We had a supper to
celebrate the destruction of the rabbits, and afterwards the truculent
gentlemen, who had bellowed so vigorously in the field, sang sentimental
songs about "Mother, dear mother," "Stay with me, my darling, stay," or
patriotic songs referring to an article of drapery known as "The Flag of
Old Hengland."
For half-an-hour our intricate choruses resounded as we went in groups
deviously homeward, and a few members of our sporting flock dotted the
paths at wide intervals.
That kind of thing goes on all over the country in the winter time. It
is not for me to preach, but I must say that it seems to be a barren
kind of game. Can any man of the crowd think kindly or clearly about any
subject under the sun? I fancy not. My own real idea of the character of
the various mobs that see the rabbits die is such that I could not
venture to frame it in words. The sport is so mean, so trivial, so
purposeless, that I should go a long way to avoid seeing it now that I
know the subject well.
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