290 FOREST AND STREAM. [Ocr 7. igos. 
The Biography of a Bear. — III 
Jack had been allowed to wander freely about the 
place, and until the report of the Johnson disturbance 
reached me, I did not know that he ever left our own 
grounds. Shortly after this I ascertained that he had 
been rnaking nocturnal expeditions about town, and 
from time to time I began to receive reports of his 
doings from various quarters. As he seemed to be 
always about the barn, house or orchard, I could not 
believe him guilty of having visited so many localities, 
and thought the reports exaggerated. 
The several streets of Shasta were irregular parallel 
terraces skirting the spur of a mountain. As the slope 
was steep, the houses upon the upper sides of the 
streets were in most cases built into the hill, so that 
one could walk from an upper street out upon the 
roofs of the buildings fronting on the street below. 
The main business street was chiefly lined with a com- 
pact row of brick buildings that extended back into ex- 
cavations in the hill. For the main part these buildings 
were compactly crowded together, a single wall often 
being the partition common to two owners. The roofs 
of a score or so of the buildings presented, from the 
street above, the appearance of a level floor of tin 
surrounded with fire walls and broken here and there 
with skylights and ventilators. 
It developed that Jack made a practice of prowling 
over these roofs by night and was thus the cause of 
many burglar alarms and vague reports of mysterious 
disturbances. After his experience on the Johnson 
premises he evidently deemed it expedient to exercise 
caution, and he was soon so familiar with his nightly 
haunts that he appeared to be as ubiquitous in regions 
aloft as the ghost of King Hamlet was in the cellarage. 
Not content with prowling over the roofs of the stores 
and places of business, he sometimes made tours of 
dwellings and entered the houses. 
Night watchmen and alarmed proprietors were fre- 
quently aroused and clambered over and about the flat 
roofs and fire walls with lanterns and the usual burglar 
chasing accoutrements. But it was only after many 
exciting alarms and midnight explorations, when some 
of them caught sight of thei shadowy outlines of Jack, 
that they were more or less assured that the prowler 
was that distinguished bear of mine. I was notified and 
eventually warned that my bear might get into trouble. 
Although no harm could be charged to him, for he 
did no damage of any but trivial consequence, when 
Jack began to invade dwellings in flie quiet summer 
nights, the plot thickened. A number of worthy people 
were aroused in “the dead waste and tniddle of the 
night” by noisy dogs, terrified cats, bawling coyts and 
snorting horses. Pots and pans in various kitchens, 
chairs upon porches, barrels, tubs and such movables 
were frequently overturned and tumbled about, some- 
times distributed in a promiscuous manner. The clat- 
ter of pots and pans in his domicile aroused Mr. Wil- 
liam Dunn, and when he went in night-costume to 
investigate he confronted Jack emerging from a pan- 
try. Both parties to the meeting were astonished, but 
Jack, with notable decision and temerity left the Dunn 
residence through a window with great promptitude and 
velocity. Fences and ordinary barricades were entirely 
ignored by him in emergencies. The town dogs seemed 
either resigned to Jack’s advent, or they had no instruc- 
tions bringing bears within their department of house- 
hold service. They awaited more explicit instructions 
with all the resignation of certain public officials, serenely 
content to give forth' a few barks and avoided commit- 
ting themselves further; or they hunted retreats known 
best to themselves. 
These incidents made it judicious to try and keep 
Jack within neutral boundaries. By day he was not 
disposed to leave the yard or orchard, but I began to 
practice chaining him up after dark each night, although 
it always seemed a great indignity to one of his kindly 
disposition and intelligence. He protested against it at 
first, but soon learned to submit with rernarkable resig- 
nation. He seemed to realize after a little time that 
it was one of the unavoidable disavantages of a home 
in town. Perhaps he had reasoned out that community 
interests involve individual concession, a maxim that is 
somewhat hazy in its bearing upon modern inst^-nces in 
some centers. 
Jack Goes toj the M juntains. 
In the latter days of August my friend Enochs and 
myself decided upon a trip to the western slopes of the 
Sierras, in the region of Mt. Lassen, or Lassen s Butte. 
I had been over the intended route and knew many at- 
tractions connected with it. It was a long road, rough 
enough in parts, but it led to trout streams, deer ranges, 
tall timber and icy summits — where the August nights 
were frosty. It was a region offering many contrasts 
to hot houses and town life and many advantages over 
incessant business drudgery. It was a region where any 
man of observation, not utterly lost in sordid degen- 
eracy, might get a view of the world to breed rebellion 
in his blood against many things in modern centraliza- 
tion— sometimes called civilization by those addicted to 
it. A region deadly to egoism, immutable as fate. An 
altitude from which there is a different perspective. A 
region of other comparatives and reversed examples, 
where a man not too far gone may realize his value, his 
insignificance, his liberties and his limitation. 
There are mountains there with lakes near their sum- 
mits, and lakes with forests in their depths. There are 
canons that echo in derision the rare disturbance of 
human voice, or the sound of man’s engines of industry 
or destruction. There is chaos of dethroned mountains, 
seas of rock from upheavals, shattered and powdered by 
storm and avalanche, melted in volcanic fires and flung 
broadcast for a hundred miles. Forests and streams 
have tried for centuries — for the thousand years — and 
they have merely covered over a portion of the havoc 
and ruin wrought by forces now lying dead and silent. 
No man knows about such gigantic matters as to when 
or how or why. The glistening pebbles, polished by 
ancient and vanished rivers, and seas, are imbedded in 
adamantine conglomerate. Time is an insignificant 
word; place is an uncertain condition; individuality, or 
any other material combination, is casual and unstable. 
The very mountains have crumbled, and no man 
knoweth that they will not do it again. When they 
resume business of that kind I shall lose interest in 
them myself. 
Enochs at that time was something of a tenderfoot. 
He was scarcely weaned from implicit reliance upon 
civilization — really had faith in it. He believed that no 
region was complete or worth while until it was divided 
into polling districts, farms, or laid off in town lots with 
franchises on the market. He confused the building of 
cities and towns, the cultivation of the soil, the building 
of ships and railways — the advance of civilization, as he 
called it — public improvement— he confused all this into 
meaning a sort of reclamation of the earth’s surface. 
He thought a town a pillar of the universe and a poli- 
tician or a policeman a symptom of social organization 
and humanity. Everything west of Ohio, where he had 
taught school, was to him in its incipiency. He re- 
formed, however, with notable alacrity. A year or two 
later, after a sojourn in Arizona and New Mexico, he 
went to the other extreme, was known to keep riotous 
company and periodically “shoot up” quiet old Shasta 
town with a .45 caliber revolver. 
But at the time of which I write he was a tenderfoot 
and it devolved upon me to arrange for our trip and 
engineer its progress. I secured a team and wagon, a 
supply of provisions, camp necessities, or rather camp 
conveniences, such as a tent, cooking implements, etc., 
and engaged a half-blood Indian to go along with us. 
We had decided to start in the evening and travel by 
night, as the weather was torrid and the roads dusty. 
Accordingly everything was in readiness one evening, 
the wagon loaded with our supplies and Enochs and 
Dick on board. My saddle horse was brought, fol- 
lowed by our two dogs, and all was seemingly ready 
when I told the boys to wait, that I had forgotten 
something. Going to the barn I unfastened Jack and 
took him out to the wagon. 
“What you going to do with that bear?” exclaimed 
Enochs. 
“Going to take him along,” said I. 
“Is he going to ride in the wagon or on the horse?” 
“Oh! he’s going in the wagon.” 
“The devil he is! Well, then. I’ll get out. What do 
you take me for anyhow — think I affiliate with bears as 
well as with Californians? No blasted bear is going to 
chew me!” 
Enochs was about half earnest, but in the meantime, 
with a little encouragement. Jack had climbed into the 
wagon and I fastened his chain so that he couldn’t get 
into the wheels. Hay had been placed so that he had 
a comfortable nest in the bottom of the wagon between 
our boxes and bales. Dick knew the plan, and_ he 
started up the team, while Enochs was yet protesting. 
Three or four days later we were a happy family. Jack, 
Dick, Enochs and myself, dining together and sleeping 
in the same shakedown, each in his own blankets, 
though Dick usually shared his with the bear. Dick 
drove the team and I mounted my horse and we were 
off, .|ollowed by various suggestions and donations of 
advice from some of our friends who had gathered to 
see us line up. Most of them had something to say as 
to how we might dispose of Jack in some more or less 
effective manner. But Jack was all right. As soon as 
he became accustomed to the motion of the wagon and 
could sit on the hay without holding, he had solved 
the theory of mobility by the expenditure of other than 
personal energy. He realized its advantageous econ- 
omy. He was not much concerned as to the direction 
we took and seemed in no way curious as to his destina- 
tion. If he became restless, a few crackers or other 
small contributions soothed him. 
Leaving Shasta at dusk, we passed over the winding 
road up and down the hills in generally an eastward 
direction. The white, dusty road was easily followed, 
even before the moon rose, and in the course of an 
hour we ferried the Sacramento River near the town of 
Redding — at that time a newly laid out railroad town, 
largely made up of tents and saloons. As we crossed 
on the ferryboat, an old-style flatboat, or scow, operated 
by cable and windlass contrivance, the surface of the 
river shimmered in the moonlight like quicksilver. The 
boat made no sound but the little purling commotion 
in its wake and a slight creaking of pulleys as the cur- 
rent carried us over. As we crossed, the shimmering 
surface of the water was broken several times by the 
rising of large fish, presumably sturgeon. These fish 
were formerly numerous in the upper Sacramento, and 
I have seen them taken weighing from 700 to 1,000 
pounds, and I know some good true lore regarding 
them. This lore is so interesting that I would like tp 
tell it, but I cannot afford to have my reputation identi- 
fied with that branch of natural history, as it is popu- 
larly esteemed. Ever since the adventure of Jonah and 
his whale, narratives concerning fish have been dis- 
paraged and the compilers of them regarded from_ di- 
agonal perspective. Of course, this isn’t right, but it is 
fascinating. Hence it is irremediable. 
The Sacramento at this ferry is about 500 yards in 
width, but we were landed in about ten minutes after the 
man reversed his wheel and swung the boat from the 
bank. While the boat was being made fast at the land- 
ing, the ferryman, who seemed to be half asleep, ob- 
served. Jack in the wagon. The bear’s chain allowed him ; 
to reach the end-gate at the back and he was standing 
up as we drove off the boat. The ferryman was curious, 
but too sleepy to ask questions, so he walked up and 
pushed his head forward over the end-gate. Jack dex- . 
trously and promptly slapped his hat off, and perhaps 
tweaked his ear slightly, displaying as he did so a brawny 
arm and shoulder. The man was dazed by the ap- 
parition and the slight jolt he was favored with. 
He recovered his hat, with some little show of an- ' 
imation, and as I tendered hiloi toll he remarked with 
considerable respiration, “Hi say, mister, whatinell’s 
that bloody beast you ’ave there, hannyow?” 
Before I could reply, Enochs, who had seen and 
heard, shouted back: “’Ee’s the lost Charlie Ross. 
’Ee’s dangerous.” 
“He looks as dizzy,” said Enochs, “as the darkey who ■ 
was queered at the railroad station. Dressed in his 
finest and carrying a carpet-bag he reached the ticket 
window somewhat out of breath. He wanted to know 
when the 6 o’clock train lef’ foh Whiteville, how much ' 
a ticket cos’ and other information. The agent stamped ' 
his ticket but, after searching his clothes apprehensively, 
tlie colored gentleman failed to find his money. As he 
put down his carpet-bag to feel for his treasure, a 
crook picked up the bag promptly and walked off with 
it. After much delay the darkey could produce no 1 
money, and he was stopping traffic in a busy time. In 
his agitation he stood half stupefied blocking the line. 
The ticket agent, prepared for emergencies, apparently, 
let down a rubber spider that was suspended from 
above somewhere. The spider was as large as an egg, 
painted in startling colors and worked its dangling legs ; 
fearfully. Slapping the spider away the darkey reached ; 
desperately for his carpet-bag. It was not there. He 
was now nearly frantic and attracting attention and 
remarks from a crowd. 
“Whah is my carpet-satchet?” he yelled. “Whah is it? | 
Whah am I? Who am I? W’y dis heah place ’s no 
mo’ fit for adeepo’ in spite eh hell!” 
Enochs could tell some stiff anecdotes for an Ohio 
pedagogue, and they helped to ease the monotony of ' 
some miles of the road. 
After leaving the river the road passed over a, scope : 
of dry rolling country, gravelly soil, chiefly timbered 
Vv'ith white oak and thickets of shrub. Houses were ; 
long distances apart. Now and then we passed open 
ground where we saw jack-rabbits by hundreds loping i 
about in the moonlight, looking as if they had no ob- 
ject in life whatever. Occasionally one of the dogs 
rushed a rabbit from the roadside, but he did so merely 
as a diversion. At such times the rabbits manifested : 
little surprise but took some interest in things by try- 
ing to coax the dogs out for a hopeless chase. But our ; 
two dogs had learned more than the wisdom com- 
prised in “try, try again” lingo. They had tried again 
until they had decided to wait for advice of more value. 
They preferred something more lucrative — something , 
that might sometime be rounded up. They would rather : 
chase something they could catch even if it was a bear 1 
and couldn’t be used after they did catch it. 
We passed through the sleeping village, Millville, 
without seeing anything to disturb the placidity of that ; 
town — not even a lighted window. But it was in the 
small hours of the night. We followed a little valley for : 
three or four miles and then climbed several hundred 
feet to a hilly plateau. About dawn we reached Basin 
Hollow, a depression in the hills comprising several 
thousand acres mostly under cultivation or fenced for 1 
pasture. Houses were far apart. 
As the east began to color faintly with approaching . 
dawn we reached a large barn standing just off the road. 
It was half full of hay, a good portion of which was : 
“foxtail,” an infernal grass full of minute banderillas, 
fishhooks and spears. We found out that these things 
not only tortured the horses that tried to eat the hay, 
but they got into our blankets, bedding and clothing. 
During the remainder of that year, I believe, we devoted 
more or less of our lifetime to getting them out of our 
clothes, our beds and our dispositions. Jack got his 
wool full of them as soon as he got out of the wagon. 
We were all tired and sleepy, having traveled about 
thirty-five miles since dusk of the night before. We de- 
cided to stop at the barn for rest and a sleep. Jack had 
behaved well, but he was becoming restless, so I re- 
leased him and he climbed out to investigate the barn 
at his leisure, while we unharnessed, fed the horse and 
made our beds on the foxtail and hay. We then chained 
the bear to a manger and were soon asleep. 
I had slept but a few moments — a dozen snores or so 
— when I was aroused by the growling of the do^s. 
The stable door on the far side of the barn opened, and 
Jack, alert as usual, was standing erect and looking 
over the crib of the manger, which was made of logs 
and poles. Suddenly he gave a series of his startling 
squalls — sounds he only made in anticipation of a whip- 
ping. As he squalled he peered over the crib in fright. 
At the moment a farmer appeared in a large hat with a 
whip in his hand. As he heard the squall and looked up 
to be confronted by Jack’s open countenance his face 
was a wonderful display of unmistakable astonishment. 
“Well! I’ll be dad-swizzled!” he ejaculated, as he made 
unfaltering strides for the door. 
“He’s not dangerous — he’s only a tame cub.” I called 
out hastily. “He’s chained. Is this Blodgett’s barn?” 
“Well — er — well, all right. Yes, I’m Blodgett.” 
I explained the situation sleepily, telling Mr. Blodgett 
we would stop at his house, which was a mile further 
along, and settle for our hay and lodging. He replied, 
“All right,” and I again lay down. 
“What’s the matter?” drowsily asked Dick. 
“Nothing but that bear,” grunted Enochs, as we all 
became dormant. Ransacker, 
