A Weasel’s Victim. 261 
head drooping on one side. He takes no notice—he 
is dying. Just beneath one ear is a slight trace of 
blood—it is the work of a weasel, who fled on hearing 
approaching footsteps. Soon a film must form over 
the beautiful eye of the hunted creature: let us in 
mercy strike him a sharp blow on the head with the 
heavy end of the walking-stick, and so spare him the 
prolonged sense of death. A hundred yards further 
is a gate, and beyond that an arable field. On 
coming near the gate a hawk glides swiftly down- 
wards over the hedge that there joins the forest. A 
cloud of sparrows instantly rise from the stubble, and 
fly chirping in terror to the hedge for shelter; but 
one is too late, the hawk has him in his talons. 
Yonder is a row of wheat ricks, the fresh straw with 
which they have just been covered contrasting with 
the brown thatch of the farmhouse in the hollow. 
There a refreshing glass of ale is forthcoming, and the 
way is pointed out. 
