The Story of a Hare

by J. C. Tregarthen

There he again watches the plain, where a speck scarcely discernible grows larger and larger, and tells him that the lurcher has recovered the trail she had temporarily lost, the trail he himself had left, and that the lifelong feud is on the point of settlement, for Grey Fox has made up his mind to have it out with his enemy. By this time the hare too has seen the dog, and whilst following her progress in the furze, wonders that the fox does not retreat whilst there is time. So excited does he become that he fain would warn the fox, but dares not; though more than once he is on the point of stamping his feet, he refrains. Meanwhile, the lurcher shows on the boundary wall, on which she stands and surveys the face of the hill. Her breath too comes quick, like jets of steam. She is wondering, as she gets no glimpse of the game, whether it is worth her while to go any farther, for twice before during the hare’s absence from the hill she has hunted Grey Fox half the night, only to drive him to ground on the north side of Bartinney, where at this moment she thinks he is probably curled up in his inmost den, far beyond her reach. But such is her keenness that she cannot resist the burning, alluring trail, and leaping from the wall, she makes her way up the hill and enters the furze, where Grey Fox awaits her.

Without growl or snarl the fight begins. Except the violent shaking of the bushes, there is no outward indication of the terrible struggle that goes on. For a long while the hare, watching excitedly, sees nothing of the combatants save the white tip of the fox’s brush, but anon they come into the open, where not a spray shuts out the view. They seem equally matched, because though Grey Fox leaps, now this way, now that, as if yielding to the lurcher’s determined onslaught, he is not giving way: it is but his method of preventing the enemy from fastening on his throat. The quickness of his movements is wonderful, nor does he forget to use his jaws. See how he snaps! The strange noise is the clashing of his teeth when they fail to get home. The struggle is too furious to last: before the lapse of half an hour the life-long enemies lie exhausted on the ground, face to face with each other, their laboured breathing audible to the hare.

The fox when he recovers has no more wish to renew the fight than he had to begin it, but the lurcher’s one thought is to destroy the hateful wild thing before her, or die in the attempt. Again they fight; only for a short while now; limb and wind are unequal to further effort; their exhaustion is complete. At last the lurcher recognises that to kill the fox is a task beyond her powers. After a time she staggers to her feet and looks into the eyes of Grey Fox, who has also risen. The meaning of the looks they exchange no pen can tell, unless it is that the curled lips and bare teeth bespeak undying hate. Then the lurcher withdraws, leaving the fox to himself. Reynard’s ears are pricked, he is listening to the retreating footfall, and when the sound dies away he drags himself into the bushes.

There, screened from the light of the sun and the eyes of all observers, he sat and licked his wounds, interrupting the process only to rise and reconnoitre through an opening in one of the bushes. Though he saw nothing of the dog, the fears which urged him to withdraw became at last so insistent that he actually crept out in the broad sunshine and made for the earth. At once the hare was on the alert. His apprehension, however, subsided on seeing the crippled condition of his enemy, who was limping on three legs and had to pick his path. Soon the fox swerved to avoid a patch of broken ground within twenty yards of the form, and now he must pass close to its occupant. Discovery is certain, is imminent. The hare’s scent betrayed his near neighbourhood; his conspicuous eye betrayed his person. Did the fox, ravenous though he was, attempt the capture of the prey? Not at all, he knew the futility of trying in his disabled condition. The situation was one that called for the exhibition of his powers of make-believe. His aim was to convince the hare that he had not seen him, and to this all his cunning was directed; he checked the working of his nostrils excited by the scent, he averted his glance and looking straight before his long nose, which was badly scarred, held on as though ignorant of the hare’s presence, with the demeanour of a creature overwhelmed by misfortune. But the hare, every whit as crafty as he, had caught the glint of his eye, had observed the sudden arrest of the nostrils, had read his mind through and through, and before Grey Fox was abreast of the chantry had already made arrangements not to be at home when he called. An indescribable look came into the hare’s usually impassive eyes as he thought of the disappointment that awaited reynard, on whose mask as he crossed the ridge played an expression of satisfaction at the prize that would be his before the moon was very much older. The prospect of the delicious feast forced the memory of the fight into the background; for the rest of the way he ran on four legs, and it was of the hare, not of the lurcher, he was thinking when later he fell asleep curled up in the innermost recess of his earth.

Meanwhile the hare, who had resolved to abandon the hill for a while, sat thinking over the question of a new seat. His mind once more ran over all the old forms, but in the end rejected every one of them for the untried retreat in the cliffs to which he had been on the point of going before.

That night he spent on the moorland, where—a most unusual thing—he did not encounter a single trail or hear a disturbing cry, though after his gallops he always stopped to listen. He looked the picture of attention, standing on knoll or barrow with his great ears raised to their full height to catch the voices of the wild. A few seconds only did he bestow on this duty; he was in too high spirits to give more. His exuberant energies called for vigorous exercise, and when he was not spinning along or hearkening, he skipped and frisked about like a frolicsome kid. He travelled miles and miles, “going all ways,” so that midnight had long passed when he set foot on the strip of waste overlooking the sea. There he nibbled the herbage and ate all the blackberries he could find, shrivelled though they were. Rearing on his hind legs he stripped every bramble patch before crossing to the cliffs, where he dropped from terrace to terrace till he came to the spot at which he intended to sit.

But then a steep slope that still more took his fancy opened to his view. Though eager to reach it, he paused at the edge of the chasm that separated him from it; the turmoil of the water in the gully and the raging of the surge in the great cave to which the gully led disconcerted and checked him. After a moment’s hesitation, however, he leapt the opening, gained the slope, and sat on a cushion of thrift overlapping the lip of the under-cliff. Within the ambit of his wanderings he could not have selected a more secluded spot. Man had never set foot there; save for the old fisherman who rested on his oars to gaze at the primroses, sea-pinks, and foxgloves that in their season decked this hanging garden, no human eye had seen its beauty. Even now the solitary furze-bush amongst the naked rods of the foxgloves was gay with blossom, for the slope fronted south and caught the sun. Sitting there the hare observed every living thing within his ken. He watched the gannets that sent the spray flying as they dived into a school of pilchards; he was interested in the cormorants that stood on the rock below and dried their outstretched wings; even the little companies of mullet did not escape him, when they came scurrying past the point and coasted round the tiny bay; and by such sights his attention was drawn, his curiosity excited, as he enjoyed the warmth of the sun that brightened the austerity of the cliff and sparkled on the wintry sea.

December found the hare using this retreat. All went well with him till one day in leaping the chasm he landed a little short and nearly fell back into the sea, but by great good fortune his hind feet, striking blindly for support, found foothold on a ledge. That saved him. The mishap was the result of carelessness, and afterwards, being cautious as to the place from which he took off, he cleared the opening with several inches to spare.

But he was never free from fear. One morning he had returned very early whilst the stars were yet bright; the cluster above the headland sparkled like a diadem. Towards this the eyes of the hare were directed, when one of the constellation was suddenly shut out by some dark object which was at first unrecognisable; by and by it turned; it was the pine-marten. The creature went as suddenly as she came, but soon reappeared on a narrow shelf of the headland, where she stood looking down at a chough some twelve feet below. Rapid in decision, the marten dropped with the intention of seizing and disabling the bird before it could take wing. The chough, however, was too quick and flew off, so the marten fell on the rocks, and failing to get the grip for which she strove frantically, tumbled head over heels into the boiling sea forty feet below. The hare thought that he had seen the last of this nimble enemy. He was soon to be undeceived, for presently to his surprise her mask, then her whole body showed above the edge of the chasm where she sat examining the slope. She kept looking in the direction of the furze-bush as if she saw something of interest there, then suddenly turned, leapt the opening without an effort, and disappeared along the very ledge from which she had tried to drop on the back of the chough.

The visit of the marten greatly disquieted the hare. He believed that if she had discovered him he could hardly have got away. So the question, Should he abandon the retreat? confronted him. He was loath to leave, but in the end decided to forsake the spot, because he felt that even if the marten did not return, he would enjoy no peace through fear that she would. It was an unfortunate resolve; had he decided otherwise, he might have avoided the most harassing trials of his life.