ST. HUBERT, THE FIRST GAME PROTECTOR. 



MARGUERITE TRACY. 



St. Hubert, as he is still called, although 

 he has been banished from the English re- 

 formed calendar of saints, was for years one 

 of the most riotously worldly and sinful of 

 those noblemen who hung about the court 

 of Pepin d'Heristal in France, in a century 

 when goodness was at such a premium that 

 any noble act was canonized as soon as pos- 

 sible. Goodness has become so common 

 nowadays that we have fallen out of the way 

 of canonizing it. The idea of making the 

 founder of the L. A. S. Saint So and So! 



There were no game laws in Hubert's 

 time, but there were Church laws which an- 

 swered the same purpose, and one of them 

 forbade all hunting during Holy Week. 

 Hubert, being no respecter of laws, and be- 

 ing an enthusiast about stag hunting, cheer- 

 fully and defiantly started out one Good 

 Friday, when not even the wickedest of his 

 companions dared leave their prayers. 

 While he was moving stealthily about 

 through the giant forest, his quiver at his 

 back and his bow in hand, a great brightness 

 suddenly flooded the path before him and a 

 stag appeared, bearing a shining cross be- 

 tween its horns.* The hunter dropped his 

 bow, fell on his knees and then and there 

 dedicated himself to holy deeds. He re- 

 nounced his life at court and became a her- 

 mit of the forest, where he dwelt among the 

 robbers and marauders and idolaters who at 

 that time haunted the gloomy fastnesses of 

 Ardennes. He devoted himself to protecting 

 the game, advancing civilization and estab- 

 lishing the laws he had so long openly de- 

 fied. He was ordained priest and finally 

 became Bishop of Liege. It is part of the 

 legend that when he was consecrated bishop 

 an angel brought down from heaven the 

 stole with which he was consecrated. This 

 is the scene which has been most often rep- 

 resented in paintings, has relievos and tapes- 



* See first page of cover. 



tries. Finer than these is the print by Al- 

 bert Durer in which Hubert is represented 

 in hunting costume, his horse beside him, 

 surrounded by his hounds, his horn and 

 hunting knife slung at his side. 



At his death he was buried in the church 

 of St. Peter at Liege, and when, 13 years 

 after, his body was disinterred in the pres- 

 ence of the king of the Franks it was found 

 unchanged, even his robes, in which he had 

 been buried, being without spot or stain. 

 His tomb from that time became famous for 

 the miracles and cures which were per- 

 formed there. Chapels were erected to him 

 in the forests, where the hunters would 

 gather for a brief service before the hunt, to 

 invoke the blessing of their patron on the 

 day. Hubert was the patron saint of all ani- 

 mals, but especially of dogs, and bread which 

 had been blessed at his shrine was consid- 

 ered a charm against hydrophobia. 



It became a custom, on St. Hubert's Day, 

 for hunters to bring up their horses and dogs 

 to receive the blessing which the priest, 

 standing at the door of the castle from whic'i 

 the hunting party started, pronounced on all 

 alike. 



We still gather with horses and hounds 

 and whip and spur on the hunting morning, 

 to follow Brer Fox across the Virginia 

 hills. Who knows but it would be better for 

 our bones — a charm as it were against fences 

 and ditches and things — if while we sit our 

 eager, fretting hunters we should each give a 

 thought to the little old Gentleman of the 

 Chase who has been so unfairly deposed 

 from his niche among the saints; and then 

 we might overcome that moment of trepida- 

 tion which the most fearless rider confesses 

 to, when we catch the baying of the hounds 

 and the M. F. H. turns in his saddle and 

 waves to us, 



" Yoic Gone away! " 



Jaggs — " Who is this old Pan, of whom 

 they have been making the big statue? " 



Scroggs — " Why he's the man who in- 

 vented pan cakes. I supposed everyone 

 knew that." 



The sea is getting dusty — 



" What a crazy claim! " you say? 



Well, our sailors, with their glasses, 

 Aren't sweeping it to-day. 



— Cleveland Leader. 



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