* * * * * THE FOX. The birds see him first, jay and blackbird and thrush; They shriek at his coming and curse him, each one; With the clay of the vale on his pads and his brush, It's the Fallowfield fox and he's pretty near done; It's a couple of hours since a whip tally-ho'd him; Now the rookery's stooping to mob and to goad him; There's an earth on the hill, but he's cooked past believing, And his tongue's hanging out and his wet ribs are heaving. Here he comes up the field at a woebegone trot; He's stiff as a poker, he's done all he knows; Now the ploughmen'll view him as likely as not; There--they run to the paling and yell as he goes: Here's an end, if we live to be two minutes older; See, he turns a glazed eye o'er a mud-spattered shoulder; There's a hound through the hedgerow.... Game's up, and he's beaten, And he faces about with a snarl to be eaten. * * * * * [Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S GALLERY OF BRAVE DEEDS. No. 1. THE HERO WHO TOOK OUT A PARTY OF LADIES FERRETING.] * * * * * THE RING. KEEKS _v._ COCKLES. I.--OLD STYLE. _By Tony Shovell._ The much-boomed fight between Nobby Keeks and Bill Cockles ended in something of a _fiasco_, the last named being knocked out with a terrific uppercut in the first round. The men stripped well, and appeared in excellent fettle. The fight commenced precisely at 11.22, only fifty-two minutes after the advertised time. _1st Round._--Both men opened warily, sparring for an opening. Presently Cockles stepped in and drove his left hard to the nose, drawing blood. Keeks drew back, and Cockles, following up his advantage, got in a nicely-judged left hook on the eye, which began to swell ominously. Though his supporters were obviously chagrined, Keeks kept his head admirably, and cleverly ducked under a right swing and clinched. At the breakaway Cockles got his left home on the ribs, but in doing so left himself open, and Keeks shook him up badly with a jab to the jaw. Cockles' hands dropped momentarily, and Keeks, whipping in a smashing right uppercut, had his man down and out. A poor struggle, lost solely through carelessness. II.--NEW STYLE. _By Philip Keppermann._ At twenty-two and a-half minutes past eleven last night a man stood looking wistfully over a sea of faces looming whitely through a thin blue haze of tobacco smoke. At his feet lay stretched the limp body of his antagonist. The disappearance of one eye; under a large red swelling, combined with a patulous and rubescent nose, detracted to some extent from the dignity of his appearance. An ugly patch of crimson over his left ribs held the attention fantastically, morbidly. It was blood, human blood, his own blood. The thought fascinated me....