In a noble forest in Russia I met a fine black fox, whose valuable skin it would have been a pity to tear by ball or shot.

Reynard stood close to a tree.

In a twinkling I took out my ball, and placed a good spike-nail in its room, fired, and hit him so cleverly that I nailed his brush fast to the tree.

I now went up to him, took out my hanger, gave him a cross-cut over the face, laid hold of my whip, and fairly flogged him out of his fine skin.
Chance and good luck often correct our mistakes; of this I had a singular instance soon after, when, in the depth of a forest, I saw a wild pig and sow running close behind each other.

My ball had missed them, yet the foremost pig only ran away, and the sow stood motionless, as fixed to the ground.