i8 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



him, but as ready as a hair-trigger should he be 

 discovered. I have seen him leap for his life as 

 the dog sighted him, and bounding like a ball 

 across the stubble, disappear in the woods, the 

 hound within two jumps of his flashing tail. I 

 have waited at the end of the wood-road for the 

 runners to come back, down the home-stretch, for 

 the finish. On they go for a quarter, or perhaps 

 half a mile, through the woods, the baying of the 

 hound faint and intermittent in the distance, then 

 quite lost. No, there it is again, louder now. They 

 have turned the course. I wait. 



The quiet life of the woods is undisturbed, for 

 the voice of the hound is only an echo, not un- 

 like the far-off tolling of a slow-swinging bell. 

 The leaves stir as a wood-mouse scurries from his 

 stump; an acorn rattles down; then in the wind- 

 ing wood-road I hear the pit-pat, -pit-pat, of soft 

 furry feet, and there at the bend is the rabbit. He 

 stops, rises high up on his haunches, and listens. 

 He drops again upon all fours, scratches himself 

 behind the ear, reaches over the cart-rut for a nip 

 of sassafras, hops a little nearer, and throws his 

 big ears forward in quick alarm, for he sees me, 

 and, as if something had exploded under him, he 



