160 TRUE BEAE STORIES. 



had been walking bare-footed up and down 

 the length of it. This was not a big bear 

 by the sign, only a small black cub; but 

 we got the gun out, cleaned and loaded it, 

 and by high noon we three little boys, my 

 father and Monnehan, the mighty hunter, 

 were on the track of that little black bear. 

 We had gone back up the narrow canyon 

 with its one little clump of dense woods 

 that lay back of our house and reached up 

 toward the big black hills. 



Monnehan took the gun and his big club 

 and went along up and around above the 

 edge of the brush. My father took the 

 pitchfork and my younger brother James 

 kept on the ridge above the brush on the 

 other side of the canyon, while my older 

 brother John and myself were directed 

 to come on a little later, after Mr. Monne- 

 han had got himself in position to do his 

 deadly work, and, if possible, drive the ter- 

 rible beast within range of his fatal rifle. 



Slowly and cautiously my brother and I 

 came on, beating the brush and the tall 



