A Limping Hare. 129 



afternoon at this very pond side, I have often in the 

 twilight let my fish lie in a kind of dry ditch, to watch 

 as I lay in perfect quiet Mr. Brown Rat steal down 

 to carry off a specimen or two, in which, despite my 

 presence, he more than once succeeded, always, as 

 far as I could see, seizing the fish by one or other 

 extremity — a good precaution, as there was a fair 

 growth of overhanging shrubbery through which he 

 had to make his way with his prize to his hole. 



But hark, what piteous sound is that in the coppice 

 we are now skirting — a sharp wail of pain and fear, or 

 rather of terror ? We soon discover it — a rabbit in a 

 trap — in torture, palpitating, torn, and bleeding, eyes 

 strained and starting ; making a last effort at a bound 

 as we approach, and then dropping helpless, exhausted. 

 It may be there thus for hours, till the trapper's con- 

 venience suits. We turn away half sick, our pure 

 pleasure of the morning's sights and sounds somewhat 

 shadowed. 



Only a little farther on, in a run we find a snare 

 with a rabbit in it — dead ; the poacher is merciful from 

 mere self-interest. He does not like traps, because 

 the animals cry so long and piteously and tell their 

 whereabouts. 



Ah ! There, as we steal along this hedgeside, goes 

 a hare down the furrow, which attracts us by its 

 peculiar limp. We fix our eyes and see that it has 

 been shot — one of its hind legs shattered/ dragging 

 behind, as one sometimes sees a doll's leg which has 

 broken by rough usage, and now only held on by 

 the outside cloth. It is not what sportsmen kill that 

 constitutes the cruelty of sport, it is what they maim 

 and send away to die in holes and corners, torn, tor- 

 tured, and bleeding. And that is one reason why only 



