"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 Noël 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.
Noël 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."