There once was an old fox with rusty red locks who lurked in a wood; where he was known as The Horrible Ginger Thing.
He was the only, and very lonely, old fox, living in the wood, because all the other foxes had been torn to shreds, or chased out of their beds. By the horseback hunters, and their beagles, up to no good, blowing their shiny horns, stampeding through the wood.
Of course the horrible ginger thing was not his real name, but nobody in Ye Olde Bricket Wood had ever bothered to find out what his name actually was. Or, indeed, give him the time of day. Instead, they all tarnished him with the same brush, accusing him of being sly, conniving and untrustworthy, when his rusty red back was turned. Because, none of them really had the guts to call him the horrible ginger thing close to his face. But instead, they always said it behind his back.
Whenever anybody went missing from the neighbourhood, such as a chicken, or a duck, the horrible ginger thing would always get the blame. The ironic thing was, the old fox was actually a vegetarian and never even ate meat, because it not only unsettled his tummy, he found it quintessentially unpalatable. He much rather preferred an omelette, or a cheese and vegetable quiche for his dinner, as opposed to a chicken’s breasts, or duck or goose liver paté. But, nobody had ever bothered to ask him what his culinary tastes were either.
In the heart of the woods, was a quaint thatched cottage, with a weathervane, and smoke spiralling from its chimney. In front, was a big pond, where ducks and geese would meet to wag their beaks. Inside the cottage lived a girl with her grandmother. The girl was lonely too, because her grandmother often slept in her rocking chair by the hearth, and there was nobody else for her to play with. So, for amusement, whilst her grandma slept, she would watch the world go by from the window. Of course when her grandmother was awake, there were things to be done around the house, like baking cakes, beating carpets, and cleaning out the hearth.
You are probably thinking that not much of the world really goes by in the dark heart of a wood. Nothing much of interest to be witnessed yonder the cottage’s windows, whilst grandma is snoring away in her favourite rocking chair. Well, you are mistaken. Because, the little girl began to witness a world passing her by that had passed nobody’s eyes before.
The first thing she noticed was a robin redbreast perching on the branch of an old oak tree. Every morn and evening, he sang his little heart out, serenading the girl sitting by her window. Then the old fox began planting himself under her tree, right below the robin. Luckily, for the fox, the robin never went to the toilet whilst he perched in that position.
But, the girl was no longer sure if the robin redbreast was serenading her, or the fox, or indeed the both of them. If the truth be told, the lonely old fox, too, was somewhat enchanted by the robin’s song, and relished the ceremonious serenades each day at dawn and dusk.
‘Are you serenading me, or the old fox?’ the girl enquired one day to the robin, as she leant from her window.
‘My heart sings to the both of you. There’s nothing more melancholic than loneliness. My magic melodies are songs about friendship,’ replied the robin redbreast, before flying off into the sky. But he never again returned to his usual perch on that tree.
So the old fox waited patiently, day and night, for the robin’s return, but he waited in vain. And the girl waited patiently at her window for the very same reason. On the seventh night, when the old fox surmised that the robin redbreast was not coming back, seven tears rolled down his cheeks. And the girl saw this from the warmth of her cottage. Although, at times lonely, she had a comfortable life, a roof over her head, food in the cupboard, and coal in the hearth. More importantly, she had a grandma who loved her: when she was awake.
