Fox's Earth to Mountain Tarn 



close wedded to their cause. The emotions 

 themselves seem to cry out. I knew that some- 

 thing was in fear. The wish to help would have 

 brought me to my feet, when the cry sounded 

 nearer. The yellow blades stirred. 



A dark form scurried past. I could see the 

 blunt nose and short tail of a field vole. I might 

 have touched, almost breathed upon it. So 

 completely did some greater fear swallow the less, 

 that I must have appeared as a protector. I 

 watched for the enemy. The sinuous motion of 

 the grass had all the significance of a shadow. I 

 waited. With nose down, the weasel came in 

 sight. We surveyed each other. The weasel 

 asked me what I was doing there. So keen was 

 he that he took a step or two forward. The trail 

 lay past my head, much too near for his liking. 

 He was disposed to be vicious at first, and retired 

 reluctantly. 



It is a human impulse, of late growth, to 

 protect the fearful and the weak ; but how far a 

 healthy one is not so very clear. Plainly I was 

 an intruder on the meadow. I came between 

 Nature and her work. The weasel was right. In 

 so far as in me lay, I put the machinery out of 

 gear. I did my little all to disturb the balance. 

 But for me the weasel would have had the vole. 

 The vole is a grass feeder. Moreover, it is a 

 great breeder. Its many young would grow up 

 to feed on grass. The weasels on the meadow 



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