A flock of sheep are not always frightened at a fox.  The other day an old dog fox, the hero of many a good run in recent years from these coverts (an “old customer,” in fact), was observed by the keeper and two other men trying to cross the river by means of a footbridge.  A flock of sheep, doubtless taking him for a dog, were frustrating his endeavours to get across; directly he set foot on dry land they would bowl him over on to his back in the most unceremonious way.  This game of romps went on for about ten minutes.  Finally the fox, getting tired of trying to pass the sheep, trotted back over the footbridge.  Fifty yards up stream a narrow fir pole is set across the water.  The cunning old rascal made for this, and attempted to get to the other side; but the fates were against him.  There was a strong wind blowing at the time, so that when he was half way across the pool, he was actually blown off sideways into the water.  And a rare ducking he got!  He gave the job up after this, and trotted back into the wood.  This is a very curious occurrence, because the fox was perfectly healthy and strong.  He is well known throughout the country, not only for his tremendous cheek, but also for the wonderful runs he has given from time to time.  He will climb over a six-foot wire fence to gain entrance to a fowl-run belonging to an excellent sportsman, who, though not a hunting man, would never allow a fox to be killed.  He is reported to have had fifty, fowls out of this place during the last few months.  When caught in the act in broad daylight, the fox had to be hunted round and round the enclosure before he would leave, finally climbing up the wire fencing like a cat, instead of departing by the open door.

It is very rare that a mischievous fox, given to the destruction of poultry, is also a straight-necked one.  Too often these gentry know no extent of country; they take refuge in the nearest farmyard when pressed by the hounds.  At the end of a run we have seen them on the roof of houses and outbuildings time after time.  On one occasion last season a hunted fox was discovered among the rafters in the roof of a very high barn.  The “whipper-in” was sent up by means of a long ladder, eventually pulling him out of his hiding-place by his brush.  Poor brute! perhaps he might have been spared after showing such marvellous strategy.

It speaks wonders for the good-nature and unselfishness of the farmer who owns the fowl-run above alluded to that he never would send in the vestige of a claim to the hunt secretary for the poultry he has lost from time to time.  But he is one of the old-fashioned yeomen of Gloucestershire—­a gentleman, if ever there was one—­a type of the best sort of Englishman.  Alas! that hard times have thinned the ranks of the old yeoman farmers of the Cotswolds!  They are the very backbone of the country; we can ill afford to lose them, with their cheery, bluff manners and good-hearted natures.