“Every one!” growled Ben, getting up and giving the bag a shake. “Fill up the hole a bit, John, so no old cow can break her leg in it.”
Some minutes later the men reached the fields with their precious bag. Here Ben passed it over for his friend to carry awhile, and the latter took his first peep inside.
“Why, there are only three here!” he exclaimed. “I saw at least four when the old vixen carried that hen of yours to the den. You’ve certainly left one. Good thing we buried him. Back we’ll have to go.”
Meanwhile, however, there was frantic work going on at the den. The mother, who during the digging had been anxiously running to and fro in cover of the bushes, crept cautiously to the ruined home as soon as the men had left. She found a great ugly hole, with fresh dirt on all sides, but no sign of the happy pups who used to welcome her.
Around and around the lonely creature wandered, hunting with all her mother’s love. At last she jumped into the partly filled hole and sniffed and dug a little and then sniffed some more and listened. Something there suggested to her to dig deeper. So she set to work in earnest, tearing up the loose dirt with her forepaws and pulling it back in a heap behind her.
Every little while she jumped out to look around, then whisked back to her work, until at last she heard the buried pup sniffing and burrowing in his prison. Now she dug as she had never dug before, spurred by noisy activity of the little fox, who knew perfectly well that his mother was trying to reach him.
Rip, rip, rip, went her claws through the last strip of earth, and out popped the head of the pup, only to be seized and pulled almost off his body in his mother’s haste to get him out. She had heard the men coming.
The heavy pup was almost more than the old fox could carry; but somehow she dragged him out of the hole and leaped for the bushes, pulling him along by the loose skin at the back of his neck. The sudden shouts from the surprised men only served to spur her on, not, as they hoped, to make her drop her burden.
She knew the farmer had a gun. Bang! She was not hurt! The bullet only tore up the ground behind her. Bang! Another shot whizzed past. And then her jaws slipped on the pup’s neck and she dropped him.
The little fox rolled over, caught his balance and began to run entirely on his own hook. His legs were a bit wabbly, he did not know just where to go, but how he did work to get away! Into the bushes he went and on to more bushes; and then, right before him, he found his mother loping along, a safe, loving guide. His little heart beat easier then, but on he went, ever following that beautiful furry tail with the pure white tip. On and on and on, the two ran into the heart of Cranberry Swamp and to safety.