Cinnabar, the One O'Clock Fox Read online

  Then dropping the cock he spun around and poked his elfin face out of the earth.

  “I had jolly fun, too!” he barked to the hunters. Then he frisked his black whiskers, gave them all a wide grin, and was gone.

  Chapter 14

  LIFE IS NICE AND ROUND

  Gloriously happy, his tiredness forgotten, Cinnabar went wriggling down the passageway to his family. He noticed that the cockerel’s feathers were the worse for being dragged through bog and briar and meadow and mire, but he knew his Vicky would still consider it a fine fowl. That was one reason he prized her so much; she saw beneath feathers and fur, and . . .

  Cinnabar had no time to finish his thought, for Rascal, Pascal, Merry, and Mischief were waiting for him and now sprang, leaping upon him, rolling him over, biting his big peaked ears, bouncing about him like kittens.

  “Oh me, oh me!” Cinnabar laughed indulgently. “I might better have been mauled by the hounds!”

  In a high state of glee, Rascal now snatched up the cock and raced around and around the table, while Pascal and Merry and Mischief ran after him. A great mock battle arose with Mischief tearing harmlessly at Rascal’s furry throat and Merry biting his brush.

  “Children!” Vicky entreated. “Your father needs peace and quiet. Stop chasing about and hush up. Please!”

  But there was so much growling and yapping that her voice was lost. In desperation, she took the twin flute from its lovely case and blew a single high note.

  The effect was electric. Each cub froze into position. They became a little audience of four, quietly watching, listening for what might come.

  The stillness was complete as Vicky nosed the tattered feathers of the cockerel and bunted it over with keen appraisal. Then her delicate forepaws fluttered in pleasure. “Oh, what a beautiful, lovely, delectable, plump bird! My currant jelly is hardly worthy of it. But, Cinny, however did you manage to snatch a cockerel? They are so much harder to take than the hens. How ever did you do it?”

  Up on his hind feet, Cinnabar leaned against the fireplace, one elbow on the mantel. He cleared his throat, and his voice was deep and hearty. “It was nothing. Nothing at all. I was glad to do it for you. Next time I’ll bring you a suckling pig, or perhaps even a lamb,” he chuckled. “I had so much fun getting it for you. If it delights you, I am happy.”

  “But how did you get it? How did you do it?”

  “If the truth must be known, my dear, ’twas the good gift of Providence, aided and abetted by your Mister Plunkett. He was most obliging.”

  “In the matter of poor fences?”

  “Oh, more! Much, much more! Just as I was leaping for the cock, a shot intended for me must have hit him. He jumped high in the air, where I caught him.”

  Aghast at this narrow escape, Vicky quite suddenly crumpled to the floor in a dead faint. It took two gourdsful of water thrown hastily in her face to bring her back to consciousness. Embarrassed, she was soon on her feet, vigorously wiping her face with her apron. Then she examined Cinnabar from the black tip of his ears to the white tip of his brush. When she had made certain that he was all of one piece, she gave a great sigh of thankfulness. Somehow the matter of the lost toe on his left forepaw completely escaped her—perhaps because Cinnabar showed her his right forepaw twice. Now she turned to the spellbound pups.

  “Children,” she said, and her face became solemn, “this bird is the good gift of Providence. So your father says. But oh, how he helps Providence!” Her voice now became as serious as her face. “Your papa,” she proclaimed, “is the greatest hunter I ever knew in all my life. He’s the greatest hunter in the whole wide world. The greatest! And now,” she sighed, “before we pluck the bird clean, I want you all to wait upon your papa in the way that he deserves.” Then she clipped out directions:

  “Rascal! You fetch the goose grease and melt it in the warming oven.

  “Pascal! You fetch your father’s comb, and comb the mud from his coat.

  “Merry! You pour your father a spot of dandelion juice.

  “Mischief! You hang a pot of water over the fire.”

  Cinnabar had to laugh to himself. Families are wonderful, he thought. They make you out a hero when all you have done is to snatch a bird in midair.

  With only a slight limp, he went over to Grandma Bushy’s rocker and eased his bones into its welcoming arms. He let everyone wait upon him because it was giving them so much fun. The dandelion juice soothed his gullet as Pascal combed the mud from his brush, and Vicky worked on the pads of his feet with the goose grease. When she came to the left forepaw, she began silently to weep as if the missing toe were more her loss than his own.

  “Oh, come now, Vicky! Who’s to miss a toe? Not I! Not I! Besides, it sent me into a very fine church, where . . .”

  “Where you probably hid rather than repented!” Vicky laughed through her tears.

  “That’s my girl!” Cinnabar patted her head. Suddenly he yowled in mock pain. “Your tears are dreadful salty on my wound, Vicky. Please to shut them off at once.”

  When Cinnabar was made very comfortable, he lolled back in the rocker, his paws folded across his chest. “Let come the blizzard,” he barked softly. “Let come the blizzard—of feathers.”

  The children looked with asking eyes from Cinnabar to the cockerel to their mother, who now sang out: “Get ready! Get set! Pluck!”

  In a flashing instant four furry bodies pounced on the cockerel and began plucking feathers until the den was a rousing, rollicking storm with shooting geysers of white whenever anyone sneezed. In no time at all the bird was plucked clean, except for a few pinfeathers.

  “I shall cut it up,” announced Vicky, “for even though your father appears fresh as a daisy, he must be bone weary.”

  “I want a wing!” shouted Merry.

  “Me, too!” shouted Mischief.

  “I want a drumstick!” This was Pascal’s voice, quite deep for his age.

  “Me, too!” echoed Rascal. “Me, too.”

  By now the pot was boiling. “The water has stopped smiling; it’s laughing out loud!” Mischief announced as she looked into the steaming pot.

  Vicky dropped the pieces into the bubbling water. Then she turned the tiny three-minute glass that stood on the mantel. “ ’Tis lucky,” she said to Cinnabar, “that we are only six. For you and I can split the back and breast; and that is all there is.”

  Now everyone gathered about the table, letting their eyes wander over the bowls of beetles and crickets and sauces and seasonings. But mostly they fixed upon the bright red mounds of quivering currant jelly. Everyone helped himself, while Vicky ladled out the steaming pieces of chicken in giblet broth. And so the meal began! It was impossible to eat without making noises—loud crunching noises and soft slurping ones.

  Cinnabar rubbed his stomach and smacked his lips. “It’s delicious!” he said. “Nice and rare!”

  “It’s yummy,” the children barked.

  “ ’Tis a prime fowl,” agreed Vicky.

  A good feeling came over everyone. Cinnabar looked on his family in great satisfaction. And when he had done with his chicken breast, he fell asleep right at the table, holding the wishbone in his hurt paw.

  “Sh!” whispered Vicky. “Let the poor dear sleep. He’s had such a hard day.”

  “Sh!”

  “Sh!”

  “Sh!”

  “Sh!” echoed the four children, but their shushes were so loud that Cinnabar awoke with a jerk. The forty winks of sleep had greatly refreshed him, however.

  He went back to Grandma Bushy’s rocker and motioned to the cubs to follow. They sat down at his feet, curling their tails neatly about them.

  “Please, Papa,” they begged, “tell us about the hunt.”

  Pulling at his whiskers and clearing his throat to heighten the suspense, Cinnabar sat back and began to brag in a nice kind of way. “Oh, I gave them a first-rate gallop,” he chuckled. “And if my paws are cut and torn, you should see the hounds’ ears! Oh, eve
ryone had a capital time. I muddied their coats, lamed their horses and hounds, but they never caught me! Not on your lefe, lofe, life!” He drummed his toes in remembrance. “Right at the first I gave them a tremendous run!”

  “Where?”

  “Where?”

  “Where?”

  “Where?”

  “In the new green wheatfield, down on Union Farm.”

  “Then what?”

  “I baffled them.”

  “How, Papa?”

  “I ran them in circles until I was chasing them. Ho, ho!”

  “How else, Papa?”

  “I foiled my scent in pennyroyal mint.”

  “How else?”

  “I rode on the backs of sheep!”

  “How else?”

  “I floated downstream in Dogue Run.”

  “And how did the Master of the Foxhounds do?” This was Vicky’s question.

  “Oh, creditably, my dear. Quite creditably. The general tried hard to outwit me. He leaped logs and went fairly fast without standing up in his stirrups. He didn’t catch me, but my guess is he caught the ague. Ho, ho, ho! And all his horses were beat! Completely done up! The fact is, my dear, I set the pace so fast that the general couldn’t change horses until I was busy at Farmer Plunkett’s!”

  “Children,” Vicky’s eyes shone with pride, “see how the whole countryside must respect your father. In years to come, when you hear tales of the One O’Clock Fox, hold your heads high, my dears, for it is of your father’s skill and gallantry that they speak. And now,” she added, turning to Cinnabar, “would not this be a good moment to give words of advice? For soon it will be clicketing time, and our children will set up dens of their own.”

  “What’s clicketing time, Mamma?” asked Pascal.

  “ ’Tis mating time, my son.”

  “Aye,” nodded Cinnabar. “Soon you will all be finding dens of your own.”

  “Oh, no!” cried Mischief in alarm.

  “Oh, no!” wailed Merry.

  “Will we!” exclaimed Rascal in great interest.

  “Will we?” asked Pascal.

  “That you will,” said Cinnabar. “But always, in time of danger, this den will be your sure refuge.

  “Life is nice and round,” he continued reflectively. “No beginning. No ending. I am now arrived at an age when you, my children, will carry on for me. Hand me that looking glass, my dear.”

  Vicky gave Cinnabar the glass, and he held it up to catch his reflection. “Yes, I must admit to a few white whiskers among the black. I don’t doubt but that I am one of the few foxes at Mount Vernon ever to reach my ripe age. And why?” he prompted.

  “Why, Papa?”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have learned that man is a kindly animal with some affection for wild creatures, but you can never trust him completely. The moment you do, it may cost you your life.”

  With this word of advice, Cinnabar snored a few snores, while the children, at their mother’s request, jumped to their feet and stood in line, one behind the other. Their eyes twinkled in expectancy.

  “What’s this? What’s this?” Cinnabar asked upon awakening.

  Vicky grinned almost shyly. Then she went over to his rocker and sat down upon the arm of it. “While you were gone on the hunt today,” she began, “I told the children about the little ditty you used to sing to me. I told them that there was a couplet for each of them.”

  “A couplet?” Cinnabar repeated, scratching his ear.

  “Aye, a couplet.”

  “What’s that, Vicky?”

  “Oh, Cinny, you know. ’Tis two lines of a poem. Remember the one about the four little foxes?”

  Cinnabar’s face lighted as he thought of the rhyme. He lifted Merry by her forepaws and dandled her on his knee. Then in a voice full of chuckles he began the rollicking rhythm:

  “Four little fox cubs, out upon a spree;

  One found a rabbit trap. Then there were three!

  “Come, Rascal, ’tis your turn:

  “Three little fox cubs, nothing much to do,

  Met up with foxhounds. Then there were two!

  “Come, Pascal, ’tis your turn:

  “Two little fox cubs saw a great big gun.

  A man was behind it. Then there was one!

  “Come, Mischief, ’tis your turn:

  “One little fox cub, coy and full of tricks,

  Met a little dog-fox. Now there are six!”

  Again and again Cinnabar had to dandle each pup upon his knee until he sank back in exhaustion. And at last the den settled down to quiet, while across the vast of night came the lonely baying of a lost hound still on the scent.

  Cinnabar smiled and sighed in consummate bliss. “Life is nice and round,” he mumbled happily. “Nice and round.”

  For their help the author is grateful to

  GEORGE WOOD, Joint M.F.H., Wayne DuPage Hunt, Wayne, Illinois

  WILLIAM WINQUIST, Huntsman, Wayne, Illinois

  TERESA ANTONINI, Hollywood Public Library, Hollywood, Florida

  WILLIAM HARRISON BARNES, authority on old organs, Evanston, Illinois

  R. GORDON HINNERS, JR., vocalist, St. Charles, Illinois

  MARY ALICE JONES, Methodist Board of Education, Nashville

  MILDRED G. LATHROP, Reference Librarian, Elgin, Illinois

  PEGGY RYDER, Hollywood Public Library, Hollywood, Florida

  ROBERTA B. SUTTON, Reference Librarian, Chicago Public Library

  EUGENIA WHELAN, Librarian, Hollywood Public Library, Hollywood, Florida

  IDA G. WILSON, Librarian, Elgin, Illinois

  MR. AND MRS. W. R. BEAN, Hollywood, Florida

  MR. AND MRS. F. K. BREITHAUPT, Hollywood, Florida

  DR. AND MRS. G. H. FELLMAN, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  AVIS GRANT SWICK, St. Charles, Illinois

  and especially to

  Dorothy Dennis

  MARGUERITE HENRY was the beloved author of such classic horse stories as KING OF THE WIND, MISTY OF CHINCOTEAGUE, and STORMY, MISTY’S FOAL, all of which are available in Aladdin paperback editions.

  ALADDIN

  Simon & Schuster, New York

  Meet the author, watch videos, and get extras at

  Kids.SimonandSchuster.com

  authors.simonandschuster.com/Marguerite-Henry

  OTHER BOOKS BY MARGUERITE HENRY

  Album of Horses

  Benjamin West and His Cat Grimalkin

  Black Gold

  Born to Trot

  Brighty of the Grand Canyon

  Brown Sunshine of Sawdust Valley

  Gaudenzia, Pride of the Palio

  Justin Morgan Had a Horse

  King of the Wind

  Misty of Chincoteague

  Misty’s Twilight

  Mustang, Wild Spirit of the West

  San Domingo, the Medicine Hat Stallion

  Sea Star, Orphan of Chincoteague

  Stormy, Misty’s Foal

  White Stallion of Lipizza

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALADDIN

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This Aladdin paperback edition July 2014

  Text copyright © 1956 by Marguerite Henry

  Interior illustrations copyright © 1956 by Wesley Dennis

  Cover illustration copyright © 2014 by John Rowe

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  ALADDIN is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc., and related logo is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.


  Cover designed by Jeanine Henderson

  The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond Pro.

  Library of Congress Control Number 2014938959

  ISBN 978-1-4814-0400-6

  ISBN 978-1-4814-0402-0 (eBook)