The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
ing by my tent when I saw a bear walking up 
the beach towards me, but on the other side of 
the river—an accommodating beast, anyhow, to 
look me up in this way. On the bank of the 
river on my side was an old tree-stump that had 
been left high and dry by a previous flood. In 
a moment I had hidden myself behind this 
convenient shelter, awaiting developments. On 
came the bear, swinging along with a gait that 
rapidly brought him closer. When he was about 
eighty yards off he turned towards the sea in 
order to investigate a small and shallow arm of 
salt water which divided up the beach at this spot, 
and was simply alive with salmon that had mis- 
taken this cul-de-sac for an opening to the river. 
The bear saw the fish too, or rather the ripples 
made by them, for he would dash into the water 
and strike at them with his fore-paw, sending 
up a cloud of spray in his endeavours to cuff a 
fish out on to the sand. I saw him make in this 
way three or four ineffectual attempts as the 
fish moved up in front of him. He put his ears 
back and galloped after them, then dashed into 
their midst again with another furious dig. All 
this time he was getting nearer and nearer to me, 
for this arm of the water tended towards my 
place of concealment. At length the bear gave 
up trying to get a fish, evidently recognizing the 
fact that the water was a little too deep for him 
to be successful. He now turned towards me 
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