It must have been the Fox
The fox, elegant and handsome in her bright chestnut coat, was a lone vixen, her mate shot by a neighbouring farmer and no cubs in her earth. Having no babies to feed she hunted modestly but knew that this would not spare her from either the gun or the marauding terriers. Killing rabbits and birds, stealing autumn fruit, taking the occasional straying chicken, she was widely feared across Martyr’s Marsh
A pair of Indian Runner Ducks, the darlings of the sprawling marshland farm, had mislaid their eight ducklings. The parent ducks ran wildly about the poultry field their long necks and Roman noses stretched up to the sky, their fawn and white feathers ruffled by the freshening breeze, the duck quacking loudly and the drake crying hoarsely for his children. The little ducklings, no longer tiny bundles of pale brown thistledown floating on the shallow farmyard pool, had gone into the sea fret of an early May morning, and had disappeared.
“Well, we all know what has happened. It’s the fox again. Couldn’t be anyone else. ” The big Romney ewe sneezed, bleated and looked down her long nose . “You can never, ever trust a fox. Kills anything that moves.” She turned sorrowful eyes across the marsh to where the little brick church rose modest on its grassy island and the great copper beaches on the ridge beyond stood like burnished clouds against the bright morning sky.
Lying in her basket in the loosebox next to the paddock where the Romneys were grazing, Meg the collie watched the farmer searching the barn for the ducklings, round the back of feed bins, under the old rusty tractor and deep inside an abandoned wooden horse trough. All he found was a pair of disgruntled mice plundering a sack of barley and a dozy hedge pig who snuffled cantankerously at the intruder.
Early next morning Meg was awakened by a brief high pitched bark. There, barely ten yards away, was the fox, a dark silhouette on the coral canvas of the newly rising sun. She stared at Meg, cocked her head as if to say ‘Are you coming then?’ and turned away. The fox ran, Meg ran and, allerted by the sound of their barking, the farmer ran too. Down the drive, along the lane, over and under the field gate and across the wide grass towards the little church they all went, the fox glancing over her shoulder at them as she flew. She leaped the small stream which ran close to the church and there finally she stopped.
'Well, I'll be ... ' the farmer whispered. Trapped between the retaining board and the bank, feebly cheeping their distress, were eight little long necked bedraggled ducklings. He knelt down and gently taking them from the water he put them still protesting into the deep pockets of his milking coat. The fox stood, looked for a long moment at Meg, and lolloped away towards Elmchurch Wood leaving farmer and dog to take the intrepid explorers home.
“Well that has to be a small miracle of unexpected kindness.” Meg thought as she returned to the farm. “Not at all. There is some kindness in every creature.” the big ewe pronounced sententiously. “I knew all along that the brave intelligent rescuer would be my dear friend the fox.” Meg sighed, shook her head and wondered yet again why when God made sheep he omitted to include their brains.
A pair of Indian Runner Ducks, the darlings of the sprawling marshland farm, had mislaid their eight ducklings. The parent ducks ran wildly about the poultry field their long necks and Roman noses stretched up to the sky, their fawn and white feathers ruffled by the freshening breeze, the duck quacking loudly and the drake crying hoarsely for his children. The little ducklings, no longer tiny bundles of pale brown thistledown floating on the shallow farmyard pool, had gone into the sea fret of an early May morning, and had disappeared.
“Well, we all know what has happened. It’s the fox again. Couldn’t be anyone else. ” The big Romney ewe sneezed, bleated and looked down her long nose . “You can never, ever trust a fox. Kills anything that moves.” She turned sorrowful eyes across the marsh to where the little brick church rose modest on its grassy island and the great copper beaches on the ridge beyond stood like burnished clouds against the bright morning sky.
Lying in her basket in the loosebox next to the paddock where the Romneys were grazing, Meg the collie watched the farmer searching the barn for the ducklings, round the back of feed bins, under the old rusty tractor and deep inside an abandoned wooden horse trough. All he found was a pair of disgruntled mice plundering a sack of barley and a dozy hedge pig who snuffled cantankerously at the intruder.
Early next morning Meg was awakened by a brief high pitched bark. There, barely ten yards away, was the fox, a dark silhouette on the coral canvas of the newly rising sun. She stared at Meg, cocked her head as if to say ‘Are you coming then?’ and turned away. The fox ran, Meg ran and, allerted by the sound of their barking, the farmer ran too. Down the drive, along the lane, over and under the field gate and across the wide grass towards the little church they all went, the fox glancing over her shoulder at them as she flew. She leaped the small stream which ran close to the church and there finally she stopped.
'Well, I'll be ... ' the farmer whispered. Trapped between the retaining board and the bank, feebly cheeping their distress, were eight little long necked bedraggled ducklings. He knelt down and gently taking them from the water he put them still protesting into the deep pockets of his milking coat. The fox stood, looked for a long moment at Meg, and lolloped away towards Elmchurch Wood leaving farmer and dog to take the intrepid explorers home.
“Well that has to be a small miracle of unexpected kindness.” Meg thought as she returned to the farm. “Not at all. There is some kindness in every creature.” the big ewe pronounced sententiously. “I knew all along that the brave intelligent rescuer would be my dear friend the fox.” Meg sighed, shook her head and wondered yet again why when God made sheep he omitted to include their brains.
Naomi
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