons. And he would be astride Blueskin, his big Irish Hunter. Cinnabar had to laugh to himself. Not only the coat of the horse and of the general looked all of one color, but the braided tail of Blueskin and the pigtail of George Washington looked much alike and stuck out behind at exactly the same jaunty angle.
In his mind’s eye, Cinnabar watched the whole field of hunters assemble in the mistiness of the morning. Then, sighing in animal bliss, he got up, stretching to his full length. He opened wide his jaws and he let his red tongue curl outward until it licked the cool wetness on the fern fronds. He thought with pleasure that he was the center and object of the whole hunt. He had much to do. And now he must stop daydreaming and do it.
At a lolloping canter he went down to Dogue Creek, where a sloping bank shelved inward, forming a little hideaway. With his forepaws he dug furiously under the shelf and produced first a gunnysack, all muddy and balled-up, and then a dozen fish heads, which he had banked against just such a day as this. If he should be captured and killed in the hunt, these would keep Vicky and the little ones in food for days to come. He felt good about that.
A crow swooped down low, croaking in his ear and threatening to steal the fish away. But Cinnabar snapped right back at him: “Oh, no! Not today you don’t! Not today, you big black Beelzebub! I never felt so strong. If you weren’t old and tough, I’d catch you and take you home, too.”
“Naw! Naw!” squawked the crow. And off he flew, knowing he was no match for Cinnabar today.
Chapter 4
AND LONG MAY HE LIVE
When Cinnabar arrived at the dooryard of his den, his cubs neither heard nor saw him. They were tumbling and wrestling in the puppy game of romps. He set down his gunnysack of fish heads and stood there a moment, hidden by the ferns. His heart swelled with pride. Rascal, biggest and boldest of the litter, was dancing in circles about Pascal and shaking a wishbone in his mouth. “You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!” he teased and taunted.
Merry and Mischief capered about their litter brothers, bouncing on their dainty paws, trying to get into the game.
Cinnabar’s eyes sparkled. There was nothing mangy about his pups. His were fat and woolly, their bodies strong and agile. “They’ve had only the best,” he thought. Then he had to laugh at himself, for he knew he was really saying that he’d been such a good, faithful, dependable provider that he deserved a day off.
Vicky’s head now poked out of the den. “Rascal! Pascal! Merry! Mischief! Your father will be here any moment. Come in at once and wash your paws!”
Instantly the four young foxes dived into their den, and Cinnabar after them.
The washbasin, an ancient trough hollowed out from a log, was now the scene of a lively splash party.
“Vicky!” Cinnabar called above the uproar. “I am in ecstasy.”
Vicky smiled indulgently as she cuffed Pascal into position and poured an extra gourdful of water into the trough. “About today’s hunt?” she asked.
“Aye! Aye!” Cinnabar sighed happily. “Curds and whey, what a day! The air is dripping with moisture and my scent will cling primely to brush and briar and stalk and stubble. Oh, curds and whey, what a day!”
For sheer joy he picked up the nearest cub, which happened to be Merry, and tossed her high into the air. He watched her land with elfin grace, and again his heart expanded with pride.
“Vicky, Vicky, Vicky,” he laughed, “should the hounds tear me to pieces today, be not one whit sorry.”
“Cinn-a-bar!” Vicky’s voice held terror in it. “I will not have you talking like that in front of the children.”
“Tush, tush, my dear, they are so busy playing wetpaw that we scarce exist. Except,” he added with a twinkle, “at hungry-time. Which reminds me . . .”
“Of what, Cinnabar?”
The cubs now came bouncing about their father, waving their brushes from side to side in expectancy. “What did you bring us, Papa Cinny?”
“Fish heads—for tomorrow and tomorrow,” replied Cinnabar. Then he slung the gunnysack over his shoulder and disappeared into the cellar, where he covered each fish head carefully with san
d, tamping it down with his nose.
When he returned, the den was in apple-pie order. The children were all seated, their forepaws crossed and resting lightly on the edge of the table. They looked half angel, half fox.
“What’s this? What’s this?” exclaimed Cinnabar. “Such a lovely silence I hear. Vicky, were we ever that quiet as pups?”
Vicky made no answer. Her eyes were bright with the little surprise she had planned. From the mantel she now took a box, opened the lid, and held up an heirloom that had come from her side of the family. It was a twin flute, so highly polished that it gleamed in the firelight. Gracefully she lifted it to her muzzle and with a light breath sounded an “A.”
Four little urchin faces tossed upward as if they were on one stalk, and four small squeaky voices answered the “A.”
Then with Vicky’s foot tapping out the rhythm, a rollicking sound burst forth until the words and tune made the den ring:
“Few sportsmen so gallant, if any,
Did cubs ever send to the chase;
Each dingle for him has a cranny,
Each river a fordable place.
“He knows the best line from each cover,
He knows where to stand for a start,
And long may he live to fly over
The country he loves in his heart.”
For a long moment Cinnabar stood upright on his hind legs. He was speechless. He looked on them all, on Rascal and Pascal and Merry and Mischief, and thence a sidelong glance at Vicky, who was wiping the flute on her apron. Not a sound escaped him. Not even a sigh. Then, still on his hind legs, he tittuped softly about the den, doing a sailor’s hornpipe dance.
At last he found his voice.
“Bravo! Bravo!” he shouted so loudly that a pebble bounced from the chimneypiece and landed plumb in Mischief’s lap.
This sent everyone into peals of laughter. But Cinnabar’s laughter was cut short. His eye was drawn to the passageway that led to the out-of-doors. His thoughts began to race. “My stars! The slanting morning’s sun is gone. It must be high noon. I have only an hour to meet the hunt, only an hour to ready myself!”
Vicky followed his glance and turned the hourglass so the sands would trickle the moments away. Then she busied herself sampling the pheasant consommé that was simmering over the fire. It needed more seasoning, and she set the children to chipping crystals of salt from a salt block.
Cinnabar, meanwhile, took a comb made of chicken ribs and proceeded to groom his brush from the very root to the white tag at the tip. Excitement made his paws tremble.
Vicky was quick to notice. “Here, Cinnabar, I’ll put your bowl of soup on the table. Take a little sippet now and again, as you make ready. It will steady your nerves. Nothing better for the nerves than hot consommé with celery root; that’s what your granny, old Madame Bushy, used to say.” Vicky put the steaming bowl on the table and placed four smaller ones in front of Rascal, Pascal, Merry, and Mischief.
For once the cubs were too spellbound to eat. They were fascinated with what they saw and heard and smelled. Not only was Cinnabar combing each hair separately, but he was dipping his comb into a pinch bottle marked “Skunk No. 5.” To the cubs it was the most teasing, tantalizing, sweet, musky fragrance they had ever sampled.
Rascal snuffed noisily. “Comb me, too, Papa! Please! Please!” he begged.
“Comb me!”
“Comb me!”
“Comb me!” echoed the other cubs.
“Shush!” commanded their mother. “Your father is a busy fox. Lap up your soup at once before it gets cold.” She turned now to her husband, and a shyness crept into her voice. “Cinnabar,” she hesitated, “I’ve another surprise. I sent to Tattersall’s in London and had them order for you a scarlet vest complete with golden buttons and lace to match George Washington’s. I had planned to give it to you for Christmas, but as I stirred your consommé, the pieces of celery formed many letters of the alphabet, and bless my soul if they didn’t make a little sentence.”
“Bumpkins and pumpkins!” Cinnabar exclaimed incredulously. “And what did the letters say, my dear?”
“They repeated the motto on your family coat of arms. The Latin for ‘Do it now! Do it now!’ ” And suiting her action to the motto, Vicky produced a splendid vest from a box marked “Tattersall’s of London.”
Cinnabar looked up from his combing to see a beautiful replica of the enemy’s foxhunting apparel. The vest was, in every detail, identical to that worn by the Master of Foxhounds, George Washington. Even to the hunt buttons with grinning fox faces.
“Slip into it, Cinny. It will keep you warm on a misty, moisty day like this. Let’s see the fit of it.”
Cinnabar began hedging for time. Could he accept the costume of his mortal enemy? Besides, any vest at all would be a hindrance, not a help. In fording streams it would get wet and soggy. As for the color, it would shout his whereabouts whenever he wanted to hide. But he dare not hurt Vicky’s feelings. He must be tactful and foxy and kind. Suddenly a thought struck him. As he slipped it on, he let all the air out of his lungs and pulled in his belly, making himself as thin as possible.
“Oh, oh, oh!” wailed Vicky. “It’s too big! Much, much too big! It won’t do at all. I won’t let you wear it.”
Cinnabar shook his head sadly and put his free paw, the one without the comb in it, around Vicky. “Don’t feel bad, my pet. Being remembered is what matters. The gift is fine. Superfine! And soon Rascal or Pascal will grow into it.”
Time was running out. Each half of the hourglass showed the same amount of sand.
Cinnabar corked the bottle of Skunk No. 5 and laid his comb on the mantel. He surveyed himself in a treasured piece of looking glass that he had retrieved from George Washington’s trash pile. “And now, dear lady, would you say that I look all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”
“I would indeed!” Vicky nodded as she put the remains of the soup, with all the celery root, into his bowl. “Now lick up!” she urged. “I don’t like to have you go out on an empty stomach.”
Cinnabar sat down to the table, lapping the delicious consommé slowly, thoughtfully.
“Frightened, Cinny?” asked Vicky.
“No, of course not,” chuckled Cinnabar. “The joy of the chase is greater by far than the fear of the hounds.”
Now he cleared his throat and pointed to the hourglass. “Time is fleeting,” he said in a voice vibrant with anticipation for the fun and danger to come.
Chapter 5
I SHALL LEAVE MY SCENT WHERE THE CATTAILS GROW
The den suddenly went silent. All eyes were on the hourglass. Even the cubs stopped eating and watched with an awareness beyond their tender age.
Trickle . . . trickle . . . trickle went the last little grains of sand. Now the bottom of the bell-shaped glass held them all. The top was nothing but emptiness, except for a fine film of dust where the sand had been.
“One o’clock!” Cinnabar’s voice boomed. Then he gulped the last bit of soup, frisked his paw through his whiskers, and looked from one to the other. “I bid you all adieu,” he said with a grand flourish.
“Oh!” pleaded Vicky, “try to be careful! Did you know,” she added in concern, “that George Washington has some new, extra-fast foxhounds?”
“Of course I know!” laughed Cinnabar. “ ’Twas myself who told you. General Lafayette sent them all the way over the seas from France. The leader, I hear, is a young lady hound named Sweet Lips because her baying is so high and sweet it makes your very blood tingle.”
“And I hear those ‘Sweet Lips’ hide fangs of death. They can crunch a fox’s leg as if it were a carrot. Oh, Cinny, don’t go! Please don’t go. Any other fox would hole up in his den on a day like this.”
Cinnabar was now rolling on the grass doormat to give his coat an extra sheen. “Your mother,” he winked at the cubs as he rolled back and forth, “says one thing with her sweet lips, and quite another thing with her eyes. What her eyes say is: ‘Get going,
Cinnabar! Take life in your teeth, and if you’re going to go, go!’ ”
Saying which, he leaped lightly to his feet, gave each of his children a loving spank, and headed for the door.
“Cinny!” Vicky stopped him with her voice. “If you have a moment during the chase, grab off one of Mister Plunkett’s hens. They’re fat as butter, and I’ve a craving for a good, fat hen. Besides, he’s careless about his fences and this may teach him a lesson.”
“Consider it done, my dear,” Cinnabar called back over his shoulder. “You have the currant jelly ready; I’ll bring the hen. I shall be home by starlight, I don’t doubt.”
Like a puff of smoke, swiftly, noiselessly, Cinnabar glided up the tunnel and out into the glimmering world of sun and shadow. He lifted his face to the wind and snuffed the invigorating smells from the woods nearby—rabbits, quail, wild turkeys. He drew a great lungful of the wonderful mixture.
The morning’s mist had lifted, and a gossamer radiance filtered through the wispy clouds. An exquisite sense of liberty made his whole body quiver. He was a free fox; a wild fox. He felt as young as one of his own cubs. Joyously, he slipped through the sassafras thicket, then down the little lane between the hemlocks, and up the winding path to a knoll overlooking the whole of George Washington’s hunting grounds. From this lofty perch he scanned the distance, surveying the ups and downs of the land. What he saw was rolling hills and deep valleys, and winding creeks glinting from the touch of sun. He saw farmland and meadow, and far off the white mansion house with its cluster of little buildings, like chicks sidling up to a mother hen. But mostly he saw woodland with pine trees growing, and he heard the steady whisper of wind in the treetops.
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