after her like an arrow.

Then she tried to get away across Jezebel's front. But Jezebel was too
quick, and Chloe came up in support.

Then the hare doubled again through Shotover and Minotaur, and we swung
about. The hare was getting tired. She had run about three miles. She
then doubled back again through Chloe and Jezebel.

[Sidenote: CHASING THE HARE]

But meanwhile the horses were all getting dark with sweat, and although
a low line of upland hid us, we knew we were approaching some reserve
wire. The hare must not gain that wire.

She was dead beat and going very slow, flopping along, and looked as if
she would tumble head over heels any second. We were close behind her.

She got into some long grass 20 yards away from the wire, and
disappeared from view. We had got her. Corporal Orchard dismounted and
began beating the grass for her. There! Just missed her. She flopped on
a few yards, and Corporal Orchard dashed after. Then he tripped and
fell. The hare came out of cover and lolloped towards the wire. Yells
from Roger and the Colonel.

_And the hare got there first!_

Inwardly I laughed with joy and relief. Thank goodness that little hare
got away. Corporal Orchard took over the horses, and we went in amongst
the wire, but we never found her. The weeds had grown tall, and were
perfect cover for the poor wee beastie. I sometimes say what I think,
but such views are naturally neither understood nor taken seriously.
And the Major, bless him! likes me to do this type of thing because he
thinks it is good for me. "We must really try and teach you to be more
of a sportsman, you know. Sporting instinct. What? Every Englishman
should have it!" This all very good-humouredly, and I answer, laughing:
"Aha, sir. You see I know better." Which merely stirs some jovial spirit
to stand up and propose: "Gentlemen, fox-hunting!" You see?

_September 12._

The next act will shortly begin. We are all very hopeful. Certain
signs.... Fritz very nervous. Of that there can be no doubt at all.
Prisoners betray it quite unwillingly. Poor Fritz! He comes to attention
when we go up to him and ask him if he is fairly happy, which he is
(with a smile) invariably. He talks good English, and wishes the war
would end.

Some of our machine gunners, including Clare, were done in the other
day, and they put up a biscuit tin, with their names pierced in with
nail holes, to mark the spot. This war is the quaintest, most
incongruous sh