Among these was a most attractive vixen, whose society
kept the rest from leaving when the weather improved; consequently, the
wood seemed full of foxes, none of which were disposed to leave it. When
the pack trotted up to the main ride, and the huntsman's ringing voice
sent them crashing into the four-years' growth by the river, a brace were
lying snug and dry in the old ash-stumps. One slipped into the river at
once and quietly swam to the opposite bank, while the other crept all
along the outside hedge and curled up in the corner waiting on events. The
vixen slipped into a badger earth under an old oak and stayed there, and a
couple more dog-foxes moved on into four acres of low slop, brambles,
shoots, and blackthorns, where they were winded by half the pack, while
the other half were running the first fox up the fence. The crash and
music of the hounds re-echoed from the trees and the enfolding hills
above, the shrieking of the jays as they flit protesting from tree to
tree, the hearty ring of the huntsman's voice cheering his hounds--surely
all this should send each fox flying out over the fields beyond! But a fox
has no nerves. He keeps his head with the coolness of a Red Indian, and a
"slimness" all his own.
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