I had noticed that the farmer had been occasionally throwing curious and sympathetic glances over his shoulder at little Mary, ever since we left the station. I knew by his eyes that he was a man that liked children, and soon he said kindly, “Would you like to see a fox, little sissy?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied joyfully, “very much.”
“Then you and I will take a gun some day and go up on the hills.”
Mary shuddered, “Oh, not a gun, Mr. Farmer.”
“Mr. Gleason,” her mother corrected her.
“Mr. Gleason,” the little girl repeated. “Oh, I would not like to shoot a fox. Little foxes like to live, Mr. Gleason.”
“Ho! ho!” he chuckled, “but foxes eat hens and chickens, little sissy.”
“Then fasten up the hens, and put out some food for the foxes,” said Mary gently.
The farmer nearly choked himself laughing. The idea of feeding foxes seemed to deprive him of every remnant of self-control. I thought myself it would be a nice plan to feed them, if they were hungry, but then I didn't know anything about the matter.
Mr. and Mrs. Denville were thoughtfully examining the beautiful country about us, and did not pay much attention to Mary and the farmer.