And now, John Wesley Thomas, first and last,--
You feed 'em _milk_--_fresh_ milk--and always _warm_--
Say five or six or seven times a day--
Of course we'll grade that by the way they _thrive_."
But, for all sanguine hope, and care, as well,
The little fellows _did not_ thrive at all.--
Indeed, with _all_ our care and vigilance,
By the third day of their captivity
The last survivor of the fated five
Squeaked, like some battered little rubber toy
Just clean worn out.--And that's just what it was!

And--nights,--the cry of the mother-fox for her young
Was heard, with awe, for long weeks afterward.
And we boys, every night, would go to the door
And, peering out in the darkness, listening,
Could hear the poor fox in the black bleak woods
Still calling for her little ones in vain.
As, all mutely, we returned to the warm fireside,
Mother would say: "How would you like for _me_
To be out there, this dark night, in the cold woods,
Calling for _my_ children?"

[Illustration]

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