THE French chronicles of the reign of Francis I. tell the following wonderful story of a boar hunt: "'Twas in a grand forest that stretched for miles around a castle—an old-fashioned castle of ramparts and towers, of wide halls and winding stairways.

Oliver, the twelve-year old son of the master of the castle, had set his heart on going with his father to hunt the wild boar with the gentlemen of the neighborhood. The forest was the home of a great many wild creatures, great and small. Squirrels and hares lived there; wide-antlered stags and timid does with their young fawns beside them, foxes, boars that feasted on the black acorns and chestnuts that covered the ground, and fierce gray wolves, seen chiefly in winter. The boars were the fiercest of all, even the sows would fight for their young ones, and there was one old boar who was by this time quite famous for his courage, his cunning and his great age. He was called Pique-Mort, which means death-thrust, because he had in his savage onslaughts fatally wounded so many men, horses and dogs.

"Oliver's father had ordered the great hunt against this very old warrior, who, by the way, had grown so shrewd that he could not always be roused from his secret lair even by the beaters and prickers who went ahead of the hunters. But he surely would appear to-day. The forest was ringing with horns and bugles, the neighing of horses, the baying of noble hounds, the hallooing and joyous clamor of the sportsmen.

"Oliver was well prepared for the occasion. Old Bertrand had taught him all the calls and recalls on bugle and horn, had trained him to thrust with the long boar-spear, and to use the short, thick sword kept for the last when the brute was near, and the big boar-hounds Vite-Vite, and the others, turned and obeyed his voice when it rang out in its clear, boyish treble. Most important of all, his mother had consented to his going.

"But alas, and alas! when the morning dawned fair and sweet, poor Oliver was racked with grievous pain and burning with fever! The chase swept away with shout and cry and bugle-blast, and Oliver barely heeded it or turned his head when his father called back: 'We'll bring old Pique-Mort home with us.' However, by the afternoon the fever had slackened, and the pain abated, and Oliver lay white and weak on his couch, and with piteous tears on his cheeks over the mischance that had held him fast at home. He turned his face to the wall in a burst of passionate grief as they heard, at first far off, and then nearer and nearer, the excited yelps of the dogs, then the trampling of horses, the hoarse cries of the men, and oh, the bugle!—note of 'La Mort!' which meant victory over the famous boar!

"'Oliver,' said his mother tenderly,—and then all at once came a sound at which both started, and threw their arms about each other. In the hall below, up the stairs, came a heavy creature, panting, snorting, and the furious Pique-Mort suddenly burst upon their amazed vision! Sinister and savage did he look, the little, round greedy eyes red with rage, the bristles standing up like a cuirass, the sharp and cruel tusks ready for assault, and foam and blood churned at their base into a streaked froth by his heat and anger. He was within the chamber. Oliver's arm dropped nerveless at his side, and his frightened eyes sought vainly for any weapon.

"The mother had a quicker wit, and stooping down, she seized with both arms a large Eastern rug, and threw it over the beast's head, blinding him for the while, as well as blunting the thrust of the terrible tusks. As he struggled desperately in its smothering and heavy folds, the whole following—dogs, men and the master at their head, were up the stairs also, and the death-stroke was quickly given. It was the end of the veteran of so many chases in morass and thicket—Pique-Mort was dead.

"After a moment's half-stupefied stare, the lord of the castle broke forth:

"'Well, my boy, you were at the finish after all.' The dogs could not be held off their old foe, and the brave boar was furious at their baiting, and so broke away. My lady, you have the glory, and Oliver his wish.'

"Old Bertrand stroked his grizzled beard.

"''Twas a gallant brute,' he said. 'Had he been a man they would have styled him hero. He had a high courage and loved freedom well.'"

We have grown since those rough days into more compassion for animals, but even yet we are not altogether just to their side of the question, to the recognition of their right to life and its joys as their merciful Creator has given it to them.