The Confessions of a Poacher. 65 



couple of snares are set in gaps in an old 

 thorn fence not more than a yard apart These 

 are delicately manipulated, as we know from 

 previous knowledge that the hare will take one 

 of them. The black dog is sent over, the 

 younger fawn bitch staying behind. The 

 former slinks slowly down the field, sticking 

 close to the cover of a fence running at right 

 angles to the one in which the wires are set. 

 I have arranged that the wind shall blow from 

 the dog and across to the hare's seat when the 

 former shall come opposite. The ruse acts ; 

 "puss" is alarmed, but not terrified ; she gets 

 up and goes quietly away for the hedge. The 

 dog is crouched, anxiously watching ; she is 

 making right for the snare, though something 

 must be added to her speed to make the wire 

 effective. As the dog closes in, I wait, bowed, 

 w r ith hands on knees, still as death, for her 

 coming. I hear the brush of the grass, 

 the trip, trip, trip, as the herbage is brushed. 

 There is a rustle among the dead leaves, 

 a desperate rush, a momentary squeal and the 

 wire has tightened round her throat. 



