over the beast's head, blinding him for 

 the while, as well as blunting the thrust 

 of the terrible tusks. As he struggled 

 desperately in its smothering and heavy 

 folds, the whole following — dogs, men 

 and the master at their head, were up 

 the stairs also, and the death-stroke was 

 quickly given. It was the end of the 

 veteran of so many chases in morass 

 and thicket — Pique Mort was dead. 



"After a moment's half-stupefied 

 stare, the lord of the castle broke forth: 



" 'Well, my boy, you were at the fin- 

 ish after all.' The dogs could not be 

 held off their old foe, and the brave 

 boar was furious at their baiting-, and so 



broke away. My lady, you have the 

 glory, and Oliver his wish.'' 



"Old Bertrand stroked his grizzled 

 beard. 



" ' Twas a gallant brute,' he said. 

 'Had he been a man they would have 

 styled him hero. He had a high cour- 

 age and loved freedom well.' " 



We have grown since those rough 

 days into more compassion for animals, 

 but even yet we are not altogether just 

 to their side of the question, to the rec- 

 ognition of their right to life and its 

 joys as their merciful Creator has given 

 it to them. 



GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH THE TEACHER. 



JESSIE P. WHITAKER. 



IN the summer of 1897, wandering in 

 the woods of Pigeon Cove, on the 

 outer point of Cape Ann, the pro- 

 longed call of a bird often came to 

 my ears, which aroused my curiosity. 

 I was not then much acquainted with 

 birds, but was beginning to "take no- 

 tice" and usually carried my field glass 

 on my walks, and if I saw or heard a 

 bird unfamiliar to me, tried to look 

 him up in my books. I had with me 

 "Our Common Birds and How to Know 

 Them," by John B. Grant; also Flor- 

 ence Merriam's "Birds Through an 

 Opera Glass" — very good books to aid 

 beginners in identifying birds. The 

 call of which I speak was so marked 

 and so often repeated that I eagerly 

 searched for the bird, but could not 

 get a glimpse of him, nor even locate 

 the sound accurately. 



I soon perceived, however, that it 

 was a regular chant, increasing in an 

 even crescendo, vibrating through the 

 woods. I remembered reading descrip- 

 tions of such a call in the books, and 

 soon found my bird to be the oven- 

 bird, golden-crowned thrush, or teacher 

 bird. 



But why "teacher" bird? 



I was constantly asking this question, 

 for to my ears the sound always came 

 as ti chee, ti-chee, ti-chee, with accent 

 always on the final syllable. By no 

 exercise of the imagination could I 

 make it sound like "teacher." Never 

 during that summer nor during the two 

 succeeding summers have I heard these 

 birds at Pigeon Cove say "teacher." 



The little brown walker kept out of 

 my sight very persistently during that 

 first summer, but in September, walk- 

 ing in the woods near Star Lake in the 

 Adirondacks, I had a good, near view 

 of two little olive-green birds walking 

 on some low branches. Their white 

 speckled breasts proclaimed them 

 thrushes, while the beautiful crown of 

 brownish orange inclosed in lines of 

 black, plainly marked them the "gold- 

 en-crowned." Often as I have seen the 

 bird since, his golden crown has never 

 appeared as conspicuous as it did on 

 that September day by the mountain 

 lake. But I had to go to Skaneateles 

 Lake in central New York to hear him 

 say "teacher." On a May morning in 

 in 1899, sitting on a mountain side 

 overlooking this beautiful sheet of 

 water, the chant of a bird came vibrat- 



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