FullReads

Oswald slipped the pistol and a few cartridges into his pocket. He knew, of course, that foxes are not shot; but as he said:

“Who knows whether we may not meet a bear or a crocodile.”

We set off gayly. Across the orchard and through two cornfields, and along the hedge of another field, and so we got into the wood, through a gap we had happened to make a day or two before, playing “follow my leader.”

The wood was very quiet and green; the dogs were happy and most busy. Once Pincher started a rabbit. We said, “View Halloo!” and immediately started in pursuit; but the rabbit went and hid, so that even Pincher could not find him, and we went on. But we saw no foxes.

So at last we made Dicky be a fox, and chased him down the green rides. A wide walk in a wood is called a ride, even if people never do anything but walk in it.

We had only three hounds–Lady, Pincher, and Martha–so we joined the glad throng and were being hounds as hard as we could, when we suddenly came barking round a corner in full chase and stopped short, for we saw that our fox had stayed his hasty flight. The fox was stooping over something reddish that lay beside the path, and he said:

“I say, look here!” in tones that thrilled us throughout.

Our fox–whom we must now call Dicky, so as not to muddle the narration–pointed to the reddy thing that the dogs were sniffing at.

“It’s a real live fox,” he said. And so it was. At least it was real–only it was quite dead–and when Oswald lifted it up its head was bleeding. It had evidently been shot through the brain and expired instantly. Oswald explained this to the girls when they began to cry at the sight of the poor beast; I do not say he did not feel a bit sorry himself.

The fox was cold, but its fur was so pretty, and its tail and its little feet. Dicky strung the dogs on the leash; they were so much interested we thought it was better.

“It does seem horrid to think it’ll never see again out of its poor little eyes” Dora said, blowing her nose.

“And never run about through the wood again; lend me your hanky, Dora,” said Alice.

“And never be hunted or get into a hen-roost or a trap or anything exciting, poor little thing,” said Dicky.

The girls began to pick green chestnut leaves to cover up the poor fox’s fatal wound, and Noel began to walk up and down making faces, the way he always does when he’s making poetry. He cannot make one without the other. It works both ways, which is a comfort.

“What are we going to do now?” H. O. said; “the huntsman ought to cut off its tail, I’m quite certain. Only, I’ve broken the big blade of my knife, and the other never was any good.”

The girls gave H. O. a shove, and even Oswald said, “Shut up.” For somehow we all felt we did not want to play fox-hunting any more that day. When his deadly wound was covered the fox hardly looked dead at all.

“Oh, I wish it wasn’t true!” Alice said.

Daisy had been crying all the time, and now she said, “I should like to pray God to make it not true.”

But Dora kissed her, and told her that was no good–only she might pray God to take care of the fox’s poor little babies, if it had had any, which I believe she has done ever since.

“If only we could wake up and find it was a horrid dream,” Alice said. It seems silly that we should have cared so much when we had really set out to hunt foxes with dogs, but it is true. The fox’s feet looked so helpless. And there was a dusty mark on its side that I know would not had been there if it had been alive and able to wash itself.