e open spaces. Pussy knows every
foot of the ground; nightly she steals gently to the fields where her
succulent food is found, and in the morning she steals back again to her
tiny nest, or form, amid the soft grass. All day she lies chewing the
cud in her fashion, and moving her delicate ears hither and thither,
lest fox or stoat or dog should come upon her unawares; and at nightfall
she steals away once more. Every run, every tuft of grass, every rising
of the ground is known to her; and, when at last the tramp of the
approaching beaters rouses her, she rushes away with a distinct
advantage over the dogs. She knows exactly whither to go; the other
animals do not, and usually, on open ground, the quarry escapes. I do
not think that any greyhound living could catch one of the hares now
left on the Suffolk marshes; and there are many on the great Wiltshire
plains which are quite capable of rushing at top speed for three miles
and more. The chase in the open is cruel--there is no denying it--for
poor puss dies many deaths ere she bids her enemies good-bye; but still
she has a chance for life, and thus the sport, inhuman as it is, has a
praiseworthy element of fairness in it.

But the betting-man, the foul product of civilization's depravity, cast
his eye on the old-fashioned sport and invaded the field. He found the
process of walking up the game not much to his taste, for he cares only
to exercise his leathern lungs; moreover, the courses were few and far
between and the chances of making wagers were scanty. He set himself to
meditate, and it struck him that, if a good big collection of hares
could be got together, it would be possible to turn them out one by one,
so that betting might go on as fast and as merrily on the
coursing-ground as at the roulette-table. Thus arose a "sport" which is
educating many, many thousands in callousness and brutality. Here and
there over England are dotted great enclosed parks, and the visitor is
shown wide and mazy coverts where hares swarm. Plenty of food is strewn
over the grass, and in the wildest of winters pussy has nothing to
fear--until the date of her execution arrives. The animals are not
natives of those enclosures; they are netted in droves on the Wiltshire
plains or on the Lancashire moors, and packed off like poultry to the
coursing-ground. There their life is calm for a long time; no poachers
or lurchers or vermin molest them; stillness is maintained, and the
hares live in