Si8 SHORES OF THE CASPIAN. 



silence, until Shirka makes a point at a small thorn- 

 bush by our side. ' Nonsense, old dog, come away ; 

 we can see through it.' Hardly were the words 

 out of our mouth than with more activity than you 

 would give a pig credit for, a huge old boar springs 

 from the very heart of the thicket, and the brave 

 yellow Shirka plunges recklessly at him. The 

 veteran hound is one great record of a thousand 

 fights, his tawny hide seamed and knotted with the 

 marks of many a tusk, but he is as reckless now as 

 he was when a puppy ; and dearly as his master 

 loves his old hound's pluck, he would give a great 

 deal to see a little of that discretion mixed with it 

 which might save his favourite from an untimely 

 end. As the hound closes the boar turns, and in 

 the turning offers a fair mark for the rifle on the 

 other side of the thicket ; so once more old Shirka is 

 saved from those gnashing ivory bayonets which he 

 has so often rashly challenged. 



After this there is a lull. The hounds' loud 

 voices have proclaimed to every living thing that 

 death is abroad in the forest, and boar and roe have 

 moved off to some deeper recess, where in shadowy 

 silence they can spend the spring noontide unmo- 

 lested. One bird the rifle's reverberating voice has 

 not scared, and as the great eagle comes wheeling 

 over the forest path, he throws quite a shadow on 

 his enemies below. But the voice that stilled the 

 wild boar can still yours, too, poor forest king, and 



