Photographing a Wild Fox = 123 
my return I visited the haunts of the foxes, and a sad 
spectacle awaited me; the pick and shovel, worked 
by willing hands, had turned the den into heaps 
and trenches of reddish colored soil. I afterwards 
learned that a boy had discovered the den, and at 
once the foxes were dug out, and the mother and 
four little ones killed. 
I saw nothing of the fox during the following week 
which terminated my stay at the farm. At night I 
sadly missed the barking that used to sound from 
the grove or meadow, and sometimes even closer to 
my window; but still more did I miss the graceful 
form that I had so often seen in the stump lot at the 
head of the valley. I left with the secret hope that 
the tamest of wild foxes was still alive and might 
long outwit those who sought his life. 
