Susan sniffed a bit—"boys and their damn blood sports!" was her comment—but I found quietly that it suited my purposes well. We argued about it a ...it; she hated hunting generically, while I was of two minds about it. Hunting for the dinner table, well and good, as I saw it; it culled the herds to prevent overpopulation, it was a lot less cruel than the vagaries of natural selection and winnowing by casual starvation and disease, and the meat went to good use. She reluctantly conceded that. The trees turned out to be olive trees, or to be more correct, an olive shrub. It definitely didn’t look anything like the olive trees that I’d seen on my vacations in southern France during my service years. It was a gnarled, stunted growth that was virtually bare of growth. The only reason I knew that it was an olive tree was because some of the fruit on it had survived the winter. The fruit was withered and rotten, but close examination of what I found and a few pits lying on the ground told. More

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