TRIPLEFOOT 



path for Fresh Water Cove. I knew that a 

 large flock of hens ran in the bushes, near the 

 highway, and Triplefoot knew it, too. In 

 twenty minutes she was back to the den with a 

 large hen over her neck. She called her cubs, 

 and tore the hen to pieces, giving each cub 

 a piece, but reserving something for herself. 

 The dining-room was about thirty feet west 

 of the den. It was under some small hem- 

 locks, and the ground was level and smooth. 

 When all the foxes had had enough, there 

 was a small piece left. Triplefoot buried this 

 piece under the oak leaves. 



There was one thing that puzzled me in 

 Triplefoot's way of hunting. I could not 

 understand why she did not go after poultry 

 every day. East, west, north, and south, there 

 were flocks of fowls running at large, and it 

 would be a trifling exertion to snatch one 

 from the bushes at any hour of the day. 

 Triplefoot may have reasoned that a fowl 

 now and then would not be missed, while a 

 wholesale slaughter would attract attention, 

 and send the farmer to hunting for the den. 

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