“Yes, so it is,” another voice answered. “Well, don’t bother him. He looks tired and weary. Let him drink, and, when he is rested, we can give him some of the chicken you and Twinkle caught to-day.”
“What’s that—Twinkle?” cried Sharp Eyes, stopping his drinking and turning quickly around. “Who is Twinkle?” he asked in fox talk.
“That is the name of my brother,” said the smaller of the two foxes, who were near a hole in the bank of the stream. “I am Winkle.”
“Then you must be my sister!” cried Sharp Eyes.
“Your sister!” exclaimed the other fox. “Why—why—”
But suddenly the larger fox sprang forward. With eager eyes she looked at the silver animal.
“Sharp Eyes! [Sharp Eyes!” she cried, “don’t you know me?] I am your mother! Oh, how glad I am to have you back!” and she rubbed her cold nose against his and kissed him with her tongue.
“Sharp Eyes! Who is talking of Sharp Eyes?” asked another fox, coming to the opening of the hole in the side of the stream-bank. “Sharp Eyes has been gone a long time.”
“But he is back now!” cried the mother fox. “See, here he is! He has grown to be a big fox, and his silver coat is all ragged and torn, but he is our Sharp Eyes just the same.”