The political fox

Editor's note: This is an excerpt from Jean Bell Mosley's book "Wide Meadows" that was first published in 1960.

"There'll be plenty to answer for now," Grandma glumly predicted, poking the dead fox with her toe.

"And you running for sheriff of the county!" Grandpa added, looking accusingly at Dad.

"But I tell you the dogs had him down. Don't you believe me?" Dad looked helplessly around the tight little circle on the back porch.

"In another minute they'd have had him mouthed until even the fur wouldn't have been any good." He picked up a limp paw and let it fall again. "And besides, there's no law against killing a fox."

"No law!" Grandma sputtered, looking witheringly at Dad over the top of her glasses.

"Well, no legal law yet," Dad said weakly, shuffling around.

Mom picked up the big bushy, white-tipped tail. "It's a lovely fox, Wilson. And besides, I guess there's other people in county that vote besides fox hunters."

"Not enough," Grandma said. "If 't was me, I'd take it round behind the barn and bury it and keep our mouths shut." She looked menacingly at us kids.

A gift for Mama

Dad took the fox round behind the bar all right, but it was only to divest of its hide. Lou and I watched from a knothole in the loft and were on hand a month later when he presented Mama with the lovely red fur piece.

"Oh, Wilson, you shouldn't have!" Mama cried, her eyes shining. "A real fur piece." She dried her hands and draped the fox around her shoulders. It did something for her. Even with her house dress on and right there in the kitchen where Grandma was churning and we were doing the dishes, it did something for her. The red of the fur caught up red tones in her dark hair. Her white skin reflected a soft flush and her blue eyes danced with happiness. I knew right then and there that being sheriff of St. Francois County didn't mean as much to Dad as seeing how Mom looked in that soft, lustrous fur.

"Better put it away until after election," Grandpa advised gloomily. "'Tain't going to set well. Fox huntin' been gettin' poorer and poorer anyway." He adjusted his glasses and inspected the fur closely. "I 'spect that's Old Reddy, too."

Reddy was the perennial fox in the surrounding hills that could always be counted on for a good chase any night. Neighbors vowed it was the same fox the dogs chased year after year, for he'd been leading them over the same trails and back-tracking at the same places and using the same tricks, until the hunters, grouped around the campfire on top of Simms Mountain, could almost predicted his exact moves.

"Well, it is too hot to wear it yet," Mom said practically, "but ..."

That "but" meant that the election wasn't until November and there'd be plenty of cold weather before November and she'd be blessed if she'd have something as pretty as that and not wear it. She laid the fur out on top of the chiffonier where we were allowed to stroke it and even put in on sometimes and strut around the room, humming the "St. Louis Blues," trying to look like a St. Louis woman.

Kept our mouths shut

By mutual but mute agreement we kept our mouths sealed in front of the neighbors. They were all old-time, dyed-in-the-wool fox hunters like us, who would rather hear a good chase than anything else in the world.

"It was sustainin', fox huntin' was," Jim Harris said. He worked and toiled in his narrow little fields all day, his mind on the coming evening when he'd take the dogs out for a little spell. A typical neighbor, Jim Harris. Live up on top of Simms Mountain as close to the foxes as he could get.

By September, the primaries were over. Dad led his ticket, and electioneering was getting down to earnest on the porch on the Farm Bureau store and in the back of Wallingford's Mercantile. Good fox-hunting weather too -- heavy dews, harvest moons, hounds ready after a long hot summer.

"Out to go every time someone's in the notion," Dad said, as if he wouldn't anyway. "Be a wonderful place to pick up votes."

Jim Harris was always in the notion, so a few nights later Grandpa and Dad filled their lanterns, let out the hounds, and made their way across the fields and meadows and up the sides of the mountain. Mom and I climbed the hill back of the house and sat on top of a straw stack waiting for the chase to begin. We knew everyone else in the valley was listening, too -- just like a big concert only the seats were miles apart.

We could hear the dogs exploring around, and once one of them got lined out like he'd hit a trail, but it ended in a few, fuzzy, weak barks, and their combined baying sounded confused and puzzled. Alexander's old Gyp, when he gave tongue, sounded like he was saying, "Wherrrre, wherrrrre?" And the others took up the choruses, "Wheeerrrreeeee?"

"I suspect, dear hounds," Mom answered them jokingly, "he's down on top of my chiffonier."

"But Daddy wasn't wrong in killing the fox, Mom." I protested, sliding down the straw stack after her. "He said the dogs would have got him anyway."

"Of course, he wasn't wrong, honey. But those men up there" -- she motioned toward the top of the mountain -- "would take a heap of convincing."

Next: Going on a fox hunt.