The pale light of a November afternoon faded rapidly into the dusk of a November evening.

Far over the countryside housewives put up their cottage shutters, lit their lamps, and made the customary remark that the days were drawing in.

In barn yards and poultry-runs the greediest pullets made a final tour of inspection, picking up the stray remaining morsels of the evening meal, and then, with much scrambling and squawking, sought the places on the roosting-pole that they thought should belong to them.

Labourers working in yard and field began to turn their thoughts homeward or tavernward as the case might be.

And through the cold squelching slush of a water-logged meadow a weary, bedraggled, but unbeaten fox stiffly picked his way, climbed a high bramble-grown bank, and flung himself into the sheltering labyrinth of a stretching tangle of woods.