The Great Boar of Windsor Forest
I need scarcely tell you that England was not always what it is to-day, and that the advance of time has wrought very considerable changes in the scenery of the country through which the waters of the Thames hold their course. The river which bears my name now washes fertile shores which were once barren plains, and pleasant towns and smiling meadows have replaced wild thickets and dense forests. I suppose there never was a more delightful forest than that of which Windsor can boast. When mortals speak of Windsor Forest, they generally associate therewith the name of Herne the Hunter, who was quite a character in his way, had an oak of his own, and has had more than one very readable story written about him. But Herne the Hunter is quite a modern hero compared with those of whom I am about to tell you. I speak of old, very old days, and if I do not give you the exact date when the events occurred which I shall presently relate, it is only because I haven’t the least idea what that date may have been. But, be it what you will, it is an undoubted fact that long, long ago there was a forest which stretched down to the very edge of my river near to this particular spot, and this forest was the abode of many strange and incomprehensible beings.