He had now reached that age, but never a rabbit as yet had he encountered.

He might even have concluded that the whole Rabbit story was a myth and a legend were it not that certain scents and odours were for ever tantalising his nose that could, his instinct told him, mean Rabbit and only Rabbit.

These scents met him at the most tantalising times, pulling him this way and that, exciting the wildest hopes in him, afterwards condemned to sterility; as ghosts haunt the convinced and trusting spiritualist, so did rabbits haunt Hamlet.

He dreamt of Rabbits at night, he tasted Rabbits in his food, he saw them scale the air and swim the stream--now, he was close on their trail, now he had them round that tree, up that hill, down that hole...
sitting tranquilly in front of the schoolroom fire he would scent them; always they eluded him, laughed at him, mocked him with their stumpy tails.

They were rapidly becoming the obsession of his nights and days.
Upon this afternoon the air was full of Rabbit.