162 TRUE BEAR STORIES. 



last! He's got him treed, he's got him 

 treed!" 



Out of breath from running, my father 

 sat down at the foot of the steep wall of 

 the canyon below Monnehan and we boys 

 clambered on up the grassy slope like 

 goats. 



Meantime, Monnehan kept shouting 

 wildly and fearfully as before. Such lungs 

 as Monnehan had! A mighty hunter was 

 Monnehan. At last we got on the ridge up 

 among the scattering and storm-bent and 

 low-boughed oaks; breathless and nearly 

 dead from exhaustion. 



"Here, byes, here!" 



We looked up the hill a little ahead of 

 us from where the voice came, and there, 

 straddled across the leaning bough of a 

 broad oak tree hung Monnehan, the mighty 

 hunter. His hat was on the ground under- 

 neath him, his club was still in his daring 

 hand, but his gun was in the grass a hun- 

 dred yards away. 



"Here, boys, right up here. Come up 



