One evening when the frost lay glittering in the moonlight, the fawns were suddenly awakened, in their soft beds of drifted leaves, by a loud belling down on the lake shore; and wide-eyed, they tip-toed down to see what it meant.

There on the muddy beach—stamped with long lines of little cloven hoof prints—stood a handsome buck, with polished antlers, dancing about as if too full of energy to stand still.

Now the fawns had never seen their father, for he had been killed by a hunter. And the other bucks of the herd had been rambling about all summer in the higher hills.

They now saw Fleet Foot mince daintily down to inspect the new-comer, who was belling his greeting at the top of his lungs.

But the meeting was brought to a sudden end. For out of the woods pranced another buck, belling a saucy challenge to a fight. Fleet Foot withdrew to a safe distance, as did the fawns, and watched admiringly as the two bucks came together; and the excitement, no less than the keen, frosty air, set the blood to racing hot through their young veins.

Stamping their steel-shod hoofs defiantly and tossing their antlered heads in the pride of their strength, the two bucks bellowed their battle challenge.

“Well, where did you come from?” shrilled Fleet Foot’s champion.

“Never mind that. I’ve come to stay,” bellowed the new-comer. “If either of us has got to go, it will be yourself, because I’m the strongest.”

“Not if I know myself!”

“Look out! The strongest wins!”

“Yes, the strongest wins. So look out for your own self!” and the first buck gave a shrill snort of defiance.

Straightway the pair began dancing a sort of war-dance around each other. Slim and supple, they looked about equally fit.

Fleet Foot stepped gracefully a little nearer, and stood looking on, with her back to the fawns,—who thought best to keep their distance. They noticed that another little audience had gathered on the opposite side of the lake,—a couple of yearling bucks with proud spikes of horns and three with two-pronged antlers.

Around and around the two combatants tip-toed, heads flung back, chins in air. Then they lowered their antlers like shields, and Fleet Foot’s champion got in a good dig at the other’s ribs. With a bellow of rage, the second buck came plunging, and the two crashed together, antlers against antlers. Their sharp hoofs fairly ploughed the ground as they strove and struggled and pushed each other about, the very whites of their eyes showing in their rage.

“There’s ginger for you!” thought the fawns.

Now the fighting pair were shouldering each other about roughly with their horns, lips foaming, gasping for breath,—almost locking horns in a butting match. At last the first buck lifted his knife-edged forelegs and struck at the intruder. The next moment he was belling in triumph, for he had cut a great gash in the other’s shoulder, and the latter had had enough.

The victor now turned for the look of admiration he felt he ought to find in Fleet Foot’s eyes. But instead, he barely caught a glimpse of her dancing away through the thicket, with just one merry backward glance to see if he would race her.

But he knew where to follow; for there was the faintest, loveliest perfume on the air where she had passed.

The fawns gazed after the pair, as they disappeared, then found themselves alone. All that month, while the woods turned from scarlet and yellow to brown and gray, and the nights grew frosty under the stars, the fawns were left very much to their own devices. But they were well capable of looking out for themselves at this time of year, for they found a beech wood and began fattening on the beech nuts against the increasing chill.

Their coats were changing from tawny red to bluish gray, and their fur thickening to keep a layer of warm air next their skins. There were coarser hairs growing out as well, that helped to shed the rain. Their new fur glistened in the sunshine, and the fawns raced and hurdled in the keen air, and took running high jumps to work off their surplus energy.

Then Fleet Foot and the winning buck returned, and with them came two of the young bucks who had watched the battle. The six ranged happily from cranberry bog to evergreen swamp, feasting, feasting, feasting on mosses, lichens, anything and everything that grew, till their sides rounded with their winter plumpness, and a layer of warm fat lay just underneath their skins.

But with the first powdering of snow came a new danger. The hunting season had opened, and to the huntsman our little family meant merely a few pounds of venison for his table, and the pride of a pair of antlers to hang his gun upon.

To the buck, however, one little bullet might in an instant rob him of life and the keen joy of his airy speed, and all the glad wonderful world about them, and leave his family defenseless through the long, hard winter.

He was therefore more than wary. With the first crash of the Hired Man’s thunder stick, he led his little herd to a distant cedar swamp, where they were soon joined by other groups as nervous as themselves at this new peril that could pick them out and wound them from so far away.

Sometimes, even then, a member of the band would have a race for his life.—And sometimes he never came back! But Fleet Foot and her five pulled through in safety.

Then the thunder-stick ceased to roar in the woods about Mount Olaf. The “season” was over, and the entire, band set about making active preparations for the on-coming winter. Already there were chill, drizzly days when all the world looked gray.

The former rivals now chewed their cuds together as peacefully as you please, the bucks sleeping on one side of the thicket, the does and their fawns on the other.

Then came a big surprise for the fawns.

It was a surprise for the Red Fox Pup as well.