THE FOX. 53 



falls a victim to the fatal red mange, the scourge 

 of the fox kind. In the mountains of the north, 

 where the rugged nature of the country does not 

 permit of fox-hunting, red mange is quite un- 

 common among the foxes, simply because they 

 are never run to exhaustion. 



The enormous distance a fox will cover in a 

 single day, leading the hounds at full cry for hours 

 on end, tells its own story. His powers of endur- 

 ance may be marvellous, but after all he is only 

 flesh and blood, and when," at the end of hours of 

 running, he sets out with pounding heart and 

 panting breath for quite new country away over 

 the hills in a last mighty and supreme effort we 

 know that the end must be near. How one's 

 heart goes out to the fox dragging on and on 

 with foes on every side, seen at every open gate, 

 shouted at and turned aside, and always with that 

 awful death-like ' music ' at his heels ! 



Yet not always is the end of the chase a tragic 

 one. One day we see him, in his burning need 

 for water, drag himself into the swamps of the 

 river-margin, the hounds hard behind, and we 

 apprehend that ere many seconds are past his 

 gorgeous coat will be dragged and trampled 

 through the mire. He pauses at the very brink 

 among the rushes, and looks half-hopefully ahead. 



The river ! His old, old friend, truer far than 

 friends that change or move to distant hills ! 

 Many a time before has she served him with a 

 generous hand many a time away in the blue 

 hills there, where he spent his cubhood days. 

 Will she fail him now now in the time of his 

 direst need ? 



A fresh outburst from the hounds urges him on 

 he slips into the water, swiftly, silently, and 



