As night came down the little fellow became very uneasy, sneaking out of his box, but going back at each slight alarm, tugging at his chain, or at times biting it in fury while he held it down with his fore-paws.  Suddenly he paused as though listening, then raising his little black nose he poured out a short, quavering cry.

Once or twice this was repeated, the time between being occupied in worrying the chain and running about.  Then an answer came.  The far-away Yap yurrr of the old fox.  A few minutes later a shadowy form appeared on the wood-pile.  The little one slunk into his box, but at once returned and ran to meet his mother with all the gladness that a fox could show.  Quick as a flash she seized him and turned to bear him away by the road she came.  But the moment the end of the chain was reached the cub was rudely jerked from the old one’s mouth, and she, scared by the opening of a window, fled over the wood-pile.

An hour afterward the cub had ceased to run about or cry.  I peeped out, and by the light of the moon saw the form of the mother at full length on the ground by the little one gnawing at something—­the clank of iron told what, it was that cruel chain.  And Tip, the little one, meanwhile was helping himself to a warm drink.

On my going out she fled into the dark woods, but there by the shelter-box were two little mice, bloody and still warm, food for the cub brought by the devoted mother.  And in the morning I found the chain was very bright for a foot or two next the little one’s collar.

On walking across the woods to the ruined den, I again found signs of Vixen.  The poor heart-broken mother had come and dug out the bedraggled bodies of her little ones.

There lay the three little baby foxes all licked smooth now, and by them were two of our hens fresh killed.  The newly heaved earth was printed all over with tell-tale signs—­signs that told me that here by the side of her dead she had watched like Rizpah.  Here she had brought their usual meal, the spoil of her nightly hunt.  Here she had stretched herself beside them and vainly offered them their natural drink and yearned to feed and warm them as of old; but only stiff little bodies under their soft wool she found, and little cold noses still and unresponsive.

A deep impress of elbows, breast, and hocks showed where she had laid in silent grief and watched them for long and mourned as a wild mother can mourn for its young.  But from that time she came no more to the ruined den, for now she surely knew that her little ones were dead.

V

Tip, the captive, the weakling of the brood, was now the heir to all her love.  The dogs were loosed to guard the hens.  The hired man had orders to shoot the old fox on sight—­so had I, but was resolved never to see her.  Chicken-heads, that a fox loves and a dog will not touch, had been poisoned and scattered through the woods; and the only way to the yard where Tip was tied was by climbing the wood-pile after braving all other dangers.  And yet each night old Vix was there to nurse her baby and bring it fresh-killed hens and game.  Again and again I saw her, although she came now without awaiting the querulous cry of the captive.