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 two petticoats for useful purposes and look just the same outside afterwards.

We boys took it turns to carry the fox. It was very heavy.

When we got near the edge of the wood Noël said:

"It would be better to bury it here, where the leaves can talk funeral songs over its grave forever, and the other foxes can come and cry if they want to." He dumped the fox down on the moss under a young oak-tree as he spoke.

"If Dicky fetched the spade and fork we could bury it here, and then he could tie up the dogs at the same time."

"You're sick of carrying it," Dicky remarked, "that's what it is." But he went on condition the rest of us boys went too.

While we were gone the girls dragged the fox to the edge of the wood; it was a different edge to the one we went in by—close to a lane—and while they waited for the digging or fatigue party to come back, they collected a lot of moss and green things to make the fox's long home soft for it to lie in. There are no flowers in the woods in August, which is a pity.

When we got back with the spade and fork we dug a hole to bury the fox in. We did not bring the dogs back, because they were too interested in the funeral to behave with real, respectable calmness.

The ground was loose and soft and easy to dig when we had scraped away the broken bits of