the husband, forgetting the expression of his
sorrows, congratulated his wife on the happy
notion which suggested his calling in a third
person's assistance. What a different
impression every stroke of the axe made upon
the minds of the principal actors of the
drama! How easy it was to see that at
every fresh cut of the steel, remorse
penetrated deeper and deeper into the tortured
conscience of the guilty bear. Wouldn't he
like to be off and away, as he despairingly
munches his paws in repentance?  What
will become of him soon? And if the thing
were to do over again, how he wouldn't on
any account do it at all.

No doubt; but it is now too late. The
crime is committed; blood calls for blood.
The catastrophe approaches; the tree falls,
precipitating the murderer upon the ground,
without giving him time to recover from the
agitation inseparable from a fall of thirty odd
feet. Scarcely has he measured his length
upon mother earth, when the lioness is down
upon him. She seizes him. Vengeance
satisfied, the lion and the lioness divide the
prey into two parts; and, offering the
better share to the man, swear on their
royal words, they will never forget the
service he has rendered them. The story does
not add whether the man and the lions did
really live in friendly relations afterwards;
for unfortunately the man did not write his
memoirs.

M. Toussenel has read, in the voyages of
many credible navigators, a multitude of
anecdotes about animals as droll as Ælian's,
but not a bit more probable. I was lately
(he says) told the following story by a young
Parisian sportsman, fresh from America;
but I would not be at all more ready to
guarantee its authenticity.

"My companion and I were traversing the
vast pine forests of California, so remarkable
for the absolute silence which reigns beneath
their vaulted shade. One day when we came
upon the edge of one of the immense open
glades which run through these sombre
woods, and where resinous trees give place to
other essences, we heard at a very slight
distance a grunting sound, which seemed to
proceed from over our heads, and which my
companion, a Yankee sportsman of the old
school, recognised at the first note as the
music of a bear. We instantly shrunk
ourselves up into nothing, and slipped through
the bushes, endeavouring to discover where
the animal was perched. A second grunt,
in a more angry tone than the former,
and which seemed to us to be followed by
another grunt of inward satisfaction, attracted
our attention towards a gigantic alise tree,
about twenty paces in front of us; amidst whose
branches and beneath whose shade a ridiculous
scene was taking place. The two dramatis
personæ, a few fragments of whose conversation
we caught by the way, were a bear and
a wild boar. The first, a personage of the
tallest stature, was perched upon a leading
branch of the alise (our cherry) tree, where he
was earnestly employed in gathering alises. But
as the fruit was excessively ripe, and adhered
but slightly to its stalk, it happened that the
reddest and most delicious portion fell on the
ground as thick as hail, at the slightest
disturbance which the bear made on his branch.
The stupid animal lost all patience, and
grumbled away with angry oaths; for the
very same reason, the epicurean wild boar,
posted at the foot of the tree, was in a
state of delight, and testified his satisfaction
with a knowing 'Good, good!' at every
shower of alises. At the moment when
we entered on the scene, the bear's irritation
had already risen to red heat, and it
was easy to see that it would not be long
before it mounted to white heat. 'Oh! I
have got such a capital idea,' whispered in
my ear the spiritual child of Tennessee. 'If
we were to profit by the awful temper in
which these two brutes now are towards each
other, to engage them in a deadly quarrel—'
'How is that to be managed? Show us, if
you can.' 'The method is very simple; one
of the barrels of your gun is charged with
small shot; fire it into the softest part of that
young gentleman's body;' and he pointed
out to me with his finger through the leaves
the part of the bear which I ought to aim at.
'I know the bear,' he added; 'and when he
once has an idea in his head, nothing can
drive it out of him. He has been in a great
rage the last quarter of an hour, with the
boar down yonder, and it would be impossible
to prevent him from believing that the boar
has hit him. You will soon see him rush
down upon his supposed assailant, and take
his revenge for the malicious joke. I promise
you we shall have some fun.' No sooner
said than done. I took good aim at the
shaggy fellow, and fired. The bear had
scarcely had time to feel himself pricked
to the quick, when his fury rose beyond all
bounds, and he fell like a bombshell upon the
boar, who was as innocent of the trick as
he was surprised at the aggression. The
duel did not last long; the victorious bear
laid his rival low. But he pretended not to
be aware that his enemy, before he died,
had ripped open his flank with a terrible
stroke of his tusks. His own strength soon
began to fail, and he tottered and sank down
on the body of the slaughtered boar. I
thus," modestly concluded the narrator,
"gained the right to boast that I killed a
black bear and a wild boar with a single charge
of number sevens."

Fabulists and moralists have sadly contributed,
according to their custom, to propagate
an unfair estimate of the character
of the bear, and M. Toussenel's mission
is, he thinks, to correct their errors in his
love for science and truth. For instance,
the reproach most frequently addressed
to the bear, is that he threw a homicidal