Searching quietly along the edge of a small spinney for tokens of departing winter, one heard a rustle, ever so slight; then a head and two dulled, hunted eyes appeared. At the road corner is the mouth of a gully built to carry water under the broad roadway to the ditch opposite. It is now almost dry. The fox did not hesitate. Straight into this mouth he went, his brush draggling; it had been a hard run. A breeze shook the bare hazels. Three or four hounds came into the open, lopping from side to side as hounds will. Two overran the gully on to the grassland ahead of the master, the huntsman, and a few others. The pack nosed about. After a pause, “Fetch Jason,” the master ordered. A whip brought the terrier; a little scratching and yapping, and, like the fox, he was out of sight. An old gate-opener, on hands and knees, with his face thrust into the gully, could see nothing. We waited. The dogs were called off to give the fox law. The horses, walked to the rear, shivered down their quarters. Dusk began to darken the copse. There was no sign of either fox or dog. It was too late to try another draw; horses and hounds ambled home. The farmer at his steading close by said to the yardman, “Block the run of the fowl-house, Jim. Happen, if the varmint loosens, a tasty breakfast would suit him.” Is nature not mostly predatory?
