Andalucia and its Big Game 75 



Courage is a quality that all admire, though one may wonder if 

 it is not sometimes over-esteemed, when we find it possessed in 

 common, not only by very many wild-beasts, but even by savage 

 races of human kind — races which w^e regard as " lower," yet not 

 inferior in that cherished quality of " pluck." 



Before you crawl in there, stop to think of the annoyance the 

 act may cause not merely to our hunt, but possibly to a wife, 

 otherwise to sisters, friends, or hospital nurses, even, it may be, 

 to an undertaker — though he will not object. 



Once victorious over canine foes, it will be a remote chance 

 indeed that that boar, unless caught by mishap in some carelessly 

 chosen lair, will ever again show up as a mark for the fore-sight of 

 a rifle. 



After one such rout, we remember finding our friend the 

 Reverend Father, who had sallied forth with us for a mild 

 morning's shooting, perched high up among the branches of a 

 thorny sahina (a kind of juniper), wdience we rescued him, cut 

 and bleeding, and badly " shaken in nerve ! " 



We add the following typical instances of boar-shooting : — 



Salavar, February 1, 1900. — A lovely winter's morn, warm 

 sun and dead calm. The distant cries of the beaters (nigh three 

 miles away) had just reached my ears, when a nearer sound 

 riveted attention — the soft patter of hoofs upon sand. Then 

 from the forest-slope behind appeared a pig — big and grey — 

 trotting through deep rushes some forty yards away. Already 

 the fore-sight was " touching on " its neck, when a lucky suspicion 

 of striped piglings following their mother arrested the ball. Next 

 came along a gentle hind with all her infinite grace of contour 

 and carriage. At twenty-five yards she faced full round, and for 

 long seconds we stared eye to eye. Curious it is that absolute 

 quiescence will puzzle the wildest of the wild ! Hardly had she 

 vanished 'midst forest shades, than once again that muffled 

 patter — this time an unmistakable tusker. But, oh ! what an 

 abominable shot I made — too low, too far back — and onwards he 

 pursued his course. By our forest laws it was my cleher 

 (bounden duty) to follow the stricken game. All that noontide, 

 all the afternoon — through bush and brake, by dell and dusky 

 defile — patiently, persistently, did Juanillo Espinal and I follow 

 every twist and turn of that unending spoor. There was blood 

 to help us at first, none thereafter. Through the thickets of 



