THE WHEAT-FIELD 209 



knows very well that there are rabbits making 

 a summer camp far under the forest of stalks 

 that are at once food and shelter. Like the tares, 

 the rabbits must stay till the harvest, and then 

 comes a terrible day of reckoning. As the reaping- 

 machine goes round and round in ever-narrowing 

 circles, the rabbits cower into a more and more 

 crowded sanctuary. Presently, the man in the 

 seat spies them, and with a good stick or stone 

 manages to kill one. Then they begin more and 

 more numerously to break cover and to attempt 

 the gauntlet through half the village gathered for 

 the rare slaughter. Some, but not many escape, 

 and it is wonderful amid such a hullabaloo that 

 the clearest headed of rabbits should preserve any 

 idea whatever of the direction wherein safety 

 lies if only he can reach it. They are exceedingly 

 quick over short distances, and turn with great 

 speed from those who have run to head them 

 off. It needs the co-operation of many men 

 to overcome one rabbit with hand weapons, and 

 bunny is better off fighting twenty folk with sticks 

 and stones than when he bolts from the island of 

 standing corn within reach of one cold and merciless 

 gun. 



The rabbits' arch enemies also inhabit this 

 summer jungle that comes to so sudden an end 

 in September. For some weeks the young foxes 

 have made it their playground and living-place. 

 From the top of a tree I have several times got 

 them under the field-glass in their trampled rod 



