THE BEAR MAKES A JOURNEY — 69 
was like a monkey; he could pull out a drawer, and 
open a door if it were unlatched. Standing up on 
his hind-legs, he would whine and smell at the 
crack of the food-room door, and, unless it was 
latched, his long prying claws could open it quite 
easily. Nothing within his reach was safe. 
When there was no fire burning, he liked to 
climb into the fireplace and up one of the andirons 
to the black iron pot that hung on the crane. With 
one paw he would tilt it over, and stick in his head, 
to see if by chance any food had been left there 
that might be to his liking. Sometimes in the even- 
ing, as I sat by the fire reading, the bear would shin 
up the back of my chair, climb to my shoulder, and 
slap the book from my hand ; then, if he felt drowsy, 
he would climb down, curl up in my lap, and drop 
off to sleep. 
We let him run about the camp pretty much 
wherever he wished. One place, however, he was 
supposed not to enter — the sleeping-room. But 
whenever he was missing, we could be almost sure 
of finding him there. One day from this forbidden 
room there came a dismal howl of pain. I ran to 
the door, and sure enough Bruno was in serious 
trouble. He had jumped from the chair to one of 
the beds; then, mounting the post, he had climbed 
to the shelf overhead. On this shelf I had left some 
fishing-tackle—a long gut leader, with three fly- 
