“What has happened unto me? O! dear friend, so many years have I tried to rear my young, and no sooner do I see God’s blessing when auntie fox, with the brambles and thorns trailing behind her tail, comes and claims the land, and says, ‘Hast thou again hatched young on my land? Get thee off lest I eat thee.’ And I am so frightened that I run away, and the fox then takes the family and leaves me childless.” The bird stopped here and looked despairingly at the hound. She wondered what he could do for her. But no one knows whence help may come, and just when it is least expected it comes. And so it happened to the bird. The dog who had been sitting all the time, listening as it were with half-closed ears, suddenly shook himself and said, “Is that the trouble which ails thee?”
“Yes, that is my trouble.”
“Well, if that be so, let me come with thee, and may be that I shall be of some help.”
And so they both went to the nest of the partridge. There the dog crouched behind the bushes and waited for the fox to come. He had not to wait very long until the fox came with the brambles tied to her tail, and, pulling it along, made pretence of ploughing the land. “Now then you partridge, are you trespassing again—”
But the fox was not allowed to finish the sentence, for out of the bushes sprang the dog. The fox took to her legs, running as fast as they would carry her. Now, whether the hound ran or did not run I do not know, but I certainly can say that the fox ran for all she was worth and raised a cloud of dust behind her. And so she ran and ran until she reached her lair, and she buried herself deep in the ground, very thankful to have saved her skin from the jaws of death. The hound, wearied, tired, and vexed that the fox had escaped, settled down at the mouth of the lair waiting for the chance that the fox would come out again, that he might set his eyes upon her, but it was all in vain, for the fox, once safe, never dreamt of coming out again. But then the fox, having nothing else to do, started talking to herself.
“Clever fox, clever fox, I know that thou takest care of thy skin. Well, thou didst well to save thyself, and to get safely away from that hound. Now let me ask my eyes, ‘What did you do when the hound was after me?’”
“Well, we, turning right and left, looked out to see which way we could save thee and hide thee.”
“Dear eyes,” said the fox, and full of satisfaction, she stroked them with her paws.
“Now I will ask my forelegs.”
“And ye, my forelegs, what did you do when the hound was chasing me?”