“Kill it! What for? Pretty creatur’,” said Dave, stroking the hare’s brown speckled fur, and laying its long black-tipped sensitive ears smoothly down over its back.
“To take home.”
“Nay, who kills hares at the end of March, lad? Hares is mad in March.”
“Is that why it let you catch it, Dave?”
“Mebbe, lad, mebbe, Mester Dick. Theer, hev you done stroking her?”
“No. Why?”
“Going to let her run?”
“Wait a bit,” cried Dick.
“Tek her by the ears, lad, and putt thy hand beneath her. That’s the ways.”
Dick took the hare in his arms, and the trembling beast submitted without a struggle.