Grateful was the unlucky lad to think that he had not taken this road, and truly glad was he when, under the woodcutter's care, he reached his uncle's white house. No sooner, however, was he fairly recovered from his misadventure, than he packed up his superb cambric shirts, his Lyons silk socks, patent leather boots, and white Jouvin gloves; squeezed the hand of his aunt, gave a doubtful shake to that of his uncle, and started in the malle poste for the capital. His father's brother and Le Morvan never saw him more.

Such adventures, however, as these are rare, and you must have, indeed, a double dose of bad fortune to be lost in such a woful way, and spend, without meeting any mortal soul, thirty long hours in the woods: for though the tract of forest is very extensive, there are strewed, here and there, several merry villages, large farms, and hunting-boxes, snugly hidden, it is true, beneath the trees,—but which an experienced huntsman very soon discovers when he stands in need of assistance or a night's lodging.



CHAPTER VII.

Charms of a forest life to the sportsman—The Poachers—Le Pere Seguin—His knowledge of the woods and of the rivers—The first buck—A bad shot.

However dangerous the forests of Le Morvan may be, and certainly are, to the citizen of Paris, whose knowledge of wood-craft, whatever may have been his delightful visions of forest life, of fairy revels, and hair-breadth escapes, is about equal to his proficiency in navigation, they are no labyrinth to the true sportsman of this province; in his mind, they are mapped with an accuracy perfectly astonishing to the uninitiated in the countless indications of nature, of which the eye of man becomes so keenly observant when thrown constantly into her fascinating society. Let a man of a vigorous health, active frame, and contemplative mind once enter, even for a short time, upon the enjoyments of sporting, wild and varied as are those of Le Morvan, it would be difficult to withdraw him from its delights, and persuade him that it is in any way desirable to return to the crowded haunts of men, and condemn himself to resume the harassing struggle for wealth or a competence in his own legitimate sphere.

No; there scarcely breathes the human being who could be so insensible to the charms of scenery like that of Le Morvan as to do so without a pang. 'Tis a chalice of gold, brimful of real pleasures for those who love the joys of the open air; 'tis alive with fish and game, and has its vineyards and its cornfields too.

But we are thinking of the forests only, of the boar—that potentate of the solitudes—and the wild cat: of the ravines and caves, to which the hardy and venturous hunter, through bush, brake, or briar, over streamlet or torrent, will chace the ravenous wolf,—who, bearing the iron ball in his lacerated side, ever and anon gnaws the wound in his rage, and slinks on weeping tears of blood. The roebuck and the hare, the feathered and the finny tribe, are ever presenting an endless alternation of amusement more or less exciting; and the sportsman has but to settle with himself, when the rosy morn appears, whether he will bestride his gallant steed, or throw the rod or rifle over his shoulder,—his day's pleasure is safe.

It matters not whether the falling leaf announces that the woods are clearing for him, the deep snow warns him to look to the protection of his flocks from the dangerous intrusion of the wolves, or the genial air and the brilliant flies tell him that the silvery tenants of the many streams and rivers that intersect the forest are ready to provide him sport.

Arouse thee, sportsman! when the dark clouds of night fly before the rays of Phoebus as a troop of timid antelopes before the leopard,—when the lark abandons his mossy bed, and soaring sends forth his joyous carol,

"——blythe to greet The purpling East,"

then, O sportsman, up, and to horse! Away! bending over the saddle-bow, follow the wild deer across the heath—inhale the perfume of the trampled thyme. Draw bridle for a moment, and pity the thousands of thy fellow-men to whom the pure air and light are denied, and let thy heartfelt thanksgivings for thy free and happy lot ascend to the azure battlements of heaven. Beneath your gaze lie valleys whence rise the morning mists as do the clouds from the richly-perfumed censer, and float over the bosom of the plain ere they wreathe the mountain side; all the bushes sing, every leaf is shining to welcome the glorious sun as he rises majestically over that high dark range, and the bright blue dome of day is revealed in all its purity.

Plunge onward to the forest—you will perhaps fall in with one of the braconniers—must I call them poachers?—of which there are many; all alike, in one sense, yet each having the most whimsical characteristics. The reader knows my friend Navarre, but I must now introduce him to another of the cronies of my youth, the Pere Seguin, the thoughts of whom revive all the sweet recollections of my home when my family lived in the ancient and picturesque Vezelay.

Seguin's "form and feature" are as well impressed upon my memory as those even of Navarre. Could any one forget him? I should think not; for he was so fantastic and mysterious, such a determined sportsman and eccentric desperado, that he was known to all Le Morvan.

As well as I remember, he was about fifty-five years of age when I first knew him; from his earliest boyhood he had fancied and loved a forester's life, and for more than forty years had realized his dreams of its wild independence. The woods, the rocks, the streams had no secrets for him; he understood all their murmurs and their silence—he knew the habits of every bird and beast of these forests and the whereabouts of every large trout in his clear cold hole.

But it is of no use to describe Pere Seguin; to know him you must hunt with him, and that pretty often, too—as I have done from my earliest youth. I am now with him, on one of those joyous mornings of my boyhood, and having threaded the woods for an hour, he has placed me in ambuscade at the corner of a copse. Here, after a short delay, he pulls out his watch, a time-piece weighing about two pounds, and after a mute consultation with the hands, says in a low decided tone:

"Good! Three o'clock. Stop here, youngster, and in an hour I shall send you a buck."

"A buck at four o'clock? How are you to tell that?" And I felt that I opened my eyes as an oyster does his bivalve domicile at high water. "A buck! you are joking."

"I never joke," said the Pere Seguin with a hoarse grunt, walking away, and his face did not belie his words.

"Well, then, but how can you possibly—Stop, do, for one moment. Hear me! holla! Pere Seguin! I say, you old humbug.—By Socrates, he is off."

But Pere Seguin was already striding fast and far through the bending branches, wilfully, if not really out of hearing, and I had nothing to do but to watch for the promised game. I had no watch, and it seemed to me long after the appointed hour, when my reverie was disturbed by a low voice, from I knew not where,—from heaven, from earth, from a murmuring brook, from a tree,—which dropped these words in my ear.

"Silence—four o'clock—the buck."

At that moment I saw the ears of the roebuck, and soon after the animal itself, pausing for a moment in his leisurely course, just where he ought to be for a good shot. But amazement and trepidation seized me. I fired in a hurry, and the deer bounded off unscathed. "How clumsy," said I to the Pere Seguin, as he emerged from the thicket, "and how unfortunate, for I have some friends coming to dine with me this week."

"Never mind, never mind," replied the poacher; "I will fill your larder to-morrow."

"Well, you are a good fellow, but remember I require also some fish—a fine dish of trout."

"Very well," growled the Pere, "you shall have one;" and without a word more the braconnier is off; and soon after I meet him with his rod, a young fir-tree, on his shoulder, a box of worms as large as snakes, and with the most entire confidence in his piscatory powers, proceeding on his way to the stream that will suit his purpose. In the evening he reappears, taking from the fresh grass in which he has carried them, three or four magnificent fish studded with drops of gold. White wine and choice aromatic herbs flavour them, and you rejoice in the pleasure and praises of your friends as they partake of the savoury meal.

And now for a sketch, if possible, of this excellent purveyor. Pere Seguin was tall as an obelisk, strong as a Hercules, vif as gunpowder, thin and sinewy as any wolf in his beloved forests. His ear large, flat, and full of hair; his teeth long, white, regular, and sharp as those of his favourite and extraordinary dog; his eyes yellow, calm, and piercing as those of a mountain eagle, and his chin had never been desecrated with a razor. A kind of brushwood covered his face, and through it peeped, with the tip of his hooked nose, the features I have described. This immense uncultivated beard, tucked carefully within his waistcoat, reached nearly to his waist. Did I say it had never been shaved? I might add, it had never been combed. Lurking in it you might see leaves, white hairs, red hairs, bits of a butterfly's wing, two or three jay's feathers, a nutshell, some tobacco, a blade or two of grass, the cup of an acorn, or a little moss. Indeed, so strangely was it garnished that, when asleep on the grass under the trees, a robin was once seen to hover over him undecided as to whether she would build her nest in it, or pick out materials to make one elsewhere.

Of uncommon intelligence, peculiarly taciturn, brave, frank, loyal, and incapable of a bad action, his mind was of a gloomy cast; he was always alone, he had no friends, he wanted none, and, if not hunting, reading the Bible or muttering to himself, with his eyes fixed on the ground. He lived like the woodcock, sad and solitary in his hole.

The peasants dreaded him, and never spoke of him but as the Sorcier, the Vieux Diable; when naughty little children refused to learn their letters or to go to bed, it was only necessary to threaten them with sending for the Pere Seguin and his red dog, and the whole of the rosy troop would scamper off to their nursery in an instant.

I need scarcely say that amongst his other perfections he was a perfect shot—the best in the department,—and the moment he touched the trigger death winged his charge at two hundred paces. With a single ball from his rifle would he bring down the wild cat from the highest branches, and cut the poor squirrels in two, stop the howl of the wolf, or shiver the iron frontal bones of the wild boar.

In short, his gun was his joy, his friend, his mistress, his all; he spoke to it, caressed it, rocked it on his knees as a mother would her sick child, and took a thousand times more care of it than he would have bestowed upon the most lovely wife, had he ever done anything so rash as to marry. It was a singular accident that brought us acquainted; and if I had had any respect for chronology, I should have related it before.

One day, when rambling over the mountain in search of game, I put up and fired at a hare; she was evidently hit, and I gave chase, yet though puss had but three legs effective I could not overtake her,

"I follow'd fast, but faster did she fly;"

at last, a bank stopped and turned her, and I was on the point of taking possession when a large red brindled dog dashed past and anticipated my purpose, carrying off my hare, without bestowing so much as a glance upon me,—no, not even appearing to see that I was there. Electrified with astonishment, my left leg seemed pinned to the spot, while the right, extended on a level with my shoulder, emulated that of Cerito in "Giselle;" but recovering myself, I followed the thief, who made off with the speed of a greyhound, in the direction of a neighbouring wood, and on arriving at a little green knoll almost as soon as he did, I came suddenly upon a strange and uncouth-looking figure who was reclining comfortably on the grass beneath the shade of a large walnut-tree.



CHAPTER VIII.

Le Pere Seguin's collation—The young sportsman and the hare—The quarrel—The apology—The reconciliation—The cemetery—Bait for barbel—Le Pere Seguin's deceased friends—The return home.

The extraordinary personage in whose presence I so suddenly found myself was the celebrated Pere Seguin, who, tired with his morning's sport, was taking his noontide meal; that is, appeasing his appetite, always enormous, with a loaf of black rye bread, into which he plunged his ivory teeth with hearty rapidity, now and then taking a mouthful out of a turnip he had pulled in a field hard by. The abominable quadruped was there too, planted on his haunches, just in front of his master, looking as innocent as a lamb, though still holding my hare between his teeth, probably not daring to lay it down without permission.

Pere Seguin ate, drank, twisted his wiry moustache, dipped his turnip in the coarse salt, and from time to time cast a glance at his vile dog, without deigning to speak a word, or even to acknowledge my presence. Furious at this behaviour, I bowed and said to him, "So, you are the owner of this precious cur?"

The poacher signified his assent by a slight movement of the head.

"Well, if the dog belongs to you, the hare in his mouth belongs to me."

"Does it?" said the Pere Seguin, and he looked at his dog, who winked his eye and shook his paw: "my dog tells me he caught this hare running."

"I know it, the rascally vagabond! and with no great trouble either, seeing that the hare was half dead, and had but three legs to go upon."

Pere Seguin threw his yellow eye on the cur again, and, as if he had understood all we said, he once more shook his paw, and gave a sort of sneeze.

"My dog repeats, he coursed the hare well, and has a right to her."

"What do you mean by saying he has a right to her, when I tell you the hare belongs to me?"

"And my dog says the reverse."

"Go to Dijon with your dog!" I exclaimed, "I tell you the hare is mine."

"My dog never told a lie," rejoined the braconnier, and he dipped the remnant of his turnip for the twentieth time in the salt. "Never."

"Then I am the liar," said I, beginning to feel hot, "I am the liar, ah! am I? By Jupiter! your dog, you bearded fool—your cur of a dog? I do not care a sous for his carcass any more than I do for yours. I'll have my hare."

"Don't get excited, young man—don't be savage, I beg of you; for, as sure as I am a sinner, you'll have a crop of pimples on your nose to-morrow,—and red pimples on the nose are not pretty."

"Keep your jokes to yourself, old man, or on my honour you shall repent it!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" grinned the Pere Seguin, "Ha! ha! ha! capital turnip."

"Houp! houp! houp!" went the dog.

I was bewildered; such a strange adventure had never befallen me before.

"Once, twice—will you give me my hare?"

"Have I any hare of yours?"

"You? No, but your dog."

"Ha! that's another affair. You must settle that with him. Take your hare, and let me eat my turnip in peace."

Enraged at this, I rushed at the carroty dog, but he was off in an instant, jumping first behind the tree, and then behind his master, keeping my hare all the time fast in his mouth till I was fairly out of breath, and aggravated beyond expression.

I looked towards the poacher. He was quietly plucking the top off a fresh turnip, but under the air of icy indifference which pervaded his whole exterior I detected a sarcastic smile, which fully convinced me that I was the laughing-stock of man and beast. I took my resolution, and Pere Seguin, who had followed my movements with his eye, said drily, as I was going to put a cap on, "What are you going to do young man?"

"Oh, nothing! just to kill your dog for taking my hare."

"Bah! you're joking."

"Joking! am I? You shall see;" and I proceeded quietly to raise my gun.

"Gently, my lad," roared the Pere Seguin, and he seized the weapon in his iron grasp.

"I may be but a 'lad,' but I'll not give up my rights; the hare is mine, and I'll have her. Let go my gun!"

"No!"

"By——"

"No!"

"Then look out for yourself," said I, and with a rapid movement I attempted to draw my couteau de chasse; but long before I could get it out, he had seized me with both hands, and in a twinkling I measured my length upon the turf, and the knife was in his possession.

"Child of violence!" he said, as he set me again on my legs, and pushed me from him, "Do you then already love to shed blood? Would you kill a man for a hare? Have you not the sense to distinguish a joke from an insult? There," he added, giving me back my knife, which had fallen from its sheath in the struggle, "young man, do your worst!"

But I was now as angry with myself as I had been with the old man, and heartily ashamed of my conduct. I turned on my heel, and walked off, vexed beyond expression at my intemperate folly.

The very next day, as good fortune would have it, I met him again in the forest, and lost not a moment in asking his forgiveness for my brutal conduct of the previous day.

"Ah! you acknowledge your fault, do you?" replied the Pere Seguin, "enough, that shows you have a heart. I bear you no ill-will; you are vif as the mountain breeze, but that comes of being young. Give me your hand, and when you want a dove or lilies of the valley for your sister, venison or wild boar for your friends, I, my gun, and my dog, are at your service; but"—and he whispered in my ear—"no more knives."

"See! see!" and I opened my jacket, "it is gone. I threw it into the moat this morning."

"'Tis well! very well! You have had a happy escape, young man. Au revoir. Now, Faro, take your leave of Monsieur;" and instantly obeying a sign from his master, the red dog licked my boots. A moment more, and they were both lost to view in the forest.

From that time I was frequently with the Pere Seguin, for he seemed to have a fancy—a sort of affection for me, and on my part I had an incomprehensible pleasure in his society, though in the early part of our acquaintance I could not divest myself of an undefined dread of him; and had some difficulty in reconciling myself to the harsh and guttural tones of his voice, and his peculiarly severe physiognomy. Nevertheless, many an evening did I slip away from the paternal hearth, much to the distress of my poor mother, to seat myself on one of his wooden stools, and eat the chestnuts he was roasting in the embers, while he related, by the pale light of his small charcoal fire, which but dimly showed the extent even of his small room, frightful stories of ghosts, suicides, drownings, and fearful murders, with which he delighted to terrify me; and, dear reader, he succeeded to perfection, for all the time I sat listening to them I was cold, and trembled like a leaf in the northern blast.

Well do I remember—yes, as well as if it had been yesterday—going out with him to fish for barbel, and joining him over-night to go in search of bait. I found him crouched by his fire, eating potatoes out of the same plate with his dog. This frugal meal over, he took up a small lantern, a large box, and a long spade, and beckoned me to follow him.

The moon was rising as we left the hut, but red as blood, lightning streaked the sky at short intervals, and the wind howled as if a storm was approaching. Pere Seguin rubbed his hands, and an expression of satisfaction passed across his extraordinary countenance; for, living as he did a lonely wandering life, he had become superstitious, and firmly believed that worms caught at certain hours of the night, and in a breeze that foretold an approaching tempest, were more likely to attract the fish than those taken in the daylight. To this article of his creed I offered no objection, but I own my heart shrunk within me when I observed that he took the direct road to the burial-ground. "Pere Seguin," said I, "we need go no further; the turf in this lane is capital; we shall find all we want here without a longer walk." "Since when," he inquired in a voice that seemed to come from between his shoulders, "since when have young fawns taught the old roebuck the way to the forest-glades?" And he strode on without a word more, still in the direction I so much abhorred.

Arriving at the cemetery, Pere Seguin walked leisurely round it, paying as much attention to me as if I had not been with him, and I followed like a criminal going to the scaffold. After having made a careful examination of the wall, he stopped suddenly, gave me the lantern and the spade, and leaped upon the top, desiring me to do the same. I hesitated, and fell back, for I felt more inclined to throw them down and run away, and Pere Seguin saw it.

"Ha! ha!" he exclaimed, fixing his yellow eye upon me. "I thought you were heart of oak, young Sir; are you only a man of straw?"

I gave no answer, but I leaped on to the wall like a rope-dancer.

"Hum!" he muttered; "good legs, but a faint heart." And he begun rapidly to turn up the rank grass, and pick the large red worms from amongst the roots, when, looking up in my face, he said, with infinite coolness, "Why, you are as pale as my mother was on the day of her death! What ails you?"

"Ails me!" I replied, repressing my fears, "why to tell you the truth, I'd just as soon be anywhere else as here."

"Pooh! pooh! young man; one must accustom one's self to everything in this world. We must learn—be always learning. Remember, for instance, for I'll be bound that you never heard of such a thing before, that worms taken in a burial-ground are the finest possible bait for barbel, do you hear?—taken by moonlight from the roots of the hemlock."

"Good heavens! Pere Seguin, I would rather never catch a fish for the rest of my days than touch one of those worms!"

"Nonsense, my lad—nonsense; they are admirable bait—fine fat fellows—sure to take. We shall have a wonderful day to-morrow. You will soon see how the giants and gourmands of the streams will snap at these beauties."

"Hang the barbel, Pere Seguin!—let us leave this cold churchyard. I feel sick, and a clammy cold creeping over me already—do let us be gone;" but he would not move.

"Don't feel unwell, pray don't; it is a well-known fact, that any person who feels ill in a churchyard is sure to die within the year."

"Let us leave then, for I do feel very ill;" but the purveyor of worms was now too much occupied to listen to me.

Hopeless, therefore, of inducing him to leave till he had filled his box, I sat down on a tombstone, and the noise he made with the spade in the silence, the darkness, and the peculiar and sickening odour of the place, filled me with an indescribable sense of fear and horror.

At length the poacher paused, and having disentangled a very long worm from the twisted roots of a large clod, he said, "This makes one hundred and thirteen—a holy number. Now I've done, my lad; let us be off."

"Yes—oh, yes!"—for the minutes seemed hours—"let us go instantly;" and I sprang from the tombstone, while Pere Seguin proceeded deliberately to fill up the holes, and replace the turf, whistling through his moustache just as if he had been in the middle of his garden.

"One hundred and thirteen!—I like that number."

"So do I, Pere Seguin; but do let us be going. If we remain here, they will think that we have killed and buried some one. Do, pray, be off;" and I made for the wall.

"Stop!" he said suddenly, drawing himself up to his full height, six feet three, "Stop!" and throwing out his long arms, which made his shadow on the stones resemble an immense black cross, "Hold there! Look! Do you see that tomb—that large gray stone?"

"I see nothing, Pere Seguin, I will see nothing. I close my eyes, and only desire to be gone."

"As you please," said the poacher; "but you are wrong. I could have told you a curious history—a most interesting history."

"Thanks for your histories—much obliged to you; but I have had enough of them." Still Pere Seguin would persevere: "A woman, who has appeared to me three times—yes, three following days—spoken to me, pulled me by the fingers and by the beard eight days after her death."

"Yes! yes! I know; but which way are we to get out of this infernal place?"

"Why, what a hurry you are in!—I say stop, and let me say good night to her!"—and Pere Seguin approached the tall gray stone, the moon shining full upon it, and struck it with the handle of his spade, calling each time in a solemn voice, "Madeleine! Madeleine! Madeleine!"

Had I been at that frightful moment cut in four quarters, not one drop of blood would have been found in my veins; my teeth chattered with terror, and I would have given every acre of my inheritance for strength enough to run away. "Madeleine! Madeleine!" le Pere Seguin continued in a low and churchyard tone, "Madeleine!" he cried, leaning on the gray tomb, "'tis me, Seguin—le Pere Seguin; good night, good night, Madeleine!"

I could not speak, I could not move; and certainly had the lady whispered only one single little word in reply, I should have fainted.

"Well, it is all over; she is dead for certain now!" said the poacher, shaking his head. "Alas! poor Madeleine! Gone in the flower of her age! Dead at two-and-twenty, for having offered me a violet! Dead! Let us begone."

I beg you to understand I did not put him to the necessity of repeating his words, but found my legs in excellent running order in a moment.

"Hold! not so fast!" said my companion, just as I was springing at the wall, and thought myself out of danger, "Hold! Down there, my young gentleman, in that dark corner amongst the brambles. You see that little heap of earth, which one might fancy a dead man alive had pushed up with his knees; well, there also is one of my comrades. Ho! halloo, Jerome!"

"Pere Seguin," said I, "this is unworthy of you; you have no right thus to mock at and disturb the dead; you only want to torment me; and I have already told you, and I repeat it, I feel exceedingly ill."

"Come, come along then—let us go. I shall return here presently to sleep. Good night, Madeleine!—good night, Jerome!—good night, all of you who are sleeping so quietly under the green turf!"—and it seemed to me, as these adieus were uttered, that icy breezes passed from every tomb across my face, whispering in my ears, "Good night!" and that the firs, the yews, the cypress bending across our path seemed to salute us as we left the horrible precincts.

We soon regained the town, and on the road there I would not have turned my head for a crown of rubies; Pere Seguin, meanwhile, coolly carrying his box of worms, which I would not have touched for the best place in Paradise.

The next morning, instead of fishing for barbel, I was unable to rise from my bed; and for fifteen nights I never closed my eyes without seeing in my dreams ghosts, and all the horrid details of the churchyard and the charnel-house.



CHAPTER IX.

Passage of the woodcock in November—Their laziness—Night travelling—Mode of snaring them at night—Numbers taken in this way—This sport adapted rather for the poacher—The braconnier of Le Morvan—His mode of life—The poacher's dog—The double poacher.

The object of this chapter will be to give the reader some little insight into the habits of the woodcock, and the mode of snaring them in the forests of Le Morvan, during the month of November. At the close of this month, Dame Nature's barometer, their instinct, far better than the quicksilver, tells them the December rains are close at hand; and that if they remain in their hiding-places in the low grounds, they will be driven out by the approaching deluge. They at length make up their minds to set forth on their travels. With a long-drawn sigh, therefore, the woodcock bids farewell to the old oaks that have sheltered it all the summer, and taking leave of its friendly comrades, the squirrels, it sets out on the first fine night for a more genial climate, to the delight, no doubt, of the neighbouring worms, who pop their heads out of window to witness its departure; and the moment their enemy is fairly out of sight, perform many a pirouette on the tip of their tails, and dance upon the grass in honour of the joyous event.

If a woodcock was not a woodcock, that is, one of the laziest birds in the creation, it might easily reach, in a few days' flight, the dry heaths, the hills, and elevated regions, which it loves; but woodcocks abhor all violent exercise, always preferring the use of their feet to that of their wings, which latter they never agitate, except when necessity requires. Well, they have now set out, and after marching all night by slow and easy stages, when morning comes our woodcocks make a halt wherever they happen to be, breakfast as best they may, and then ensconce themselves in some snug spot, where they doze the livelong day, till, refreshed by their twelve hours' rest, they set off again with renewed strength the moment the sun has gone down.

Thus it is that during the middle of November there is no regular flight, but a kind of circulation, of woodcocks, perambulating from the lower to the higher regions, and the gourmet and the sportsman fail not to stop them on their way.

As it is necessary in this kind of chasse to spend the night under the trees and on the damp moss, those who wish to enjoy it prepare for it accordingly by dressing themselves like Navarre, in a suit of sheepskins, and lay in a good store of cold meat and brandy.

During their nocturnal peregrinations, instinct leads the woodcock to follow ascending roads and open pathways, especially such as are completely exposed to the mild winds of the south and south-east only; they avoid walking through the woods, where the road is encumbered with brambles and other obstacles, which would oblige them to hop or fly far oftener than they like, occasionally leaving a portion of their feathers behind them. Moreover, their feet are tender, and they in consequence prefer the paths that are overgrown with grass, the open glades, or roads cut through the moss.

It is now that the sportsman who is well versed in the private history of the woodcock prepares his snares; for at this period of the year it is by them that they are taken.

Penetrating, therefore, the depths of the forest, the experienced chasseur soon discovers, in some secluded spot, a path well carpeted with verdure, lighted by a few stray moonbeams and sheltered from the wind, where he forthwith begins to lay his snares. Should the path be broad, he proceeds to contract it, strewing it partially with stones, brambles, and thorns; he likewise cuts down some twigs and branches, and sticks them into the ground at intervals, so as to present as many impediments and chevaux de frise as he can to thwart the progress of the lazy bird. The middle of the path should be left quite free, and wide enough to allow a couple of woodcocks to walk abreast. Into this narrow passage they all walk without suspicion, and their further progress is prevented by their falling into the trap which is laid to receive them.

This snare is placed across a hole about the size of a crown piece, and consists of a strong noose made of horsehair, which is fixed to a peg, and so arranged that the slightest touch causes it to rebound and catch them by the leg.

In the hole is laid a fine, fat, red worm, healthy and tempting, and, in order to prevent the poor prisoner's escaping, the sportsman has devised a method of keeping him down in spite of himself, by pinning him to the ground at one end with a long thorn—it is presumed worms do not feel; his miserable contortions attract the attention of the hungry woodcock, who immediately seizes this irresistible tit-bit.

Every preparation completed and the snare baited, the hole, the worm, and the noose are carefully covered over by a withered leaf—a second snare, similarly concealed, is set on the right, a third in the middle, and so on at a distance of three or four feet from each other. All is now in readiness, and twilight finds the sportsman covered up in his skins at some fifty paces from his traps. Here, after having comforted his inward man, and sharpened his sight by swallowing two or three glasses of cognac, addressing between them an invocation to his patron saint, he listens and waits.

On come the long-bills, looking right and left, pecking the ground, peering at the moon and the stars, and eating all they can find in their way. They now approach the dangerous defile, and some of the younger ones fly over the traps; others, more prudent, turn back; but the main body hold a council of war, when the staff officers having decided that these Thermopylae must be passed, first one woodcock and then another taking heart proceeds, and the sportsman hugs himself in his success on perceiving the whole troop making towards the baits he has spread for them. Before long one of the birds gets its leg entangled, totters, falls, rises again, but in doing so is made fast by the noose, and in spite of its efforts is unable to advance a step further. Another, hearing the sound of a worm struggling at the bottom of a hole, darts in its beak, with the charitable intention of ending the prisoner's sufferings, and on raising its head is suddenly seized by the neck. The sportsman now steals softly from his hiding-place, and, stooping down, smashes the woodcock's brain with his thumb nail, and so on with the next, after which he retreats to his post, and keeps up the game till dawn. Some persons will in this manner catch from twenty to thirty woodcocks in a single night; but they must be favourably placed, have a great number of snares, and, moreover, possess a considerable degree of skill, and tread lightly, (for the most important point, in this sport, is to make as little noise as possible,) and be very quick at putting the snares in order the moment they have been used—no easy work, in good sooth, seeing that it must be performed by an occasional ray of moonlight.

If late on the ground, and you have not sufficient time to obstruct and barricade the road as directed above, the earth may be turned up in the middle of the path and the snares placed across it; the woodcocks, in the hope of finding something to eat, will immediately walk on to it—but although this method occasionally succeeds it is far from being as good as the first, for the soil does not offer the same resistance as the turf, the holes get filled up, and the birds escape more easily.

The sportsman should mind and bag his game as fast as it is snared, or master Reynard, who has been watching the whole affair, will pounce upon his birds and carry them off, with a dozen nooses into the bargain.

Poachers reap an ample harvest of cash by this mode of taking woodcocks, while other sportsmen generally reap the rheumatism; and, truth to say, the silence and immobility that must be observed all night long, the intense cold, and the damp fogs which cover the forest in the early morning, are not very agreeable, and most gentlemen prefer staying at home, enjoying the innocent diversion of playing the flute, quarrelling with their wives, or emptying the bottle.

To succeed well in snaring woodcocks requires both skill and experience, and a thorough knowledge of the woods, the winds, the colour of the clouds, the age of the moon, the state of the atmosphere; and, in fact, short of being a poacher or a conjuror, how is it possible to know that the woodcocks will pass one spot rather than another in a space of several score of square miles, and amongst so many and such intricate paths. The braconnier alone is infallible on these points, and curious specimens of the human biped are these same poachers!

In the first place it must not be imagined that the poachers of Le Morvan bear the slightest resemblance to those of England. They are as much alike as Thames water and Burgundy wine. The English poacher is a rank vagabond, who invades every one's game-preserves at dead of night, and kills whatever he finds, whether hares, partridges, dogs, pheasants, or gamekeepers,—while ours are men following a legitimate occupation.

In Le Morvan, forests are open to all; there are no palings to get over, and no keepers to fear; the public may hunt, shoot, or snare what they please.

The poacher commences his hard apprenticeship in early childhood. Nature directs him to adopt this course of life, and endows him with a bold heart, a cool head, a sinewy frame, and an iron constitution. The incipient poachers soon leave the inhabited districts to live in the forests, with trees for their roof, and moss for their bed. They study alike the woods and the stars, and know the forest by heart, with its roads and glades, beaten tracks and untrodden paths. From sunrise to sunset they are always-a-foot, walking through the thickets, tramping over heaths, or stooping amongst the brushwood, listening, and looking everywhere, and by night and by day constantly making their observations on the direction of the wind, the habits of the animals that pass them, or the birds that fly over their heads.

In this way they ferret out every nook and every winding in the forest, and now here and now there build themselves a hut, live upon fruit, chestnuts, and their game, which they roast upon embers; and never come into a town except to purchase powder, shot and ball, or perhaps a pair of shoes, some tobacco, and brandy.

Such is the rough life of the youthful poacher, nor has he any companion during this wild period of his existence, excepting a dog, the faithful partner of his joys and dangers, and who becomes a devoted friend and brother for life. They live together, talk to each other, understand each other, and guess each other's slightest wish. I have seen a poacher talking to his dog by the hour together, the man laughing fit to split at what his canine companion was telling him in his own peculiar way, while the dog, rolling on the grass, barked with delight at what his master answered.

When on their shooting expeditions, a sign from his master, a nod, a wink, an uplifted finger, or the slightest whisper, are either of them sufficient for his guidance; he stops, or dashes onward, takes a leap, or crouches down, as the case may be, and never is he known to be at fault.

On his part the poacher has only to refer to his dog as to the pages of a book, and he reads at once in his slightest movements what is in the wind, what bird lies hidden in the grass, or what beast is cowering in the thicket. By the position of his head, the manner in which he scratches the ground, pricks his ear, or carries his tail, he understands as plainly as if he spoke whether he announces the proximity of a wolf, a partridge, a woodcock, a roebuck, a hare, or a rabbit.

I have known poachers who have told me half an hour beforehand what we were going to meet. Another would bid his dog bring him a leaf, a branch, a flower, or a mushroom, and off he went, sought, found, and brought back the identical article required. "Now, sing," said the poacher, and the dog began to sing; not, indeed, exactly like Mario, but he produced a kind of melodious growl, a sort of improvised musical lament over his solitary life, which had its charm. Most poachers are exceedingly fond of music, and as they are always singing in their leisure moments, of course their dog joins them; so that when they are both in the humour for it, they execute duets in the depths of the forest that make the very nightingales jealous.

By the time a poacher has acquired a complete knowledge of wood-craft, and that he knows familiarly every path and every bush in the forest, every hole and every stone in the mountains, together with the habits, character, and favourite haunts of every species of game; has made a reputation, and put by some money; that he is beginning to turn gray, and is verging on forty, his fondness for this savage kind of life begins to diminish, his rough exterior becomes somewhat softened, he purchases a solitary little cottage in some secluded spot, comes oftener into town, and occasionally partakes of its pleasures.

In poaching, as in everything else, there are varieties of taste, and degrees of superiority. Some fish, others hunt only the roebuck and the boar, others shoot squirrels and wild cats, others again excel in snaring woodcocks, while some are dead hands at scenting and tracking a wolf. Each poacher has his peculiar line, and each line furnishes a livelihood.

But when it happens, once in a way, that there is a man who unites a profound knowledge of the forest to an equally profound knowledge of the waters—who hunts, tracks, and shoots all sorts of game with equal success, and is also an expert fisherman, then he is a superior man of his kind, complete at all points, a sort of Napoleon in his way, and his countrymen bestow on him the title of the "double poacher,"—for thus was called my worthy friend Le Pere Seguin.



CHAPTER X.

The woodcock—Its habits in the forests of Le Morvan—Aversion of dogs to this bird—Timidity of the woodcock—Its cunning—Shooting in November—The Woodcock mates—The Woodcock fly.

In the last and preceding chapters, the imaginative and romantic have predominated almost to the entire exclusion of any description of the wild sports of Le Morvan, and I fear that the sporting reader, not generally of a very sentimental taste, will ere this have become impatient, and perhaps a little angry at the delay. I trust, however, that I may be able to soften his indignation, and by the following sketches gratify the expectations naturally raised in his mind by the first words of the title-page. Of boar and wolf-hunting we shall speak further on: my present object will be to give a description, not only of the woodcock-shooting in Burgundy and Le Morvan, but also of the habits, etc., of that bird.

In the forests of which we are writing, the woodcock is not a mere bird of passage, as in other European countries; it does not fly beyond sea, like the swallow and most of the emigrating feathered tribes, nor does it disappear like the quail, at a fixed period, and reappear at a given moment. Here the woodcock seldom if ever deserts the forests which have been its constant abode, and the sportsman is sure to find it nearly all the year round. I have said nearly, for though not seeking other climes, it requires a change of locality to secure a certain temperature.

For instance, in the months of May, June, July, and August, woodcocks are to be found in elevated spots, such as mountains covered with large trees, or in warm open places on their slopes. At the first approach of cold weather they leave the hills, and come down into the plains, concealing themselves in the underwood, or the fern, or in the high grass, when the snow begins to fall. The woodcock is a melancholy bird, and somewhat misanthropic. Its habits are eminently anti-social; it flies but little, so little indeed that its wings seem scarcely of any use, and with the laziness already alluded to that forms its characteristic feature, it seeks out a solitary spot, and having dug a hole amongst the dry leaves, there it will squat for days together without stirring. It likewise delights to cower under the gnarled roots of an old oak, or to hide itself in a holly-bush, and apparently derives so much satisfaction from its own meditations, and seems to hold all other birds of the forest in such utter contempt, that it never by any chance deigns to join their sports, or mingle in their joyous songs. The woodcock seeks the darkest and most silent thickets, and likes a marly soil, damp meadows, and the neighbourhood of brooks and stagnant water.

But though motionless and torpid, so long as the sun is above the horizon, woodcocks are always on the alert, and wake and shake their feathers the moment night comes; leaving the shady thickets and grassy spots, they flock to the glades and little paths of the woods, and thrust their long beaks into the soft, damp soil—for this bird, be it remembered, never touches either corn or fruit, but lives entirely upon grubs and earth-worms.

It naturally follows that the woodcock, which finds its food in slimy marshes, with head bent, and eyes fixed upon the ground, possesses none of the gaiety and vivacity of other birds, holds but a very low place in the scale of animal intelligence, and possesses a large share of that stupidity peculiar to the dull species that were formed to live in the mire.

The size of the woodcock varies exceedingly; they are much smaller than the domestic fowl, but heavier and larger than the heath partridge; yet there are some which are as small as a wood-pigeon, and even less. Their plumage is dark, and harmonizes admirably with the trunks of the trees and moss amongst which they dwell. Even in the daylight, and at a distance of only twenty paces, it is impossible to distinguish a woodcock, as it lies motionless, with closed wings, and neck extended on the ground, amongst the withered leaves.

When walking on the grass, there is a certain elegance in its movements, while the beautiful chiar' oscuro tints of its wings, the gray and orange hues on its breast, its long black legs streaked with pink, its large beak, small head, and symmetrical proportions, combine to render it a bird of no ordinary beauty. Though its eyes are piercing and very open, the woodcock only sees distinctly at twilight, and its flight is never so even or so rapid, nor its motions so brisk, or its gait so regular, as at nightfall or at dawn of day.

The flesh is black, firm, and of a game flavour, and, with the wise, is a most dainty morsel, a royal tit-bit. But dogs think differently, and have such an aversion to its smell, that they hunt, seize, and bring it back much against their will; and, difficult as it may be to account for this antipathy, it seems to be as inherent in canine nature, as the antipathy which all ladies show to contradiction is in the human.

Far removed from the strife that occasionally rages amidst the feathered tribes of the forest, or the more formidable struggles of its four-footed inhabitants, whose howls occasionally startle the silence of night, and quite indifferent as to whether a fox or a wolf is seated on the sylvan throne, the woodcock, like a true philosopher, in the depths of the thicket, leads a calm and sedentary life, requiring no other elements of happiness than moonlight, rest, and a few worms. Its tastes are so humble, its wants so few; it mixes so little with the world, and is so ignorant of all intrigue, that nothing can exceed its innocence. Like those honest country-folks who can never manage to shake off their native simplicity, its instinct never puts it on its guard against a snare, and consequently it falls into the first that is set for it.

A complete stranger to the fierce emotions that excite the savage nature of those animals that live constantly at war with one another, the peaceful woodcock—the bird of twilight—is startled by the least noise, and stunned by the slightest accident. Many a time, at dawn of day, when lying in wait for the passage of a fox, a roebuck, or a wolf, have I seen two, three, four, even five woodcocks slowly issue from their leafy covert, and advance with measured step towards the open glade, apparently without imagining that by leaving the shade of the trees they were exposing themselves to being seen. On they walked, searching by the way, plunging from time to time their long beaks into the grass, and shaking their heads right and left to enlarge the hole, they breakfasted luxuriously on the worms that crept out of it.

Concealed behind an oak-tree, I have sometimes been highly amused by watching their motions, nor had I the least wish to disturb them, not caring to rouse the echoes of the forest for such insignificant game. So the woodcocks went on with their manoeuvres, holding down their heads, with eyes intent upon the grass, evidently engrossed by their own occupation. In this manner they unconsciously advanced close to me, when suddenly rising from the ground I gave a loud shout, at which the startled birds were so panic-struck that they literally fell down, and fluttering their wings, without having the power to fly, looked at me with rolling eye-balls, while their beaks opened as if to call for help, emitting nothing but inarticulate sounds, that seemed so many prayers for mercy. Somewhat relieved of their worst fears, on perceiving that I had no evil intentions, they rushed away head over heels, and sought refuge under their favourite roots. The recollection of this scene, which only lasted seven or eight seconds, has often made me laugh.

Yet notwithstanding this general want of presence of mind, the woodcock displays some cunning in extreme danger,—such as when the shot is whistling past its feathers, or when the hawk is wheeling about in the air above its head; its faculties then seem to awaken, its blood circulates more freely, a spark of intelligence seems to flash across its usually obtuse brain, and the magnitude of the peril suggests an excellent means of escaping from its enemies. During the daytime, for instance, when, snugly ensconced in its hole, and with its ear close to the ground, the woodcock hears you approach from afar, instead of rising and taking refuge amongst the trunks of the surrounding trees, it first reflects solemnly whether it is worth while to disturb itself for so slight a noise, and quit its leafy bed, where it lies so warm and comfortable. After all, it may be only a hare running past—or perhaps a roebuck grazing in the neighbourhood—so the woodcock waits, then listens, then stands up and begins to move; on hearing your thick shoes trampling the withered branches, it stands motionless, not daring to stir, nor can it make up its mind to fly until it feels the breath of your dog. Then it rises rapidly enough.

It flies straight, but its flight is not even, and at the distance of about fifty paces, and just as you are going to fire, the woodcock, well aware that the sportsman's eye is upon it, and shrewdly guessing that thunder and lightning is about to follow, changes his tactics, and lowering its flight, so as to avoid the mortal aim, suddenly plunges down behind a bush. The sportsman, who, not aware of this specious manoeuvre, fires at this juncture, thinks the bird has fallen dead, and forthwith runs to pick it up, but no woodcock can he find; for on raising his eyes, lo! and behold, he sees the provoking bird some five hundred paces distant, cleaving the air with sails full set; and as his eyes follow it still further, he perceives it flying with all its might, ever and anon prudently ducking down to avoid the second barrel.

This is one of the woodcock's best stratagems, and it succeeds ten times out of twelve, at least with the tyros among sportsmen.

When fairly tired by its flight, the woodcock drops into the underwood, and is then completely lost to the sportsman; for, once on the ground, it runs with the greatest celerity, its wings working rapidly like a couple of paddles, and vanishing beneath the leaves, falls fainting into some snug corner.

In Brittany and in Lower Normandy this ornament of the table and delight of the sportsman is found in great numbers at a certain season of the year. In Picardy, and in the neighbourhood of Boulogne, I have sometimes knocked over as many as twenty woodcocks in one day, while on the morrow and the day following I could not flush three. Such is not the case in Le Morvan, where they are, as we have before remarked, to be found all the year round; the proper seasons, however, for shooting them are three. These are, the month of November, before the rains set in; the month of April, when they mate; and the sultry months of June and July; the period of drought and of the dog-days. In the interim of these epochs they are allowed to enjoy themselves, and suffered to fatten quietly in their dark thickets. I shall, therefore, only notice these three periods.

In foggy or cloudy nights, when the branches of the trees are dripping wet, the woodcock, ensconced in its hole, feels no hunger, moves not, and would not venture abroad for love or money; but should the sky prove clear, and the moon shine forth, lighting up the forest paths, the delighted bird steals from its dwelling, shakes its feathers, and sallies forth on its adventures. For the woodcock, like poets and lovers, is fond of the moonlight and the sweet perfumes of evening. Hence it is that sportsmen in France call the full moon of November "the woodcock's moon," and they hail its appearance with as much rejoicing as do the foxes, wild cats, and poachers, all of whom make sad havoc amongst the long-beaked tribe during this fatal period.

The woodcock has been described as an idle, heavy, timid, and stupid bird, which passes the greater portion of the day in lethargic slumbers, in gazing at the south, at the growing grass, or the falling leaves; rejoicing only in silence and solitude; and such is the case during nine months of the year. In the spring, however, it is quite otherwise; the woodcock then mates, and, ere April showers have passed away, becomes animated, sociable, and full of life; and, more extraordinary still, its voice, till then mute, may actually be heard.

Yes, at this delightful season the woodcock is no longer silent, its tongue is loosened, it breathes its tale of love, and, with joyful notes, proclaims its happiness morning and night; and yet there are those who would make us believe that the tender passion is useless, that love is tom-foolery, or that it does not exist. To these blind blasphemers, who thus deny its power, I would respectfully say, Come to Le Morvan, and observe the woodcock, and then dare to say that love is an untruth. Why, love is the great magician of the universe, the sun of our minds, a path of fragrant violets, a perfect copse of millefleurs, before which we all bend our hearts, aye, and, with vastly few exceptions, our heads too. Yes, we all, at some period of our lives, taste the delicious draught, and some drink deep of it, either to their life-long happiness or the reverse. Love effects many a miracle, changes everything, bows the neck of the proud, opens the eyes of the blind, and shuts them for those who have very good sight; teaches the dumb to speak, and those who are very loquacious to be silent. When the rosy and naked little boy makes his appearance with his quiver, all is joy and unreflecting happiness; when he is at home with his mamma, alas! the world is all in shadow. The woodcocks, in like manner, are amiable, eloquent, and engaging as long as the fumes of love affect their brain; but when these are dissipated, they are dumb, and ten times more stupid than they were before; and, dear me, how many human woodcocks, robed in satin and balzarine, or sheathed in kerseymere trousers, are the same.

But, shades of Buffon and Linnaeus! we must not thus rattle on, but proceed to describe the nuptial couch of the delicious bird under our consideration. The woodcock, like all those of the feathered tribe that do not perch, makes its nest on the ground, which is composed of leaves, fern, and dry grass, intermixed with little bits of stick, and strengthened by larger pieces placed across it. This nest, made without much art or care, in form like a large brown ball, is generally placed under, and sheltered by the root of some old tree. Four or five eggs, a little larger than those of the common pigeon, of a dirty gray and yellow colour, and marked with little black spots, are the proofs of its maternity. The woodcock, as I have before remarked, has only the gift of talking in the spring season, when soft breezes fan the air, and they educate their young. Nevertheless, it is in this season that woodcock-shooting is the most amusing. Then is the time for gentlemen to shoot; the braconnier despises it. From the middle of April to that of May is the important epoch at which the generality of animals marry, and the woodcocks are not behindhand in this respect; they leave their well-concealed retreats, become humanized, solicit the attentions of their feathered ladies, and fly with gay inspirations amongst the neighbouring bushes. But though as much in love as a widow, the woodcock does not on that account forget its habitual prudence; like the usurer who lends his money, and takes every precaution, the woodcock is equally careful, and does not leave its nest till twilight has draped the earth in the gray mantle of evening. When the humid atmosphere descends slowly on the trees, when the cool breezes of night ascend the valleys, when distant objects begin to assume a fantastic shape, when the branches of the oak near you, like the arms of a giant, wave to and fro, and seem to ask you to approach; when the withered tree, devoid of leaves, looks like a brigand on the watch, or your comrade, ensconced against it, seems to form a portion of it at a hundred yards off; when, in short, the sportsman can see only a few yards before him, then is the moment that the circumspect and wily woodcock leaves its abode, and pays a nocturnal visit to his friends; and man, his enemy, and still more cunning, is on the alert. The sport which we are about to describe, and which does not last longer than from thirty to forty minutes, has something particularly taking in it. At the close of day a universal silence reigns in the forest, and every sportsman is at his post with bated breath, and eyes dilated as wide as a woman's listening to a neighbouring gossip's tale, when, all at once—pray note this well, reader—a little fly, which plays a prominent part in all sport a l'affut (in ambush)—a little fly, about the size of a pea, regularly makes its appearance, and wheeling round your head, fidgets you for five minutes with its buzzing b-r-r-r-r-r-r-oo. In this way the little insect informs you the woodcocks have left the underwood, that they are approaching, and that it hears them coming; and odd or marvellous as it may seem, this signal of the little fly, which never misleads you—this signal which falls upon your ear just at the proper and precise moment, is as certain as that two and two make four. Be not sceptical, and imagine that this is chance; no such thing. Go when you will to the chasse a l'affut, station yourself in whichever part of the forest you like, be assured the fly will be there; it was never otherwise. The question is, who sends the fly? how does it know the sportsman? and by what mysterious chronometer does it regulate with such exactness its movements? Chi lo sa? He who doth not let a sparrow fall to the ground without He willeth it. Equally incomprehensible is the departure of this little insect, which, the concert over, and when you are thoroughly on the qui vive, ceases its buzz, and is heard no more. At this very moment, the silence in which you have till then remained is suddenly broken by shouts of "They come! they come!" quickly followed by bang, bang, bang along the glade; and here indeed they are, at first by twos and threes, and then a compact flight, whirling along with appealing cries of love, fluttering, and flapping their wings, and pursuing one another from bush to bush. They show now neither fear nor circumspection, and crazy, blind, and deaf, scarcely seem to notice the noise, the flashes, or the cries of the sportsmen. At length all is in complete confusion. They toss and twirl about like great leaves in a hurricane, and finally fly, with their ranks somewhat diminished, to their several homes. This sport lasts but a short half-hour; after which, the woodcocks having said all they had to say, made and accepted their engagements for the following day, vanish as if by magic, like the puff of a cigar, a shadow, or a royal promise, and the same silence that preceded their arrival reigns once more in the forest. No gun is loaded after their departure; the sportsmen assemble, count the dead, never so numerous, as one might suppose, and having bagged them, also retire from the scene. I have known one person kill four couple of woodcocks in this manner, but it was quite an exceptional case; two or three is nearer the usual number. Chance, as in war, in marriage, in everything, is frequently the secret of success; but if you are not cool and collected, and handy with your gun, you will scarce carry a salmi home to your expectant friends. To the young sportsman, the novelty, confusion, and hubbub of these evening shooting-parties are perfectly bewildering; Parisian cockneys, above all, are quite beside themselves, shutting first one eye and then the other, firing, of course, without having taken any aim, and eventually beating a retreat without a feather in their game-bags. But to the veteran, this fevered half-hour, this brief chasse, is most delightful; everything conspires to make it lively and exciting. The party, ten or twelve jolly dogs, have generally dined together, and the onslaught over, they all return by the pale moonlight, shoulder to shoulder, singing snatches of some old hunting-song, the stars overhead and the woodcocks on their backs. A young Parisian and college friend of mine, Adolphe Gustave de——, very rich and very witty, whom, after many unsuccessful attempts, I induced to leave the capital, and pass six months with me in the deserts, as he called them, of Le Morvan, loved this species of sport intensely, though he never shot anything. His bag, however, was always better filled than that of any of his comrades, for though a wretched shot, he had the wit to stand near a good one, and as he was wonderfully quick with his legs, eyes, and fingers, he was constantly picking up his neighbour's birds, vowing all the time they were his own shooting.



CHAPTER XI.

Fine names—Gustavus Adolphus and the cabbages—Gustavus Adolphus! no hero!—The Parisian Sportsman—Partridge-shooting despicable—Wild boar-hunting—Rousing the grisly monster—His approach—The post of honour—Good nerves—The death—The trophy and congratulations.

Few persons well acquainted with France can have failed to observe how fond the lower orders, indeed all classes, are of giving high-sounding names to their children; and it is sometimes truly amusing to notice the strange upset of associations which in consequence jar the auricular nerve, and illustrate the singularly exalted notions of the godfathers and godmothers. "Gustave Adolphe!" I once heard an old cook vociferate from the kitchen of a small inn to a boy in the yard. "Gustave Adolphe!" shrieked the aged heroine of the sauce-pans, pitching her voice in A alto, "Coupez donc les choux!" Cutting cabbages! What an antithesis to the glorious victor of Lutzen. The remark will apply with equal force to the Gustave Adolphe of the last chapter, though on a different point, and the contrast between the great Gustavus and he of Paris, was most diverting. My accomplished friend, a charming dancer, a beau parleur, a first-rate singer, who made sad havoc among the fresh and fair gazelles of every ballroom, this tremendous chasseur-de-salon, I very soon perceived, was by no means so tremendous in the stubbles;—a covey fairly startled him, and if a hare rose between his legs he turned quite pale.

"My good fellow," I said to him one day, seeing his extraordinary trepidation, "if you are so staggered by a covey of partridges, what in the world will you do when I set you face to face with a wolf or a wild boar?"

"Oh! that is a very different affair. A wolf or a wild boar? Why, I should kill one and eat the other, of course."

"Not so easy," I should think, "for a novice like you."

"Novice, indeed! me a novice. Oh! you are quite in error. The fact is, these devils of birds and rabbits lie hidden, do you see, under the grass like frogs, one never knows where; so that I never see them till they are all but in my eyes, or cutting capers like Taglioni's under my feet, and your dogs putting out their tongues, and staring at me."

"Why, of course they do; the intelligent brutes are ready to expire at your awkwardness."

"Much obliged to you for the compliment. Again, you say, they turn their tails to the right by way of telling me that I am to go to the left; and to the left, when I am to walk to the right. Who, I ask you, is to understand such telegraphs as these? I have not yet learned how to converse with dogs' tails—intelligence, indeed! I believe it is all humbug; for, when my whole soul is absorbed in watching the tips of these very tails, a crowd of partridges jump up just in front of me, making as much noise as if they were drummers beating the retreat. If I am hurried and stupefied"....

"And if," I added, "you are much disposed to throw down your gun as to fire it."

"Well! supposing I am; what is the wonder? 'Tis no fault of mine—I am not used to partridge-shooting! I am not a wild man of the woods, like you! I did not cut my teeth gnawing a cartridge, as you did!"

"Come, come! don't be affronted."

"Affronted? No; but you have no consideration. You're a Robin Hood, an exterminator! if you look at one partridge, you kill four! You sleep with your rifle, turn your game-bag into a nightcap, and shave with a couteau-de-chasse!"

"May be so! but let us have the fact."

"The fact! Then I hate your long-tailed dogs, and your detestable flights of noisy birds! Let me have them one by one, like larks in the plain of St. Denis, and I'll soon clear the province for you."

"Upon my word, Adolphe, we should have something to thank you for!"

"I tell you what, Henri; those partridges, after all, are trumpery things to kill. 'Tis mere hurry that prevents my hitting them. Don't imagine I am frightened! If you wish to give me real pleasure, let us go to India and shoot a lion or a tiger;—give me a chance with an elephant!"

"Willingly; but allow me to suggest, that if we set out for India, we shall not get back in time for dinner."

"We will keep in Europe, then; but, at least, show me some game worthy of me. A serpent—I will cut him in two at a stroke. A bull—I will soon send a brace of balls into him."

"Well done! just like a Parisian."

"Parisian! Pray what do you mean by that?"

"A boaster, if you prefer the word."

"Ha! ha! a boaster, indeed! Do you mean to say that I'm afraid of a bull?"

"Of course not. However, as there are no bulls here, I will send the head piqueur upon the track of a wild boar which was seen near the chateau last night; he will exactly suit you. I consider him as doomed."

"Thank you, Henri; thank you; the moment I am fairly in front of him, I shall fire at his eyes, and no doubt lodge both balls in them. Poor Belisarius! how he will charge me in his agony! but I shall retire, reload, and then, having drawn my hunting-knife, dispatch him without further ceremony."

"Never fear, you shall have the post of honour; and if you do not turn upon your heel, why, my dear friend, you will rise at least a dozen pegs in my estimation."

"Turn on my heel! you little know me; and then, what a sensation I shall create in Paris with my boar's skin. I'll have it stuffed, gild his tusks, and silver-mount his hoofs. I shall be quite the hero of the salons."

That very afternoon orders were given to the head-keeper to send the traqueurs into the forest on the following day, and on their return, they announced that not only traces of wild boar had been met with, but one had actually been seen. Great were the preparations and cleaning of rifles and couteaux-de-chasse when this intelligence was received; but, in spite of his assumed composure, Adolphe's ardour seemed considerably to diminish, and the conversation that evening over the fire was not calculated to inspire him with fresh courage.

"How very soon they find the boar!" said he to me. "Tell me how the affair commences."

"Why these traqueurs are not long in discovering him. They know exactly where to look for one, for they study their habits; the traces of the grisly rascal are seen by them immediately; they mark his favourite paths, the thickets he prefers, the marshy ground in which he delights to wallow, and then as to the times he is likely to be seen, they can tell almost to a minute when he will pass,—for the wild boar is very methodical, and an excellent time-piece. The animal, therefore, having been traced, and his retreat carefully ascertained, a day is fixed, and each person having been assigned a separate post, remains watching for his appearance on his way to or from his haunt."

"Oh! of course, they merely watch and wait," replied Adolphe, with a hollow, unmeaning laugh.

"Yes; but you don't suppose that a boar will allow himself to be killed as easily as a squirrel. I fear, in spite of all your professions, you will find it not so agreeable a sport as shooting larks on the plain of St. Denis. The bristly fellow who comes trotting and grunting towards you, showing his teeth, stopping occasionally to sharpen them against the root of some old oak, is not generally in the best of humours; but you can, at any rate, reckon upon the great advantage,—the want of which you deprecate in partridge-shooting. For instance, you cannot fail to see him; you have notice of his coming; you are not taken off your guard, and they very seldom appear but one at a time. It is a combat face to face, and his, with two long prominent teeth, so unfortunate in a woman, and positively hideous in a boar, effectually warns you that it is well you should be prepared to receive him. But the excitement is grand; after the volley every one is at him with his knife, and, with the exception of a few inexperienced dogs, and a Parisian novice like yourself, who, of course, are occasionally put hors de combat, the affair ends gloriously. Yes, yes, I am beginning to think you are right, Adolphe; partridge-shooting and knocking over a timid hare is very cowardly sport."

The traqueurs also, whom Adolphe catechised, in the hope of preserving his own skin entire at the same time, though they gave him all sorts of good advice, failed not to add to it, as people of their class generally do, a budget of most fearful histories and hair-breadth escapes—of horses and dogs ripped open, and men killed or gored; but that which put a finishing-stroke to Adolphe's courage, was the entrance of a friend of mine, who had himself been a sad sufferer in one of these adventures. Wounded, but not mortally, the boar had charged him before he could reload, tearing up with his tusk the inside of his thigh; and, as he lay insensible on the ground, gnawing one of his calves off before any one could come to his assistance. During the next two months death shook him by the hand in vain, for he had fortunately an excellent constitution; "And, though the proportions of his left leg," whispered I, "have been restored by a slice out of a friendly cork-tree, he is, as you see, quite recovered."

"True enough!" said the new arrival, who had overheard the concluding remark, "and if you have any doubts, Sir, I will show you my leg;" but Adolphe, thoroughly convinced, declined the offer, and retired to his room for the night.

The dawn was yet gray, when the court-yard of the Chateau d'Erveau presented a very animated appearance; horses, dogs, and beaters were walking up and down, neighing, yelping, and conversing,—the huntsman every now and then winding his horn, giving notice to the inmates that all was ready. The morning was superb, and as the party filed out of the yard, doffing their beavers to the ladies, who, screened behind their window-curtains, dared not return their salute, Adolphe was a little reassured. Long, however, before they reached their hunting-ground, his chivalrous feelings had so far forsaken him, that he had serious thoughts of returning, on the plea of indisposition.

"Why do you lag so far behind?" said I, riding up to him at this juncture, "why your nose is quite white. Nay, don't blush; braver men than you have felt far from comfortable the first time they went boar-hunting. You are afraid. Come, don't deny it; but, never mind, I will not quit you for a moment."

"With all my heart; for, though I cannot exactly say I am afraid, yet that infernal cork-leg is continually dancing before my eyes."

"I have not the least doubt of it; and, by Terpsichore! what a pretty thing it would be to see the handsome Gustave Adolphe de M—— dancing polkas and redowas in the drawing-rooms of the Faubourg St. Germain with a cork-leg or a gutta-percha calf! The very idea gives me the cramp in every toe."

Conversing much in the same strain, the eight chasseurs arrived at the rendezvous, where they dismounted. The beaters and gardes-de-chasse were all at their posts, and on the alert to the movements of the boar, and as we advanced deeper in the forest, the conversation, which had been so lively on our setting forth, flagged, and at length subsided into an occasional remark on the obstacles which impeded our progress. Nothing renders a man more reserved than his approach to an anticipated danger. I looked askance at Adolphe, and saw that his teeth rattled like castanets; and when the foremost keepers, in doubt as to the track, blew a plaintive note, which, ere it died away, was answered by another in the distance, showing that we were in the right one, Adolphe's breathing became stentorious behind me. And then as the branches and hazel twigs, through which we forced our way more rapidly, flew back and struck him in the face, he supplicated me to stop.

"Not so fast, my dear friend, not so fast! Have mercy on my Parisian legs! Misericorde! I cannot proceed. Do stop! There, my nose is skinned by that last branch! Good—there, my breeches are breaking! For pity's sake, stop!" But to stop was impossible; and I remained silent, having quite enough to do looking out for myself. At length we arrived at the appointed spot. Adolphe, in a state bordering on the crazy, his clothes in shreds, his face and hands bleeding from the thorns, anger in his blood, and perspiration on his brow, his furious eyes looked at me as if I had been the author of his misfortunes. And here a scene would most undoubtedly have ensued, but happily the head piqueur arrived, informing us that the boar was in a thick patch of underwood, about two miles from thence, in which he was supposed to be taking his mid-day siesta, and that a number of peasants having headed him on one side, he could not well escape. Our measures were quickly taken.

"Serpolet," said I to the piqueur, "have you seen the animal?"

"At a distance, Monsieur."

"What is he like?"

"Oh! a tremendous fellow—long legs, enormous head, large tusks, and such a muzzle!—he breaks through everything. A fortunate thing, Monsieur, the dogs were not with us."

"Well!" said I to my father, "of course this gentleman is to have the place of honour."

"The place of honour!" cried Adolphe, "which is the place of honour?"

"Why, the most dangerous to be sure," replied my father, "the third or fourth post from where he breaks cover. The first or second shots seldom kill him; wounded, he continues his course, and, savage and ferocious, generally turns upon the third or fourth chasseur, at whom, with lowered head and glaring eye, he charges in full career. Oh! it is then a splendid sight, worth all the journey from Paris! Forward, my lads, forward! Hurrah! for the boar!"

"And thus—" groaned Adolphe, with thickened speech, not at all charmed with this description of his onset.

"And thus," remarked my father, with a bow of the old regime, "you shall be fourth, and you will see the sturdy grunter in all his beauty. Come, my boys! a glass of the cognac all round; then silence, and each to his post. Here, Serpolet, forward with them, and remember, gentlemen, the word of command is 'Prudence and coolness!' Off! and may your stout hearts protect you!"

Then filing out from the glade where we had halted, each of us proceeded to his destination, the valiant Adolphe following Serpolet like a dog going to be drowned.

"Monsieur," said Serpolet, "you don't seem used to this fun; let a graybeard and an old huntsman advise you. I have seen the animal—actually seen him—a terrible boar, I promise you, as black as ink, clean legs, and ears well apart,—all true signs of courage. As sure as my name is Serpolet, he will make mince-meat of us—sure to charge. Take my advice, Monsieur; never mind what the gentlemen say about waiting; don't you let him get nearer to you than five-and-twenty paces; if not, in three bounds he will be at you; and in another second you will be opened like an oyster. Take care, Monsieur!"—and, wishing him success, Serpolet joined the beaters, who were waiting, all ready to advance.

"What shall we do?" said Adolphe as soon as he was gone.

"Do, why, take a look about us."

We were in a kind of low, open glade, about eighty paces in length, with an immense oak in the centre—a solitary spot, full of thick rushes, tufts of grass, brambles, and matted roots; in short, just the place that a boar would make his head-quarters. Adolphe accompanied me step by step, examined me from head to foot, and looked in my face as if he would read my every thought.

"Well, Adolphe," said I, after I had considered the principal points of our position, "the moment has at length arrived when you must draw your courage from the scabbard; and I hope it will shine like the light, for something tells me you will require it ere long."

"I'll tell you what; I beg you will not commence any of your long orations."

"If I talk to you now, it is because I shall not be able in a few minutes. Pay attention, therefore, to my instructions. Remain, I advise you, behind this oak, then you will have nothing to fear, and be sure not to leave it. I will place myself at the angle down yonder."

"Down there! Why you said you would not leave me for an instant."

"Come, come, don't be absurd; the moments are precious; you see I shall only be distant an hundred yards."

"An hundred yards! I tell you what—if you go ten yards, I go too."

"What! are you afraid? We are alone; come, be frank."

"No! I am not afraid, but my nerves are shaken; I am thoroughly done up with the scramble we have had through these woods; and then that rascal Serpolet, who prophesied that I shall be opened like an oyster—you shall not go, for I feel sure that when this brute of a boar makes his appearance, I shall be unable to look him in the face."

"My dear friend, I will do as you desire. We have still half an hour to wait; but remember, no imprudence—and if you should see my finger raised, mind, not a word or a sign."

As I uttered this apostrophe, a long and harmonious note from the head-keeper's horn, vibrating in the distance, came and died away upon our ears; after which, a confused clamour of voices arose, and as suddenly ceased.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" said I; "the traqueurs are on the move, the curtain is raised, the play is about to commence—and, dear friend, be silent as death, for the actor will soon make his appearance on the stage."

During the next ten minutes, a murmur of voices and confused sounds were again borne on the wind to the two sportsmen, announcing that the line of beaters was steadily advancing, and now they could distinctly hear them at intervals, striking the trunks of the trees with their long iron-shod poles, thrusting them in the underwood, and shouting in chorus the song of the boar.

Again the horn is heard; but now its notes are sharp, shrill, jerking and hurried.

"That, my good Adolphe, denotes that the boar has risen, has been driven from his lair, is in view, flying before the beaters, and I am very much mistaken if he does not ere long pay us a visit."

Another blast is heard, but in very different tones to the last, and silence is again spread over the forest.

"There, Adolphe—there's a joyous and melodious note; it tells me that the monster is following his usual paths—we are sure to see him soon. By St. Hubert, what lucky dogs we are!"

But the Parisian answered not, and leaned against his oak, a perfect picture of despair.

"Adolphe," I reiterated, "he won't be here yet, but speak low, or we may spoil everything. How do you feel? Do you think you can take good aim, and pull the trigger?"

"I feel," whispered Adolphe, "that I am not cut out for boar-hunting."

"Bah! Why, the other day you seemed to think it would be delightful, and now you don't appear to like the sport; keep your heart up, be cool, and all will be well;—it is only on grand occasions—those when real danger presents itself, as you told me the other day—that the proofs of undoubted courage show themselves; and then the ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain that you were to soften with your tales of forest life—'Mademoiselles,' you were to commence, 'when I was in Le Morvan, we had famous wolf and boar-hunting, and on one occasion'"....

"No! no!" groaned the Parisian, "I shall commence thus: On one occasion, nay, ladies, on all occasions, I much prefer being in your delightful society to that of the boars of Le Morvan."

"Nonsense, good Adolphe, you are laughing; why, you were to have the skin stuffed, the tusks gilt, the feet silver-mounted, and the tail was to be scarlet and curly. What! do you think no more about it?"

"Oh, yes! and of the cork calves also."

"Pooh! have we not two good hunting-knives and four iron bullets in the rifles, and a magnificent oak, a perfect wooden tower, for a breastwork."

"Yes! we have all this."

"And is not courage your father, and an excellent aim your mother, and is not death to the boar in our barrels?"

"Certainly!—death—oh! what a word at such a crisis!"—and on the instant two shots were heard, which made him jump again.

"Ah! ah!—good; that's the old gentleman who has led off the ball; the music of his rifle is not to be mistaken. The grisly vagabond has by this time two bits of iron in his flanks, which will considerably hasten his march. Silence! and be on the qui vive. Listen! Hear you not the distant crash in the bushes?" Two fresh shots were now fired, but nearer. "Said I not so? he is running the gauntlet—one more shot. Hush again! there he is, tearing along. Hark! not a whisper; your eye on the open, your ear to the wind, and your finger on the trigger!" But it was not the boar; for at the moment two roebucks and a fox broke near us, bounding along at full speed, when Adolphe, his face as pale as his cambric shirt, muttered, as he nearly fell upon his knees—"Oh! Paris—oh! Chevet—oh! Boulevard des Italiens—I shall never see ye more!"

"Why, Adolphe! what the deuce is the matter with you? in the name of France, be a man. If my time is to be taken up with looking after you, I shall be in a nice situation. No nonsense—no useless fears? Do you, or do you not feel able to take part in the approaching drama?"

"No, I don't—I only just feel able to get up this tree."

"What! are you in such a funk as all that? Why, what a poor creature you must be! You are the very incarnation of fear!"

"Fear? I have no fear. Who says that I have? I don't know how it is, but I certainly do feel something—a sort of qualm, something like sea-sickness—everything seems going round—no doubt a sudden indisposition—such a thing might happen to the bravest man—Napoleon, they say, was bilious at Borodino. We part for a few minutes only, dear friend; I shall ascend the oak—an English king once did the same."

Another blast of the keeper's horn was now heard on the left.

"What does that mean?" cried Adolphe, one leg in the air.

"That signifies, the boar is making right for us."

"Does it? Then I am up;" and, with the agility of a cat, he was in an instant safely lodged in the branches. "Ah! my friend! how different it feels up here—the sickness is quite gone off, hand me the gun."

"In the name of Fortune," said I, "hold your coward tongue—here's the boar;" for I could now hear his snorting and loud breathing in the copse hard by.

"Do you hear him?" said Adolphe from his perch, his cheeks as green as the leaves which covered him.

"Hear him?" I exclaimed, "yes, I partly see him. What a monster! How he tears the ground!—how he bleeds and gnaws his burning wounds!—every hair of his back stands up, smoke and perspiration flow from his nostrils, and his eyes, glaring with agony and concentrated rage, look as if they would start from their sockets!"

On came the beaters, and in a few minutes the panting beast burst from his thicket, and rushed across the open; my eye was on every movement, and, firing both barrels, the contents struck him full in front. It was his death-blow, but the vital principle was yet unsubdued; and, summoning up all his dying energies—those which despair alone can give—he came at me with a force that I could never have withstood. Fortunately the Parisian's gun was close to me, and the charge stopped him in full career. This was the coup de grace. He still, however, by one grand effort, stood nobly on his haunches, opened his monstrous mouth, all red with blood, gave out one sharp deep groan of agony from his stifled lungs, and, falling upon his side, after many a wild convulsion, at length stretched his massive and exhausted frame slowly out in death.

"Hurrah! Adolphe! you rascally acorn! shout, you badaud! give the death-whoop, and come down!"

"Is he really dead?"

"Dead! Why, don't you see he is? Come down I say—come, descend from your Belvedere—the farce is played out, and your legs are all right. You are a rank coward! however, no one is aware of it but me. Don't let others see it!" and in a minute Adolphe was at my side.

"Listen, you fire-eater! and I will make you a hero, though you could not manage to make yourself one. There were four shots fired; now, take your gun, and remember that the two first, those ghastly holes in the chest, were your handiwork—do you hear?"

"Yes, but what a horrible morning! what a brute! what a savage country!"

"True, it is not like the Boulevard des Italiens;" and a few minutes after, Adolphe received, with some confusion, attributed to modesty, the congratulations of all the party. This diffidence, as it may be imagined, did not last long; his assurance soon returned, and the hurrahs had scarcely died away, before he had imagined and given a very graphic description of the last moments of the gallant boar. His toilet made, the monstrous carcass was placed upon a litter, hastily constructed with the branches of a tree, and the peasants, hoisting it on their shoulders, bore the deceased monarch of the woods in triumph to the chateau.

In the evening, Adolphe's self-satisfaction was completed by an ovation from the ladies, who bestowed upon him the most flattering epithets. From the prettiest lips I heard, "What! this Parisian! this pale and slender young man, with such delicate hands and rose-coloured nails, fought face to face with this terrible beast? Admirable! And he was not frightened?"

"Frightened, ladies," said I, "why he was smoking a cigar all the time!" And the secret was so well kept, and Adolphe so bepraised, that I am sure had I felt disposed to throw a doubt upon the circumstances, he would have stoutly contended that he really did kill the animal himself; and, to say the truth, he was to a certain extent authorized to say so, for the head, handsomely decorated, was sent to his mother, the following words having been nicely printed on the tusks:

"Killed by Gustave Adolphe de M. the 15th of August, 18—."

In the course of time Adolphe's nerves improved so much that he could manage to knock down a leash of birds, or roll over a hare; but boars and wolves he declined to have anything further to do with; and when I met him by accident some years after, in the presence of mutual friends, he said, "Ah! de Crignelle, what two famous shots those were I put into that boar! But, gentlemen," he continued, with a sigh which seemed pumped up from his very heels, "what terrible forests those are of Le Morvan, and how dangerous the chasse aux sangliers!"



CHAPTER XII.

The Mares—Manner in which they are formed in the depths of the forest—Mare No. 1.—Description of it—The appearance of the spot—Mode of constructing the hunting-lodge—Approach of the birds—Animals that frequent the Mares in the evening.

Of all the various sports of Europe, that which produces the greatest excitement, that which is, more than any other, full of deep interest, dangerous and difficult, is without doubt hut-shooting at night on the banks of one of our large Mares.[1] Here the sportsman, left to himself, is deprived of all help; concealed in a corner of a wood, or squatting at the foot of a tree, he requires all his courage, all his experience; for he then finds himself engaged in a deadly conflict with the most subtle and ferocious beasts, possibly a mouthful for the largest and most powerful jaws, and at the mercy of the quickest ears of the forest. Motionless in his hut, like a spider in its web, nothing can put him off his guard—neither the view halloo of the passing huntsman, the cheerful notes of his horn, nor the music of the dogs, can distract his attention. All around is calm, solitude and gloom surround him, no voice interrogates him, no eye sees him; he is alone, quite alone, his blood circulates tranquilly through his veins, his faculties are all on the stretch, he waits, he bides his time. The shadows lengthen, twilight arrives, the forest puts on the garb of evening, the silence and solitude are more deeply felt, night is at hand, the moment so ardently desired approaches. Imagination begins to work, phantoms of every description come across his brain, and glide before his eyes, he hears, and fancies he sees the sylvan spirits dancing before him; his ears are full of mysterious and unearthly sounds, plaintive and melancholy, celestial harmonies, fairy melodies of another world, interrupted conversations between the winds, the trees, the herbage and the earth, as if they were offering homage to the great Creator of the universe.

Firm at his post, and uninfluenced by this phantasmagoria of the brain, without movement and almost without breath, the sportsman waits hopefully; for the greatest virtue in this kind of sport is patience, the second courage, first-rate—his heart should be of marble, his flesh of steel, and his members should possess a power of immobility as great as that of a sphynx in an Egyptian temple. Yes! the sport aux mares is the most stirring, the roughest that I am acquainted with, not so much on account of the real danger attending it, but in consequence of those fictitious, unknown, and imaginary, produced by the silence and loneliness of the forest. It is my intention, therefore, in describing this kind of sport, to enter into the most ample details, in order that I may make myself thoroughly understood. I shall take, as representing very nearly all the pieces of water to be met with in the forest, three kinds of Mares of different dimensions. I shall explain their position, the relative value they possess in the eyes of the sportsman, the game, large and small, to be found on their banks, and the most propitious time for approaching them, and I shall endeavour, if possible, to impress my readers with the pleasures and adventures which have on several occasions agitated me.

If the woods and forests of Le Morvan, which, by the clouds they attract, the thunder-storms that continually fall over them, and the moisture that generally prevails, feed a great many streams, the district is not the less deprived, by its elevated position, of large rivers and extensive sheets of water; for the rains, falling down the sides of the trees, and penetrating the thick mossy grass at their roots, do not remain for any length of time on the surface of the earth. The whole forest may, in fact, be described as a large sponge, through which the water filters, descending to the inferior strata, where it finds the secret drains of Nature, and is by them conducted into the plains. The roots being thus continually watered, the trees are fresh and vigorous in their growth, and produce a most luxuriant foliage; the ground itself, however, is generally dry under foot, and in some places rocky.

It is therefore very rare, quite an exceptional case, to find on the elevated heaths, or in our forests, any lakes or large pieces of water; nevertheless they are to be seen here and there, and then the cottage of the peasant, or the hut of the wood-*cutter is sure to raise its modest head on their banks; in time these humble edifices are augmented in number till they sometimes become a considerable village. If the spring, once a silvery thread, and now a brawling rivulet, changes its character to a deep and considerable stream, farm-houses, a chateau, or a hunting-box are soon erected near it. If it is merely a tiny source rising from the earth, or springing from some isolated rock, and soon lost in the moss, without even a murmur, calm and silent, as the life of the lowly peasant, which is slowly consumed in the scarcely varying path of labour,—then no one takes the least notice of it.

Sometimes, however, the tears which the earth thus sheds, this crystal thread, scorned by the unobserving passer-by, is arrested in its timid course by some trifling obstacle—a rising path, a fallen branch or tree. This little streamlet swells, frets the immediate spot of ground, imperceptibly increases in size, and becomes after many efforts, the patient work of months and years, something like the basin of a large jet d'eau, a liquid cup lost in the recesses of the woods, reflecting only a very small portion of the blue heavens above; unknown to man, but always frequented by thousands of delighted and happy insects, and little birds that come there in the great heats of summer to refresh themselves, to skim across the surface, and sip, with head uplifted towards heaven, its pellucid waters. These little springs, lost in the thickness of the mossy turf and the dead leaves, like a gray hair in the dark tresses of some village beauty, which accident or a lover could alone discover, when thus interrupted and formed into a bowl of water, such as I have described, is called a Mare.