266 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



belongs to a nobler tribe than the fox ; he is even on 

 the steps of the throne of the king of beasts. The fox 

 exists in our country notably on sufferance. The 

 vixen whelps in a kennel that we provide for her ; if 

 an accident of the hunt befalls her mate, we bring her 

 another, even from Siberia ; we put down dead rabbits 

 for the young cubs, and take care that they are not all 

 killed at cub-hunting. 



The weasel is not a make-believe wild animal. He 

 lives where he will and how he will. We rejoice to see 

 him clearing the wheat-stacks of mice, but he only 

 stays there so long as he has not other fish to fry. In 

 the winter-time we were near a wheat-rick, and saw a 

 mouse sitting on a thatch, palpably trembling a most 

 eloquent object of fear. The next minute out came 

 the head of its arch-enemy, and the mouse, gaining 

 the rare privilege of the use of its limbs, leapt to the 

 ground and made off. As a rule, the limbs of the 

 weasel's prey refuse to work when the inevitable 

 death draws near, and the spectacle of the rabbit 

 squealing and dragging its useless legs, while the 

 weasel runs up and administers the coup de grdce, is 

 very familiar. When next we saw the weasel, he was 

 too near the chicken-yard, and we took a stick to slay 

 him. He ran and got into a dry wall, from the cracks 

 in which he glared at us with lustrous eye, and even 

 thrust out his impudent white chin, as though to 

 ask us whether we really wanted to fight. Later we 

 saw him on the wall cleaning himself carefully and 

 thoroughly, his slim length doubled upon itself like 

 an unusually supple kitten. When our observation 

 became a nuisance, he trotted off. The weasel has not 

 the dandified airs of the stoat. He does not sport an 



