“I remember the same thing last year. Come on, do.” “How can I with all these young ones to look after?” answered the hen. “Why, if once they are scattered I shall never find them again.” “Just as you like, you know best,” said the cock. “Goodbye,” and away he flew, while his wife and the rest ran to a little distance, scattered and squatted. Presently, looking back over my shoulders without turning my head, as a hare can, I saw a line of men walking towards me. There was the Red-faced Man whom Giles called Grampus behind his back and Squire to his face. There was Giles himself, with his hurt hand tied up, holding a kind of stick with a slit in it from which hung a lot of dead partridges whose necks were in the slit. One of them was not dead or had come to life again, for it flapped in the stick trying to fly away. He held these in the hand that was tied up, and in the other, oh, horror! was a dead hare bleeding from its nose. It looked uncommonly like my mother, but whether it were or no I couldn’t be quite sure. At least from that day neither my sister nor I ever saw her again. I suppose you haven’t met her coming up this big white Road, have you, Mahatma? “No, no,” I answered impatiently, “I have already told you that you are the first hare I have ever seen upon the Road. Please get on with your story, or the Lights will change and the Gates be opened before I hear its end.” Just when I saw her I was thinking of running away, but the sight terrified me so much that I could not stir. You see, Mahatma, I really loved my mother as much as a hare can love anything, which is a good deal. Well, beyond Giles was, who do you think? That dreadful boy, Tom, with a gun in his hand too. Did I say that they all had guns, except Giles and some beater men, only that Tom’s was single-barrelled? Then there were others whom I need not describe, stretching to left and right, and worst of all, perhaps, there was Giles’s great black dog, a silly-looking beast which always seemed to have its mouth open and its tongue hanging out, and to be wagging a big tail like the fox’s, only black and more ragged. As I watched, up got the old hen partridge and one of her young ones and flew towards me. The Red-faced Man lifted his gun and fired, once, twice, and down came first the mother partridge and then the young one. I forgot to say that Tom fired too at the old partridge, which fell dead quite close to me, leaving a lot of feathers floating in the air. As it fell Tom screeched out— “I killed that, father.” This made the Red-faced Man very angry. “You young scoundrel,” he said, “how often have I told you not to shoot at my birds under my nose? No sportsman shoots at another man’s birds, and as for killing it, you were yards under the thing. If you do it again I will send you home.” “Sorry, father,” said Tom, adding in a low voice with a snigger, “I did kill it after all. Dad thinks no one can hit a partridge except himself.”