at
while the mother wandered from the "form"; and only the third grew up
robust and strong.

The approach of winter brought Puss many strange experiences, from some
of which she barely emerged with her life. When the season was passed,
it had become more than ever difficult to approach her; she would slip
away to cover directly her keen senses detected the presence of a
stranger in the field where she lay in her "form." As she grew older,
her leverets sometimes numbered four or five, but as a rule she gave
birth to three only, her productiveness being probably dependent on the
ease with which she obtained food.

One day in February, just before bringing an early little family into
the world, she almost met her death. A village poacher, ferreting on the
hillside, chanced to see her, as she lay not far off in a patch of
clover. Without waste of time, he proceeded to attempt the capture of
the hare by a well-known trick. Thrusting a stake into the ground, he
placed his hat on it, and strolled unconcernedly away. Then, as though
he had changed his mind, he walked round the clump, in ever narrowing
circles, gradually closing on his prey. Meanwhile, the hare, her
attention wholly diverted by the improvised scarecrow, remained
motionless, baffled by the artifice. Suddenly she felt the touch of the
man's hand. The poacher had thrown himself down on the tuft, hoping to
clutch the hare before she could move. But in endeavouring to look away
from the spot, and, at the same time, measure the distance of his fall,
he had miscalculated the hare's position. She sprang up, and with ears
held low sped away towards the wood, leaving the poacher wild with rage
at the failure of his ruse, and vowing vengeance on the timid creature,
whose life, at such a time, would hardly, even to him, have been worth
an effort.

III.

THE CHASE.

Of all the hounds employed in the chase of the hare, the basset promises
to become the prime favourite among some true-hearted sportsmen who love
sport for its own sake, and not from a desire to kill. He is a loose,
lumbering little fellow--resembling his relative, the dachshund--low and
long, with out-turned legs, sickle-shaped "flag," and features which, in
repose, seem to suggest that he has borne the grief and the care of a
hundred years, but which, when the huntsman comes to open the kennel
doors, are radiant with delight. Mirthfulness and dignity seem to seek
expression in every movement of t