s prey into betraying its whereabouts at times, at others to
paralyse it with fright and render it easy of capture. Much has been
written about the fascinating power of the snake, but this fascination,
from quiet observation, appears to be nothing more nor less than the
paralysis caused by fear, and suffered by plenty of objects in the
animal world. One might begin with man himself, and the many instances
where, in the face of a terrible danger, he becomes perfectly weak and
helpless. He is on a railway track, and a fast train is coming. One
spring, and he would be safe; but how often it happens that he never
makes that spring.

Take another instance. There is a fire at some works. It is spreading
fast, and the cry arises, "Save the horses in the stables!" Men rush
and fling open the doors; the halters are cast loose, but too often the
poor brutes will not stir even for blows: fascinated by the danger, they
stay in the stable and are burned.

Go into the woods on some pleasant summer day, in one of the pleasant
sandy districts, where the sweet, lemony odour of the pine-trees floats
through the sunny air, and the woodland slope is dotted with holes, and
freshly scratched out patches of yellowish sand abound. Sit down and
don't move, and in a short time, quite unexpectedly, you will see
rabbits seated in front of these holes. You have not seen them come
out, for they seem to arrive there instantaneously--first one or two,
then several; and if there is neither movement nor noise, more and more
will appear, to begin nibbling the grass at the edge of the wood, or
playing about, racing after each other, almost as full of pranks as
kittens. Now and then one will raise itself upon its hind-legs like a
dog begging, ears erect and quivering, now turned in one direction, now
in another. Then, all at once, _rap, rap_!--that sharp alarm stamp
given by the foot--there is a wild race, and dozens of white cottony
tails are seen disappearing at the mouths of holes, and in another
instant not a rabbit is to be seen.

What was it? You listen, but all seems still. You can hear the
twittering of birds, perhaps the harsh call of a jay, or the laughing
chatter of a magpie, but those familiar sounds would not have startled
the rabbits; and if you are new to such woodland matters, you will
conclude that some one of the nearest fur-coated fellows must have
caught sight of you, called out danger, and sent the colony flying. But
i