17 2012

THE COUNTRY MOUSE

The Norman air surrounding the modest cottage was delicately crisp and light; the dew, recently settled on the grass, enchanted the country lane, light bounding off the glistening blades into the plain sky. A young man, solitary on the terrace, lit up a pipe, a thick black smoke enveloping him as he did so. He sat alone for quite some time, deep in thought and meditation, until finally his eyelids began to wilt, closing shut as he drifted into a fragile sleep.The countryside lay still and undisturbed; the sheep in the surrounding fields slouched lethargically as the blackened trees loomed over them, vast plains of meadow resting around it all. Not too far in the distance from where the young man slouched, now in bottomless sleep, was a cluster of coatless sheep, their bald backs imprinted with the blue seal of the farmer.The bitter Norman winter plastered their bodies with piercing misery and, unprotected, they began to huddle together underneath a lifeless oak tree, drifting in and out of consciousness. A tractor, towing a trailer filled to the brim with hay bales, noisily trundled down the road, disturbing the peaceful serenity that had encased the land mere moments before. Man and sheep were both jogged into life.The man rose from his chair, re-lit his pipe and casually strolled indoors. Below him, a mouse lay mangled and sprawled on the floor, its subtle bones splintered under the metal trap; bereft of life, it was carelessly flung aside. Along the lane now, one could hear the patter of dogs jogging along; a whistle could also be heard, as well as the sound of men shouting. No sooner had the young man turned his head towards the source of these curious noises than the signs of a hunt first appeared to him.The lane began to fill with hounds, and men in fluorescent jackets with whistles in hand - some with shotguns

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