66 The Confessions of a Poacher. 



Again we trudge silently along the lane, but 

 soon stop to listen. Then we disperse, but to 

 any on-looker would seem to have dissolved. 

 This dry ditch is capacious, and its dead 

 herbage tall and tangled. A heavy foot, with 

 regular beat, approaches along the road, and 

 dies slowly away in the distance. 



Hares love green cornstalks, and a field of 

 young wheat is at hand ; I spread a net, twelve 

 feet by six, at the gate, and at a sign the dogs 

 depart different ways. Their paths soon con- 

 verge, for the night is torn by a piteous cry ; 

 the road is enveloped in a cloud of dust ; and 

 in the midst of the confusion the dogs dash 

 over the fence. They must have found their 

 game near the middle of the field, and driven 

 the hares for there are two so hard that 

 they carried the net right before them ; every 

 struggle wraps another mesh about them, and, 

 in a moment, their screams are quieted. By a 

 quick movement I wrap the long net about my 

 arm, and, taking the noiseless sward, get 

 hastily away from the spot. 



