58 THE BOOK OF A NATURALIST 
not quite the right thing to do, or not altogether 
fair. 
This incident has served to remind me of another 
from South America, told to me by an Anglo- 
Argentine friend as we sat and talked one evening 
in Buenos Ayres, comparing notes about the ways 
of beasts and birds. The fox of that distant land 
is not red like his English cousin; his thick coat is 
composed of silver white and jet black hairs in 
about equal proportion, resulting in an iron grey 
colour, with fulvous tints on the face, legs and 
under parts. If not as pretty as our red fox, he is 
a fine-looking animal, with as sharp a nose and as 
thick a brush, and, mentally, does not differ in the 
least from him. He is not preserved or hunted in 
that country, but being injurious to poultry, is 
much persecuted. 
My friend had been sheep farming on the 
western frontier, and one winter evening when he 
was alone in his ranch he was sitting by the fire 
whiling away the long hours before bed-time by 
playing on his flute. Two or three times he thought 
he heard a sound of a person pressing heavily 
against the door from the outside, but being very 
intent on his music, he took no notice. By and by 
there was a distinct creaking of the wood, and 
getting up and putting down his flute he took up 
the gun, and, stepping to the door, seized the 
handle and pulled it open very suddenly, when 
down at his feet on the floor of the room tumbled 
a big dog fox. He had been standing up on his 
