MY BEAR HUNT.
Reading edition
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
It wasn't a regular bear hunt; that is, I didn't do nearly as much hunting as the bear did. I did not start out intending to hunt. He did. I went to get the butter, when— But I am getting ahead of my story. It was when I was about thirteen years old that my father took my brother and myself camping with him in the Adirondacks. We pitched our tent at the head of Little Tupper Lake. There was a spring of fine cold water not far back in the woods. So, after making our beds out of pine boughs, building a fire, and setting up the table, we went down to the spring, and put our butter—which was in a tin pail fitted with a water-tight cover—in it to keep cool.
All went well for the first few days. Father and brother Will (who was fifteen) shot a deer, so that we had plenty of venison. The guide caught a quantity of trout, and we were enjoying ourselves so thoroughly that we began to dread the time when we should have to return home.
"Can't we stay longer than two weeks?" I asked father one morning.
"We'll stay until the butter gives out," he replied, laughing.
The nearest place to get butter was twenty miles away, and as it was disappearing rapidly, owing to the appetites of growing boys, father had already warned us of the necessity of economy in that direction. We were, after that, very sparing in our use of butter, and it seemed, to bid fair to last longer than the promised two weeks. As the guide was preparing supper one evening, father said, "Will, I wish that you would go down to the spring and get some water; and, Charlie, you go too, and bring up some butter." It was a simple request, but thereby hangs the tale of my first and only bear hunt.
We started off, and soon came to the spring. The path led around it into a thicket of huckleberry bushes. Will proposed that we should pick some for supper. We plunged into the thicket, and soon were busy picking the delicious fruit. We had not been occupied in this manner very long when we heard a crashing in the bushes near the spring, and as we looked back, we saw a great black bear. He was not fifty feet away from us, and was gazing into the spring with a complacent air.
"He's looking at himself," said Will.
"See him grin," I replied, divided between fear and curiosity.
"Thinks he's handsome," whispered Will.
Bruin looked over in our direction with an annoyed expression, and we decided to suspend our remarks as to his personal appearance until some more convenient time—when he was further away, in fact. He continued to peer intently into the spring, and we were beginning to get impatient, when, to our horror, he slowly extended his paw, and without much trouble fished up our butter pail. He calmly seated himself on the ground, and taking the pail between his hind-paws, regarded it reflectively for a few moments. He seemed lost in thought. Then he smiled blandly, and slowly passed one of his strong fore-claws around the rim of the pail. He repeated the operation, while Will and I looked on in despair.
"Maybe he can't get the top off," whispered Will.
He had hardly spoken, when, with a slight rattle, the cover fell to the ground. Will groaned. The bear paused, looked puzzled, smelled the butter suspiciously, and sat looking at it with the air of a scientific investigator.
"He thinks that it is oleomargarine," whispered Will.
But no. If Bruin did for a moment doubt the integrity of our butter, his doubts had vanished; for with one sweep of his great tongue he transferred about two pounds of it into his mouth. Will groaned. Bruin paused, and to our excited imaginations looked in our direction, as if he would have liked some boy to eat with his butter.
We remained perfectly quiet while he finished the contents of the pail. He licked out the last particle, and then carefully turned the pail over and licked off the bottom and sides. After he had satisfied himself that there was no more, he rose and looked into the spring. He seemed discontented for a moment, but the recollection of his supper brightened him up, and casting a loving glance at the empty pail, he trotted off, "the best greased b'ar in the north woods," as our guide afterward remarked.
When he had gone a safe distance, Will and I sadly picked up the pail and walked back to camp. Father was getting uneasy, and had started to meet us. When we told him our adventure, he ran back to camp, and getting the guide, dogs, and his rifle, started in pursuit of the thief.
A little later we heard a shot, and before long father returned, bringing the bear's skin, and some choice pieces of his flesh for supper. Lack of butter compelled us to break up camp next day, and notwithstanding the beautiful bear-skin rug Will and I have in our room, we never quite forgave the thief who stole our butter.
