296 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



pressed to the ground, and then the spadesmen drive 

 a shaft straight at the noise of the barking. We find 

 the hole, but the badger has moved farther in. There 

 are galleries one below the other, the lower at a most 

 uncomfortable distance. As soon as the brash is 

 pierced, digging is as easy for us as for the badger, 

 who, moreover, cannot dig for fear of leaving his rear 

 exposed to the dog. But the depth beats us, and we 

 have to give the matter up. As we depart, the mound 

 presents the appearance of a giant fist thrust from the 

 hillside, clenched palm downwards, and guarding the 

 aborigines of the district within its grasp. We have 

 gashed its knuckles, deeply torn the hand, but it still 

 shields its guests. 



And now the clearest claims of country courtesy 

 ordain that the badgers in the brake must be delivered 

 up. Here are all these poor sportsmen gathered to 

 celebrate a fine day by killing something. Here is 

 the official of the sacred foxhounds out after the 

 enemies of the fox, his terriers with bloody faces to 

 avenge, spadesmen with cider to earn. Where is 

 the true country gentleman who, having badgers, 

 will fail to let us have at them ? The badgers in the 

 brake are sure prey. They have foolishly dug in hard 

 clay, wherein the spade is greatly superior to the claw. 

 The sand they love is not there, only a sort of iron- 

 stone sand that is little softer than stone. If the 

 farmer gives the invitation and let anyone who knows 

 the country dare to say that he will refuse it the 

 fate of his brocks is sealed. 



The rough-haired terrier, his dandified look long 

 since gone, runs excitedly into the hole. He wakes a 

 badger scarcely a yard within, and bays him almost 



