House Fox-Hunters" on it; and we tied red flannel round all the dogs' necks to show they were fox-hounds. Yet it did not seem to show it plainly; somehow it made them look as if they were not fox-hounds, but their own natural breeds—only with sore throats.
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 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.
"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.
Noël now said, "This is the piece of poetry:
"Here lies poor Reynard who is slain,
He will not come to life again.
I never will the huntsman's horn
Wind since the day that I was born
Until the day I die.
For I don't like hunting, and this is why."
"Let's have a funeral," said H. O. This pleased everybody, and we got Dora to take off her petticoat to wrap the fox in, so that we could carry it to our garden and bury it without bloodying our jackets. Girls' clothes are silly in one way, but I think they are useful too. A boy cannot take off more than his jacket and waistcoat in any emergency, or he is at once entirely undressed. But I have known Dora take off two petticoats for useful purposes and look just the same outside afterwards.
We boys took it turns to carry the fox. It was very heavy.
When we got near the edge of the wood Noël said:
"It would be better to bury it here, where the leaves can talk funeral songs over its grave forever, and the other foxes can come and cry if they want to." He dumped the fox down on the moss under a young oak-tree as he spoke.
"If Dicky fetched the spade and fork we could bury it here, and then he could tie up the dogs at the same time."
"You're sick of carrying it," Dicky remarked, "that's what it is." But he went on condition the rest of us boys went too.
While we were gone the girls dragged the fox to the edge of the wood; it was a different edge to the one we went in by—close to a lane—and while they waited for the digging or fatigue party to come back, they collected a lot of moss and green things to make the fox's long home soft for it to lie in. There are no flowers in the woods in August, which is a pity.
When we got back with the spade and fork we dug a hole to bury the fox in. We did not bring the dogs back, because they were too interested in the funeral to behave with real, respectable calmness.
The ground was loose and soft and easy to dig when we had scraped away the broken bits of sticks and the dead leaves and the wild honey-suckle; Oswald used the fork and Dicky had the spade. Noël made faces and poetry—he was struck so that morning—and the girls sat stroking the clean parts of the fox's fur till the grave was deep enough. At last it was; then Daisy threw in the leaves and grass, and Alice and Dora took the poor dead fox by his two ends, and we helped to put him in the grave. We could not lower him slowly—he was dropped in, really. Then we covered the furry body with leaves, and Noël said the Burial Ode he had made up. He says this was it, but it sounds better now than it did then, so I think he must have done something to it since:
THE FOX'S BURIAL ODE "Dear Fox, sleep here, and do not wake. We picked these leaves for your sake. You must not try to rise or move, We give you this grave with our love. Close by the wood where once you grew Your mourning friends have buried you. If you had lived you'd not have been (Been proper friends with us, I mean), But now you're laid upon the shelf, Poor fox, you cannot help yourself, So, as I say, we are your loving friends And here your Burial Ode, dear Foxy, ends. P.S.—When in the moonlight bright The foxes wander of a night, They'll pass your grave and fondly think of you, Exactly like we mean to always do. So now, dear fox, adieu! Your friends are few But true To you. Adieu!"
When this had been said we filled in the grave and covered the top of it with dry leaves and sticks to make it look
