February is the grand finale of the rabbit hunter’s year
Charles Rodney was poised precariously atop a low pile of downed tree toppings, matted with honeysuckle and woven through by sharp briars. The bright orange of his hunting shirt and hat made him visible through the thick undergrowth. He held his shotgun safely off to the side, and stomped the brush pile, first with one foot, then the other.
“Come on Slim, find ’em. Copper! Here Copper, get over here. Jack, get back in here. Come on Lou, hunt ’em up. Ya, ya, ya, ya, ya!”