It had been one of those cool, crisp days when the sun shone just warm enough to feel good to the furred and feathered folk. Frisky, the Red Fox Pup, had been creeping up on a flying squirrel, who sat nibbling the ripe berries of the Solomon’s Seal with her three little ones beside her, when the entire family took alarm and went leaping back to the beech-nut tree.

Now Frisky had not reached the age of six whole months in vain. He had sharp eyes, and he used them. And he had never seen a squirrel that could spread sail like that. He felt that his eyes must have deceived him.

He forgot his surprise at the very next turn of the trail, when he suddenly spied a tangle of wild grape vine that hung in a canopy of the luscious purple clusters over the stag-horn sumac.

Frisky Fox had never seen wild grapes before, though he had often passed the vines when the fruit was green. Now his keen little nose told him enough to make him eager for a taste.

But the fruit hung just too high. Leaping into the air, he occasionally got a nibble from the low-hanging bunches. But these only served to whet his appetite for more.

To add to his discontent, Fairy the Flying Squirrel suddenly sailed down from a tree-top, alighting on the very top of the grapevine canopy. And there she perched saucily and munched and sucked at grape after grape before his very eyes.

This was too much for Frisky. Around and around the vines he circled, screwing up his courage for a leap.

He finally discovered a place where the vine hugged a slanting tree trunk, and he climbed as far as he could.

The next instant Fairy had sailed back to her branch as easily as if she had been laughing at him. But Frisky didn’t mind that. It would take just a stretch of his neck and his jaws would close on a great cluster of the fragrant fruit.

If young Frisky Fox had only been content with that one taste, all might have been well. But just beyond was a larger bunch. Frisky gave a leap, landing on his tip-toes on crossed vines. But the vines parted beneath his weight, and down he plunged—almost to the ground, but not quite. Not far enough for a foot-hold.

And there he hung, head downward, hind legs tangled in the vines, unable to better his position!

My, how he writhed and squirmed, and bit at the vine that shackled him! But to no avail! He was a prisoner, just as surely as if he had been tied with a rope. Little his brains availed him now.

If any one had asked young Frisky Fox, as he hung head downward from that grapevine, what he thought of the situation, he would have said it couldn’t be worse.

Yet it speedily became worse,—so much worse, indeed, that Frisky redoubled his efforts to free himself,—though he had an awful feeling that it was no use.

It was Tattle-tale the Jay who warned him.

Tattle-tale kept pretty close track of all that went on in the forest, and then told all he knew.

So many times had he flown ahead of Frisky Fox, screaming at the top of his lungs: “A Fox! A Fox! Beware!” that Frisky had come to dread the sound of his voice.

This time Tattle-tale, who played no favorites, was doing Frisky a good turn, but the little fox was in no position to appreciate the fact.

“Look out, there! Look out, everybody,” Tattle-tale was screaming. “Old Man Lynx is coming!”

“Old Man Lynx!” squeaked Shadow Tail, the Red Squirrel, making for his hole in the oak tree.

“OLD MAN LYNX, Mammy, Old Man Lynx!” squealed Timothy Cottontail, hopping madly for a hollow log.

“Old Man Lynx!” grunted Unk-Wunk, the Porcupine. “A lot I care!” And he rolled himself up into a prickly ball in the top of a swaying birch tree.

“Old Man Lynx!” thought Frisky Fox, fairly beside himself with frenzy. Hanging there heels uppermost in the grapevine, he was as helpless as a mouse in a trap. And here was the great cat, his ancient enemy, creeping, creeping, creeping through the shadows, his nose sniffing this way and that for the scent that would tell him where to find a good supper.

Another moment and out of the tail of his eye he saw the great, heavy, bob-tailed cat, with his cruel face, squared off with a fringe of whiskers that framed his chin, and sharp ears tasseled with little tufts of fur at their tips.

The yellow eyes gleamed evilly as Old Man Lynx caught sight of Frisky hanging there so helplessly, and his grizzled gray-brown fur rose along his spine.

Now he was wriggling along the ground flattened out like a snake. Now he was creeping up the tree trunk as silently as a shadow, and now he was gathering his legs beneath him for the leap that would land him squarely on Frisky Fox.

Frisky knew that one crunch of those gleaming teeth would end it all, so far as the Red Fox Pup was concerned.

But Frisky had a trick up his sleeve. His wits were still in working order.

“What a pity!” sighed Shadow Tail, the Red Squirrel, as he peered from his hole in the oak tree.

For Old Man Lynx had no objection what-ever to having fox for supper. The only objection he had to foxes was that he could never catch one.

For to look at poor Frisky Fox, his red-brown fur still soft and silky, his black feet tapering so delicately and his white throat exposed, it didn’t seem as if he had a show in the world of escaping the huge cat.

But Old Man Lynx was stupid. He had nothing but his powerful muscles and his murderous teeth and claws, whereas Frisky had the nimble wit of one who lives by being both hunter and hunted.

And even as he waited for the leap for which he saw the Lynx preparing, he thought of a way out of both the grapevine and the danger he was in.

The next instant the Old Man gave one of his blood-curdling screeches, by which he so often paralyzed his prey with fright. Then he dropped to the branch just above, claws out for Frisky Fox.

But the very instant his heavy form touched the tangled vines, they gave way beneath him, and he, too, went crashing down in a net-work that held him fast. And, what’s more, his huge weight loosed the vines that held Frisky prisoner.

But wait! With his great steel claws the giant cat wrenched himself free. Frisky made for a clump of greenbriar, for his leg had gone to sleep, and he couldn’t run right till it had had time to wake up.

Was Old Man Lynx to get him after all?

There was only one reason why he didn’t—he had no great fondness for brambles. Cats, wild and tame, are mighty fond of their own skins, and Old Man Lynx was no exception. He’d have to be mighty hungry before he’d either scratch his fur out or get it wet.

While Old Man Lynx thought it over, Frisky Fox was certainly not standing still. Not Frisky! He was struggling so hard to tear himself free that the brambles were all trimmed up with little tufts of his tawny coat.

That the gray form crouched so near him meant to spring he could easily guess, and his heart thumped so loudly in his furry chest that he could hardly breathe. Eyes straining wide with fright, as he tugged this way and that, (for he was really caught fast again), he suffered far more from terror than from the pain of the brambles. His leg was awake now, and with one last twinge he wrenched himself loose.

At the same instant the great gray cat launched itself almost upon him.

But Frisky was too quick for it. By the time Old Man Lynx had reached the spot, Frisky was tearing down the slope.

Now lynxes have poor eyesight. Following their nose is their one best guide. Of this Frisky was aware, as his mother had told him so.

He could hear the great cat scrambling after him at a terrific pace. But he was going too fast to try any dodges, for one stumble and the other would be upon him. If it had been Mother Red Fox, she could have laughed at her pursuer. But Frisky was only a pup, remember, and his short legs had all they could do to keep ahead of such a big fellow.

Just as he was beginning to wonder how long this would keep up, he recalled something else his mother had taught him. Lynxes cannot swim. At least, they won’t. The river was just off to the left, and with a quick turn and a sidewise leap that might or might not throw the Old Man off his scent, he dashed for the water.

On the very brink of the moonlit current, he suddenly remembered one thing more. The last time he had tried that swim he had let his tail get so wet and heavy that he had only reached the other bank by hanging on to his father’s brush. Now there was no one to tow him. Should he risk it, or was he safer where he was?

To cross or not to cross, that was the question before him.

If he trusted his fate to the current, he might drown. And if he remained on the same side with Old Man Lynx, he might meet another fate.

There was but a heart’s beat to decide.

Ah! What was that dark object just upstream? Could it be a log? What luck! Frisky veered to the right, his long agile leaps once more outdistancing the merciless form behind him.

He reached the log. Alas, it reached only half way across! But he raced that half. Then one of his powerful forward leaps and he had landed within easy swimming distance of the other shore!

Old Man Lynx stood raging on the bank he had left, afraid to risk it. His disappointed screech sent shivers along Frisky’s spine, but he knew he was safe.

Pup-like, no sooner was his mind relieved of worry than he burrowed into an old gopher hole and fell fast asleep.