But it was only November, and we young ones had as yet no idea of retiring for the winter. On fine days, especially when frost was in the air, we were as frisky as ever, and had magnificent games among the heaps of dead leaves. It was the greatest fun possible to take running headers from the long, bare tips of the beech boughs, falling on the soft, elastic cushion of leaves, in which one completely disappeared, just as a water-rat does in a pond. Under the leaves the ground was still thick with ripe beech-mast, so there was no need as yet to infringe upon our winter stores. There were pine-cones, too, by way of change, and fallen hazel-nuts, though these were getting scarce now that not only we but our distant cousins, the dormice, had been getting in winter stores. Our own preparations for winter were quite complete. The last piece of work had been to line our home thoroughly with dry moss, and partially to stop up the entrance which had been so large that, when the wind blew that way, it made cold draughts whistle round inside. For this work we young ones collected the material while mother did the building, and Rusty and I gathered useful hints for the future. All these days, when the air was still, or the wind blew from the direction of the Hall, we could hear in the distance the clink, clink of axes—a novel sound in this country-side, where the Squire and his forebears before him had had the true Englishman’s love of timber, and thought not twice but many times before cutting down a single tree. But for a long time our solitude was not invaded, except by a few school-children picking late blackberries or nuts, or a labourer returning from his work along the wood-path. Then, one fine morning early in November, when Rusty and I were having our usual morning scramble, the sharp report of a gun sent us skurrying to the nearest refuge, which happened to be a tall fir-tree not far from the coppice gate. Bang again!—this time closer. Rusty looked out but dodged back with great rapidity. He intimated to me that the young murderer from the Hall had appeared and that he, Rusty, didn’t mean to move until he disappeared. Bang again! A cock pheasant came whirring up past us, rocketing high over the tops of the trees, and a second dose of shot, hopelessly too late, sent a shower of twigs scattering from the tree just over our heads, and made us cower the closer against the trunk. Steps came trampling past beneath us, and the firing became fast and furious. Every living thing took cover, or, if it had wings, departed as fast as they would carry it. The racket did not last long, and, as we found out later, the bag was not a large one. The Hall’s new tenants were not good shots, and their new keeper, who had supplanted old Crump, did not know his business. As soon as the noise had died away we made the best of our way home, and found mother and Hazel, who had been lying close at home, extremely relieved to see us safe back once more.