have not seen, is to behold a fox, standing with one forepaw partly lifted, with his head cocked on one side, his tail partly curled about his hind quarters, listening for mice in the grass. This picture is the last word in wild life.
From Æsop down, men have told of the wit and wisdom of the fox, and their praise has not gone to his head, nor dulled his wits, for he still carries on amid the haunts of his worst enemy, man. He barks defiance at the farm dog from a distant wall, and eludes him usually as a rabbit would a tortoise.
Some men and boys always shoot at him when they get sight of him, but for my part, I rather admire this clever freebooter, who flaunts his beautiful brush in the very face of man, and still wears it to the end of the chapter.
