The Story of a Hare

by J. C. Tregarthen

In a field of mowing-grass and again in the oats he caught the rank scent of an enemy—luckily in time to avoid it and withdraw without being discovered. Now and again he stopped to nibble a bit of tempting herbage; but he did not settle down to feed until the small hours, when he returned to the clover. Here he remained till the first flush in the sky warned him he must seek a retreat in which to pass the day. Twice he made towards the gate as if he were leaving the field, as often retraced his steps, presently repaired to the spot where the clover was most luxuriant, and lay there. No sooner, however, had he sat down than he realised that the stems which shut out the sight of everything prevented him from seeing an enemy, should one approach. The lack of outlook troubled him: soon he imagined that he could hear the faint sound of a stealthy footfall. To satisfy himself that he was mistaken he kept raising his head and looking round until, unable to endure the misery any longer, he stole from the seat and hurried back to the highest part of the farm, where a hedge had taken his fancy as he had crossed from the barley to the oats.

There, amongst the coarse grasses, beneath the fronds of a solitary brake-fern, he sat with his face to the dawn-wind, which played with his whiskers, swayed the ears of the barley, and buffeted the smoke rising from the chimney of the homestead. The light was still grey, but beyond the low roof of the byre the hills stood expectant of the sun, whose fiery disc soon bathed summit and slope with its richest rays. The conspicuous heights attracted the eyes of the leveret till the orb rose higher and made a glory of the dew on the leaves of the tree amidst the barley; then the sparkling beads won and held his gaze; later the tree itself so absorbed his attention that he seemed to be wondering what it did there. It certainly was a strange place for a tree, especially for a fruit-tree, though it was not strange to the people familiar with its story. The field, or rather a part of it, had formerly been a garden—it is still called Johanna’s Garden; and sentiment had caused the tree to be spared, though it interfered with the plough and attracted badgers who trod down the crop.

The leveret had not been long in his form before one of these animals crossed the opposite bank, shaking the dew from the wild roses that festooned the creep, and made its way through the barley and the oats to the sett at the foot of the steep slope. Here a colony of badgers lived. The lane in the corn was their highway, and the tree a convenient stretching-post, so that next to the crowing of the cocks, the scratching noise made by powerful claws was the most familiar noise of the grey dawn. Luckily the leveret had no fear of the badgers, no more fear of them indeed than of the long-tailed tit whom he watched coming and going with food for a brood of insatiable nestlings in the near furze-bush. The cries of the young tits, all eager for the food she brought, were at times the only sound that broke the silence of the sequestered spot; there were days when scarcely a breath stirred, when the stalks of the barley were as motionless as the stem of the tree, and the shadow of the frond looked like a stain on the leveret’s coat.

He enjoyed the slumbrous peace, and revelled in the noonday heat that shimmered above the array of barley ears and veiled with a pearly haze valley and hills and all the land between. It was a delightful time, which in his innocence he thought would last for ever. He knew nothing of the ways of husbandry, of the harvesting of crops by the dwellers of the homestead, whence by day came shout and song, and where the strange light glowed in the early hours of foraging time. He did not know that man was lord of the earth; as little did he realise that he himself was man’s guest. His own view was quite different. He thought that the clover, the corn, and the pinks grew for him, that fern and heather flourished to afford him cover, that hedge and hill rose above the level merely to furnish him with outlook. He even thought that the sun rose to warm him, that moon and stars shone to light his steps; and he found the world a most delectable place, despite the number of his enemies.

A somewhat rude awakening befell him on the thirteenth day of his independence, when the field was invaded by the farm folk. Their coming, or rather their inrush, had nothing to do with the harvesting of the barley, which was yet green; they were drawn thither by an incident of farm life that is attended with as much noise as human beings are capable of making. The hubbub broke out near the house some two furlongs away. Even at that distance the din was disquieting, but it grew louder and louder and caused the leveret more and more perturbation. Whilst he wondered what it all meant, a swarm of bees came flying over the hedge and settled on the tree. In less than a minute three boys, two men, and a woman came tumbling pell-mell over the hedge, shouting “Brownie, Brownie,” and beating frying-pans and milk-pails. The boy who led soon espied the cluster of bees hanging to the branch, and cried, “Here they are, faither, fastened on the old medlar-tree.”

“Th—that’s lucky, lad,” replied the father breathlessly as his face showed above the hedge, “I feared we’d seed the laist of ’em. Go and fetch a skep and my hat, and don’t forget the bellows, for I’ve hardly a brith left in me. But, dang me,” he added angrily, on sighting the lane in the barley, “what a mess they badgers have made of the corn. It’s all through that theer tree, and down it shall come.”

“What, Johanna’s tree? Cut down Johanna’s tree? You’ll do nawthin’ of the kind, maister. ’Twas her pride, good soul, so I’ve heered granny say. Cut it down? Why, ’twould be enough to make her turn in her grave, and perhaps visit ’ee, who do knaw? And only think a minit, you’d have lost that swarm of bees, and a handsome swarm it is. Iss fay, and worth a bra bit; ‘a swarm of bees in June is worth a silver spoon,’ and you’d have lost it if the tree hadn’t been theere.”

“Well, well, Betty, most likely you’re right. I never looked at it that way.”

“Ah, maister, it don’t take much to make people forget their obligations.”

“Now, now, Betty, have done, theere’s a good woman; I spoke in haste. I’ll never lay hands on Johanna’s tree. And here comes our Jesse already. The lad’s as fast as a hare, and if he’s forgotten the bellows he’s remembered the cloth to ground the hive on.”