unfamiliar sight, in his search for the unseen 

 yelpers. A minute of nervous fingering, 

 "lining up " the flock fiery death bursts out 

 from the harmless bush the remnant flut- 

 ter away the huntsman rushes out to find 

 two, three, it may be even four, fine birds 

 enough to salve with the lust of possession 

 his conscience against hurt for such un- 

 sportsmanlike methods. 



For it is murder premeditate with no law 

 for the quarry, such as the gentle art of ven- 

 ery allows all hunted things. Perhaps it is 

 some floating tradition of that which makes 

 the rabbit-hunting lads hold their dogs in 

 leash till Mistress Molly Cottontail has a 

 clear start. We have passed the wood now, 

 and come out upon a neighboring planta- 

 tion. The open is alive. Here be great 

 dogs and small yelping, snarling, straining 

 on their collars, frantic to be tumbling, 

 plunging through the snow. 



A mighty various lot are they 



" Mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

 And curs of low degree." 



By the way, did you know the cur's name 

 had an historic tang? You thought it gene- 

 ric, and most useful as an epithet of scorn. 

 In a way it is both, yet runs back to the 



