"Ah!" she said, "that's what comes of greediness and of trying to be too
clever. Now, perhaps, you will learn to stop at home."

So I did for a long while.

*****

The summer went by without anything particular happening, except that my
brother with the lame foot was eaten by the mother fox. That great red
beast was always prowling about, and at night surprised us in a field
near the wood where we were feeding on some beautiful turnips. The rest
of us got away, but my brother being lame, was not quick enough. The fox
caught him, and I heard her sharp white teeth crunch into his bones.
The sound made me quite sick, and my mother was very sad afterwards. She
complained to my father of the cruelty of foxes, but he, who, as I have
said, was a philosopher, answered her almost in her own words.

"Foxes must live, and this one has young to feed, and therefore is
always hungry. There are three of them in a hole at the top of the
wood," he remarked. "Also our son was lame and would certainly have been
caught when the hunting begins."

"What's the hunting?" I asked.

"Never mind," said my father sharply. "No doubt you'll find out in time,
that is if you live through the shooting."

"What's the shooting?" I began, but my father cuffed me over the head
and I was silent.