The smooth boles of the tall
beech-trees looked grand in their winter nakedness, rising like columns
from the white frost-bespangled ground. I took up my stand, gun in
readiness, waiting for the tramp, the snort, or the grizzly dark form of
the wild-boar, but nothing came to disturb the utter solitude of the
scene.
But hark! I hear shots fired repeatedly in the lower valley. I, too,
begin to look out with quickened pulse, peering into the misty depths of
the forest, and with ear alert for every sound, but all to no purpose.
Nothing comes my way, though again I hear two more shots echo sharply in
the narrow valley nearer to me than before. After the lapse of a few
minutes the beaters came up, breaking through the dead branches of
undercover. I knew now that my own chance was gone, but I was curious to
know what had happened, and joining two of my friends whose "stand" had
been near mine, we hurried down the valley to see what sport had turned
up for the other guns. On inquiry it appeared that at least seventy
wild-boars had passed close to one of our party, but the sight of so
many at once had made his aim unsteady, and he only succeeded in
wounding one of the number. The animal had dashed into the half-frozen
stream at the bottom of the valley, and our friend had to reload and
give him his final shot there.
We formed one more battue, but nothing came of it, and it was already
high time to return to our quarters, for the whole scene was growing dim
in the wintry twilight.
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