But it was precisely because I didn't that in my own pocket was the volume's present hiding-place. When the front door had closed behind me half-an-hour later, I slipped it into the letter-box.
THE FOX.
The birds see him first, jay and blackbird and thrush;
They shriek at his coming and curse him, each one;
With the clay of the vale on his pads and his brush,
It's the Fallowfield fox and he's pretty near done;
It's a couple of hours since a whip tally-ho'd him;
Now the rookery's stooping to mob and to goad him;
There's an earth on the hill, but he's cooked past believing,