The Fox and the Mosquitoes

Dripping from the river, the fox climbed the bank and gave himself a shake. He took one step, and his tail caught in a bush. He pulled. He tugged. He twisted left and right. The twigs only held him tighter, and he could not move.

The mosquitoes saw their chance. Whine, whine, whine, they came, in a thin grey cloud, and down they settled on his back and his ears and his nose. He could not swish his tail to brush them off. They drank and drank until they were round and red.

A hedgehog came strolling along the bank and felt sorry for him. "You are in a bad way, neighbour," he said. "Shall I drive off those mosquitoes for you? They are sucking your blood."

"Thank you, Master Hedgehog," said the fox, "but I would rather you didn't."

"Not drive them off?" said the hedgehog. "Why ever not?"

"Well, you see," said the fox, "these ones are full. They cannot drink another drop. If you chase them away, a hungry lot will come instead, and they will bleed me dry."