Here is a picture of such a combat. The dogs have pursued the boar through the woods until he begins to be exhausted with fatigue and terror. Still, he fights them very desperately. One he has thrown down. He has wounded him with his tusks. The dog is crying out with pain and fright. There are three other dogs besides the one who is wounded. They are endeavoring to seize and hold the boar, while one of the hunters is thrusting the iron point of his spear into him. Two other hunters are coming out of a thicket near by to join in the attack. One of them looks as if he were afraid of the boar. He has good reason to be afraid.
Savages dress themselves in skins.
These hunters are savages. They are nearly naked. One of them is clothed with a skin. I suppose, by the claws, that it is a lion’s skin. He hunted and killed the lion, perhaps, in the same way that he is now hunting and killing the boar.
Savages use the skins of beasts for clothing because they do not know how to spin and weave.
But we must now go back to Bruno, the Alpine hunter’s dog that killed the wolf, and who used afterward to sleep before the fire in the hunter’s cottage on the skin.
JOOLY
The Alps.
Bruno’s master lived among the Alps. The Alps are very lofty mountains in Switzerland and Savoy.
Chamois hunting.
The upper portions of these mountains are very rocky and wild. There are crags, and precipices, and immense chasms among them, where it is very dangerous for any one to go. The hunters, however, climb up among these rocks and precipices to hunt the chamois, which is a small animal, much like a goat in form and character. He has small black horns, the tips of which turn back.
The chamois climbs up among the highest rocks and precipices to feed upon the grass which grows there in the little nooks and corners. The chamois hunters climb up these after him. They take guns with them, in order to shoot the chamois when they see one. But sometimes it is difficult for them to get the game when they have killed it, as we see in this engraving. The hunters were on one side of a chasm and the chamois on the other, and though he has fallen dead upon the rocks, they can not easily reach him. One of the hunters is leaning across the chasm, and is attempting to get hold of the carcass with his right hand. With his left hand he grasps the rock to keep himself from falling. If his hand should slip, he would go headlong down into an awful abyss.
The other hunter is coming up the rock to help his comrade. He has his gun across his shoulder. Both the hunters have ornamented their hats with flowers.
The chamois lies upon the rock where he has fallen. We can see his black horns, with the tips turned backward.
The lower slopes of the mountains.
In the summer season, the valleys among these Alpine mountains are very delightful. The lower slopes of them are adorned with forests of fir and pine, which alternate with smooth, green pasturages, where ramble and feed great numbers of sheep and cows. Below are rich and beautiful valleys, with fields full of flowers, and cottages, and pretty little gardens, and every thing else that can make a country pleasant to see and to play in. There are no noxious or hurtful animals in these valleys, so that there is no danger in rambling about any where in them, either in the fields or in the groves. They must take care of the wet places, and of the thorns that hide among the roses, but beyond these dangers there is nothing to fear. In these valleys, therefore, the youngest children can go into the thickets to play or to gather flowers without any danger or fear; for there are no wild beasts, or noxious animals, or poisonous plants there, or any thing else that can injure them.
Winter in the Alps.
Thus the country of the Alps is very pleasant in summer, but in winter it is cold and stormy, and all the roads and fields, especially in the higher portions of the country, are buried up in snow. Still, the people who live there must go out in winter, and sometimes they are overtaken by storms, and perish in the cold.
Scene in the hunter’s cottage.
Once Bruno saved his master’s life when he was thus overtaken in a storm. The baby was sick, and the hunter thought he would go down in the valley to get some medicine for him. The baby was in a cradle. His grandmother took care of him and rocked him. His mother was at work about the room, feeling very anxious and unhappy. The hunter himself, who had come in tired from his work a short time before, was sitting in a comfortable easy-chair which stood in the corner by the fire. The head of the cradle was near the chair where the hunter was sitting.1
“George,” said the hunter’s wife, “I wish you would look at the baby.”
George leaned forward over the head of the cradle, and looked down upon the baby.
“Poor little thing!” said he.
“What shall we do?” said his wife. As she said this she came to the cradle, and, bending down over it, she moved the baby’s head a little, so as to place it in a more comfortable position. The baby was very pale, and his eyes were shut. As soon as he felt his mother’s hand upon his cheek, he opened his eyes, but immediately shut them again. He was too sick to look very long even at his mother.
Consultation between the hunter and his wife.
“Poor little thing!” said George again. “He is very sick. I must go to the village and get some medicine from the doctor.”
“Oh no!” said his wife. “You can not go to the village to-night. It is a dreadful storm.”
“Yes,” said the hunter, “I know it is.”
“The snow is very deep, and it is drifting more and more,” said his wife. “It will be entirely dark before you get home, and you will lose your way, and perish in the snow.”
The hunter did not say any thing. He knew very well that there would be great danger in going out on such a night.
“You will get lost in the snow, and die,” continued his wife, “if you attempt to go.”
A hard alternative.
“And baby will die, perhaps, if I stay at home,” said the hunter.
The hunter’s wife was in a state of great perplexity and distress. It was hard to decide between the life of her husband and that of her child. While the parents were hesitating and looking into the cradle, the babe opened its eyes, and, seeing its father and mother there, tried to put out its little hands to them as if for help, but finding itself too weak to hold them up, it let them drop again, and began to cry.
“Poor little thing!” said the hunter. “I’ll go – I’ll go.”
The mother made no more objection. She could not resist the mute appeal of the poor helpless babe. So she brought her husband his coat and cap, and forced her reluctant mind to consent to his going.
It was strange, was it not, that she should be willing to risk the life of her husband, who was all the world to her, whose labor was her life, whose strength was her protection, whose companionship was her solace and support, for the sake of that helpless and useless baby?
It was strange, too, was it not, that the hunter himself, who was already almost exhausted by the cold and exposure that he had suffered during the day, should be willing to go forth again into the storm, for a child that had never done any thing for him, and was utterly unable to do any thing for him now? Besides, by saving the child’s life, he was only compelling himself to work the harder, to procure food and clothing for him while he was growing up to be a man.
What was the baby’s name?
His name was Jooly.
At least they called him Jooly. His real name was Julien.
The hunter bids little Jooly good-by.
When the hunter was all ready to go, he came to the cradle, and, putting his great rough and shaggy hand upon the baby’s wrist, he said,
“Poor little Jooly! I will