THE YEAR ROUND 
13 
then stole a cracknel from the cake basket, which we then put 
up out of his reach on a higher tier of the stand ; but he was not 
to be defeated, so he got on a chair and stole a fairy cake. His 
intelligence is rapidly increasing, and it is interesting to see how 
the natural instinct of dogs and cats to kill rabbits has been 
overcome in the case of our animals by the feeling that the 
rabbit is one of the same family with themselves. Mrs. Perkins 
is Peter’s great favourite, he never comes to me for anything he 
wants if she is about, though I feed him and am attentive to 
him. Please denounce the cruel custom of picking up a rabbit 
by the ears. Peter objects much to this. I take him up just as 
I pick up the cats, by their two arms.” 
P.S. — Pressure on space has kept this article over nine 
months, and to-day, November 6 , the proof has reached me. 
This allows me to add a few lines. Peter Perkins, all through 
the spring and summer, grew in weight, and a month ago he 
was a noble-looking creature — master of the rectory and lord 
of the parish. In July there was a fearful scare. IMr. and Mrs. 
Perkins were away from home, and one day Peter was missed. 
Family, servants and neighbours scoured the district — Peter was 
gone ! The agitation of Miss Margaret Reed, Mr. Perkins’s 
niece, in whose charge he had been left, was painful. Next 
afternoon, at four o’clock, Peter was seen returning. He got 
through the hedge and was quite ready for food and caresses. 
Friday, October 20, Mr. Perkins cycled over to see me. I 
saw that he was painfully agitated. Poor Peter had died after 
a short illness, and no cause could be given for it. He had 
been well, hearty and lively up to a few hours before his death. 
He died peacefully, and it was hoped painlessly, his head 
resting on the arm of his mistress, the only consolation being 
that he died at home. 
Wimhorne. (Dr.) A. J. H. Crespi. 
THE YEAR ROUND. 
i HREE score and ten times may men live through the 
circle of Nature’s year without catching a note of dree 
monotony. Each season ever fresh, ever endowed 
with fair enchanting powers. Poets in all ages sing 
new songs of the year’s sweet charms, yet no one of them ever 
sounds the final chord of its infinite music. In Spring they may 
tell of Winter waking from her sleep ; of how the snowdrops burst 
upon us like a saintly army ; how they stand with tiny grey- 
green sword blades, resting shoulder-high, and how palely, yet 
with modest pride they stand, strong in victory, having fought 
a mighty battle with the hard coldness of the earth. Yet this 
speaking is but a tiny note of Spring’s charm, whose deepest 
