By A Storm."]

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And the mother-fox is drawing 'Ring' and us Away from their nest there!" "Oh, le' 's go back!-- Do le' 's go back!" we little vandals cried,-- "Le' 's go back, quick, and find the little things-- Please, father!--Yes, and take 'em home for pets-- 'Cause 'Ring' he'll kill the old fox anyway!" So father turned at last, and back we went, And father chopped a hole in the old tree About ten feet below the limb from which The old fox ran, and--Bless their little lives!-- There, in the hollow of the old tree-trunk-- There, on a bed of warm dry leaves and moss-- There, snug as any bug in any rug-- We found--one--two--three--four, and, yes-sir, five Wee, weenty-teenty baby-foxes, with Their eyes just barely opened--Cute?--my-oh!-- The cutest--the most cunning little things Two boys ever saw, in all their lives! "Raw weather for the little fellows now!" Said father, as though talking to himself,-- "Raw weather, and no home now!"--And off came His warm old "waumus"; and in that he wrapped The helpless little animals, and held Them soft and warm against him as he could,-- And home we happy children followed him.-- Old "Ring" did not reach home till nearly dusk: The mother-fox had led him a long chase--

"Yes, and a fool's chase, too!" he seemed to say, And looked ashamed to hear us praising him. But, mother--well, we could not understand Her acting as she did--and we so pleased! I can see yet the look of pained surprise And deep compassion of her troubled face When father very gently laid his coat, With the young foxes in it, on the hearth Beside her, as she brightened up the fire. She urged--for the old fox's sake and theirs-- That they be taken back to the old tree; But father--for our wistful sakes, no doubt-- Said we would keep them, and would try our best To raise them. And at once he set about Building a snug home for the little things Out of an old big bushel-basket, with Its fractured handle and its stoven ribs: So, lining and padding this all cosily, He snuggled in its little tenants, and Called in John Wesley Thomas, our hired man, And gave him in full charge, with much advice Regarding the just care and sustenance of Young foxes.--"John," he said, "you feed 'em milk-- Warm milk, John Wesley! Yes, and keep 'em by The stove--and keep your stove a-roarin', too, Both night and day!--And keep 'em covered up-- Not smothered, John, but snug and comfortable.--

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And now, John Wesley Thomas, first and last,-- You feed 'em milk--fresh milk--and always warm-- Say five or six or seven times a day-- Of course we'll grade that by the way they thrive." But, for all sanguine hope, and care, as well, The little fellows did not thrive at all.-- Indeed, with all our care and vigilance, By the third day of their captivity The last survivor of the fated five Squeaked, like some battered little rubber toy Just clean worn out.--And that's just what it was!

And--nights,--the cry of the mother-fox for her young Was heard, with awe, for long weeks afterward. And we boys, every night, would go to the door And, peering out in the darkness, listening, Could hear the poor fox in the black bleak woods Still calling for her little ones in vain. As, all mutely, we returned to the warm fireside, Mother would say: "How would you like for me To be out there, this dark night, in the cold woods, Calling for my children?"

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