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ArtistOn a narrow forest path, punctuated by sunbeams, lined with moss-covered stones and dense ferns, an unusual hiker strides confidently: an anthropomorphic fox with reddish-gold fur that almost seems to glow in the light. Under his left arm, he holds a squawking, wildly fluttering goose, clearly struggling against its fate, but the fox is unfazed. His clothing is reminiscent of that of a tramp—a worn vest with baggy pockets, a tattered scarf around his neck, and faded trousers that flap slightly over his slender legs. On his feet, he wears old, holey boots whose soles have seen better days. A gray-brown flat cap sits askew on his head, only partially obscuring his shrewd, sparkling eyes. Those eyes flash with deceit—a sly expression rests on his narrow face, crowned by a crooked, slightly mocking grin. His snout twitches with every step, as if he can hardly wait to reach his journey's destination. The goose quacks indignantly, but the fox hums happily an old wandering song as he moves on undeterred—a cunning vagabond on a mysterious mission, somewhere between fairy tale and forest legend.
German children's song
Fuchs, du hast die Gans gestohlen
Gib sie wieder her
Gib sie wieder her
Sonst wird dich der Jäger holen mit dem Schießgewehr
Sonst wird dich der Jäger holen mit dem Schießgewehr
Seine große, lange Flinte
Schießt auf dich das Schrot
Schießt auf dich das Schrot
Dass sich färbt die rote Tinte und dann bist du tot
Dass sich färbt die rote Tinte und dann bist du tot
Liebes Füchslein, lass dir raten
Sei doch nur kein Dieb
Sei doch nur kein Dieb
Nimm, du brauchst nicht Gänsebraten, mit der Maus vorlieb
Nimm, du brauchst nicht Gänsebraten, mit der Maus vorlieb
The Fox on the Road
Along a path through woods so deep,
where moss and shadows softly sleep,
there walks a figure, sly and slick—
a clever fox, both fast and quick.
A cap sits crooked on his head,
his boots are worn, his scarf is red.
His vest is patched, his trousers torn,
a vagabond since he was born.
But under one arm—oh, what a sight!—
a flapping goose, all full of fright.
She squawks and kicks, all in a huff,
yet he just grins—he's made of tougher stuff.
His eyes, they gleam with cunning pride,
a trickster with no need to hide.
He hums a tune, both light and bold,
a wanderer with tales untold.
Where is he bound? No one can say—
the river bend? The hills far away?
Perhaps he dreams of firelight’s glow,
and goose stew bubbling soft and slow.
But one thing’s sure, as night draws near:
this fox’s path is far from clear.
A rogue, a rascal, wild and free—
a legend walking through the trees.
