the brook here is the very place for a moonlight haul.  The net is stretched first across the widest spot nearest to the pool, that no fish may escape.  They swim up here in the daytime in shoals, perch especially; but the night poachers are often disappointed, for the fish seem to retire to deeper waters as the darkness comes on.  A black mass of mud-coated sticks, rotten twigs, and thorn bushes, entangled in the meshes, is often the only result of much toil.

Once now and then, as when a preserved pond is netted, a tremendous take occurs; but nets are rather gone by, being so unwieldy and requiring several men to manage effectually.  If they are not hung out to dry properly after being used, they soon rot.  Now, a large net stretched along railings or a hedge is rather a conspicuous object, and brings suspicion on the owner.  It is also so heavy after use that until wrung, which takes time, a strong man can barely carry it; and if a sudden alarm comes it must be abandoned.

It is pleasant to rest awhile on the parapet in the shadow of the bushes.  The low thud-thud of sculls in the rowlocks of a distant punt travels up the water.  By-and-by a hare comes along, enters on the bridge, and almost reaches the gate in the middle before he spies anything suspicious.  Such a spot, and, indeed, any gateway, used to be a favourite place to set a net, and then drive the hares towards it with a cur dog that ran silent.  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.  While yet the sulphurous smoke lingers, slow to disperse, over the cool dewy sward, there comes back an echo from the wood behind, then another from the mere, then another and another beyond.

The distant sculls have ceased to work in the rowlocks—­those in the punt are listening to the echoes; most likely they have been fishing for tench in the deep holes under the black shadow of the aspens. (Tench feed in the dark:  if you wish to take a big one wait till it is necessary to fix a piece of white paper on the float.) Now put the empty cartridge in your pocket instead of throwing it aside; pull the hare’s neck across your knee, and hurry off.  But you may safely stay to harle him; for those very echoes that have been heard a mile round about are the best safeguard:  not one man in a thousand could tell the true direction whence the sound of the explosion originated.