open, feed with ears up, move with muffled feet, 

 and, at short stages, he must stop, rise on his 

 long hind legs, and listen and look. If he ever 

 forgets, if he pauses one moment for a wordless, 

 noiseless game with his fellows, he dies. For 

 safety's sake he lives alone ; but even a rabbit 

 has fits of sociability, and gives way at times to 

 his feelings. The owl and the fox know this, 

 and they watch the open glades and field-edges. 

 They must surprise him. 



The barred owl is quick at dodging, but Bunny 

 is quicker. It is the owl's soft, shadow-silent 

 wings that are dreaded. They spirit him 

 through the dusk like a huge moth, wavering 

 and aimless, with dangling dragon-claws. But 

 his drop is swift and certain, and the grip of 

 those loosely hanging legs is the very grip of 

 death. There is no terror like the ghost-terror 

 of the owl. 



The fox is feared ; but then, he is on legs, not 

 wings, and there are telltale winds that fly be- 

 fore him, far ahead, whispering, Fox, fox, fox ! 

 The owl, remember, like the wind, has wings— 

 wings that are faster than the wind's, and the 

 latter cannot get ahead to tell of his coming. 

 [223] 



