XX 



RECREATION. 



SOME SHOTS AND ONE GRIZZLY. 



There is no grander country out of doors 

 than Northern Idaho, especially that por- 

 tion of it drained by the various branches 

 of the Kooskooskie. It is 1 fretted with tow- 

 ering mountain peaks of the Bitter Root 

 range and traversed by almost fathomless 

 canyons, through which run brawling tor- 

 rents alive with trout. It was once my good 

 fortune to penterate this fastness. Our 

 quest was bear and deer, of which there 

 was no lack from the time we abandoned 

 the wagons at Hartmann's Mussellshell 

 ranch and took the trail of the Lo Lo. Our 

 guide, a half breed, knew every deer trail 

 in the Bitter Roots, from Lewiston, Idaho, 

 to Lewiston, Mont., and had promised us 

 a shot at a grizzly. The trail wound over 

 the spurs of the main range, drawing near- 

 er to the snow-capped peaks above us. The 

 first night we camped in 4 inches of snow, 

 though it was only October. The next 

 night found us at the old trapper's cabin 

 on the Locksau, and somewhat sheltered 

 from the high winds by the canyon walls. 

 There we found scant forage for the horses 

 to eke out the supply of oats we carried. 

 Bear tracks were everywhere in evidence, 

 but mostly of blacks. The second day 

 we ran on to a footprint the size of a mar- 

 ket basket that told to the most inexperi- 

 enced eye there was at least one grizzly in 

 the hills. The Englishman was for giving 

 immediate chase, and was only restrained 

 when told that the sign was 3 days old. 



The first day after making camp the guide 

 had killed a small buck and used the great- 

 er part of it to lay a series of baits up the 

 canyon, extending in a line from camp 

 about 5 miles. 



The third day a small black bear was 

 killed by the reporter, armed with a 50-70. 

 There was barely enough of that youthful 

 Bruin left to account for after the quill 

 pusher concluded he was safely dead. We 

 visited the baits regularly every morning 

 without success for nearly a week, but for- 

 tune smiles on those who wait. 



One morning we found a bait gone, and 

 the size of the tracks in the snow told we 

 had a big grizzly on the string. We took 

 up the trail, only to find the second bait 

 gone. The trail led in a direct line for the 

 third and last trap. Toward that we start- 

 ed, all the time keeping a sharp lookout 

 ahead. When some 150 yards away we 

 heard a satisfied grunting. Rounding a 

 corner of the boulders, we saw our bear 

 up on the hillside, looking as big as a box 

 car. The Englishmen was armed with an 

 elephant gun, throwing an express ball as 

 big as a walnut. He at once became pos- 

 sessed of a desire for bear gore and taking 

 counsel only of his ambitions, fired. Im- 

 mediately that bear was buried in a cloud 

 of snow and gravel. Our Britisher had 

 undershot. When the fog cleared, we saw 

 that mountain of bear meat rolling down 

 the hill in our direction, emitting the most 

 hair-raising roars it was ever my pleasure 

 to hear. The reporter and the other fel- 

 low opened up with an arsenal composed of 



50-70 and 38-55. Our shots seemed only 

 to cause Mr. Ursus to accelerate his pace 

 in our direction, and in all conscience he 

 was already coming fast enough. He was 

 uncomfortably close, and at least one mem- 

 ber of that party was eying a convenient 

 spruce with a view of getting up on one of 

 the topmost branches to look at the scen- 

 ery, when I heard the spiteful bark of the 

 little 30-30 carbine in the hands of the 

 guide. Twice it barked, and I saw the 

 bear stop and shudder. Again the whiplike 

 snap, and he huddled all up and came tum- 

 bling down the hill, dead before he reached 

 us. Skinning revealed the fact that 6 balls 

 had found lodgment in the carcass, but 

 only 3 of them had done sufficient execution 

 to put a stop to his progress ; the 3 fired out 

 of the little toy gun. The last had struck 

 the bones of the neck a little above the cen- 

 ter, and had torn off the entire half, sever- 

 ing the spinal cord and stopping the bear. 



One member of the party became a sud- 

 den and lasting convert to the modern 

 small bore gun. 



C. S. Moody, Sandpoint, Idaho. 



IF AN OATH WERE NOT A SWEAR. 



LOU B. HAYDEN. 



Did you ever have rheumatics 



Come a-creeping up your back? 

 Stealing through your joints and knuckles 



Like an engine off the track? 

 Did you ever bend up double 



When you tried to leave your chair? 

 At such times we would be thankful 



If an oath were not a swear. 



Did you ever burn your fingers 



When you thought the dish was cold? 

 Did you ever test the hens' nests 



Just to find the eggs were old? 

 You've been beaten in a horse trade, 



Then pretended not to care, 

 But you wished with ardent fervor 



That an oath was not a swear. 



When you tried to fix the stove pipe 



And you could not make it fit, 

 When you would have killed the wildcat 



If your shot had only hit; 

 When you missed the train you wanted 



By the tenth part of a hair, 

 Didn't your conscience almost tell you 



That an oath was not a swear? 



When you tried to fix your collar, 



And kept losing out the stud ; 

 When you donned your suit at Easter 



Then slid softly in the mud; 

 And the tack that pointed upward 



Just the time your feet were bare, 

 Made you feel, just for the moment, 



That an oath was not a swear. 



When the girl you hoped to marry 



Said she'd be a sister kind, 

 But she loved your rival better, 



And she hoped you would not mind; 

 These, and many like occasions, 



All mankind in general share, 

 And we'd all be oh, so thankful ! 



If an oath were not a swear. 



