The Springfield Fox 



Would she ? Hers was a mother's love. 

 There was but one to watch them this time, the 

 fourth night, when the quavering whine of the 

 kittle one was followed by that shadowy form 

 above the wood-pile. 



But carrying no fowl or food that could be 

 seen. Had the keen huntress failed at last? 

 Had she no head of game for this her only 

 charge, or had she learned to trust his captors 

 for his food ? 



No, far from all this. The wild-wood mother's 

 heart and hate were true. Her only thought 

 had been to set him free. All means she knew 

 she tried, and every danger braved to tend him 

 well and help him to be free. But all had 

 failed. 



Like a shadow she came and in a moment 

 was gone, and Tip seized on something dropped, 

 and crunched and chewed with relish what she 

 brought. But even as he ate, a knife-like pang 

 shot through and a scream of pain escaped him. 

 Then there was a momentary struggle and the 

 little fox was dead. 



The mother's love was strong in Vix, but a 

 higher thought was stronger. She knew right 



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