Where Town and Country Meet 



ing the fences and outbuildings of the town 

 dwellers, as if Reynard were hopeful at least 

 of getting a sniff of plump, huddling poultry 

 through the chinks of the henhouse. Two 

 or three times we find where he has stopped 

 and raised himself on his hind legs, with his 

 forepaws up against a barn or hennery, 

 hungrily sniffing at the toothsome fowls 

 within. But he soon drops down again and 

 trots disconsolately on his way, convinced 

 by long experience that a fox has nothing 

 to hope for from a modern henhouse. Yet 

 almost every night he is attracted to it like 

 a moth to a candle, and wastes much valu 

 able time at the outset by courting the im 

 possible. 



At length, however, he leads away again 

 toward the open fields, and we follow his 

 straightening trail until we come to a pas 

 ture full of rotting stumps and logs. Here 

 the fox has paused to dig for mice in the 

 decayed stumps and under the logs. We 

 sincerely hope that the poor fellow has 

 picked up a mouthful, at least, to strengthen 

 him for his midnight work, though there is 

 no evidence of any tragedy among the mice. 

 The fox has visited nearly all the likeliest 

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