230 THE RABBIT. 



is not so. Like most wild creatures, rabbits love 

 the sunlight and the air as much as we do, and 

 seek the ground only as a place of sanctuary from 

 their foes or from storms. A far greater number 

 of rabbits live and have their homes above ground 

 than dwell in burrows, their open-air houses con- 

 sisting of little seats in the grass, wisely chosen to 

 suit the weather ; and here they crouch as you pass 

 by, never stirring unless you threaten actually to 

 tread on them. 



In an alder-grove near to my house an old rabbit 

 had his home for a long time, seeking safety in the 

 midst of the village, and never associating with any 

 of his kind. He dined on the fat of the land 

 namely, the produce of the village gardens ; and 

 though many a hairbreadth escape did he have, 

 for long he evaded his foes. I fancy he knew 

 every dog in the village, and how he could fool 

 each one of them. The big sheep-dogs he could 

 get rid of merely by running under a certain gate, 

 which was filled in with wire-netting, and the 

 pursuing dog, after ramming its face in the netting 

 and probably making its nose bleed, had lost so 

 much time that the cony was well able to get out 

 of sight and gain the shelter of a tiny bridge under 

 the burn, where no dog could reach him. 



There was one dog, smaller and cleverer than the 

 rest, that many times all but brought about this 

 rabbit's destruction. This was a fox-terrier be- 

 longing to the rectory, and on seeing the cony 

 head for the gate he would at once dart through a 

 sheep-hole in the wall, and be ready to meet him 

 on the other side. But eventually the rabbit hit 

 upon the notion of diving under my summer-house, 

 where even the terrier could not follow, and that 

 world-wise little dog used to spend his Sundays, 



