Even these the moucher sometimes captures; for there is nothing so strange but that some one selects it for a pet.

The mad March hares scamper about in broad daylight over the corn, whose pale green blades rise in straight lines a few inches above the soil.

They are chasing their skittish loves, instead of soberly dreaming the day away in a bunch of grass.

The ploughman walks in the furrow his share has made, and presently stops to measure the 'lands' with the spud.

His horses halt dead in the tenth of a second at the sound of his voice, glad to rest for a minute from their toil.