From Fox's Earth 



even when they are not quite sincere. A very 

 little acquaintance with life tells us that it would 

 be a poor show in the absence of a little illusion. 

 Only an enemy of his race would do away with 

 the staging what the Frenchman calls the music. 

 Sport has all the charm claimed for it. The inter- 

 lude makes all the difference between the death of 

 the deer on the heather at the end of a long stalk 

 and the fate of cattle. I have nothing to say in 

 favour of driving. 



Thus have we got, not only the eating, but also 

 the fun to ourselves, by the simple process of 

 killing out all that asked a share. We have put 

 out myriad lights that every path, save our own, 

 should be dark. We have a monopoly of the 

 pain and the gladness of the earth. The pain is 

 to others. The gladness may not be all it seems. 

 And, as we have had the making of the deca- 

 logues, we have found it easy to prove that this 

 was all right. 



These are the days of small things. Our 

 activities are confined to the inner circles. We 

 are busy among the lesser carnivores, which in 

 the absence of any small ungulates find grass- 

 eating prey of another kind. We step in between 

 the weasel or the cat and the rabbit. We are 

 concerned about the warfare of the birds, and 

 rescue the grouse from the falcon. We want the 

 game for ourselves. 



We want also the savage pleasure of the pursuit, 



66 



