Suddenly there was a movement, a sort of scamper, a rash, as something slipped out of the heavy grass at our feet and vanished in the thick briers of the ditch bank. "Dy ah she go!" arose from a dozen throats, and gone she was, in fact, safe in a thicket of briers which no dog nor negro could penetrate.
The bushes were vigorously beaten, however, and all of us, except Uncle Limpy-Jack and Milker-Tim, crossed over to the far side of the ditch where the bottom widened, when suddenly she was discovered over on the same side, on the edge of the little valley. She had stolen out, the negroes declared, licking her paws to prevent leaving a scent, and finding the stretch of hillside too bare to get across, was stealing back to her covert again, going a little way and then squatting, then going a few steps and squatting again. "Dyah she go!" "Dyah she go!" resounded as usual.
Bang!—bang!—snap!—bang! went the four guns in quick succession, tearing up the grass anywhere from one to ten yards away from her. As if she had drawn their fire and was satisfied that she was safe, she turned and sped up the hill, the white tail bobbing derisively, followed by the dogs strung out in line.
Of course, all of us had some good excuse for missing, Uncle Limpy-Jack's being the only valid one—that his cap had snapped. He made much of this, complaining violently of "dese yere wuthless caps!" With a pin he set to work, and he had just picked the tube, rammed painfully some grains of powder down in it, and put on another cap which he had first examined with great care to impress us. "Now, let a ole hyah git up," he said, with a shake of his head. "She got man ready for her, she ain't got you chil-lern." The words were scarcely spoken when a little darkey called out, "Dyah she come!" and sure enough she came, "lipping" down a furrow straight toward us. Uncle Limpy-Jack was on that side of the ditch and Milker-Tim was near him armed only with a stout well-balanced stick about two feet long. As the hare came down the hill, Uncle Jack brought up his gun, took a long aim and fired. The weeds and dust flew up off to one side of her, and she turned at right angles out of the furrow; but as she got to the top of the bed, Milker-Tim, flinging back his arm, with the precision of a bushman, sent his stick whirling like a boomerang skimming along the ground after her.
Tim with a yell rushed at her and picked her up, shouting, "I got her! I got her!"
Then Uncle Limpy-Jack pitched into him: "What you doin' gittin' in my way!" he complained angrily. "Ain' you got no better sense 'n to git in my way like dat! Did n' you see how nigh I come to blowin' yo' brains out! Did n' you see I had de hyah when you come pokin' yer wooly black head in my way! Ef I had n' flung my gun off, whar 'd you 'a' been now! Don' you come pokin' in my way ag'in!"
Tim was too much elated to be long affected by even this severity, and when he had got out of Uncle Jack's way he sang out:
"Ole Molly Hyah,
You' ears mighty thin.
Yes, yes, yes,
I come a-t'ippin' thoo de win'!"
So far the honors were all Uncle Jack's and Milker-Tim's, and it was necessary for the rest of us to do something. Accordingly, the bottom having been well hunted, the crowd struck out for an old field over the hill, known as "the long hillside." It was thick in hen-grass and broom-straw, and sloped down from a piece of pine with a southern exposure on which the sun shone warm. We had not reached it before a hare jumped out of a bush near Charlie. In a few moments, another bounced out before one of the dogs and went dashing across the field. Two shots followed her; but she kept on till at last one of the boys secured her.
We were going down the slope when Peter called in great excitement,