No man is born into the world
Whose work is not born with him.
—James Russell Lowell
Three hundred foxes, yelping and squalling, gamboled across the valley of Timnath in front of their captor, whose cheery laughter rang out on the evening air. He whistled and cracked his whip, giving an extra twist with his left hand to the thong that their hundreds of leashes were tied to. Then Samson turned to the boy walking by his side with a smoking basket of charcoal.
“You can set that down now, Halek,” he said. “This’ll be a good place to start lighting things up.”
“Yes sir.”
Samson slipped the thong around a handy fence post and grabbed hold of the two nearest foxes by the napes of their necks. He tied them back to back, braiding a brand into their tails. The small boy stood respectfully by, too scared to come near the yelping foxes, but too absorbed in admiration to run home, though Samson had dismissed him with a good-natured nod.
“What are you going to do with them?” Halek asked.
what would you do with 300 foxes?
Eleven Worlds 