slept during the night in the top of a fallen spruce, and started for the river to see if he could bag a muskrat for Mrs. Fox's morning meal.
He knew just how hungry she was, because his own appetite was as keen as a razor. It seemed that his stomach fairly ached with hunger, and the sight of an occasional bird which he discovered in the treetops made saliva drip from his jaws.
He went at a steady dog trot until he came within perhaps a score of rods of the creek, then he tested the wind to see what direction it was. Muskrats were not so very keen of scent, but a good hunter never stalked his quarry down the wind, it is against good hunting instincts.
If you have a good rule always stick to it. Mr. Fox discovered that he would be hunting in the teeth of the wind, which was just a morning zephyr. That was good, so he began creeping slowly towards the creek. For the last hundred feet, he went almost upon his belly, keeping behind bunches of weeds, and clumps of alders, which fringed
