A BLOODLESS HUNT 



" Eighty-six in the shade, sir ! Tis hotter than yester- 

 day, I reckon," remarks a medal-bedecked park-keeper 

 to me in passing, as I sit within the shadow cast by the 

 leafy and wide-spreading boughs of the giant chestnut 

 trees for which the Royal Park of Bushey is world-famous. 



My inseparable companions, Chloe and Jet — a brace of 

 fiat-coated retrievers — lie at my feet as I pen these lines. 

 Both are in the land of dreams, dreaming, perchance, 

 of the good days they enjoyed amongst the partridges 

 and pheasants in the past shooting season. It certainly 

 is an exceptionally warm day for early June, but the 

 thermometer would not register eighty-six degrees in my 

 cool retreat under the giant timber trees. In point of fact, 

 I feel delightfully cool and comfortable, notwithstanding 

 that the heat-rays are dancing over the mile of dusty 

 road which extends between Teddington and Hampton 

 Court gates. But the men and horses travelling along 

 the highway look jaded and fatigued enough. 



Although from a naturalist's point of view Bushey Park 

 is not so interesting as Richmond Park, it is by no means 

 devoid of wild Hfe. At no great distance from my bower 

 is a small rabbit warren, surrounded by gnarled and ancient 

 hawthorn trees. 



The glorious sunshine has coaxed the bunnies from their 

 subterranean habitat, and quite a colony, of all sizes and 

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