The Foundling Fox
by Irina Korschunow
The Little Fox is Alone
The little fox lay all alone in the underbrush.
He was afraid.
He waited for his mother.
But his mother could not come.
A hunter had shot her.
Time passed and it began to rain.
The little fox was more and more afraid.
He was cold, and he was hungry.
He whimpered and cried.
A vixenwas passing by.
She heard how the little fox was whimpering.
She wanted to run past.
She had three children at home in her den.
They were waiting for her.
But because the little fox was crying, she came to him under the bushes.
"What is wrong?" asked the vixen, and she stroked his head with her paw.
The little fox whimpered even louder.
He whimpered the way little foxes whimper when they are hungry.
"Why are you lying all alone in the underbrush?" asked the vixen.
"Where is your mother?"
The vixen bent over the little fox and sniffed.
He smelled the way little foxes smell.
He was soft and woolly the way little foxes are.
"Poor little foundling fox," said the vixen.
She stroked him with her paw.
The little fox stopped whimpering.
The vixen smelled almost like his mother.
She was just as warm.
He snuggled to her; he searched for her milk.
The vixen stirred uneasily.
The little fox was not her kit.
She was not his mother.
She had to take care of her own three children.
But the little fox began to whimper again, and the vixen saw how he shivered from the cold.
So she did not leave.
She curled down around him.
The little fox snuggled into her fur.
He found her milk, and he drank.
He slurped and smacked and swallowed.
He could not stop.
"Drink, my little foundling fox," said the vixen, "drink your fill."
(This is not the full work)