A BEAR’S WINTER RETREAT. 167 
yards in front of me. Without troubling myself to look 
closely, I concluded it was a porcupine, animals which were 
extremely common in the vicinity. Soon after a dog be- 
longing to one of my companions passed me; stooping to 
the trail he gave tongue, and went in pursuit at his best 
possible speed. In a few moments I knew he had brought 
something to bay, and, proceeding to his assistance, I found 
a young bear, the size of a badger, treed in a six-inch sap- 
ling. Where was the mother? Answer says, “Don’t 
know ;” for young Bruin, after a vixenish fight, was secured, 
and, although half an hour elapsed in the operation, the old 
lady still remained non est. 
It is very common for bears to be killed after they have 
retired to their dormitory for the winter sleep. When liv- 
ing near Lake Couchachin, in Canada, I assisted on such an 
occasion. An Indian from Rama came to me in great 
haste, with the hope I would sell him some ammunition. 
From his earnestness and anxiety I knew that he had made 
a valuable discovery, which after a little higgling was dis- 
closed. He had found a bear’s retreat in a hollow log, 
nearly imbedded in snow, and the ammunition was for poor 
Bruin’s destruction. 
Stipulating that I should have a share of the sport, I sup- 
plied the ammunition, and we started. The distance was 
short. Mr. Chippewa Indian knocked on the log, and the 
writer stood at the entrance. Poor Bruin at length forsook 
his snug retreat, yawning and looking stupid as he emerged 
into daylight, when a bullet at less than five yards settled 
the matter. When a bear is thus housed in a log a heavy 
vapor of steam, should the weather be calm, perceptibly 
hangs over it. 
A friend, in the true sense of the word, and myself heard 
of a small lake on the edges of New Hampshire and Maine, 
that was reported to swarm with trout, and, as a tramp 
