Watching from the edge of the woods, the speaker catches a private moment: a vixen playing with her kits among ivy-draped trees. Alert and quick, she sniffs the air, barks a warning, and swings her tail, ready to bolt at the first real threat. A horseman trots past and she dashes out to watch him go, always half in flight. If someone stops still, she darts behind the trees, snapping and barking to drive intruders away – a shepherd and a boy with a stick, trying to probe the den. For a beat, the foxes huddle deep in their hole, perfectly still, safe. Then the danger passes, and they re-emerge, brazenly swatting at blackbirds and pouncing after a white butterfly. There’s a fond, almost playful tension in the telling; Clare sketches the fox not as a nuisance but as a fierce, clever mother, and the scene hums with a mix of watchfulness and sudden, fleeting freedom.
The Vixen — Summary
Among the taller wood with ivy hung, The old fox plays and dances round her young. She snuffs and barks if any passes bye And swings her tail and turns prepared to fly. The horseman hurries bye, she bolts to see, And turns agen, from danger never free. If any stands she runs among the poles And barks and snaps and drives them in the holes. The shepherd sees them and the boy goes bye And gets a stick and progs the hole to try. They get all still and lie in safety sure And out again when every thing's secure And start and snap at blackbirds bouncing bye To fight and catch the great white butterfly.