A BEAR-HUNT. 171 
re-enforcement, all armed with most formidable fire-arms, 
from the Spencer rifle to the old smooth-bore, and accom- 
panied by a well-tried bear-dog, we sallied forth. For miles 
we tracked Madam Bruin by the broken fragments of de- 
cayed timber and the numerous logs she had disturbed from 
their original resting-place. Finally, we thought she could 
not be far distant, and the dog was untied; off he went like 
a thunderbolt, and in a quarter of an hour we heard him 
baying vociferously. Guns were looked to, the men most 
energetic previously now dropped behind, doubtless to ex- 
amine their trusty rifles, and see that the powder was up in 
the nipples; but when we reached Watch, what was our 
disgust to find that he had treed a covey of Canadian 
grouse? Unwillingly we went to work and decimated 
this unhappy and unconscious brood, nor could all our 
efforts afterward induce the unfailing bear-dog to take up 
the desired track. 
The scene of the subsequent narrative was between Lake 
St. John and Mud Lake, near the most northern extremity 
of Lake Simcoe, Canada West, in which my efforts for 
Bruin’s destruction were more successful. 
In following a flight of ruffled grouse, which had risen 
so far beyond range as to have prevented my getting a shot 
at them, I came across a perfect brake of wild grape-vines 
loaded with fruit. I could not withstand the temptation 
of halting for a feed, for they had been touched with frost, 
which changes them from the most unpalatable to the most 
delightfully flavored fruit. The day had been warm for 
the end of autumn, and I suppose the fatigue of my tramp, 
together with the delightful shade afforded, induced me 
to lie down, and, as might be expected under the circum- 
stances, I fell asleep. How long I might have been in a 
state of oblivion I can not say, but I was awaked by my 
companion, a mongrel English terrier, barking vociferously 
