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Updated: May 2, 2025
It is now strawberry time again, and again an old she-fox lies in wait for every hen that flies over the chicken-yard fence which means another litter of young foxes somewhere here in the ridges. The line continues, even at the hands of the man with the gun.
He watched the loons diving, and spying him out with their wild eyes sometimes, as they rose in flight, beating the surface of the water with a sound like thunder. At night he heard their loud laughter, and the creaking cries of the herons flying past. Sometimes far up in the hills a she-fox would bark, or some too-aged tree of the forest would come down with a booming crash.
I recognized the man as one of the chronic fox-hunters of the region, and answered: "I 'm sure of it, by the way an old she-fox has pestered my chickens lately." "Well, she won't pester them no more. She 's been trapped and killed. Any man that would kill a she-fox this time o' year and let her pups starve to death, he ain't no better than a brute, he ain't.
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