THE BRAVE BOAR. 



ELLA F. MOSBY. 



"Upstairs, downstairs, 

 And in my lady's chamber," 



THE French chronicles of the reign 

 of Francis I. tell the following 

 wonderful story of a boar hunt: 

 '"Twas in a grand forest that 

 stretched for miles around a castle — an 

 old-fashioned castle of ramparts and 

 towers, of wide halls and winding stair- 

 ways. 



Oliver, the twelve-year old son of the 

 master of the castle, had set his heart 

 on going with his father to hunt the 

 wild boar with the gentlemen of the 

 neighborhood. The forest was the 

 home of a great many wild creatures, 

 great and small. Squirrels and hares 

 lived there; wide-antlered stags and 

 timid does with their young fawns be- 

 side them, foxes, boars that feasted on 

 the black acorns and chestnuts that 

 covered the ground, and fierce gray 

 wolves, seen chiefly irr winter. The 

 boars were the fiercest of all, even the 

 sows would fight for their young ones, 

 and there was one old boar who was by 

 this time quite famous for his courage, 

 his cunning and his great age. He was 

 called Pique-Mort, which means death- 

 thrust, because he had in his savage on- 

 slaughts fatally wounded so many men, 

 horses and dogs. 



"Oliver's father had ordered the great 

 hunt against this very old warrior, who, 

 by the way, had grown so shrewd that 

 he could not always be roused from his 

 secret lair even by the beaters and 

 prickers who went ahead of the hunters. 

 But he surely would appear to-day. The 

 forest was ringing with horns and bu- 

 gles, the neighing of horses, the bay- 

 ing of noble hounds, the hallooing and 

 joyous clamor of the sportsmen. 



"Oliver was well prepared for the oc- 

 casion. Old Bertrand had taught him 

 all the calls and recalls on bugle and 

 horn, had trained him to thrust with 

 the long boar-spear, and to use the 

 short, thick sword kept for the last 

 when the brute was near, and the big 



boar-hounds Vite-Vite, and the others, 

 turned and obeyed his voice when it 

 rang out in its clear, boyish treble. 

 Most important of all, his mother had 

 consented to his going. 



"But alas, and alas! when the morn- 

 ing dawned fair and sweet, poor Oliver 

 was racked with grievous pain and burn- 

 ing with fever! The chase swept away 

 with shout and cry and bugle-blast, and 

 Oliver barely heeded it or turned his 

 head when his father called back: 

 'We'll bring old Pique-Mort home with 

 us.' However, by the afternoon the 

 fever had slackened, and the pain 

 abated, and Oliver lay white and weak 

 on his couch, and with piteous tears on 

 his cheeks over the mischance that had 

 held him fast at home. He turned his 

 face to the wall in a burst of passionate 

 grief as they heard, at first far off, and 

 then nearer and nearer, the excited 

 yelps of the dogs, then the trampling of 

 horses, the hoarse cries of the men, and 

 oh, the bugle! — note of 'La Mort!' 

 which meant victory over the famous 

 boar! 



"'Oliver,' said his mother tenderly, — 

 and then all at once came a sound at 

 which both started, and threw theiV 

 arms about each other. In the hall be- 

 low, up the stairs, came a heavy crea- 

 ture, panting, snorting, and the furious 

 Pique-Mort suddenly burst upon their 

 amazed vision! Sinister and savage did 

 he look, the little, round greedy eyes 

 red with rage, the bristles standing up 

 like a cuirass, the sharp and cruel tusks 

 ready for assault, and foam and blood 

 churned at their base into a streaked 

 froth by his heat and anger. He was 

 within the chamber. Oliver's arm 

 dropped nerveless at his side, and his 

 frightened eyes sought vainly for any 

 weapon. 



"The mother had a quicker wit, and 

 stooping down, she seized with both 

 arms a large Eastern rug, and threw it 



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