There is hardly any petty mischief that is not connected with the life of a poacher.  Mr. Wilson was aware of this; he was not only a pious clergyman, but an upright justice.  He used to say, that people who were truly conscientious, must be so in small things as well as in great ones, or they would destroy the effect of their own precepts, and their example would not be of general use.  For this reason he never would accept of a hare or a partridge from any unqualified person in his parish.  He did not content himself with shuffling the thing off by asking no questions, and pretending to take it for granted in a general way that the game was fairly come at; but he used to say, that by receiving the booty he connived at a crime, made himself a sharer in it, and if he gave a present to the man who brought it, he even tempted him to repeat the fault.

One day poor Jack Weston, an honest fellow in the neighborhood, whom Mr. Wilson had kindly visited and relieved in a long sickness, from which he had but just recovered, was brought before him as he was sitting on the justice’s bench.  Jack was accused of having knocked down a hare; and of all the birds in the air, who should the informer be but Black Giles the poacher.  Mr. Wilson was grieved at the charge; he had a great regard for Jack, but he had a still greater regard for the law.  The poor fellow pleaded guilty.  He did not deny the fact, but said he did not consider it a crime, for he did not think game was private property, and he owned he had a strong temptation for doing what he had done, which he hoped would plead in his excuse.  The justice desired to know what this temptation was.

“Sir,” said the poor fellow, “you know I was given over this spring in a bad fever.  I had no friend in the world but you, sir.  Under God, you saved my life by your charitable relief; and I trust also you may have helped to save my soul by your prayers and your good advice; for, by the grace of God, I have turned over a new leaf since that sickness.

“I know I can never make you amends for all your goodness; but I thought it would be some comfort to my full heart if I could but once give you some little token of my gratitude.  So I had trained a pair of nice turtledoves for Madam Wilson; but they were stolen from me, sir, and I do suspect Black Giles stole them.  Yesterday morning, sir, as I was crawling out to my work, for I am still but very weak, a fine hare ran across my path.  I did not stay to consider whether it was wrong to kill a hare, but I felt it was right to show my gratitude; so, sir, without a moment’s thought, I did knock down the hare, which I was going to carry to your worship, because I knew madam was fond of hare.  I am truly sorry for my fault, and will submit to whatever punishment your worship may please to inflict.”

Mr. Wilson was much moved with this honest confession, and touched with the poor fellow’s gratitude.  What added to the effect of the story, was the weak condition, and pale, sickly looks of the offender.  But this worthy magistrate never suffered his feelings to bias his integrity; he knew that he did not sit on that bench to indulge pity, but to administer justice.  And while he was sorry for the offender, he would never justify the offence.