meeting, but nothing came of them, which is what usually happens at meetings anyway. But one week later, someone came up with a bright idea, which made that night's meeting worthwhile.

"How about," said the plumber, waving a galvanized pipe about, "We tell Ivan and Belowski to go shooting on different days? If they could go shooting on different days, they wouldn't see each other, and they wouldn't shout at each other, and the land would be quiet again, and the rabbits would come back, and soon they'd shoot a few, and eventually they would have so many rabbits, they'd get bored with the whole idea of shooting them and stay home?"

The poor plumber nearly fainted for lack of air when he finished this sentence. He was so afraid of being interrupted he tried to say everything with one breath.

"Its worth a try," said the butcher, checking with his wife to see if she agreed, because if she didn't, he would have to change his mind.

"But who will tell Ivan and who will tell Belowski?'" asked the policeman, who was quite frankly a little bit scared of both the men.

"I will," said old Frank Frumble, who was as deaf as a post some days, and sharp of hearing others, "It doesn't matter to me how loud they shout, I wouldn't hear a sound!"

So Frank went to see Ivan and then he went to see Belowski the very next morning, and they bellowed at him like raging bulls, but he just smiled at them in a friendly sort of way, and nodded his head as if what they were saying was the nicest compliments (which it wasn't) and he remembered to looked away so he couldn't read their lips, then he went back home.

All night the people waited for the dawn to come. The sun began to rise, and soon enough the door of Ivan's house opened. He had his big, double-barreled shotgun and a belt strung with cartridges, and a big bag over his shoulder. He had his hunter's cap and his big, brown boots with the laces done up to the top just under his knees, and a skinning knife tied to his leg. He walked down the road as quiet as a cow and disappeared into the countryside.

All day long the town heard the sound of a gun firing. Blam! Blam! Blam! Ivan was shooting at everything that moved and everything that didn't move just in case it was a rabbit. But when he returned, late in the evening, his bag was empty, and all his bullets were gone.

"He must be the worst shot in the world!" gasped the people, "Hooray for that! We might get to eat rabbit pie