Photographing a Wild Fox 123 



my return I visited the haunts of the foxes, and a sad 

 spectacle awaited me; the pick and shovel, worked 

 by willing hands, had turned the den into heaps 

 and trenches of reddish colored soil. I afterwards 

 learned that a boy had discovered the den, and at 

 once the foxes were dug out, and the mother and 

 four little ones killed. 



I saw nothing of the fox during the following week 

 which terminated my stay at the farm. At night I 

 sadly missed the barking that used to sound from 

 the grove or meadow, and sometimes even closer to 

 my window; but still more did I miss the graceful 

 form that I had so often seen in the stump lot at the 

 head of the valley. I left with the secret hope that 

 the tamest of wild foxes was still alive and might 

 long outwit those who sought his life. 



