192 TEN YEARS OF GAME-KEEPING 
I found myself standing in a ride next to a 
shooter who never fired a shot. Why, I could not 
understand, for rabbits frequently were nipping 
across the ride on each side of him. Thinking 
he might be feeling ill, I ventured to inquire why 
he did not shoot. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it isn’t safe 
to shoot at ’em in the ride, and when they are 
in the stuff I can’t see ‘em. How can I shoot a 
thing I can’t see?’ I suggested that occasionally 
he might get a glimpse of a rabbit's tail. He 
thought he might. ‘Then,’ I said, ‘if you can 
see a rabbit’s tail, surely its head cannot be much 
more than sixteen inches farther on.’ The man 
who waits. for a full view of rabbits is not much 
help to the bag. 
I confess that I have shot at a sitting rabbit, and 
have missed it, but I never equalled the following 
feat: A little rabbit born out of the usual season 
appeared at a distance of not more than twenty-five 
yards in a clearing where a tree had been felled. 
Bang, bang! The rabbit stopped and sat up. The 
second gun was emptied. The rabbit took a couple 
of hops, and sat on the stump of the tree. Yet a 
fifth and sixth cartridge were emptied. The rabbit 
never budged, but began grooming its face with its 
two front-paws, and, I suspect, pressed its tongue 
against the interior of its cheek. The loader handed 
a gun with unperturbed solemnity, but the shooter 
refused to persevere, protesting that already he had 
