MOORLAND IDYLLS. 



checkmated, rose unwillingly from his scat, 

 and strode three paces ahead through the 

 shrubbery paths, followed, longo intervallo, by 

 the panting Mrs. Gusherville. Never a word 

 did he say as he paced the lawn with his 

 heavy tread ; but at last, as he approached 

 one garden border, he turned towards his 

 visitor. Speech trembled on his lips; Mrs. 

 Gusherville leant forward to catch the im- 

 mortal accents. The Poet spoke. " D mn 

 those rabbits ! " he said ; and then relapsed 

 into silence. That was all Mrs. Gusherville 

 got out of her interview. 



I am reminded of this episode, which if 

 not true to fact is at any rate true to human 

 nature, by the short sharp barking of Fan, 

 my neighbour's spaniel, resounding from the 

 heather in the direction of the Frying Pan. 

 Each bark is an eager impatient snap, and 

 its burden is " Rabbits ! " Now, I sympa- 

 thize with every living thing that breathes ; 

 yet if it were not for a constitutional objec- 

 tion to unnecessary vigour of language, I 



34 



