by breaking the plate. It was
his own fault; but it was a china
plate, the last of the dinner service
that had belonged to his grandmother,
old Vixen Tod. Then the
midges had been very bad. And he
had failed to catch a hen pheasant on
her nest; and it had contained only
five eggs, two of them addled. Mr.
Tod had had an unsatisfactory night.


As usual, when out of humour,
he determined to move house. First
he tried the pollard willow, but it
was damp; and the otters had left
a dead fish near it. Mr. Tod likes
nobody's leavings but his own.

He made his way up the hill; his
temper was not improved by noticing
unmistakable marks of badger.
No one else grubs up the moss so
wantonly as Tommy Brock.


Mr. Tod slapped his stick upon
the earth and fumed; he guessed
where Tommy Brock had gone to.
He was further annoyed by the jay