Irrigation and Education, IV

Hunting the Wild Boar By Dr. John F. Sharp, Lieut-Colonel, and Regimental Surgeon, 318th Engineers, A. E. F.

This little story is a truthful narrative of the ups and downs o( Utah tenderfoot hunting Europe's greatest big game, the a Wild Boar. It is called in French Le Sanglier (song-le-a). It was rather hard for me to remember the French name at first,but after hearing it pronounced on so many different occassions and in so many stages of excitement, it has become a word never to be forgotten. The disappointments related herein were suffered so keenly and for such a long period of time, that the reader's indulgence is asked for the enthusiasm expressed when the tide turned; and remember that nothing is attempted except to give honest-to-goodness facts. Now for the story: Shortly after the signing of the armistice, when the First American Army was just resting, I came down the stairs from the attic of my host's chateau, where I was quartered, and found a little bunch of men gathered to go boar hunting. From the looks of that little gathering and their apparent eagerness for the chase it suddenly became evident to me that it must be quite a sport. Back somewhere in my memory, my childhood's picture flashed. Remembrances came that it was a sport of kings and of great kills made by "his royal nibs" at different times. The picture continued that the game belonged to an estate all fenced in, of a game keeper who kept poachers off, and that when the aforesaid royal bird could be persuaded to leave his ermine perch, that he would be escorted to a post where someone would load his guns, and the flock of hogs would be driven by him, while he shot until he was tired, then pose for a picture with the kill and finally be escorted home. You can imagine my surprise, then, to see this collection of men, mostly old bewiskered ones, each with a double barreled 12-gauge shotgun of fine workmanship, collecting in the courtyard, all talking at once and greeting each other so warmly and giving each other a little left handed squeeze, which is customary here among the best of friends. They were happy and expectant. Those old 12-gauge shotguns sure looked good to me, and as back home somewhere I had cached away a century run trophy from the Hercules Powder people for breaking more than a hundred clay pigeons straight, I wanted to hug the stock of one, and then of course — thinking of a pig to shoot at well, it just couldn't be missed! It did not take long to request permission to go with them and as my host appeared to be the director of the hunt he soon