Another time I feel as though I'd like a crawfish. I see one snoozing by his hole near the water's edge. I drop my fine, bushy tail into the water and tickle him on the ear. That makes him furious--nobody likes to be wakened from a nap that way--and out he darts at the tail; snap go my jaws, and Mr. Crawfish is crushed in them, shell and all. Between you and me, I consider that a very clever trick, too. Don't you? Summer is my favorite season of the year. How I love the green fields, the ripening grain, the delicious fruits, for then the Rabbits prick up their long ears, and thinking themselves out of danger, run along the hillside; then the quails skulk in the wheat stubble, and the birds hop and fly about the whole day long. I am very fond of Rabbits, Quails, and other Birds. They make a very satisfactory meal. For dessert I have only to sneak into an orchard and eat my fill of apples, pears, and grapes. You perceive I have very good reason for liking the summer. It's the merriest time of the year for me, and my cubs. They grow fat and saucy, too. THE GRAY FOX. The only Foxes that are hunted (the others only being taken by means of traps or poison) are the Red and Gray species. The Gray Fox is a more southern species than the Red and is rarely found north of the state of Maine. Indeed it is said to be not common anywhere in New England. In the southern states, however, it wholly replaces the Red Fox, and, according to Hallock, one of the best authorities on game animals in this country, causes quite as much annoyance to the farmer as does that proverbial and predatory animal, the terror of the hen-roost and the smaller rodents. The Gray Fox is somewhat smaller than the Red and differs from him in being wholly dark gray "mixed hoary and black." He also differs from his northern cousin in being able to climb trees. Although not much of a runner, when hard pressed by the dog he will often ascend the trunk of a leaning tree, or will even climb an erect one, grasping the trunk in his arms as would a Bear. Nevertheless the Fox is not at home among the branches, and looks and no doubt feels very much out of place while in this predicament. The ability to climb, however, often saves him from the hounds, who are thus thrown off the scent and Reynard is left to trot home at his leisure.