Bold must be the man that would set a net in a footpath now, with almost every field preserved by owner or tenant.

With a bound the hare hies back and across the meadow: the gun comes to the shoulder as swiftly.
On the grass lit by the moon the hare looked quite distinct, but the moment the gaze is concentrated up the barrel he becomes a dim object with no defined outline.

In shooting on the ground by twilight or in the moonbeams, waste no time in endeavouring to aim, but think of the hare's ears--say a couple of feet in front of his tail--and the moment the gun feels steady pull the trigger.

The flash and report come together; there is a dull indescribable sound ahead, as some of the shot strikes home in fur and some drills into the turf, and then a rustling in the grass.

The moorhens dive, and the coots scuttle down the brook towards the mere at the flash.