A PIONEER REMINISCENCE. 
MISS M. 
In the mountains of Jackson county, 
Oregon, lives an old man familiarly known 
through all the region as Uncle Bill. An 
excellent story teller, he speaks with such 
familiarity of Indians, panthers and bears 
that small boys of the present are jaun- 
diced with envy. 
His favorite tale is of the capture of the 
largest grizzly ever encountered in that 
section; and well illustrates the fortitude 
that made our pioneers the bulwark of the 
West. 
Near Uncle Bill’s home, is a rugged foot- 
hill, thickly wooded with scrub oak and 
crowned by an immense boulder known as 
Table rock. That hill once served as stag- 
ing for a little comedy, which came near 
being a tragedy in Bill’s life. 
Armed only with a light shot gun, 
he was one day wandering about the moun- 
tain in search of lost shoats. Enter- 
ing a small natural clearing, he came face 
to face with a huge grizzly feasting on wild 
berries. Both were surprised; but Uncle 
Bill was chiefly concerned. Without his 
rifle he felt his presence was an intrusion. 
There were no trees within 80 rods; and he 
saw with dismay that the grizzly seemed de- 
sirous of making his acquaintance. 
Taking counsel of his courage, Uncle 
Bill mounted a log in the middle of the 
clearing, and tried to stare the bear out of 
countenance. Satisfied from a close scru- 
tiny, that Uncle Bill was in a palatable 
condition, Bruin began circling about his 
intended victim. He tore up the earth, 
growled fiercely and made frequent little 
dashes, as if to provoke Uncle. Bill to flight. 
Failing in this, the circles gradually nar- 
rowed in, until Uncle Bill drew his hunt- 
ing knife and braced for the shock, deter- 
mined to sell life dearly. 
Suddenly the brute stopped. sniffed the 
air, and gazed intently down the mountain. 
A bristly crest arose along his enormous 
back; he seemed to waver between 2 opin- 
ions. Then with a roar of baffled rage he 
turned tail and lumbered up to the shelter 
of the overhanging rocks. Uncle Bill 
chose an opposite direction with even 
L. 
SUTTON. 
greater celerity and soon encountered 2 
neighbors out for a hunt, which they 
promptly abandoned in that vicinity after 
hearing his story. 
Some weeks later, a dozen men with a 
pack of bear dogs gathered to hunt Bruin 
out. He must have had a premonition of 
danger which ne decided to anticipate by 
a prompt retreat to his winter quarters, 
several miles up Bear creek. The hunt 
followed. The men took stations in trees 
at intervals of about 60 rods along the 
trail, and the dogs were sent in to start 
the game. The occasional sharp yelping 
as they skirted the lair soon changed to a 
chorus of excited baying and warned all 
to be in readiness. 
With a rush, to which the undergrowth 
was no impediment, the bear passed direct- 
ly underneath the first sentinel, receiving 
a rifle ball between his shoulders, with no 
apparent result. His course was direct for 
the next stand, but all waited in vain for 
the report to tell that he had reached it. 
The baying dogs rushed by and became 
silent. The stillness grew oppressive. Call- 
ing to one another, all the hunters, save 
one, responded, and the posse cautiously 
gathered about his position, to find the 
bear’s dead body overlying a battered rifle 
and bits of bloody clothing. 
Their companion was nowhere to be 
seen, but a weak voice from a near manza- 
nita thicket was heard saying, “The bear’s 
dead, boys, and I am too;” which, in 
spite of the seeming inconsistency, came 
near the truth. 
The bullet from the first stand had 
pierced the bear’s heart, but the animal’s 
great momentum and vitality had enabled 
it to reach the next sentinel, drag him 
from his tree, literally scalp him and toss 
him aside, before it fell dead. 
An army surgeon from the barracks, 25 
miles distant, saved the unfortunate hun- 
ter’s life, but left him disfigured by a stif- 
fened neck and a head permanently turned 
to one side. 
The bear’s carcass dressed 800 pounds 
net; and its fine pelt passed as a fee to the 
surgeon. 
_ Clara: I hope you don’t call yourself an 
invalid, with that appetite! 
Clarence: 
Why, Clara, it is this appetite 
that keeps me an invalid—Exchange. 
109 
