somewhere in the wood. So did the fox, and oh! it looked so frightened.
It lay down panting, its tongue hanging out and its ears pressed back
against its head, and whisked its big tail from side to side. Then it
began to gnaw again, but this time at its own leg. It wanted to bite it
off and so get away. I thought this very brave of the fox, and though
I hated it because it had eaten my brother and tried to eat me, I felt
quite sorry.

It was about half through its leg when the man came. I remember that he
had a cat with a little red collar on its neck, and an owl in his hand,
both of them dead, for he was Giles, the head-keeper, going round his
traps. He was a tall man with sandy whiskers and a rough voice, and he
carried a single-barrelled gun under his arm.

You see, now that I am dead I know the use of these things, just as I
understand all that was said, though of course at the time it had no
meaning for me. Still I find that I have forgotten nothing, not one word
from the beginning of my life to the end.

The keeper, who was on his way to the place where he nailed the
creatures he did not like by dozens upon poles, looked down and saw the
fox. "Oh! my beauty," he said, "so I have got you at last. Don't you
think yourself clever trying to bite off that leg. You'd have done it
too, only I came along just in time. Well, good night, old girl, you
won't have no more of my pheasants."

Then he lifted the gun. There was a most dreadful noise and the fox
rolled over and lay still.

"There you are, all neat and tidy, my dear," said the keeper. "Now I