Spring consisting entirely of hopes of better weather, raised for no other
purpose than to be so thwarted and dashed that the spirits of that brave
and much harassed creature, man, might sink still lower--once upon a time,
even in this Spring, there was a fine evening. It was more than fine, it
was tender, and, owing to a North wind, wonderfully luminous, and I walked
slowly along the hedges--which were still bare, although April was far
advanced--and listened to the blackbirds, and marvelled at the light that
made everything so beautiful, and was filled with gratitude to the late
WILLIAM WILLETT for re-arranging our foolish hours.

I soon reached a favourite meadow, with a view of the hills and clumps of
gorse in it, and, since there were clumps of gorse, many, many of those
alluring little creatures which live in the ground and provide man with
numbers of benefits--such as sweet flesh to put into pies; and cheap, soft,
warm fur to wrap Baby Buntings in; and stubby tails, or scuts, to be used
in hot-houses for transferring pollen that peach-blossoms may be
fertilised, and (latterly) symbols for Government clerks who prefer
civilian clothes and comfort to khaki and warfare; and (in Wales) toasted
cheese. I refer to rabbits.

As I stood motionless in this meadow watching the yellowing sky, I was
aware of an Homeric contest quite close to me. Two rabbits wore engaged in
a terrific battle. They kicked and they scratched and made the most furious
attacks on each other. The fur flew and the ground resounded to their
thuds. First one seemed to be winning and then the other, but there was no
flinching.

I had heard of rabbits fighting, but I had never seen it before. "Very
unfair to have called them Cuthberts," I said to myself.