It was the unmistakable sound of a small animal’s limbs breaking through the crest of fresh-fallen snow. Then I saw the shape of it just outside the semicircle of the lantern’s light and it looked to be a small dog or half-grown wolf. Blacker than the night it was and it darted from a hedgerow of dormant bushes to a wood pile. Against the backdrop of snow, which had a nightly, bluish tinge, the canine showed up rather well and I saw that it had a great, bushy tail. I then realized that my uninvited visitor was a fox.
I reached up for the burning lantern and held it up high before me. Peculiar, I thought, that the fox would run toward me rather than away. As the light hit its eyes, they glowed red as twin embers. Hoping for a better look, I eased forward a step with the lantern.
The black fox uttered a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a low yelp. A chill ran up my spine. My first reaction was to promptly straighten my posture and stand steadfast. Even then as the fox ran off, it seemed to have a firm grasp on me, for I could not move for at least a half minute’s time I am sure of it.
As the fox disappeared, I lit my pipe for a second time as it had gone out. As I stood there in the cold darkness, savoring the pipe smoke, staring out into the blackness of the night, it occurred to me how rare it was for one to see a black fox. I did not recall ever hearing of anyone else seeing one.