dignified composition. But, temperately resorted
to as an amusement, they are worthy
of all praise, for they combine mental recreation
with intellectual discipline, and redeem playfulness
from frivolity. There are many more
beautiful objects of art than a Chinese carved
ivory ball; yet we admire the ball for the sake
of the mechanical skill necessary to its production.
The skill in itself is a good thing; the
exercise of patience, the mastery over stubborn
materials, the gay defiance of difficulties that to
the indolent might seem insurmountable all
these are excellent for their own sakes, whether
the substance be simple bone, or the nobler
organism of human speech.

A DAY'S RABBIT-SHOOTING.

I am a pretty reasonable shot with the rifle
at what sportsmen call, graphically enough, "a
dead mark," yet I confess it was with some
feelings of apprehension that one February
morning in Downshire I received a note from
Farmer Redleaf, inviting me to my third day's
rabbit shooting up in Summerleas Wood. I
longed for the sport, but I dreaded the
ignominy of perpetual misses. Now a target, white
and black, like the ace of clubs, is a good
patient thing, and waits for you; but your rabbit
is a dodgy bustling creature, and puts a quiet
slow man like me out. A zig-zag snipe, a
pheasant that rises like a firework, a whirring
partridge, all want good shooting; but rabbit-
killing has its own independent artifices, and
requires its own especial training. Before you
can wink, a rabbit has flashed by and is out
of sight among the furze. The aim must be
instinct, the eye and finger must work together,
quick and sure, or no luck; all this I knew, and,
being a beginner, I trembled at the knowledge.

I had, however, two golden rules of my
friend Silvertup in my mind, and they upheld
me. The one was, "Fire at everything you see."
The second was, "Aim at a running rabbit's
head, or the shot will fall behind."  I repeated
these golden rules incessantly to myself, as I
made my way that cold whistling February
morning to the upper wood.

High and pale was the blue sky; the rolling
clouds were a cold brightening grey; the wind
north-east, sharp and cutting, sounded shrill in
the black close wiry hedges in which there still
dolefully dangled wheat-straws that had been
swept from last autumn's harvest-waggons. The
great white horses were speeding on bravely
with the ploughs, preparing for the barley sowing
in the broad dark fields that sloped up
on my right hand from the country lane, and
there were files of women stone-picking there far
away to the left. The only sounds to be heard
were wild wintry sounds, such as the chattering
of flocks of starlings, the fluttering "chink-chink"
of the startled blackbirds, and occasionally
the cry of a stray plover overhead.

It was pleasant, that February morning, from
the higher land to look down on the pretty
coloured ground plan of Downshire, and see
roads that seemed mere white lines, grass fields
that appeared mere squares of green, and fir
plantations that might have been taken for small
patches of mustard-and-cress. It was pleasant
to see the blue lines of distance, too, melt
gradually into air, lessening and lessening, with now
a farm-house, now a little grey spire, peering
from the folds of azure.

I am on the path leading to Summerleas
across the grizzled grass, when I see Badger the
keeper approaching, his double-barrel on his
shoulder, and my friend Silvertup's little pack
of beagles at his heels. He wishes me "the
top of the morning," and gives a tug at the
rusty brim of his hat; while he is performing
these acts of politeness, we are joined by
Farmer Redleaf busy and hearty, Silvertup
business-like and alert, and young Farmer
Stockton, a fresh-coloured vigorous sportsman,
who is shy, seldom speaks, but halloos a good
deal at the dogs to relieve his spirits.

Now, after mutual greeting, there is a general
loading of guns; powder is poured in, wadding
driven down, shots are rattled in, and finally
caps are fitted on nipples. The respective merit
of brown and shining barrels is discussed, and
Silvertup shows us in the palm of his hand
the size shot he finds best for rabbits. A
slight discussion also on the price of wool and
the prospects of the lambing season while away
the few minutes until Rasper, the second keeper,
has time to come up and take charge of the
beagles.

He has been away with four other men,
pitching the nets all round Summerleas Wood,
round nearly half a mile of bushy hazels, purple-
leafed brambles, leafless larches, and green
firs. Many a rabbit will to-day dash gallantly
or blindly at that net wall, and there be clubbed
with sticks, or leaped on and strangled. Herod
and his dogs are out—there will be no quarter
to the innocents.

There are four guns in our party, and we
range ourselves at the corners of a large patch
of yellow-blossomed prickly furze, as Rasper,
with long whip trailing over his left arm,
halloos the dogs into the covert, yelling with
elevated eyebrow and with hand guarding his
mouth, shouting alternate praise and chiding
to "Challenger," "Conqueror," "Bruiser,"
"Beauty," "Music," and their mottled companions.
The white tails of the dogs are twinkling
among the furze in a moment. "Click, click,
click, click," go the hammers of the four guns,
and Silvertup's two-barrel—one of which I have
christened "MURDER" and the other "SUDDEN
DEATH," for they never seem to miss—seem
to actually glare at the covert they point at.
Woe be to the rabbit that comes out on Silvertup's
side of the covert! As for myself, I begin
to feel what the Americans describe as "kinder
skeared," and could almost pray, were it not
pusillanimous, that the first rabbit would not
come out on my side of the furze.

Presently an old dog in the centre of the
covert gives tongue in a tone of deep melancholy
conviction; a second repeats the alarm with a