[ Picisvulpes coertduboisia (Sharpe, 2020) ]
“ Snowshoe Bill had a visitor. He was a younger guide, with tanned skin, keen black eyes, and a flashing smile. The two of them smoked and looked over the ripples that danced in the sun.
“Catching many fish?” asked the visitor.
“Quite a few,” answered Bill. Then he raised his voice loud enough for the nearby tenderfoot to hear. “By the Way, whatever became of that fish-fox your father had when you were a kid.”
“Poor old foxy!” replied the young guide sadly. “He grieved himself to death after dad died. He was a dandy, all right. Why, all father had to say, was ‘Foxy, old fellow, we want fish for supper.’ and away he would go to the lake and dive in. Then he’d make a noise like an angleworm and the fish would follow him right out of the water onto the shore and up to the cabin. All dad had to do was to take a club and kill as many as he wanted and tell Foxy to take the rest back to the lake. Some fish we had then.”
The young fellow took a sidelong glance at the open-mouthed listener. Then winked at Snowshoe Bill and said lazily, “Ho, hum. Those were the happy days.”
