A SENTIMENTALIST ON FOXES 59 



hind legs, his fore-feet pressed against the door 

 and his ear at the keyhole, listening to the dulcet 

 sounds. The fox rolled on the floor, frightened and 

 confused by the light; then, picking himself up, 

 dashed out, but before going twenty yards he 

 pulled up and looked back just when the gun was 

 at my friend's shoulder. There had been no time 

 for reflection, and in a moment Reynard, or 

 Robert as we sometimes call him, was on the 

 ground bleeding his life out. 



I did not like the end of his story, and I fancied, 

 too, from his look that he rather hated himself for 

 having killed that particular fox and regretted 

 having told me about it. 



In another instance which remains to be told, 

 the fox, in England this time, who had got into 

 trouble, and was in dire danger, was saved not 

 once, but twice, just because there was time for 

 reflection. It was told to me at Sidmouth by an 

 old fisherman well known to the people in that 

 town as " Uncle Sam," a rank sentimentalist, like 

 myself, to whom birds and beasts were as much 

 as human beings. It chanced that in 1887 he was 

 occupied in collecting materials for a big bonfire 

 on the summit of Barrow Hill, a high hill on the 

 coast west of the town, in preparation for Queen 

 Victoria's first Jubilee, when one day, on coming 

 down from his work, he met a band of excited boys, 

 all armed with long, stout sticks, which they had 

 just cut in the adjacent wood. 



Uncle Sam stopped them and told them he 



