REDPAD THE FOX 
59 
and a flight of wild duck, quacking softly, flew over 
the hill. Redpad straightened himself slowly 
then he gave a lurch, and dropped into the water. 
The broad stream caught him, and swept him out 
into the midcurrent. He struggled a little, but 
the eddies bound down each tired limb, and the 
ripples broke against his closed eyes. The water, 
which had so nearly cut short his life in early days, 
was a good friend to him now. As his body was 
borne down the misty stream, away from the clamour 
of the hounds into the august silences of the night, 
the waves lapped gently over his head ; and under 
their kisses, his spirit drifted quietly out to the Grey 
Fields of Sleep where the souls of the Fur Folk go. 
There is no rain known there nor any sun, and 
no one is ever weary or hungry or afraid, but they 
lie wrapped in warm mists in a country where there 
is no noise nor bright light burning. They sleep on 
there and take their rest, knowing neither joy nor 
grief nor hope nor disappointment until time and 
space shall be no more. 
The moon rose over the mountains, and the flood 
sang joyfully on its way to the tumbling waves 
in the estuary. 
