BEARS AND THINGS. 
FRANK MOSSMAN, 
A black bear will eat anything, from a 
honey bee to a well greased sawmill. He 
is an epicure on honey. He will knock 
over a hive and fight off bees with one 
hand while he helps himself to tenderloin 
honey steaks with the other. 
He is also fond of pork. He will gather 
a hog in his arms as mamma does her 
baby, and cuff it into silence if it yells. 
When he has reached timber with it, he 
will sit on his haunches and cuff it till 
Porkie is converted into chops, spare ribs, 
sausages and other convenient  deli- 
cacies. 
I remember some fun I once had with 
a bear which was trying to carry off my 
winter’s supply of spareribs. I had danced 
all night at a country hop and on my 
return at daybreak to my palatial resi- 
dence, half wickyup, half cyclone remains, 
I found Bruin at his work. I had neither a 
gun nor son of a gun, so grabbing the first 
thing within reach, a pitchfork, I went 
after him and poked him in the dining car. 
I was handicapped by my swallowtail coat, 
though it eventually proved useful. 
The bear paid no heed to me till I poked 
him; then he turned on me. We both 
sparred cautiously for an opening. Think- 
ing he had caught one the bear made a 
swipe at me, and caught me on the hash 
machine. Feeling that I could fight freer 
in my working clothes, I started to the 
house for them. The bear removed all 
those little difficulties, and my _ clothes. 
Five to one on Bruin and no takers, when 
2 young ladies happened along. The sight 
of a bear chasing a wild eyed man, whose 
only raiment was a pair of poorly matched 
side whiskers was too much for their 
nerves, and they unbuckled a few yells, 
which caused my pursuer to break for the 
timber. I did likewise, having always 
been noted for modesty when my wardrobe 
was not handy. 
My clawhammer coat undoubtedly saved 
my life. When the fight was the hottest 
the tails of that garment displayed almost 
human intelligence. I could see_ better 
fighting grounds on a tree a mile away and 
started for it. That’s where the coat tails 
got in their work. They flapped up and 
down so fast in the bear’s face that he 
could see nothing but coat tails and the 
dust I kicked up. I finally reached the tree 
but the bear had lost hope of lunching on 
me and dropped out of the race. 
On one occasion my dog ran a bear into 
a big hollow cedar. Coming up, I sent one 
of my dogs into the hole at the ground. 
179 
As he did not get hurt I went in. Peering 
up into the darkness above me and seeing 
nothing, hearing no sound, | concluded the 
dog had been fooled. 
Just then something slipped, and_ it 
wasn’t the bark. It was the bear. I made 
for the hole; so cid the bear. The fellow 
was so delighted at the meeting that he 
took me in his arms and folded me to his 
bosom. He hugged me so close, and with- 
al was so awkward with his claws, that 
for a moment I contemplated sending for 
a suit of clothes. At last, through a slight 
inadvertence on the bear’s part I got out 
and with a lucky shot laid him low. 
I was so changed in appearance that 
my dogs didn’t know me at first. I was 
a second Rip Van Winkle, as far as clothes 
and rips were concerned. If you wish to 
know how the tail end of a cyclone feels 
just get fast in the hollow of a tree in 
company with a healthy bear and 4 or 5 
dogs. 3 
In my youthful days it was my dearest 
ambition to own a menagerie. ‘The great 
lack was for material. One fortunate day | 
I chanced on 2 bear cubs, gathered them , 
in my arms and started joyfully homeward. 
Unluckily the old lady bear came on the ™ 
scene and.asked to be included in the col- 
lection. As my project did not embrace 
a 3 ring attachment I dropped the cubs, 
also the menagerie scheme, and fled for 
life, making more noise and tracks than 
2 menageries. I reached my long legs in 
front of me, pulled the distance under me, 
and kicked it out behind, like a streak of 
small boys 100 yards long. 
I once set a trap for a bear: several 
traps, in fact. A stout pen was made in 
the timber and a hog put in. This bait was 
fed once in 2 days, and the way he yelled 
for rations was a caution. The bear heard 
the rumpus, came up to pay the hog a visit, 
and began by taking a walk around the 
pen. In that way he put his foot in it, a 
No. 5 Newhouse. There was another trap, 
but the bear seemed satisfied; didn’t care 
to look up any more; so he tarried there till 
I went out and called on him socially, 
Late in the fall the bears here fill up on 
salmon, then crawl into a hole and pull 
it in after them. I found a bear hole once, 
and crawled in. The bear had hired a 
family of skunks to ’tend door. As I had 
no ticket they refused me admittance, but 
generously presented me a bouquet. I re- 
tired. I may get old and gray, but the 
scent of that bouquet will linger in my 
whiskers forever. 
