92 Next to the Ground 



foam flies the minute they hear a squeal of dis- 

 tress. Yet to human ears one squeal is the 

 same as the other. Hogs know the difference, 

 as they know the difference in calls. Three 

 men may be calling outside droves at once, 

 and each call be audible to all the droves, yet 

 there are no mistakes. The animals are never 

 in doubt as to where they belong. 



The gregarious instinct of defense is still 

 lively among hogs. A drove of all sizes will 

 upon the approach of a dog, a fox, or, if half 

 wild, a man, form itself into a ring, with the 

 pigs and young hogs in the middle, the strong 

 tuskers outside, and stand heads out, gnashing 

 and bristling, until the marauder slinks out 

 of sight. If instead of slinking he ventures 

 upon attack, the ring roars louder than ever, 

 and stretches to meet him, still keeping forma- 

 tion, though it may be so elongated the two 

 lines almost touch. 



A wise man will not rashly invite the ring's 

 attack, neither will a wise dog. A boar three 

 years old has tusks often several inches long, 

 very much curved, and sharp as a knife. Sows 

 of full age are nearly as formidable — some- 

 times indeed they are the fiercest fighters of 

 the drove, ripping and rending whatever they 

 can reach. An angry hog is a wicked antag- 

 onist, — bloodshot, foaming, with sinews tense 

 as cords. Solitary he can beat off half a dozen 



