Hunting the Grisly 99 



top was a carpet of soft pine needles, on which 

 I could lie at my ease. 



Hour after hour passed by. A little black 

 woodpecker with a yellow crest ran nimbly 

 up and down the tree-trunks for some time 

 and then flitted away with a party of chicka 

 dees and nut-hatches. Occasionally a Clark s 

 crow soared about overhead or clung in any 

 position to the swaying end of a pine branch, 

 chattering and screaming. Flocks of cross 

 bills, with wavy flight and plaintive calls, flew 

 to a small mineral lick near by, where they 

 scraped the clay with their queer little beaks. 



As the westering sun sank out of sight be 

 yond the mountains these sounds of bird-life 

 gradually died away. Under the great pines 

 the evening was still with the silence of pri 

 meval desolation. The sense of sadness and 

 loneliness, the melancholy of the wilderness, 

 came over me like a spell. Every slight noise 

 made my pulses throb as I lay motionless on 

 the rock gazing intently into the gathering 

 gloom. I began to fear that it would grow 

 too dark to shoot before the grisly came. 



Suddenly and without warning, the great 

 bear stepped out of the bushes and trod across 

 the pine needles with such swift and silent 

 footsteps that its bulk seemed unreal. It was 



