“Then,” I said, “I’ll have to find a fox.”
“It will be a good while before you are big enough to bring a fox out of his hole,” said Mother. “Some day, though, you shall try it, perhaps. You have good digging paws, Fritz.”
“They—they’re awfully big,” I said.
“As they should be, my dear. They’re made for digging. Each one is a little shovel, or, rather, a hoe. When you go into a hole that isn’t big enough you begin to dig. And that is why your front legs are made so crooked. If they were straight you would throw the dirt right under you. As they are, with your feet turning out, they throw the dirt on each side of you, out of your way.”
“I’m glad you told me that,” I said, “because I’ve always wondered about my legs and feet and been a little ashamed of them. They seemed so funny and crooked and big. Now I see that they are just as they should be.” I looked at my feet quite proudly. “I guess,” I said, “I’ll go and dig a hole somewhere.”
“Very well,” said Mother, stretching herself out to go to sleep, “but keep away from the flower beds, Fritz.”
So I found a field-mouse hole at the root of an apple tree in the orchard and dug and dug and had got down so far that only my tail was sticking out when Freya came along.
“What are you doing?” she asked. She might have seen for herself that I was digging a hole, but she is always asking silly questions like that.
“I’m digging for a badger,” I said. “Want to help?”