HUNTING THE FOX
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 Noël 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.
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