But I began to miss chickens. They
disappeared mysteriously in the night. I would not suspect Jacko at
first, for he looked so honest, and in the daytime seemed to be as
much interested in the chickens as I was. But one morning, when I
went to call him, I found feathers at the entrance of his hole,
--chicken feathers. He couldn't deny it. He was a thief. His fox
nature had come out under severe temptation. And he died an
unnatural death. He had a thousand virtues and one crime. But that
crime struck at the foundation of society. He deceived and stole; he
was a liar and a thief, and no pretty ways could hide the fact. His
intelligent, bright face couldn't save him. If he had been honest,
he might have grown up to be a large, ornamental fox.
V
THE BOY'S SUNDAY
Sunday in the New England hill towns used to begin Saturday night at
sundown; and the sun is lost to sight behind the hills there before
it has set by the almanac. I remember that we used to go by the
almanac Saturday night and by the visible disappearance Sunday night.
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