The Story of a Hare

by J. C. Tregarthen

Taking the skep, the farmer shook the bees into it and laid it on the cloth which Jesse had spread at the foot of the tree. “They’ll do all right theere till the sun is gone, when I’ll come myself and fetch ’em. Now let’s make haste back and finish our fish and taties, or they’ll be too cold to be worth eating. What do you say, Dick?”

“You’re right, maister, a cold pilcher ed’n much account, nor a cold tatie nother. I’d as soon sit down to a basin of sky blue and sinker,[^[2]] and that ed’n sayin’ much.” With that, man and master, Betty and the boys quitted the field, leaving the hare to his reflections.

The whole proceeding was a mystery to the timid wildling, who had kept to his seat notwithstanding Betty’s shrill voice and gesticulations. Some hares would have slipped away, but it was instinctive in him to lie close until found; a trait of his strain which went far to explain the survival of his forbears amidst the gradual disappearance of their kind. But though satisfied that he was not the object of the visit as he had at first feared, he was glad when the party went away and left him to solitude. The rest of the day was without incident, save that the farmer, true to his word, came and fetched the bees at sundown.

The swarming of the bees and their capture was followed a week later by a further disquieting incident, the cutting of the clover. It quite took his breath away one morning when he reached the gate, to find the crop levelled and the look of the enclosure changed almost beyond recognition: the hedges too had grown so much taller. The timid fellow shrank from entering the field; indeed the presence of three rabbits feeding there would alone have sufficed to prevent it. On several occasions these very rabbits had shown themselves hostile and driven him off. Rabbits were by no means plentiful on his beats; he had not seen more than a score; and as for hares, he had not only not met with one, he had not crossed a single trail. He was the solitary survivor of his kind, with enemies on every hand. Nevertheless, confident in the protection which his wiles and speed afforded him, he enjoyed life to the full, roaming over the farms in the highest of spirits.

But though he exulted in his powers he ran no risks; even the buck his father had not been so wary as he. Whilst feeding he kept to the middle of the field, where at frequent intervals he sat up and looked about him, first to leeward, then to windward, his nostrils working all the time, to assure himself that no enemy was near. Then he always slowed down when approaching a gate or creep, in order to learn by sight or smell whether a fox or one of the farm cats was lying in wait for him; once he winded a fox and withdrew noiselessly as a shadow, leaving the fox none the wiser. He was quick in distinguishing marauders by their footfall and by the rustling they made in threading the ripe corn.

With the arrival of harvest, however, he was completely puzzled by the loud outcry that arose on the farm-lands. It was always the same, and caused by the reapers hailing the cutting of the last sheaf.[^[3]] Sometimes while he was in the form, sometimes when he was afoot, the silence would be broken by a voice proclaiming aloud, “I haben, I haben,” followed by many voices asking, “What have ’ee? What have ’ee?” and the instant response, “A neck, a neck,” welcomed by loud hurrahs. Save for these acclamations of farmer and farm-hands, he was wise in the lore of the countryside; and with knowledge came confidence, which led to his wandering farther and farther afield. He roamed as far as three miles from the seat, to which he nevertheless continued to return, until he happened on a wild bottom which the country folk have named Golden Valley.

It was a beautiful starlight night when he came to the brow overlooking it, and sat down to gaze at the mill, the pool above it, and the glimpses of stream showing in the gorse like silver stitched on black velvet. A will o’ the wisp was flitting to and fro near the bend of the valley, and a white owl was searching the stubble before the miller’s cottage; otherwise nothing stirred; so presently the leveret made his way down and down the rugged hillside to the stream. This he followed as far as the mill-pool; then, after glancing round the rushy margin, he retraced his steps and crossed the stream below the mill. Sometimes along the bank, sometimes within a stone’s throw as the bushes allowed, he held on to the swampy ground where the weird light still floated hither and thither and, passing between patches of iris and watermint, came to some mounds carpeted with thyme, on which he remained to feed. From there he overlooked a sheet of water, half-circled with alders, a fowler’s hut peeping from beneath a cluster of them. No bird rested on the water, which was marked only by the rings made by trout rising at the white moths that came within their reach. It was a very peaceful scene, with no breath of wind to diffuse the scent given out by meadow-sweet and camomile.

The hungry fellow nibbled unceasingly at the aromatic herb, avoiding the glow-worms which dotted the mounds. On the furze they were even more numerous, so that their golden-green lamps lit up the beads of dew on the spiders’ webs. But the leveret rarely interrupted his feast to look about him; only once did he scratch his ears, and whilst so engaged had his attention attracted by a shrill whistle from the stream below the pool. Turning his head, he saw an otter and two cubs come over the bank which dammed the pool, and enter the water with so little disturbance as to make them seem uncanny. When they dived, their progress would have been most difficult to follow had it not been for the leaping of the trout, for the waves they raised were hardly noticeable even where the water was shallowest. The otters rose at different parts of the pool, each with a trout in its mouth, swam to the bank, and there lay at full length to devour their take. After fishing for nearly half an hour the animals fell to playing, now in the water, now on the bank, at times even in the open spaces among the bushes. From one of these the cubs espied the leveret. At once ceasing their gambols, they watched him nibble the herbage, their nostrils working all the time. The leveret, who showed no fear of the strange, short-legged creatures, was still feeding when the otter recalled her cubs and led them up the stream, but he was nearly satisfied, and shortly made his way along the dam and up the opposite hill to the downs, over which he kept wandering and wandering as if in search of a seat. Yet this was not his object. He had already made up his mind where he would pass the coming day, took the hint from a homing badger that it was time to be ensconced, returned to the valley, and hid amongst the rushes bordering the mill-pool, at a spot almost midway between the inflow and the hatch.

He had hardly settled down when the otter and her cubs hurried by along the opposite bank, on their way to a reedy marsh a mile above. Then all was quiet till, at peep of day, a kingfisher came and fished from a branch of the alder overhanging the inflow; the tinkle of the water as she struck it made a pretty sound in the silent dawn. Later, just as the smoke rose from the miller’s chimney, a moorhen led out her brood as if to teach them the geography of the pool, for she kept taking them from creeklet to creeklet till the miller came to raise the hatch and drove them all away. The hum of the water-wheel brought back to the leveret’s memory the swarm of bees and the unforgettable din of the reapers; but if he looked for the invasion of his new quarters by a posse of men and boys he must have been agreeably disappointed when, early in the forenoon, there came only a solitary angler, whose entry was so noiseless as scarcely to disturb the peace of the quiet spot. Indeed the newcomer stood for a second or two surveying the pool from the opening between the withies before the leveret was aware of his presence. On the discovery the timid creature thought, naturally enough, that the pair of restless black eyes were scanning the bank in search of him; he did not know they were drawn now here, now there, by the rising trout. The angler was a tall, spare man of aquiline features, attired in grey tweed suit and wearing a dove-coloured top-hat, about which some fly-casts were neatly wound. His upright figure, thick black curly hair, in which the few grey hairs seemed out of place, above all the comeliness of face, marked him as a man between thirty and forty years of age. So one would have judged as he stood, though the ease with which he leapt the ditch to the sedges spoke rather of twenty-five.

He took his position on the turfy bank over against the leveret, and at once began whipping together the three pieces of the rod he had removed from the cloth case, working with extreme haste as if he feared that the fish would cease to rise before he was ready. When the joints were securely tied, he fixed the reel, ran the line through the rings, and attached the cast with coch-y-bondhu for end fly, and red palmer for dropper. Surely he is too impatient to soak the gut before casting; no, he flings it into the little creek at his side and, to kill the time of waiting, paces nervously up and down the bank. After four turns he took up the rod and began casting, the flies falling lightly on the rippled surface. At the third throw he was fast in a fish, but just failed to steer it clear of a bed of weeds for which it made, and consequently lost it. At the very next cast, when the flies fell close to the hatch, he rose and hooked a bigger fish. This leapt out of the water and broke its hold. He was much vexed, as the suddenly compressed lips showed, but as he was about to give vent to his feelings a still larger fish rose under the bank, close to the leveret. This sight checked the word on the very tip of his tongue. The cast, a long one even from the edge of the bank to which he now moved up, was rendered difficult if not impossible by the withies, which twice caught the tail-fly at the beginning of the forward cast and as often caused the Squire to give utterance to a monosyllable delivered with staccato sharpness. At length he succeeded in clearing the withies and getting the line out to its full length. It was a good, clean cast, and would have been perfect had the pool been a yard wider; as it was, the coch-y-bondhu caught in the rushes and, despite the coaxing treatment to which the Squire subjected it, refused to come away, the only result being to alarm the hare and raise the ire of the angler. Worse was to come; for presently the trout, which kept rising with irritating persistence, seized the dropper, hooked itself, and in the violent struggle that followed broke the tackle and got away with the red palmer in its jaw.