58 THE BOOK OF A NATURALIST 



not quite the right thing to do, or not altogether 

 fair. 



This incident has served to remind me of another 

 from South America, told to me by an Anglo- 

 Argentine friend as we sat and talked one evening 

 in Buenos Ayres, comparing notes about the ways 

 of beasts and birds. The fox of that distant land 

 is not red like his English cousin; his thick coat is 

 composed of silver white and jet black hairs in 

 about equal proportion, resulting in an iron grey 

 colour, with fulvous tints on the face, legs and 

 under parts. If not as pretty as our red fox, he is 

 a fine-looking animal, with as sharp a nose and as 

 thick a brush, and, mentally, does not differ in the 

 least from him. He is not preserved or hunted in 

 that country, but being injurious to poultry, is 

 much persecuted. 



My friend had been sheep farming on the 

 western frontier, and one winter evening when he 

 was alone in his ranch he was sitting by the fire 

 whiling away the long hours before bed-time by 

 playing on his flute. Two or three times he thought 

 he heard a sound of a person pressing heavily 

 against the door from the outside, but being very 

 intent on his music, he took no notice. By and by 

 there was a distinct creaking of the wood, and 

 getting up and putting down his flute he took up 

 the gun, and, stepping to the door, seized the 

 handle and pulled it open very suddenly, when 

 down at his feet on the floor of the room tumbled 

 a big dog fox. He had been standing up on his 



