them too. The hedgehogs used to come,
but they always made themselves disagreeable. They just lay down by
the fire and snored, and when they wakened up they quarrelled with
each other. Everybody said that the hedgehogs' children were very badly
brought up and very badly provided for. The squirrels who were so clean
and careful, and so fond of their children, thought the hedgehogs were
very bad creatures indeed. "It is just like them to have dirty sticky
thorns around them instead of nice clean fur," said the squirrel's wife.
"But, my dear," said the squirrel, "every animal can't have fur."
"How well," said she, "the rabbits have fur, though dear knows they're
creatures of not much account. It's all just to let us see that they're
some relation of that horrible, horrible boar that goes crashing and
marching through the wood."

The deer never came into the house, and Gilly had a shed made for them
outside. They would come into it and stay there for many nights and
days, and Gilly used to go out and talk with them. They knew about far
countries, and strange paths and passes, but they did not know so much
about men and about the doings of other creatures as the Fox did.

The Fox used to come in the evening and stay until nearly morning
whether Gilly fell asleep or kept awake. The Fox was a very good talker.
He used to lie down at the hearth with his paws stretched out, and tell
about this one and that one, and what she said and what he did. If the
Fox came to see you, and if he was in good humor for talking, you would
stay up all night to listen to him. I know I should. It was the Fox
who told Gilly what the Crow of Achill did to Laheen the Eagle. She had
stolen the Crystal Egg that Laheen was about to hatch--the Crystal Egg
that the Crane had left on a bare rock. It was the Fox who told Gilly
how the first cat came into the world. And it was the Fox who told Gilly
about the generations of the eel. All I say is that it is a pity the Fox
cannot be trusted, for a better one to talk and tell a story it would be
hard to find. He was always picking up and eating things that had been
left over--a potato roasting in the ashes, an apple left upon a plate,
a piece of meat under a cover. Gilly did not grudge these things to Rory
the Fox and he always left something in a bag for him to take home to
the young foxes.

I had nearly forgotten to tell you about Gilly's friend, the brave
Weasel. He had made a home for himself under the