The Grizzly Agrees 



I AM a Rocky Mountain Silver-tip Grizzly. When 

 berries are ripe I weigh nearly half a ton. I can 

 stand up with my back to a tree, and biting up over 

 my shoulder, make my mark fully nine feet above ground. 

 I am not afraid of anything that hunts in the neck of the 

 woods I call home, barring human beings with guns. 

 I would soon make my mountains untenable for man 

 if it were not for their pesky rifles. They do take unfair 

 advantage of us poor bears. Being afraid to come to 

 close quarters, they stand off a long way and shoot at 

 us. Sometimes they leave food around with poison in 

 it that makes us sick, but as we can usually detect the 

 poison we do not often eat it. They have traps also 

 that trouble us a little, but we can generally see or smell 

 them. Occasionally we turn them over and cause them 

 to bite the ground instead of our feet. We could live 

 in spite of the poison and the traps, but we cannot cope 

 with guns. 



While hibernating in my snug cave tucked away on a 

 nice sunny slope of the Rockies this winter, I projected 

 my astral body to New York City. Having been the 

 editor of a magazine in a previous incarnation, I am 

 naturally attracted to news-stands while on my spirit 

 peregrinations. Although now existing on a much 

 higher plane than in my previous state, I am still intensely 

 interested in what my late pedantic colleagues are 

 publishing. In pursuance of my hobby of spiritual 

 editing, I happened to glance over a copy of Outlook (N.Y.) 

 for January, and noted an article entitled, " The Hunter 



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