The fox
caught him, and I heard her sharp white teeth crunch into his bones.
The sound made me quite sick, and my mother was very sad afterwards. She
complained to my father of the cruelty of foxes, but he, who, as I have
said, was a philosopher, answered her almost in her own words.
"Foxes must live, and this one has young to feed, and therefore is
always hungry. There are three of them in a hole at the top of the
wood," he remarked. "Also our son was lame and would certainly have been
caught when the hunting begins."
"What's the hunting?" I asked.
"Never mind," said my father sharply. "No doubt you'll find out in time,
that is if you live through the shooting."
"What's the shooting?" I began, but my father cuffed me over the head
and I was silent.
I may tell you that my mother soon got over the loss of my brother, for
just about that time she had four new little ones, after which neither
she nor my father seemed to think any more about us. My sister and
I hated those little ones. We two alone remembered my brother, and
sometimes wondered whether he was quite gone or would one day come back.
The fox, I am glad to say, got caught in a trap. At least I am not glad
now--I was glad because, you see, I was so much afraid of her.
THE SHOOTING
I was quite close by one morning when the fox, who was smelling about
after me, I suppose because it had liked my brother so much, got caught
in the big trap which was covered over artfully with earth and baited
with some stuff which stank horribly.
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