If you had lived you'd not have been (Been proper friends with us, I mean), But now you're laid upon the shelf, Poor fox, you cannot help yourself, So, as I say, we are your loving friends--And here your Burial Ode, dear Foxy, ends.

P.S .-- When in the moonlight bright The foxes wander of a night, They'll pass your grave and fondly think of you, Exactly like we mean to always do.

So now, dear fox, adieu! Your friends are few But true To you.

Adieu!' When this had been said we filled in the grave and covered the top of it with dry leaves and sticks to make it look like the rest of the wood.
People might think it was a treasure, and dig it up, if they thought there was anything buried there, and we wished the poor fox to sleep sound and not to be disturbed.
The interring was over.

We folded up Dora's bloodstained pink cotton petticoat, and turned to leave the sad spot.
We had not gone a dozen yards down the lane when we heard footsteps and a whistle behind us, and a scrabbling and whining, and a gentleman with two fox-terriers had called a halt just by the place where we had laid low the 'little red rover'.
The gentleman stood in the lane, but the dogs were digging--we could see their tails wagging and see the dust fly.