own punishment. One day his master was shooting with a friend in a
place where a small wood had been cut down early in the year, and
after the low shrubs had been sawn in pieces and bound in bundles, the
grass was left to grow into hay, and this hay was now in process of
cutting. The shooting party reached the spot just at the time that the
reapers were having their dinner and taking their midday rest, and one
of the reapers had laid his scythe against a little stack of wood
about three feet high. At this moment a snipe got up, and M. Dumas
fired and killed it. It fell on the other side of the stack of wood
against which the scythe was leaning.
As it was the first bird he had killed that day, he knew of course
that it would become the prey of Pyramus, so he did not hurry himself
to go after it, but watched with amusement, Pyramus tearing along,
even jumping over the stack in his haste.
But when after giving the dog the usual time to swallow his fat
morsel, Monsieur did not see Pyramus coming back to him as usual in
leaps and bounds, he began to wonder what could have happened, and
made hastily for the stack of wood behind which he had disappeared.
There he found the unlucky Pyramus lying on the ground, with the point
of the scythe right through his neck. The blood was pouring from the
wound, and he lay motionless, with the snipe dead on the ground about
six inches from his nose.
The two men raised him as gently as possible, and carried him to the
river, and here they bathed the wound with water. They then folded a
pocket-handkerchief into a band, and tied it tightly round his neck to
staunch the blood, and when this was done, and they were wondering how
to get him home, a peasant fortunately passed driving a donkey with
two panniers, and he was laid in one of the panniers and taken to the
nearest village, where he was put safely into a carriage.
For eight days Pyramus lay between life and death. For a whole month
his head hung on one side, and it was only after six weeks (which
seems like six years to a dog) that he was able to run about as usual,
and appeared to have forgotten his accident.
Only, whenever he saw a scythe he made a long round to avoid coming in
contact with it.
Some time afterwards he returned to the house with his body as full of
holes as a sieve. On this occasion he was taking a walk through the
forest, and, seeing a goat feeding, jumped at its throat. The goat
screamed loudly, and the keeper, who was smoking at a little distance
off, ran to his help; but before he could come up the goat was half
dead. On hearing the steps of the keeper, and on listening to his
strong language, Pyramus understood very well that this stout man
dressed in blue would have something very serious to say to him, so he
stretched his legs to their fullest extent, and started off like an
arrow from a bow. But, as Man Friday long ago remarked, 'My little
ball of lead can run faster than thou,' the keeper's little ball of
lead ran faster than Pyramus, and that is how he came home with all
the holes in his body.
There is no denying that Pyramus was a very bad dog, and as his master
was fond of him, it is impossible to believe that he can _always_ have
been hungry, as, for instance, when he jumped up in a butcher's shop
to steal a piece of meat and got the hook on which it was hung through
his own jaws, so that someone had to come and unhook him. But hungry
or not, Monsieur Dumas had no time to be perpetually getting him out
of scrapes, and when a few months later an Englishman who wanted a
sporting dog took a fancy to Pyramus, his master was not altogether
sorry to say good-bye.
_THE STORY OF A WEASEL_
Bingley's _Animal Biography_.
Weasels are so sharp and clever and untiring, that their activity has
been made into a proverb; and, like many other sharp and clever
creatures, they are very mischievous, and fond of killing rabbits and
chickens, and even of sucking their eggs, which they do so carefully
that they hardly ever break one.
A French lady, called Mademoiselle de Laistre, a friend of the great
naturalist, Monsieur de Buffon, once found a weasel when he was very
young indeed, and, as she was fond of pets, she thought she would
bring him up. Now a weasel is a little creature, and very pretty. It
has short legs and a long tail, and its skin is reddish brown above
and white below. Its eyes are black and its ears are small, and its
body is about seven inches in length. But this weasel was much smaller
than that when it went to live with Mademoiselle de Laistre.
Of course it had to be taught: all young things have, and this weasel
knew nothing. The good lady first began with pouring some milk into
the hollow of her hand and letting it drink from it. Very soon, being
a weasel of polite instincts, it would not take milk in any other way.
After its dinner, when a little fresh meat was added to the milk, it
would run to a soft quilt that was spread in its mistress's bedroom,
and, having soon discovered that it could get inside the quilt at a
place where the stitches had given way, it proceeded to tuck itself up
comfortably for an hour or two. This was all very well in the day,
but Mademoiselle de Laistre did not feel at all safe in leaving such a
mischievous creature loose during the night, so whenever she went to
bed, she shut the weasel up in a little cage that stood close by. If
she happened to wake up early, she would unfasten the cage, and then
the weasel would come into her bed, and, nestling up to her, go to
sleep again. If she was already dressed when he was let out, he would
jump all about her, and would never once miss alighting on her hands,
even when they were held out three feet from him.
[Illustration: MADEMOISELLE DE LAISTRE AND HER WEASEL]
All his ways were pretty and gentle. He would sit on his mistress's
shoulder and give little soft pats to her chin, or would run over a
whole room full of people at the mere sound of her voice. He was very
fond of the sun, too, and would tumble about and murmur with delight
whenever it shone on him. The little weasel was rather a thirsty
animal, but he would not drink much at a time, and, when he had once
tasted milk, could not be persuaded to touch rain-water. Baths were
quite new to him, too, and he could not make up his mind to them, even
in the heat, from which he suffered a good deal. His nearest approach
to bathing was a wet cloth wrapped round him, and this evidently gave
him great pleasure.
Cats and dogs about the place condescended to make friends with him,
and they never quarrelled nor hurt each other. Indeed, in many of
their instincts and ways, weasels are not very unlike cats, and one
quality they have in common is their curiosity. Nothing was dull or
uninteresting to this little weasel. It was impossible to open a
drawer or take out a paper without his little sharp nose being thrust
round the corner, and he would even jump on his mistress's hands, the
better to read her letters. He was also very fond of attracting
attention, and in the midst of his play would always stop to see if
anyone was watching. If he found that no one was troubling about him,
he would at once leave off, and, curling himself up, go off into a
sleep so sound that he might be taken up by the head and swung
backwards and forwards quite a long time before he would wake up and
be himself again.
_STORIES ABOUT WOLVES_
Wolves are found in the colder and more northern parts of Asia and
North America, and over the whole of Europe, except the British Isles,
where they were exterminated long ago. Some say Lochiel killed the
last wolf in Scotland, some say a gamekeeper was the hero. The wolf
very much resembles the dog in appearance, except that his eyes are
set in obliquely, and nearer his nose. His coat is commonly of a tawny
grey colour, but sometimes black or white, and he varies in size
according to the climate. Some wolves only measure two and a half feet
in length, not counting the tail, others are much larger. They have
remarkably keen sight, hearing, and sense of smell, and such a
stealthy gait, that their way of slinking along has passed into a
proverb in countries where wolves are common. They live in rocky
caverns in the forest, sleep by day like other beasts of prey, and go
out at night to forage for food. They eat small birds, reptiles, the
smaller animals, such as rats and mice, some fruits, grapes among
others, and rotten apples; they do not disdain even dead bodies, nor
garbage of any sort. But in times of famine or prolonged snow, when
all these provisions fail them, and they feel the pinch of hunger,
then woe betide the flocks of sheep or the human beings they may
encounter. In 1450 wolves actually came into Paris and attacked the
citizens. Even so lately as the long and severe winter of 1894-5, the
wolves came down into the plains of Piedmont and the lower Alpes
Maritimes in such numbers that the soldiery had to be called out to
destroy them. In such times a wolf in broad daylight will steal up to
a flock of sheep peacefully feeding, seize on a fine fat one, and make
away with it, unseen and unsuspected even by the watchful sheep dog.
Should a first attempt prove successful, he will return again and
again, till, finding he can no longer rob that flock unmolested, he
will look out for another one still unsuspicious. If he once gets
inside a sheep-fold at night, he massacres and mangles right and left.
When he has slain to his heart's content, he goes off with a victim
and devours it, then comes back for a second, a third, and a fourth
carcase, which he carries away to hide under a heap of branches or
dead leaves. When dawn breaks, he returns gorged with food to his
lair, leaving the ground strewn with the bodies of the slain. The wolf
even contrives to get the better of his natural enemy, the dog, using
stratagem and cleverness in the place of strength. If he spies a gawky
long-legged puppy swaggering about his own farmyard, he will come
closer and entice him out to play by means of every sort of caper and
gambol. When the young simpleton has been induced to come out beyond
the farmyard, the wolf, throwing off his disguise of amiable
playfulness, falls upon the dog and carries him away to make a meal
of. In the case of a dog stronger and more capable of making
resistance the stratagem requires two wolves; one appears to the dog
in its true character of wolf, and then disappears into an ambush,
where the other lies hidden. The dog, following its natural instinct,
pursues the wolf into the ambush, where the two conspirators soon make
an end of it.
So numerous have wolves always been in the rural districts of France,
that from the earliest times there has been an institution called the
_Louveterie_, for their extermination. Since the French Revolution
this has been very much modified, but there is still a reward of so
much per head for every wolf killed. Under ordinary circumstances the
wolf will not only not attack man, but will flee from him, for he is
as cowardly as he is crafty. But if driven by hunger he will pursue,
or rather he will follow a solitary traveller for miles, dogging his
footsteps, and always keeping near, sometimes on one side, sometimes
on the other, till the man, harassed and worn out by fatigue and
fright, is compelled to halt; then the wolf, who had been waiting for
this opportunity, springs on him and devours him.
Audubon, in his 'Quadrupeds of America,' tells a story of two young
negroes who lived on a plantation on the banks of the Ohio in the
State of Kentucky, about the year 1820. They each had a sweetheart,
whom they used to go to visit every evening after their work was done.
These negresses lived on another plantation about four miles away, but
a short cut led across a large cane brake. When winter set in with its
long dark nights no ray of light illuminated this dismal swamp. But
the negroes continued their nightly expeditions notwithstanding,
arming themselves by way of precaution with their axes. One dark night
they set off over a thin crust of snow, the reflection from which
afforded all the light they had to guide them on their way. Hardly a
star appeared through the dense masses of cloud that nearly covered
the sky, and menaced more snow. About half way to their destination
the negroes' blood froze at the sound of a long and fearful howl that
rent the air; they knew it could only come from a pack of hungry and
perhaps desperate wolves. They paused to listen, and only a dismal
silence succeeded. In the impenetrable darkness nothing was visible a
few feet beyond them; grasping their axes they went on their way
though with quaking hearts. Suddenly, in single file, out of the
darkness sprang several wolves, who seized on the first man,
inflicting terrible wounds with their fangs on his legs and arms;
others as ravenous leapt on his companion, and dragged him to the
ground. Both negroes fought manfully, but soon one had ceased to move,
and the other, despairing of aiding his companion, threw down his axe
and sprang on to the branch of a tree, where he found safety and
shelter for the rest of that miserable night. When day broke, only the
bones of his friend lay scattered on the blood-stained, trampled snow;
three dead wolves lay near, but the rest of the pack had betaken
themselves to their lair, to sleep away the effects of their night's
gorge.
[Illustration: 'WHEN DAY BROKE']
A sledge journey through the plains of Siberia in winter is a perilous
undertaking. If a pack of hungry wolves get on the track of a sledge,
the travellers know, as soon as they hear the horrid howls and see the
grey forms stealing swiftly across the snow, that their chances of
escape are small. If the sledge stops one instant men and horses are
lost; the only safety is in flight at utmost speed. It is indeed a
race for life! The horses, mad with terror, seem to have wings; the
wolves, no less swift, pursue them, their cruel eyes gleaming with the
lust for blood. From time to time a shot is fired, and a wolf falls
dead in the snow; bolder than the others, he has tried to climb into
the sledge and has met his reward. This incident gives a momentary
respite to the pursued, for the murderous pack will pause to tear in
pieces and devour their dead comrade; then, further inflamed with the
taste of blood, they will continue the headlong pursuit with redoubled
vigour.
Should the travellers be able to reach a village or friendly farmhouse
before the horses are completely exhausted, the wolves, frightened by
the lights, will slink away into the forest, balked this time of their
prey. On the other hand, should no refuge be near, the wolves will
keep up with the horses till the poor beasts stumble and fall from
fatigue, when the whole pack will instantly spring upon men and
horses, and in a few moments the blood-stained snow alone tells the
tale.
There have been instances, but fortunately few, of wolves with a
perfect craving for human flesh. Such was the notorious Bete (or
beast) du Gevaudan, that from the year 1764 and onwards ravaged the
district of that name, in Auvergne, to the south of the centre of
France. This wolf was of enormous size, measuring six feet from the
point of its nose to the tip of its tail. It devoured eighty-three
persons, principally women and children, and seriously wounded
twenty-five or thirty others. It was attacked from first to last by
between _two and three hundred thousand_ hunters, probably not all at
once. With half a dozen wolves, each equal to 200,000 men, a country
could afford to do without an army. But the wolf of Gevaudan was no
common wolf. He never married, having no leisure, fortunately for the
human race. The whole of France was in a state of alarm on its
account; the peasants dared no longer go to their work in the fields
alone and unarmed. Every day brought tidings of some fresh trouble; in
the morning he would spread terror and confusion in some village in
the plains, in the evening he would carry off some hapless victim from
some mountain hamlet fifteen or twenty leagues away. Five little
shepherd boys, feeding their flocks on the mountain-side, were
attacked suddenly by the ferocious beast, who made off with the
youngest of them; the others, armed only with sticks, pursued the
wolf, and attacked it so valiantly that they compelled it to drop its
prey and slink off into the wood. A poor woman was sitting at her
cottage door with her three children, when the wolf came down on them
and attempted to carry off each of the children in turn. The mother
fought so courageously in defence of her little ones that she
succeeded in putting the wolf to flight, but in so doing was terribly
bitten herself, and the youngest child died of his wounds.
Sometimes twenty or thirty parishes joined forces to attack the beast,
led by the most experienced huntsmen and the chief _louvetier_ of the
kingdom. On one occasion twenty thousand hunters surrounded the forest
of Preinieres, where it lay concealed; but on this, as well as every
other occasion, the wolf escaped in the most surprising--one might
almost say miraculous--manner, disappearing as if he had been turned
into smoke. Some hunters declared that their bullets had rebounded off
him, flattened and harmless. Others alleged that when he had been
shot, like the great Dundee, with a silver bullet (a well-known charm
against sorcery) at such close quarters that it appeared impossible he
should not be mortally wounded, in a day or two some fresh horror
would announce that the creature was still uninjured. The very dogs
refused at length to go after him, and fled howling in the opposite
direction. The belief became general that it was no ordinary wolf of
flesh and blood, but the Fiend himself in beast shape. Prayers were
put up in the churches, processions took place, and the Host remained
exhibited as in the times of plague and public calamity.
The State offered a reward of 2,000 francs to whosoever should slay
the monster; the syndics of two neighbouring towns added 500 francs,
making a total of 100_l._ English money, a large sum in those days.
The young Countess de Mercoire, an orphan, and chatelaine of one of
the finest estates of the district, offered her hand and fortune in
marriage to whoever should rid the country of the scourge. This
inspired the young Count Leonce de Varinas, who, though no sportsman
by nature, was so deeply in love with the Countess that he determined
to gain the reward or perish in the attempt. Assisted by a small band
of well-trained hunters, and by two formidable dogs, a bloodhound and
a mastiff, he began a systematic attack on the wolf. After many
fruitless attempts they succeeded one day in driving the creature into
an abandoned quarry of vast size, the sides of which were twenty or
thirty feet high and quite precipitous, and the only entrance a narrow
cart track blasted out of the rock. The young Count, determined to do
or die alone, sternly refused to allow his men to accompany him into
the quarry, and left them posted at the entrance with orders only to
fire on the beast should it attempt to force its way out. Taking only
the dogs with him, and having carefully seen to the state of his
weapons, he went bravely to the encounter. The narrow defile was so
completely hemmed in on every side that, to the vanquished, there was
no escape nor alternative but death. Here and there, on patches of
half-melted snow, were footprints, evidently recent, of the huge
beast; but the creature remained invisible, and for nearly ten minutes
the Count had wandered among the rocks and bushes before the dogs
began to give sign of the enemy's presence.
About a hundred yards from where he stood was a frozen pool, on the
edge of which grew a clump of bulrushes. Among their dry and yellow
stalks Leonce suddenly caught a glimpse of a pair of fiery
eyes--nothing more; but it was enough to let him know that the
longed-for moment had at length arrived. Leonce advanced cautiously,
his gun cocked and ready to fire, and the dogs close at his heels,
growling with rage and fear. Still the wolf did not stir, and Leonce,
determining to try other tactics, stopped, raised his gun to his
shoulder, and aimed between the gleaming eyes, nothing more being yet
visible. Before he could fire the beast dashed from among the
crackling reeds and sprang straight at him. Leonce, nothing daunted,
waited till it was within ten paces and then fired. With a howl of
anguish the wolf fell as if dead. Before Leonce had time to utter a
shout of joy, it was on its feet again. Streaming with blood and
terrible in its rage it fell on the young man. He attempted to defend
himself with his bayonet, which, though of tempered steel, was broken
as if it had been glass; his gun, too, was bent, and he himself was
hurled to the ground. But for his faithful dogs it would soon have
been all over with him. They flew at the wolf's throat, who quickly
made an end of the bloodhound; one crunch broke his back, while one
stroke of the ruthless paw disembowelled him. Castor, the mastiff,
had, however, the wolf by the throat, and a fearful struggle ensued
over the prostrate body of Leonce. They bit, they tore, they worried,
they rolled over and over each other, the wolf, in spite of its
wounds, having always the advantage. Half stunned by the fall,
suffocated by the weight of the combatants, and blinded by the dust
and snow they scattered in the fray, Leonce had just sufficient
strength to make one last effort in self-defence. Drawing his
hunting-knife, he plunged it to the hilt in the shaggy mass above him.
From a distance he seemed to hear shouts of 'Courage, Monsieur!
Courage, Castor! We are coming!' then conscious only of an
overwhelming weight above him, and of iron claws tearing at his chest,
he fainted away. When he came to himself he was lying on the ground,
surrounded by his men. Starting up, he exclaimed, 'The beast! where is
the beast?'
[Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE FAMOUS WOLF OF GEVAUDAN]
'Dead, Monsieur! stone dead!' answered the head-keeper, showing him
the horrid creature, all torn and bloody, stretched out on the snow
beside the dead bloodhound. Castor, a little way off, lay panting and
bruised, licking his wound. The Count's knife was firmly embedded in
the beast's ribs; it had gone straight to the heart and death had been
instantaneous. A procession was formed to carry the carcase of the
wolf in triumph to the castle of the Countess. The news had flown in
advance, and she was waiting on the steps to welcome the conquering
hero. It was not long before the Countess and the gallant champion
were married; and, as the wolf left no family, the country was at
peace. Are you not rather sorry for the poor wolf?
_TWO HIGHLAND DOGS_
I
Righ and Speireag were two Highland dogs who lived in a beautiful
valley not far from the west coast of Scotland, where high hills slope
down to the shores of a blue loch, and the people talk a strange
language quite different from English, or even from French, or German,
or Latin, which is called Gaelic.
The name 'Righ,' means a king, and 'Speireag' means a sparrow-hawk,
but they are words no one, except a Highlander, can pronounce
properly. However, the dogs had a great many friends who could not
talk Gaelic, and when English-speaking people called them 'Ree' and
'Spearah,' they would always answer.
Righ was a great tawny deerhound, tall and slender, very stately, as a
king should be, and as gentle as he was strong. He had a rough coat and
soft brown eyes, set rather near together, and very bright and
watchful. His chief business in life was to watch the faces of his
friends, and to obey their wishes quickly, to take his long limbs away
from the drawing-room hearth-rug when the butler came in to put on the
coals, not to get in the way more than so big a dog could help, and not
to get too much excited when anything in the conversation suggested the
likelihood of a walk. But his father and all his ancestors had led very
different lives; they had been trained to go out on the mountains with
men who hunted the wild deer, and to help them in the chase, for the
deerhounds run with long bounds and are as fleet as the stag himself.
Then, when the beautiful creature had been killed, it was their duty to
guard the body, and to see that carrion crows, and eagles, and other
wild birds should not molest it. But Righ's master was a Bishop, who,
though he lived quite near to a great deer forest, and often took his
dogs over the hills to where the deer lived, never killed anything, but
loved to see all his fellow-creatures happy among the things they liked
best.