BEAUTY OF THE FOX 51 
champion the squirrel, that pretty, passionate 
creature, most birdlike of mammals; and some 
white-haired veteran sportsman would perhaps 
speak in glowing terms of the wild cat as seen in a 
tearing rage. A word, too, would be spoken for 
the otter, and the weasel, and the hare, and the 
harvest - mouse, and: the white Chillingham bull, 
and the wild goat on the Welsh mountains. These 
two last, after some discussion, would doubtless be 
disqualified, and the roe and fallow deer entered 
instead; but no person would say a word about 
the wolf and wild boar, the last of these noble 
quadrupeds having been slain by some Royal 
hunter half a thousand or more years ago. And 
no one would mention the marten, or even know 
whether or not, like the wolf and ‘boar, it had 
become “part and parcel of the dreadful past.” 
Some one would, however, put in a plea for the 
hermit badger—one with sharper sight or more 
patient than the others, or perhaps more fortunate; 
and the company would be highly amused. 
The rough, grizzled brock, our little British bear, 
would perhaps be better described as a fearsome 
or sublime than a beautiful beast. At all events, 
I lately had a singular instance of the terrifying 
effect of a badger related to me by a rural police- 
man in West Cornwall, a giant six feet six in height, 
a mighty wrestler, withal a sober, religious man, 
himself a terror to all evil-doers in the place. His 
beat extends on one side to the border of a wide, 
level moor, and one very dark night last winter 
