A BEAR WHEN A BUCK WAS DUE. 
DR. C, N. BALLARD, 
Last year I spent my vacation with 3 
companions in the pineries of Northern 
Michigan. We lodged with 2 woodsmen, 
a father and son, who, with their wives, 
occupied a log cabin in a deserted lumber 
camp. The first part of our stay was spent 
in hunting grouse, which were abundant, 
and in catching pickerel, black bass and 
trout. Our bill of fare was ample and 
varied, and often included venison. We 
had fine weather, with just enough snow 
and rain to keep the fallen leaves moist. 
The elder of our hosts devoted much 
time to trapping. For several da-3 after 
our arrival he piloted me each morning to 
a place where he had a bear trap set. As 
he did not succeed in taking anything 
larger than a porcupine I finally lost in- 
terest in these morning trips, and amused 
myself in other ways. That there were, 
or had been, bears in the region was proven 
by a number of hides that hung about the 
cabin, but, as I have intimated, I lost hope 
of meeting Bruin in the flesh. 
The end of my vacation drew near, and 
as I was going out before the others, a 
big hunt was planned for my especial bene- 
fit. It was to be a record breaker in every 
respect. On the eventful morning came 
a light fall of snow, just enough for easy 
tracking. 
With a good lunch in our pockets 4 of 
us started for an all-day hunt. Just as we 
entered the woods up jumped a short 
horned buck. It was all too sudden, and 
in our unreadiness we shot over, under 
and all around him. He did not leave us 
even a lock of his hair. 
Then we separated to drive the woods. 
We saw several deer and fired a number 
of shots without bagging any meat. After 
we had beaten up several miles of thick 
brush 2 of my companions became dis- 
gusted and took the back track, leaving the 
old guide and me to continue. We went on, 
keeping several hundred yards apart. I 
soon found a deer track and followed it 
until I was tired. Coming to a tangle 
of logs I sat down to rest. When 
started to climb over the pile of timber a 
big buck jumped up not 4o feet from me. 
The surprise and my fatigue were too 
much for me, and in the act of lifting my 
rifle I lost my balance and fell from the 
log on which I was standing. When I did 
get a shot it was at over 200 yards, with 
the buck going like the wind. He disap- 
peared, carrying his flag high, and I knew 
it was not worth while to follow. 
By that time I had lost my bearings com- 
pletely and the guide had to give me the 
line of our further march by compass. I 
was resolved to get game of some kind, 
and pushed ahead, though the hills seemed 
steeper and the tangle thicker than ever. 
Soon I came to a dense growth of willows 
in a bit of swampy ground. I climbed a 
pile of logs and stood leaning against a 
bush that seemed willing to help support 
a tired hunter. It was not long until I 
heard a crackling in the brush, faint and 
distant at first, but coming nearer. 
I crouched near the logs, expecting every 
minute to see the horns of a great buck. 
So sure was I of what was coming that I 
began speculating as to how I was to 
smuggle those horns to my home outside 
the State. The animal finally burst from the 
thicket almost on top of me, and I saw—not 
the expected horns, but 4 big black feet sup- 
porting a great black convexly curved 
body. A bear, and a monster, too! It was 
my first experience with Ursus, and he 
looked a different proposition from any- 
thing I had solved. I had been told that 
a wounded bear was not a desirable play- 
fellow and the tangle around me was no 
place in which to attempt to cut down the 
running record. I concluded, however, 
that the chance was too good to lose. The 
bear lifted his head as if scenting me, and 
I put a soft nosed 30-30 bullet just 2 inches 
behind the base of his ear. 
I had heard that a badly wounded bear 
would at once roll on his back, with his 
feet up. It proved true in this case at 
least. Over he went, pawing the air wild- 
ly. A moment in that position; then, 
with a struggle and a growl, he regained 
his feet and made off. I fired once more, 
the bullet taking effect in his back. Never- 
theless he went off at breakneck speed. 
When the guide came up we trailed the 
bear. It was an easy matter, though at first 
there was no sign of blood. Farther along 
we found some, and later, great clots of it. 
An eighth of a mile from where he was 
shot we came to the dead body of my first 
bear. 
In the spring the liar’s fancy lightly 
turns to thoughts of fish—The Pilot. 
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