The king raised his hand in assent; and the assembled multitude confirmed the investiture with one mighty shout—"Ramiro! Ramiro! long live Ramiro! Infante of Arragon!"

THE FARM-LABORER.—THE SON.

"Yes, father, I have. I'm not so very much set on it; but I think it will be most comfortable. You see, there's no use in people like us thinking of having children. Children would only starve us downright, and bring us to the Union. You see, none of us are married, nor likely to be, except me with Dinah. She's clean and tidy, you see, and she has some wages laid by, and so have I; and so nobody need find fault. And I shall be more comfortable like, with somebody to do for me at home; and—"

And he was going on to tell how Dinah would cook his dinner and mend his clothes, but his father could not bear to hear him, and finished off with saying that it was his own affair, and he wished them well.

It was within a year after their marriage that Harry was engaged, by Miss Foote. In great glee he made haste to prepare himself for his important new place in every way he could think of. He learned to trim a vine, not knowing that the place he was going to was too far north for vine-growing. He made interest with a butcher to learn how to kill a pig. He made a little collection of superior cabbage and turnip seeds, seed potatoes, &c., thus proving to Miss Foote at the outset that he had plenty of energy and quickness. She found, too, that he had courage. His employers, vexed to lose two servants whom they had trained to excessive economy, as well as hard work, did every thing that was possible, while there was any chance of success, to frighten them from moving northward. They told Dinah, with mournful countenances, that they should certainly die—that it was all the same as being transported—that it was cruelty in the parish officers to let them be tempted. Dinah repeated all this to Harry; and it staggered him at first; but he presently remembered that Susan wrote that her health had improved; and her letters had not only contained post-office orders, but plain signs that she was very happy. Harry determined to proceed; and when he had once made up his mind, his employers showed themselves very kind—helping their preparations, and having them to dinner on the last day.

By their own account their journey must have been a curious affair. Their heads were so full of notions of thieves and sharpers, that they did every thing in the slyest way, and wrapped themselves in mystery, and pretended to despise their boxes, while in one continued agony about them. When met by a kind gentleman who was to see them through London, Dinah pretended not to be the right person, lest the gentleman should not be the right; so that it was lucky they did lose his help altogether. Miss Foote was disagreeably impressed by their account of their great slyness, and not less by the suspicious temper—natural, perhaps, to Dinah, but not at all so to Harry—in which they began their new mode of life. Dinah was no servant of hers; so she had nothing to do with Dinah's ways, but to check the jealousy and suspicion she showed of her young sister-in-law and the young cook. On occasion of leaving home for some weeks, the lady took the opportunity of intimating to the people at the cottage that there was a perfect understanding between the girls and herself, as perfect a confidence as there can be between mother and daughters; that their acquaintances came by her permission, and so forth. Harry promised to be attentive and sociable with his sister, and not to grow hot with the cook about how to feed the fowls and manage the churn. That was the time when Dinah left off peeping through the laurels to see who went to the back door, and looking mysterious and sympathetic when holding forth to Miss Foote about young people. Still it was long before she left off locking her door and hiding the key, if she turned her back for a minute, and taking every body she did not know for a thief. She was left to her own notions; but with Harry a serious remonstrance was necessary, more than once, within the first year of his new service. Miss Foote was as much annoyed as amused with his higgling ways, all in zeal for her interests. She feared that she should have the reputation in the neighborhood of being a perfect miser, so wonderful were Harry's stories of the bargains he attempted to drive. She told him she hoped he would never succeed in any one such bargain as the many he told her of; and she laid her positive commands upon him never, in her name, to beat down the seller of any article she sent him to buy. As she supposed, she found he had caught up the trick from example, and had not the knowledge whereby to remedy it. When she told him it was not the way of the place to cheat in making charges he shook his head, and very nearly put his tongue in his cheek; but when she explained to him how prices came to be, and how an article can not properly be bought for less than it took to make or grow it, he was convinced at once, and his higgling method was softened down into a mere excessive strictness and vigilance in buying and selling transactions. There never was any real meanness about the man. In a few months he sent his father ten shillings; in a few months more he sent him £1. A small anecdote will show better than this, that money is not naturally the first object with him. When his employer kills a pig he is allowed to take a quarter at wholesale price, and Dinah cures the ham so well that by selling it they get their bacon for next to nothing. One autumn, when two pigs were killed, there was such a scramble for them, and so many neighbors would be "hurt in their feelings" if they could not have a portion, that Miss Foote found herself left with two gammons, but no ham. Harry heard this in the kitchen. He kept silence till his ham was finely cured, and then, touching his hat as if asking a favor, he told his employer that she had done good things for him, and he had never been able to do any for her, and he should be much pleased if she would take the ham for what he gave for it. Though not agreeing to this exactly, Miss Foote found herself obliged to take the ham very cheap.

Another small incident showed the same gentlemanly spirit. At the time when his whole soul was engrossed with the desire to make "the experiment" answer, he had a request to present, as often during a whole winter as he could edge it in. There was a certain long, ugly hedge, pernicious in every way, which divided the field from a neighbor's. The hedge belonged to the neighbor; and it appeared that he would be heartily glad to give it away to any body who would take it down and put up some fence which would cover less ground and harbor less vermin. Harry was so eager to be allowed to remove the hedge, that Miss Foote at last told him that she should never have dreamed of his undertaking such a job in addition to his regular work; but that he might please himself. She would put up a new fence if he chose to make way for it. He did it with no help but in felling some pollards. One afternoon, when wheeling up hill an enormous load of wood from the hedge, he heard himself laughed at from the next field. Now, no man winces more under a laugh than Harry; yet he bore it well this time. Some men called out mockingly that he was doing horse's work and man's work at once, and they would not do that to please any body. "No," said Harry, turning full round toward them, "nor, I neither. Miss Foote never asked me to do this. I do it to please myself."

No man, I have said, winces under a laugh more than Harry; and his only suffering worth mentioning, since he came to his new place, has been from this dislike of ridicule. When the cottage was ready, Miss Foote proposed a house-warming, and invited herself and her two maids there to tea. It was a particularly pleasant evening, with a fine fire, and plenty of light, and good tea and cake, and all the five in capital spirits. Harry was made to take the arm-chair by his own fireside; and when he began to crack his jokes it appeared that he had his own notions of the ridiculous. He quizzed his nearest neighbor, an old man, who had married a comparatively young woman, and whose children were forever playing about Miss Foote's gate. When Harry joked about that unequal match, Miss Foote could not laugh. She thought his own infinitely worse. And the poor fellow soon saw that others were quizzing him, much more severely than he had quizzed the old man. He looks grave about Dinah now, and has left off talking of his own prudence in making such a marriage. He has also told his sister that when Dinah dies he shall not marry again. It is very painful; and yet Dinah is improved beyond all that could have been anticipated. She has put off her false front, and lets her grizzled hair appear. She no longer scans Miss Foote's face to make out what it would be most acceptable that she should say, but rattles away about her affairs with a sort of youthful glee. She no longer speaks in a whining tone, but lets her voice take its own way. One day she leaned on her rake (when she was trimming her own flower-bed), and told Miss Foote, without any canting whatever, that she had quite changed her mind about the maids since she came. She was looking too far then, and so did not see what they were; but she found in time that there was no slyness or pretense, but that they were really good faithful girls, working for their employer's good, and with no plots of their own. Old as Dinah seemed to be, there appears to be a chance of her growing ingenuous and agreeable before she dies. The gentry who come to the house observe that they never saw two people so altered as Harry and Dinah; that they seem to have got new faces, a new gait—a new mind.

Harry had other ridicule to wince about. The neighbors laughed at him and his employer about their whole plan; they had never heard of keeping cows on less than three acres per cow, or, at least, five acres for two; they had never seen such deep digging; they had never known any body take the trouble to remove stones, or do any thing but bury them out of sight; they had never seen a currycomb used to a cow; they had never known a hardworking man so poor-spirited as to be a water-drinker. The milk must cost Miss Foote 6d. a quart; the cow would die; Harry would wear himself out; and so forth. One day, the first winter, the cow was very ill. Between the fear of the experiment being given up, and love for the creature, and dread of the neighbors, Harry was wretched. The tears streamed down his face as he waited on the sick beast. She got well, however; and now Harry meets ridicule with a bolder face. A temperance society having been set up in the place, he has joined it, though far above all temptation to drink. He finds it a convenience, when pressed to drink, to cut the matter short by saying that he is a pledged member—and a curious temperance preacher he is. When told lately that his cows would rot under his method of treatment, his answer was: "No, it isn't they that will rot. I'll tell you who 'tis that will rot; 'tis them that put filthy spirits into their stomachs to turn their brains, that will rot, and not my cows, that drink sweet water."

There is a grave side to Harry's lot now, happy as he is. He looks serious and hurt at times, though his health has much strengthened, his earnings are sure, his wages are raised, his Sunday dress is like that of a gentleman, there is meat on his table daily, and he has had the comfort of assisting his parents. Notwithstanding all this, a cloud comes over his face at times. As his sister says, "he feels the injury of his want of education." His mind is opening very rapidly. At any spare quarter of an hour he lectures Miss Foote on industry, temperance, duty to parents, and other good topics. The moral discoveries he has made are wonderful to him. He has attended church all his life; but truths come with new force into his mind when they enter through the spirit of hope and the medium of success. He says "it was wonderful the ideas that come into a man's mind when he sets himself a-thinking over his work, and there is no care to take up his thoughts." Hence the brightened countenance which the neighbors remark on: but hence, too, the bitter regret at his wasted years of school life—at "the injury of his want of education." What might he not hope to be and do now, Susan says, if he had but the knowledge that every man may be said to have the right to be possessed of? Yet, the good fellow has raised his family to a point of comfort. A gentleman who heard of his merits, as a first-rate laborer, wrote to the same parish officers, to inquire if there were any brothers. There was Tom; and Tom is now in a happy situation, highly esteemed by his employer, and earning 14s. a week. The employer, finding that Tom sadly missed intercourse with his family, and knowing that he could neither read nor write letters, sent for the sister, Lizzy, to be under-nursemaid in the family. In another way Harry has done a deeper and wider good. Miss Foote's friends tell her that his example is beginning to tell in the neighborhood; his example, not only of strenuous and skillful labor, but by integrity, temperance, and disinterested attachment to his employer.

All this is well—very pleasant to contemplate—but a disturbing question arises in the midst of it: What can society say to these excellent young men in excuse for their deprivation of family life? And again, what is at best their prospect for old age?

(From Bentley's Miscellany.)

The common or European wolf is found from Egypt to Lapland, and is most probably the variety that formerly haunted these islands. The wolves of Russia are large and fierce, and have a peculiarly savage aspect. The Swedish and Norwegian are similar to the Russian in form, but are lighter in color, and in winter, totally white. Those of France are browner and smaller than either of these, and the Alpine wolves are smaller still. Wolves are very numerous in the northern regions of America; "their foot-marks," says Sir John Richardson, "may be seen by the side of every stream, and a traveler can rarely pass the night in these wilds without hearing them howling around him."[1] These wolves burrow, and bring forth their young in earths with several outlets, like those of a fox. Sir John saw none with the gaunt appearance, the long jaw and tapering nose, long legs and slender feet, of the Pyrenean wolves.

India, too, is infested with wolves, which are smaller than the European. There is a remarkably fine animal at the Zoological Gardens, born of a European father and Indian mother, which, in size and other respects, so closely partakes of the characteristics of his sire, that he might well pass for pure blood.

Among the ancients, wolves gave rise to many superstitious fictions. For instance, it was said that they possessed "an evil eye," and that, if they looked on a man before he saw them, he would forthwith lose his voice. Again, we find the Roman witches, like the weird sisters of Macbeth, employing the wolf in their incantations:

There was a myth prevalent among the ancients, that in Arcadia there lived a certain family of the Antæi, of which one was ever obliged to be transformed into a wolf. The members of the family cast lots, and all accompanied the luckless wight on whom the lot fell, to a pool of water. This he swam over, and having entered into the wilderness on the other side, was forthwith in form, a wolf, and for nine years kept company with wolves: at the expiration of that period he again swam across the pool, and was restored to his natural shape, only that the addition of nine years was placed upon his features. It was also imagined that the tail of the wolf contained a hair, which acted as a love philtre and excited the tender passion. The myth of Romulus and Remus having been suckled by a wolf, arose from the simple circumstance of their nurse having been named Lupa—an explanation which sadly does away with the garland of romance that so long surrounded the story of the founders of Rome. The figure of the wolf at one time formed a standard for the Roman legions, as saith Pliny, "Caius Marius, in his second consulship, ordained that the legions of Roman soldiers only should have the egle for their standard, and no other signe, for before time the egle marched foremost indeed, but in a ranke of foure others, to wit, wolves, minotaures, horses, and bores."[2]

The dried snout of a wolf held, in the estimation of the ancients, the same rank that a horseshoe does now with the credulous. It was nailed upon the gates of country farms, as a counter-charm against the evil eye, and was supposed to be a powerful antidote to incantations and witchcraft. New-married ladies were wont, upon their wedding-day, to anoint the side-posts of their husbands' houses with wolves' grease, to defeat all demoniac arts. These animals bore, however, but a bad character when alive; for, exclusive of their depredations, it was imagined that if horses chanced to tread in the foot-tracks of wolves, their feet were immediately benumbed; but Pliny also says, "Verily, the great master teeth and grinders of a wolf being hanged about an horse necke, cause him that he shall never tire and be weary, be he put to never so much running in any race whatsoever." When a territory was much infested with wolves, the following ceremony was performed with much solemnity and deep subsequent carousal: A wolf would be caught alive, and his legs carefully broken. He was then dragged around the confines of the farm, being bled with a knife from time to time, so that the blood might sprinkle the ground. Being generally dead when the journey had been completed, he was buried in the very spot whence he had started on his painful race.

There was scarcely a filthy thing upon the earth, or under the earth, which the ancients did not in some way use medicinally; and we find Paulus Ægineta recommends the dry and pounded liver of a wolf, steeped in sweet wine, as a sovereign remedy for diseases of the liver, &c.

Our English word wolf is derived from the Saxon wulf and from the same root, the German wolf, the Swedish ulf, and Danish ulv are probably derived. Wolves were at one time a great scourge to this country, the dense forests which formerly covered the land favoring their safety and their increase. Edgar applied himself seriously to rid his subjects of this pest, by commuting the punishment of certain crimes into the acceptance of a number of wolves' tongues from each criminal; and in Wales by commuting a tax of gold and silver imposed on the Princes of Cambria by Ethelstan, into an annual tribute of three hundred wolves' heads, which Jenaf, Prince of North Wales, paid so punctually, that by the fourth year the breed was extinct. Not so, however, in England, for like ill weeds, they increased and multiplied here, rendering necessary the appointment, in the reign of the first Edward, of a wolf-hunter general, in the person of one Peter Corbet; and his majesty thought it not beneath his dignity to issue a mandamus, bearing date May 14th, 1281, to all bailiffs, &c., to aid and assist the said Peter in the destruction of wolves in the counties of Gloucester, Worcester, Hereford, Shropshire, and Stafford; and Camden informs us that in Derby, lands were held at Wormhill by the duty of hunting and taking the wolves that infested that county. In the reign of Athelstan, these pests had so abounded in Yorkshire, that a retreat was built at Flixton in that county, "to defend passengers from the wolves that they should not be devoured by them." Our Saxon ancestors also called January, when wolves pair, wolf-moneth; and an outlaw was termed wolfshed, being out of the protection of the law, and as liable to be killed as that destructive beast.

A curious notice of the existence of wolves and foxes in Scotland is afforded in Bellenden's translation of Boetius.[3] "The wolffis are right noisome to tame beastial in all parts of Scotland, except one part thereof, named Glenmorris, in which the tame beastial gets little damage of wild beastial, especially of tods (foxes); for each house nurses a young tod certain days, and mengis (mixes) the flesh thereof, after it be slain, with such meat as they give to their fowls or other small beasts, and so many as eat of this meat are preserved two months after from any damage of tods; for tods will eat no flesh that gusts of their own kind." The last wolf killed in Scotland is said to have fallen by the hand of Sir Ewen Cameron, about 1680; and singular to say, the skin of this venerable quadruped may yet be in existence: in a catalogue of Mr. Donnovan's sale of the London Museum, in April, 1818, there occurs the following item, "Lot 832. Wolf, a noble animal in a large glass case. The last wolf killed in Scotland, by Sir E. Cameron." It would be interesting to know what became of this lot.

The pairing time is January, when after many battles with rivals, the strongest males attach themselves to the females. The female wolf prepares a warm nest for her young, of soft moss and her own hair, carefully blended together. The cubs are watched by the parents with tender solicitude, are gradually accustomed to flesh, and when sufficiently strong their education begins, and they are taken to join in the chase; not the least curious part is the discipline by which they are inured to suffering and taught to bear pain without complaint; their parents are said to bite, maltreat, and drag them by the tail, punishing them if they utter a cry, until they have learned to be mute. To this quality Macaulay alludes when speaking of a wolf in his "Prophecy of Capys:"

It is curious to observe the cunning acquired by wolves in well inhabited districts, where they are eagerly sought for destruction; they then never quit cover to windward: they trot along just within the edges of the wood until they meet the wind from the open country, and are assured by their keen scent that no danger awaits them in that quarter—then they advance, keeping under cover of hedgerows as much as possible, moving in single file and treading in each other's track; narrow roads they bound across, without leaving a footprint. When a wolf contemplates a visit to a farmyard, he first carefully reconnoitres the ground, listening, snuffing up the air, and smelling the earth; he then springs over the threshold without touching it and seizes on his prey. In retreat his head is low, turned obliquely, with one ear forward the other back, and the eyes glaring. He trots crouching, his brush obliterating the track of his feet till at some distance from the scene of his depredation, then feeling himself secure, he waves his tail erect in triumph, and boldly pushes on to cover.

In northern India, wolves together with jackals and pariah dogs, prowl about the dwellings of Europeans. Colonel Hamilton Smith relates a curious accident which befell a servant who was sleeping in a verandah with his head near the outer lattice: a wolf thrust his jaws between the bamboo, seized the man by the head, and endeavored to drag him through; the man's shrieks awakened the whole neighborhood, and assistance came, but though the wolf was struck at by many, he escaped. Wolves have even been known to attack sentries when single, as in the last campaign of the French armies in the vicinity of Vienna, when several of the videttes were carried off by them. During the retreat of Napoleon's army from Russia, wolves of the Siberian race followed the troops to the borders of the Rhine; specimens of these wolves shot in the vicinity, and easily distinguishable from the native breed, are still preserved in the museums of Neuwied, Frankfort, and Cassel.

Captain Lyon[4] relates the following singular instance of the cunning of a wolf which had been caught in a trap, and, being to all appearance dead, was dragged on board ship: "The eyes, however, were observed to wink whenever an object was placed near them, some precautions were, therefore, considered necessary, and the legs being tied the animal was hoisted up with his head downward. He then, to our surprise, made a vigorous spring at those near him, and afterward repeatedly turned himself upward so as to reach the rope by which he was suspended, endeavoring to gnaw it asunder, and making angry snaps at the persons who prevented him. Several heavy blows were struck on the back of his neck, and a bayonet was thrust through him, yet above a quarter of an hour elapsed before he died."

Hearne, in his journey to the Northern Ocean, says, that the wolves always burrow under ground at the breeding season, and though it is natural to suppose them very fierce at those times, yet he has frequently seen the Indians go to their dens, take out the cubs and play with them. These they never hurt, and always scrupulously put them in the den again, although they occasionally painted their faces with vermilion and red ochre, in strange and grotesque patterns.

This statement is supported by incidents which have occurred in this metropolis; there was a bitch wolf in the Tower Menagerie, which, though excessively fond of her cubs, suffered the keepers to handle them, and even remove them from the den, without evincing the slightest symptom either of anger or alarm; and a still more remarkable instance is related from observation, by Mr. Bell: "There was a wolf at the Zoological Gardens (says that able naturalist) which would always come to the front bars of the den as soon as I or any other person whom she knew, approached; she had pups, too, and so eager, in fact, was she that her little ones should share with her in the notice of her friends, that she killed all of them in succession by rubbing them against the bars of her den as she brought them forward to be fondled."

During the last year, 8807 wolves' skins were imported by the Hudson's Bay Company from their settlements; of which 8784 came from the York Fort and Mackenzie River stations; we recently had the opportunity of examining the stock, and found it principally composed of white wolves' skins from the Churchill River, with black and gray skins of every shade. The most valuable are from animals killed in the depth of winter, and of these, the white skins, which are beautifully soft and fine, are worth about thirty shillings apiece, and are exported to Hungary, where they are in great favor with the nobles as trimming for pelisses and hussar jackets; the gray wolves' skins are worth from three shillings and sixpence upward, and are principally exported to America and the North of Europe, to be used as cloak-linings.

Colonel H. Smith mentions a curious instance of the treacherous ferocity of the wolf. A butcher at New York had brought up, and believed he had tamed, a wolf, which he kept for above two years chained up in the slaughterhouse, where it lived in a complete superabundance of blood and offal. One night, having occasion for some implement which he believed was accessible in the dark, he went into this little Smithfield without thinking of the wolf. He was clad in a thick frieze coat, and while stooping to grope for what he wanted, he heard the chain rattle, and in a moment was struck down by the animal springing upon him. Fortunately, a favorite cattle-dog had accompanied his master, and rushed forward to defend him: the wolf had hold of the man's collar, and being obliged to turn in his own defense, the butcher had time to draw a large knife, with which he ripped his assailant open. The same able writer relates an incident which occurred to an English gentleman, holding a high public situation in the peninsula, during a wolf-hunt in the mountains, near Madrid. The sportsmen were placed in ambush, and the country-people drove the game toward them; presently an animal came bounding upward toward this gentleman, so large that he took it, while driving through the high grass and bushes, for a donkey; it was a wolf, however, whose glaring eyes meant mischief, but, scared by the click of the rifle, he turned and made his escape, though a bullet whistled after him; at the close of the hunt seven were found slain, and so large were they that this gentleman, though of uncommon strength, could not lift one entirely from the ground.

The wolf of America is at times remarkable for cowardice, though bold enough when pressed by hunger, or with other wolves. Mr. R. C. Taylor, of Philadelphia, states that this animal, when trapped, is silent, subdued, and unresisting. He was present when a fine young wolf, about fifteen months old, was taken by surprise, and suddenly attacked with a club. The animal offered no resistance, but, crouching down in the supplicating manner of a dog, suffered himself to be knocked on the head. An old hunter told Mr. Taylor that he had frequently taken a wolf out of the trap, and compelled it by a few blows to lie down by his side, while he reset his trap.

The Esquimaux wolf-trap is made of strong slabs of ice, long and so narrow, that a fox can with difficulty turn himself in it, and a wolf must actually remain in the position in which he is taken. The door is a heavy portcullis of ice, sliding in two well-secured grooves of the same substance, and is kept up by a line which, passing over the top of the trap, is carried through a hole at the farthest extremity. To the end of the line is fastened a small hoop of whale-bone, and to this any kind of flesh bait is attached. From the slab which terminates the trap, a projection of ice, or a peg of bone or wood, points inward near the bottom, and under this the hoop is slightly hooked; the slightest pull at the bait liberates it, the door falls in an instant, and the wolf is speared where he lies.

Sir John Richardson states that, when near the Copper Mines River in North America, he had more than once an opportunity of seeing a single wolf in pursuit of a reindeer, and especially on Point Lake, when covered with ice, when a fine buck reindeer was overtaken by a large white wolf, and disabled by a bite in the flank. An Indian, who was concealed, ran in and cut the deer's throat with his knife, the wolf at once relinquishing his prey and sneaking off. In the chase the poor deer urged its flight by great bounds, which for a time exceeded the speed of the wolf; but it stopped so frequently to gaze on its relentless enemy, that the latter, toiling on at a long gallop (so admirably described by Byron), with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, gradually came up. After each hasty look, the deer redoubled its efforts to escape, but, either exhausted by fatigue or enervated by fear, it became, just before it was overtaken, scarcely able to keep its feet.

Captain Lyon gives some interesting illustrations of the habits of the wolves of Melville Peninsula, which were sadly destructive to his dogs. "A fine dog was lost in the afternoon. It had strayed to the hummocks ahead, without its master; and Mr. Elder, who was near the spot, saw five wolves rush at, attack, and devour it, in an incredibly short space of time: before he could reach the place, the carcass was torn in pieces, and he found only the lower part of one leg. The boldness of the wolves was altogether astonishing, as they were almost constantly seen among the hummocks, or lying quietly, at no great distance, in wait for the dogs. From all we observed, I have no reason to suppose that they would attack a single unarmed man, both English and Esquimaux frequently passing them, without a stick in their hands. The animals, however, exhibited no symptoms of fear, but rather a kind of tacit agreement not to be the beginners of a quarrel, even though they might have been certain of proving victorious."[5] Another time, when pressed by hunger, the wolves broke into a snow-hut, in which were a couple of newly-purchased Esquimaux dogs, and carried the poor animals off, but not without some difficulty; for even the ceiling of the hut was next morning found sprinkled with blood and hair. When the alarm was given, and the wolves were fired at, one of them was observed carrying a dead dog in his mouth, clear of the ground, and going, with ease, at a canter, notwithstanding the animal was of his own weight. It was curious to observe the fear these dogs seemed, at times, to entertain of wolves.

During Sir John Richardson's residence at Cumberland-house, in 1820, a wolf, which had been prowling round the fort, was wounded by a musket-ball, and driven off, but returned after dark, while the blood was still flowing from its wound, and carried off a dog from among fifty others, that had not the courage to unite in an attack on their enemy. The same writer says, that he has frequently observed an Indian dog, after being worsted in combat with a black wolf, retreat into a corner, and howl, at intervals, for an hour together; these Indian dogs, also, howl piteously when apprehensive of punishment, and throw themselves into attitudes strongly resembling those of a wolf when caught in a trap.

Foxes are frequently taken in the pitfalls set for wolves, and seem to possess more cunning. An odd incident is related by Mr. Lloyd: A fox was lying at the bottom of a pitfall, apparently helpless, when a very stout peasant, having placed a ladder, began to descend with cautious and creaking steps to destroy the vermin. Reynard, however, thought he might benefit by the ladder, as well as his corpulent visitor, and, just as the latter reached the ground, jumped, first, on his stern, then, on his shoulder, skipped out of the pit, and was off in a moment, leaving the man staring and swearing at his impudent escape!

Captain Lyon mentions an instance of the sagacity of the fox: he had caught and tamed one of these animals, which he kept on deck, in a small hutch, with a scope of chain. Finding himself repeatedly drawn out of his hutch by this, the sagacious little fellow, whenever he retreated within his castle, took the chain in his mouth, and drew it so completely in after him, that no one, who valued his fingers, would endeavor to take hold of the end attached to the staple.

Mr. Lloyd mentions a curious contest that took place in the vicinity of Uddeholm. A peasant had just got into bed, when his ears were assailed by a tremendous uproar in his cattle-shed. On hearing this noise, he jumped up, and, though almost in a state of nudity, rushed into the building to see what was the matter: here he found an immense wolf, which he gallantly seized by the ears, and called out most lustily for assistance. His wife—the gallant Trulla—came to his aid, armed with a hatchet, with which she severely wounded the wolf's head; but it was not until she had driven the handle of the hatchet down the animal's throat, that she succeeded in dispatching him. During the conflict, the man's hands and wrists were bitten through and through; and, when seen by Mr. Lloyd, the wounds were not healed.

Like dogs, wolves are capable of strong attachment; but such instances are comparatively rare: the most striking, perhaps, was that recorded by M. Frederick Cuvier, as having come under his notice at the Ménagerie du Roi at Paris. The wolf in question was brought up as a young dog, became familiar with persons he was in the habit of seeing, and, in particular, followed his master every where, evincing chagrin at his absence, obeying his voice, and showing a degree of submission scarcely differing, in any respect, from that of the most thoroughly-domesticated dog. His master, being obliged to be absent for a time, presented his pet to the menagerie, where he was confined in a den. Here he became disconsolate, pined, and would scarcely take food; at length, he was reconciled to his new situation, recovered his health, became attached to his keepers, and appeared to have forgotten "auld lang syne," when, after the lapse of eighteen months, his old master returned. At the first sound of his voice—that well-known, much-loved voice—the wolf, which had not perceived him in a crowd of persons, exhibited the most lively joy, and, being set at liberty, lavished upon him the most affectionate caresses, just as the most attached dog would have done. With some difficulty, he was enticed to his den. But a second separation was followed by similar demonstrations of sorrow to the former; which, however, again yielded to time. Three years passed away, and the wolf was living happily with a dog which had been placed with him, when his master again appeared—and again the long-lost, but well-remembered voice, was instantly replied to by the most impatient cries, redoubled as soon as the poor fellow was at liberty. Rushing to his master, he placed his fore-feet on his shoulders, licking his face with every mark of the most lively joy, and menacing the keepers who offered to remove him. A third separation, however, took place, but it was too much for the poor creature's temper: he became gloomy, refused his food, and, for some time, it was feared he would die. Time, however, which blunts the grief of wolves, as well as of men, brought comfort to his wounded heart, and his health gradually returned; but, looking upon mankind as false deceivers, he no longer permitted the caresses of any but his keepers, manifesting to all strangers the savageness and moroseness of his species.

Another instance of the attachment of wolves is mentioned by Mr. Lloyd, in his work on the Sports of the North. Mr. Greiff, who had studied the habits of wild animals, for which his position, as ofüerjäg mästare, afforded peculiar facilities, says: "I reared up two young wolves until they were full-grown: they were male and female. The latter became so tame, that she played with me, and licked my hands, and I had her often with me in the sledge, in winter. Once, when I was absent, she got loose from the chain, and was away three days. When I returned home, I went out on a hill, and called, 'where's my Tussa?' as she was named, when she immediately came home, and fondled with me, like the most friendly dog."

Between the dog and the wolf there is a natural enmity, and those animals seldom encounter each other on at all equal terms without a combat taking place. Should the wolf prove victorious, he devours his adversary, but if the contrary be the case, the dog leaves untouched the carcass of his antagonist.

The wolf feeds on the rat, hare, fox, badger, roebuck, stag, reindeer and elk; likewise upon blackcock and capercali. He is possessed of great strength, especially in the muscles of the neck and jaws, is said always to seize his prey by the throat, and when it happens to be a large animal, as the elk, he is often dragged for a considerable distance.

After a deep fall of snow the wolf is unusually ferocious; if he besmears himself with the blood of a victim, or is so wounded that blood flows, it is positively asserted that his companions will instantly kill and devour him.

In the year 1799 a peasant at Frederickshall in Norway was looking out of his cottage window, when he espied a large wolf enter his premises and seize one of his goats. At this time he had a child of eighteen months old in his arms; he incautiously laid her down in a small porch fronting the house, and, catching hold of a stick, the nearest weapon at hand, attacked the wolf, which was in the act of carrying off the goat. The wolf dropped this, and getting sight of the child, in the twinkling of an eye seized it, threw it across his shoulders, and was off like lightning. He made good his escape, and not a vestige was ever seen of the child.

Wolves are found all over Scandinavia, but are most common in the Midland and Northern Provinces of Sweden. Like "Elia," they are very partial to young pig, a failing taken advantage of by sportsmen thus: they sew up in a sack a small porker, leaving only his snout free, and place him in a sledge, to the back of which is fastened by a rope about fifty feet long, a small bundle of straw, covered with black sheep skin; this, when the sledge is in motion, dangles about like a young pig.

During a very severe winter a party started in the vicinity of Forsbacka, well provided with guns, &c. On reaching a likely spot they pinched the pig, which squealed lustily, and, as they anticipated, soon drew a multitude of famished wolves about the sledge. When these had approached within range the party opened fire on them, and shot several; all that were either killed or wounded were quickly torn to pieces and devoured by their companions, but the blood with which the ravenous beasts had now glutted themselves only served to make them more savage than before, and, in spite of the fire kept up by the party, they advanced close to the sledge, apparently determined on making an instant attack. To preserve the party, therefore, the pig was thrown to the wolves, which had for a moment the effect of diverting their attention. While this was going forward, the horse, driven to desperation by the near approach of the wolves, struggled and plunged so violently that he broke the shafts to pieces, galloped off, and made good his escape. The pig was devoured, and the wolves again threatened to attack the sportsmen. The captain and his friends finding matters had become serious, turned the sledge bottom up and took shelter beneath it, in which position they remained many hours, the wolves making repeated attempts to get at them by tearing the sledge with their teeth, but at length the party were relieved by friends from then perilous position.

Lieutenant Oldenburg once witnessed a curious occurrence. He was standing near the margin of a large lake which at that time was frozen over. At some little distance from the land a small aperture had been made for the purpose of procuring water, and at this hole a pig was drinking. While looking toward the horizon, the lieutenant saw a mere speck or ball, as it were, rapidly moving along the ice: presently this took the form of a large wolf, which was making for the pig at top speed. Lieutenant Oldenburg now seized his gun, and ran to the assistance of the pig; but before he got up to the spot the wolf had closed with the porker, which, though of large size, he tumbled over and over in a trice. His attention was so much occupied, that Lieutenant Oldenburg was able to approach within a few paces and dispatch him with a shot. A piece as large as a man's foot had been torn out of the pig's hind quarters; and he was so terribly frightened that he followed the lieutenant home like a dog, and would not quit his heels for a moment.

Mr. Lloyd mentions an incident that befell him, in consequence of swine mistaking his dogs for wolves, to which they bear the most instinctive antipathy. One day, in the depth of winter, accompanied by his Irish servant, he struck into the forest, in the vicinity of Carlstadt, for the purpose of shooting capercali. Toward evening they came to a small hamlet, situated in the recesses of the forest. Here an old sow with her litter were feeding; and immediately on seeing the two valuable pointers which accompanied the sportsman, she made a determined and most ferocious dash at them. The servant had a light spear in his hand, similar to that used by our lancers. This Mr. Lloyd seized, and directing Paddy to throw the dogs over a fence, received the charge of the pig with a heavy blow across the snout with the butt end of the spear. Nothing daunted, she made her next attack upon him; and, in self-defense, he was obliged to give her a home thrust with the blade of the spear. These attacks she repeated three several times, always getting the spear up to the hilt in her head or neck. Then, and not before, did she slowly retreat, bleeding at all points. The peasants, supposing Mr. Lloyd to be the aggressor, assumed a very hostile aspect, and it was only by showing a bold bearing, and menacing them with his gun, that he escaped in safety.

A poor soldier was one day, in the depth of winter, crossing the large lake called Storsyön, and was attacked by a drove of wolves. His only weapon was a sword, with which he defended himself so gallantly, that he killed and wounded several wolves, and succeeded in driving off the remainder. After a time, he was again attacked by the same drove, but was now unable to extricate himself from his perilous situation in the same manner as before, for having neglected to wipe the blood from his sword after the former encounter, it had become firmly frozen to the scabbard. The ferocious beasts therefore, quickly closed with him, killed and devoured him. If we remember aright, Captain Kincaid, the present gallant Exon of the Yeoman Guard, nearly lost his life at Waterloo, from a somewhat similar cause. He had been skirmishing all the earlier part of the day with the Rifles, when a sudden charge of French cavalry placed him in great danger. He essayed to draw his sabre, tugged and tugged, but the trusty steel had become firmly rusted to the scabbard; and we believe that he owed his life to an accidental diversion of the attention of the attacking troopers.

Closely resembling in many respects the wolf, the jackal is widely spread over India, Asia, and Africa. These animals hunt in packs, and there are few sounds more startling to the unaccustomed ear, than a chorus of their cries. "We hardly know," says Captain Beechey, "a sound which partakes less of harmony than that which is at present in question; and, indeed, the sudden burst of the answering long protracted scream, succeeding immediately to the opening note, is scarcely less impressive than the roll of the thunder clap immediately after a flash of lightning. The effect of this music is very much increased when the first note is heard in the distance, a circumstance which often occurs, and the answering yell bursts out from several points at once, within a few yards or feet of the place where the auditors are sleeping."

Poultry and the smaller animals, together with dead bodies, are the ordinary food of jackals, but when rendered bold by hanger, they will occasionally attack the larger quadrupeds and even man.

A bold, undaunted presence and defiant aspect, generally proves the best protection when an unarmed man is threatened by these or other animals, but artifice is sometimes necessary. A ludicrous instance is related by an old quartermaster (whom we knew some years ago), in a small volume of memoirs. At Christmas, 1826, he was sent up the country to a mission, about thirty-two miles from San Francisco. He and the others erected a tent; after which they all lay down on the ground. "I slept like a top," says he, "till four the next morning, at which time I was awakened by the man whose duty it was to officiate as cook for the day, who told me if I would go up the village and get a light, he would have a good breakfast ready for the lads by the time they awoke. I must describe my dress, for that very dress saved my life. Over the rest of my clothing, as a seaman, I had a huge frock made from the skin of a reindeer. It was long enough, when let down, to cover my feet well, and turned up at foot, buttoning all round the skirt. At the top was a hood, made from the skin, taken off the head of a bear, ears and all. In front was a square lappel, which, in the day, hung loosely over the breast, but at night, buttoned just behind the ears, leaving only the mouth, nose, and eyes free for respiration, so that one, with such a dress, might lie down any where and sleep, warm and comfortable. Mr. S—— had given eight dollars for it in Kamtschatka, and, on our return to more genial climes, forgot the future, and gave it to me. Fancy, then, my figure thus accoutred, issuing from under the canvas tent, with a lantern in my hand. I had not advanced twenty yards, when first only two or three, and then an immense number of jackals surrounded me. I was at first disposed to think but lightly of them: but seeing their numbers increase so rapidly, I grew alarmed, and probably gave way to fear sooner than I ought. A few shots from the tent would probably have sent them away with speed, but no one saw me. Every moment they drew closer and closer in a complete round, and seemed to look at me with determined hunger. For some moments I remained in a most dreadful state of alarm. It just then occurred to me that I once heard of a boy who had driven back a bull out of a field by walking backward on his hands and feet. Fortunate thought! I caught at the idea; in a moment I was on all fours, with my head as near the earth as I could keep it, and commenced cutting all the capers of which I was capable. The jackals, who no doubt had never seen so strange an animal, first stopped, then retreated, and, as I drew near the tent, flew in all directions. The men awoke just in time to see my danger, and have a hearty laugh at me and the jackals."

Our old friend was more fortunate than a certain youth who attempted to rob an orchard by deluding a fierce bulldog with this approach à posteriori, but who, to his sorrow, found the dog too knowing, for he carried to his dying day the marks of the guardian's teeth in that spot where honor has its seat.

The same quartermaster told us a quaint story of a fright another of the crew received from these jackals.

While at San Francisco the ship's crew were laying in a store of provisions; a large tent was erected on shore for salting the meat; the cooper lived in it, and hung up his hammock at one end. The beef which had been killed during the day was also hung up all around, in readiness for salting. One night a large pack of jackals came down from the woods, and being attracted by the smell of the meat, soon got into the tent, and pulling at one of the sides of beef, brought it down with a crash, which woke the old cooper, who was a remarkably stout, and rather nervous man. Finding himself thus surrounded in the dead of the night by wild beasts, whose forms and size, dimly seen, were magnified by his fears, he fired off his musket, and clasping his arms, in an agony of terror, round a quarter of beef which hung close to his hammock, was found perfectly senseless by an officer who came to see the cause of the alarm. Some difficulty was experienced in getting him to relinquish his hold of the beef—which he stuck to like a Briton—and it was several days before his nerves recovered from the shock of the fright.

The wolf and the jackal tribes are by no means without their use in the economy of nature, though from their predatory habits they are justly regarded as pests in the countries they infest: that they will disturb the dead and rifle the graves is true, but they also clear away offal, and with vultures, are the scavengers of hot countries; they follow on the track of herds, and put a speedy end to the weak, the wounded, and the dying; they are the most useful, though most disgusting of camp followers, and after a battle, when thousands of corpses of men and horses are collected within a limited space, they are of essential service—