"I expect it's a relation," H. O. said. "Denny must be short for
Dentist."
I suppose he was trying to be funny--he really does try very hard. He
wants to be a clown when he grows up. The others laughed.
"I wonder," Dicky said, "whether he'll get a shilling or half-a-crown
for it."
Oswald had been meditating in gloomy silence, now he cheered up and
said:
"Of course! I'd forgotten that. He'll get his tooth money, and the drive
too. So it's quite fair for us to have the fox-hunt while he's gone. I
was thinking we should have to put it off."
The others agreed that it would not be unfair.
"We can have another one another time if he wants to," Oswald said.
We know foxes are hunted in red coats and on horseback--but we could not
do this--but H. O. had the old red football jersey that was Albert's
uncle's when he was at Loretto. He was pleased.
"But I do wish we'd had horns," he said, grievingly. "I should have
liked to wind the horn."
"We can pretend horns," Dora said; but he answered, "I didn't want to
pretend. I wanted to wind something."
"Wind your watch," Dicky said. And that was unkind, because we all know
H. O.'s watch is broken, and when you wind it, it only rattles inside
without going in the least.
We did not bother to dress up much for the hunting expedition--just
cocked hats and lath swords; and we tied a card on to H. O.'s chest with
"Moat House Fox-Hunters" on it; and we tied red flannel round all the
dogs' necks to show they were fox-hounds. Yet it did not seem to show it
plainly; somehow it made them look as if they were not fox-hounds, but
their own natural breeds--only with sore throats.
Oswald slipped the pistol and a few cartridges into his pocket. He knew,
of course, that foxes are not shot; but as he said:
"Who knows whether we may not meet a bear or a crocodile."
We set off gayly. Across the orchard and through two cornfields, and
along the hedge of another field, and so we got into the wood, through a
gap we had happened to make a day or two before, playing "follow my
leader."
The wood was very quiet and green; the dogs were happy and most busy.
Once Pincher started a rabbit. We said, "View Halloo!" and immediately
started in pursuit; but the rabbit went and hid, so that even Pincher
could not find him, and we went on. But we saw no foxes.
So at last we made Dicky be a fox, and chased him down the green rides.
A wide walk in a wood is called a ride, even if people never do anything
but walk in it.
We had only three hounds--Lady, Pincher, and Martha--so we joined the
glad throng and were being hounds as hard as we could, when we suddenly
came barking round a corner in full chase and stopped short, for we saw
that our fox had stayed his hasty flight. The fox was stooping over
something reddish that lay beside the path, and he said:
"I say, look here!" in tones that thrilled us throughout.
Our fox--whom we must now call Dicky, so as not to muddle the
narration--pointed to the reddy thing that the dogs were sniffing at.
"It's a real live fox," he said. And so it was. At least it was
real--only it was quite dead--and when Oswald lifted it up its head was
bleeding. It had evidently been shot through the brain and expired
instantly. Oswald explained this to the girls when they began to cry at
the sight of the poor beast; I do not say he did not feel a bit sorry
himself.
The fox was cold, but its fur was so pretty, and its tail and its little
feet. Dicky strung the dogs on the leash; they were so much interested
we thought it was better.
"It does seem horrid to think it'll never see again out of its poor
little eyes" Dora said, blowing her nose.
"And never run about through the wood again; lend me your hanky, Dora,"
said Alice.
"And never be hunted or get into a hen-roost or a trap or anything
exciting, poor little thing," said Dicky.
The girls began to pick green chestnut leaves to cover up the poor fox's
fatal wound, and Noel began to walk up and down making faces, the way he
always does when he's making poetry. He cannot make one without the
other. It works both ways, which is a comfort.
"What are we going to do now?" H. O. said; "the huntsman ought to cut
off its tail, I'm quite certain. Only, I've broken the big blade of my
knife, and the other never was any good."
The girls gave H. O. a shove, and even Oswald said, "Shut up." For
somehow we all felt we did not want to play fox-hunting any more that
day. When his deadly wound was covered the fox hardly looked dead at
all.
"Oh, I wish it wasn't true!" Alice said.
Daisy had been crying all the time, and now she said, "I should like to
pray God to make it not true."
But Dora kissed her, and told her that was no good--only she might pray
God to take care of the fox's poor little babies, if it had had any,
which I believe she has done ever since.
"If only we could wake up and find it was a horrid dream," Alice said.
It seems silly that we should have cared so much when we had really set
out to hunt foxes with dogs, but it is true. The fox's feet looked so
helpless. And there was a dusty mark on its side that I know would not
had been there if it had been alive and able to wash itself.
Noel now said, "This is the piece of poetry:
"Here lies poor Reynard who is slain,
He will not come to life again.
I never will the huntsman's horn
Wind since the day that I was born
Until the day I die.
For I don't like hunting, and this is why."
"Let's have a funeral," said H. O. This pleased everybody, and we got
Dora to take off her petticoat to wrap the fox in, so that we could
carry it to our garden and bury it without bloodying our jackets. Girls'
clothes are silly in one way, but I think they are useful too. A boy
cannot take off more than his jacket and waistcoat in any emergency, or
he is at once entirely undressed. But I have known Dora take off two
petticoats for useful purposes and look just the same outside
afterwards.
We boys took it turns to carry the fox. It was very heavy.
When we got near the edge of the wood Noel said:
"It would be better to bury it here, where the leaves can talk funeral
songs over its grave forever, and the other foxes can come and cry if
they want to." He dumped the fox down on the moss under a young oak-tree
as he spoke.
"If Dicky fetched the spade and fork we could bury it here, and then he
could tie up the dogs at the same time."
"You're sick of carrying it," Dicky remarked, "that's what it is." But
he went on condition the rest of us boys went too.
While we were gone the girls dragged the fox to the edge of the wood; it
was a different edge to the one we went in by--close to a lane--and
while they waited for the digging or fatigue party to come back, they
collected a lot of moss and green things to make the fox's long home
soft for it to lie in. There are no flowers in the woods in August,
which is a pity.
When we got back with the spade and fork we dug a hole to bury the fox
in. We did not bring the dogs back, because they were too interested in
the funeral to behave with real, respectable calmness.
The ground was loose and soft and easy to dig when we had scraped away
the broken bits of sticks and the dead leaves and the wild
honey-suckle; Oswald used the fork and Dicky had the spade. Noel made
faces and poetry--he was struck so that morning--and the girls sat
stroking the clean parts of the fox's fur till the grave was deep
enough. At last it was; then Daisy threw in the leaves and grass, and
Alice and Dora took the poor dead fox by his two ends, and we helped to
put him in the grave. We could not lower him slowly--he was dropped in,
really. Then we covered the furry body with leaves, and Noel said the
Burial Ode he had made up. He says this was it, but it sounds better now
than it did then, so I think he must have done something to it since: