$2 The AmatetLT Poacher 



spies anything suspicious. Such a spot, and, indeed, 

 any gateway, used to be a favourite place to set a 

 net, and then drive the hares towards it with a cur 

 dog that ran silent. Bold must be the man that would 

 set a net in a footpath now, with almost every field 

 preserved by owner or tenant. With a bound the 

 hare hies back and across the meadow : the gun comes 

 to the shoulder as swiftly. 



On the grass lit by the moon the hare looked quite 

 distinct, but the moment the gaze is concentrated up 

 the barrel he becomes a dim object with no defined 

 outline. In shooting on the ground by twilight or in 

 the moonbeams, waste no time in endeavouring to 

 aim, but think of the hare's ears — say a couple of feet 

 in front of his tail— and the moment the gun feels 

 steady pull the trigger. The flash and report come 

 together ; there is a dull indescribable sound ahead, as 

 some of the shot strikes home in fur and some drills 

 into the turf, and then a rustling in the grass. The 

 moorhens dive, and the coots scuttle down the brook 

 towards the mere at the flash. While yet the sul- 

 phurous smoke lingers, slow to disperse, over the cool 

 dewy sward, there comes back an echo from the wood 

 behind, then another from the mere, then another and 

 another beyond. 



The distant sculls have ceased to work in the 



