shot when an animal is passing through brushwood or trees, and firing was strictly prohibited unless the game was at a certain angle before or behind one, on account of the danger to the other guns. I soon found that it was necessary to be much more warmly clothed than at home, for the beats were long, and one often had to keep still for half an hour at a time in the snow, keeping a sharp look-out and sitting as quietly as possible. For many of the wild boars in the forest were very cunning, and knew perfectly well that there was danger in front. They would come quietly ahead of the beaters and, if they heard or saw anything suspicious, either turn back or make a rush past the line in the thickest covert they could find. The forest consisted mostly of beech and oak standards with underwood cut every twenty or twenty-four years, with patches of spruce plantations or of young Scots pine in some places. The ground was mostly undulating, or with steep slopes overlooking the banks of the Semois, a very winding stream which bounded the forest on one side; some of these slopes were the most favourite lying places for the wild pigs, though there was never any certainty whether or where you would find them. On one occasion I arrived at Bouillon a day before time, and as there was no wind, and a good covering of snow on the ground, I went round some of the best beats by myself to see if I could estimate by their tracks the probable number of wild pigs on the ground. I am confident that on that occasion there were at least six lots, some of which contained ten to fifteen or more, and a good many smaller parties and single boars. According to the reports of the keepers and beaters, on the next day seventy or eighty pigs at least were seen, but if I recollect right only seven were killed, and this was more than the average. Roe were much more generally distributed, and easier to drive and to kill, as you can generally kill them with shot up to thirty yards. But the number of shots fired in the day rarely amounted to a hundred among the whole party, and there were many days on which some of the guns did not fire at all. Now this sort of shooting, in which you have nothing to do but to sit still and look out sharp, for hours together perhaps without a shot, may seem slow and monotonous, and I often thought I could have had much more fun by hunting the pigs with dogs. Yet there was a charm about it that I cannot explain, unless it was the constant expectation that you were going to have a big boar right on the top of you.
I may describe one or two incidents which are very firmly fixed in my memory, because they were red-letter days to me. On my second visit to Bouillon in January, I was posted on a level timber road winding along a slope on the banks of the Semois. I knew that game was on foot because I had heard shots on the extreme left. I heard, a rustle in the bushes about twenty yards in front and saw two small pigs trotting along in the brushwood. It was too thick to use the rifle, and I thought them near enough to kill with buck-shot. I fired, and I suppose I touched an old boar who must have been close behind, for he instantly charged straight at me. I had a 500-bore Henry rifle on a rest in front of me, but he came so quick that I had not time to raise it to my shoulder before he was almost on me. As I fired he stumbled close past me, but recovered him¬ self instantly and disappeared in the brushwood behind me. It was
