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I t was a leap year, February the 29th, the plumb last day of rabbit season, and we'd used it up 'bout as cheerfully as a man could. And now I lay in bed, back in the General's bedroom there on Mister Eddie's plantation at Grimesland. Ruminatin' 'bout it all. List'nin' to John Denver wind out "Country Roads" . . . "take me home, country roads . . . to the place I belong . . ." 'Cause that's how it had felt, like goin' home. And I'd been off and away, couldn' even remember how long. We'd all gathered up mid-mornin' at Mister Bob Barnhill's place, there by the Tar. A downright happy gaggle of us, most of us comin' too old to chew hard apples any more, full o' piss and anticipation: Mister Eddie Smith; Mister Bennett Lewis and his son, Berry; Master Bob Timberlake; our host and Rabbit Master, Mister Barnhill; Mister C.B. Daughtridge; and, respectfully, Yours Truly. On our best days, 'bout the measure, I guess, paraphrasing Toby Keith's prophetic tome, of "We ain't as good as once we was, but we'd like to be as good once as ever we was." first light by mike gaddis There's noThing like a good, ol'-Time rabbiT hunT for fixin' The world's problems. And never you mind that a few of us choppered in on Mister Eddie's new blue- and-white Bell 407 helo, because we all came up rabbit gum and sweet tater poor, 'bout 70 years 'fore we got there. Mister Bennett's pack o' eight good beagles was loaded on the buggy, all frettin' and whinin' and faunchin' to go. Thirteen 'n' 14-inchers. Dolly 'n' Buddy 'n' Swampy 'n' Jersey—the jump dogs—'n' Joe 'n' Jim 'n' Blackie 'n' Ringo to fill the choir. And I guess we were takin' a little too long a-goin', them dogs all anxious like they were. But there'uz funnin' to do too. Standin' there, gittin' ready, you know. Which is al'ays a big part of it. Talkin' 'bout the dogs. "I never had none no better," Mister Bennett allowed. "Had some as good, but not none no better. Some of 'em ain't got papers now, but they ain't got to have no papers. Just good sense and a eager nose. "Yeah," he said, "but now Hawk was the dog. But he died jus' 'fore the season came 'round. We lost him down East, an' couldn' nobody catch him. Finally, this ol' boy did. But then he died an' my grandson Tommy put a marker over his head. "Now if y'all coulda jus' seen him . . ." he said. "But these dogs here," he declared, "they honor each other. Ain't nary one of 'em lies to the other." "They ain't like none of us then . . . they ain't like people," Mister C.B. observed. Mister Bennett smiled. "Naw-sir, Mister C.B., they ain't like people!" Mister Bennett busted out laughin', the rest of us with him. "How long you had that fine gun there, Master Berry," Mister Eddie wanted to know. It was an old three-shot Winchester 1400 that looked like it'd been dragged through the briers and brush piles about 200 times, lost-n-found in the swamp and chewed on by the rabbits 'bout a hun'erd more, and it was all wound up with 'lectric tape to hold it together. Jus' the finest kind of rabbit gun. "'Bout 17 years . . . no-o-o, 21!" Berry attested. "Daddy gave it to me after he'd done used it a bunch. But it's collected a passel o' rabbits. I wouldn't take a pretty several dollars for it," he vowed. "Enough o' you-Boys' rat killin'," the Rabbit Master ordered, "le's turn loose." So we loaded up, laughing at each other, 20 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S