“What did we do? We ran as fast as we could to carry thee safe to the lair and to save thee.”
“Very good, then, my darlings,” and she kissed them and stroked them lovingly.
Then she asked the hind legs.
“What did you do when the hound was chasing me?”
“What did we do? We raised the dust and threw it into his eyes to save thee.”
“My darlings,” again the fox said, and licked them and caressed them, “so must you always do.”
The fox, having nothing else to do, said, “I must now ask thee, tail, ‘What didst thou do, O my tail?’”
“I, what was I to do? I waddled to the right and left and yet he never caught me. If it were not for the legs, I am afraid I should not see the sun any more, and neither wouldst thou, O fox.”
“As thou sayest, then, thou art the only one who did not help me, thou art mine enemy, for if it were not for the blessed legs, none of us would have seen the sun any more. All right, out thou goest, thou fool. Thou must no longer be with me or with my darling eyes.” And, turning round, she crawled backwards and pushed it out of the lair. The hound, who was sitting outside, was just waiting for this, and no sooner did he see the bush of the tail coming out than he pounced on it and, getting hold of it, he pulled with all his might and dragged out tail and fox together. And that was the end of the fox. The fox may have been very clever, but the old proverb is true. “Each animal dies through his own tongue.” And since that time the partridge hatches her young unmolested, and the land of the fox has remained unploughed.