Interesting little thread. I was walking by the upper Thames a couple of weekends ago and stopped by a clump of trees for (you know.... ) and was perplexed to see cartridges lying all around. They was partridges though, not foxes.

By chance I found this little poem the other day, The Combe by Edward Thomas - its about a badger rather than a fox but it struck a cord.

The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark,
Its mouth stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar;
And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,
The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The Combe looks since they killed a badger there,
Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,
That most ancient Briton of English beasts.

Edward Thomas (1878-1917)