38 THE HIVE OF THE BEE-HUNTER. 
the exertion, the dogs got hold of him, and held on 
while I blowed his heart out. Ever since that time, I 
have been wide awake with a wounded bar—sartainty 
or stand off, being my motto. 
“JT shall dream of that bar to-night,” concluded 
Bob, fixing his blanket over him; and a few moments 
only elapsed before he was in danger of his life, if his 
rifle would go off, as he had said, at a good imitation of 
a bear’s breathing. 
Fortunately for me, the sun on the following morn 
was fairly above the horizon before our little party was 
ready for the start. While breakfast was being pre- 
pared, the rifles were minutely examined ; some were 
taken apart, and every precaution used to insure a quick 
and certain fire. A rude breakfast haying been des- 
patched, lots were drawn who should go into the drive 
with the dogs, as this task in Satan’s Summer Retreat 
is any thing but a pleasant one, being obliged often to 
walk on the bending cane, which is so thick for hun- 
dreds of yards that you cannot touch or see the ground, 
—then crawling on your hands and knees between roots, 
you are sometimes brought to a complete halt, and 
obliged to cut your way through with the knife. While 
this is going on, the hunters are at the stands, places 
which their judgments dictate as most likely to be 
passed by the bear when roused by the dogs. 
Two miles might, on this occasion, have been passed 
over by those in the drive in the course of three hours, 
