Dec. 23, 1905.] 
FOREST AND STREAM 
811 
reputation can only be accounted for upon the theory 
that local zealots suppressed the returns. He was a 
Democrat, pent within a Republican district, or he might 
have entered Congress. He was illiterate enough but 
lacked political diplomacy. As a liar ” 
“Did he invent that echo story of yours?” demanded 
Enochs. The echo story seemed to have infected Enochs 
with incredulity. He was one of those tenderfeet who 
cannot appreciate Western possibilities. 
“Oh, no, he never heard of that. I will give you a 
story cr two of his, one of these times, sO' that you will 
be able to distinguish truth by comparison; somehow you 
seem unfamiliar with it. As I was saying, I found Jim 
Wade in his cabin in the hills, and I told him as calmly 
as I could about having killed the bear.” 
“Thar haiir’t been a b’ar in these hills sence I kill’d ole 
Ephe in Wdler Gulch nine years ago,” said Jim. 
“Well,” I replied, “I’ve killed a sure enough bear. See 
the blood on my knife? Look at it on my shoes.” 
“I reckon you’ve kill’d something. I’ll go with you. 
But thar hain’t no b’ar in these hills.” 
Jim got his rifle, knife and a hatchet and we started 
for the spring. On the way he questioned me closely. 
“Ar you shore you hain’t kill’d one o’ my hogs?” said 
Jim. “I’ve got a ole sandy shote thet’s nigh big enough 
for a b’ar.” 
“No,” I protested, “I know' a shote from a bear.” 
“If you’ve killed ole Sandy you’ll have to help me pack 
300 pounds o’ hog meat down to the road,” he insisted. 
“thar hain’t no b’ar, an’ you’ve sartinly kill’d something, 
I reckon.” 
When we reached the spring we found the bear had 
waited for us without a protest. Jim was speechless with 
astonishment for five minutes, while he examined the 
bear from all points of view. He then began to murmur : 
“He’s shore the same ole’ he one ; his teeth is wore 
down ; he must be twenty year ole. He’s full o’ some- 
thin’ an’ I’ll jes’ bet he’s been after my hogs. I miss’d 
pigs last w'eek, an’ I found this feller’s track an’ I been 
a huntin’ him ever since. I follered him up Wilier Gulch 
for four mile las’ Sunday; he cross’d by the sheep ranch 
and went down, an’ I knode he was gwine fer the big 
chaparral thicket. I’ve tracked him ’bout a hundred mile. 
I’d a shore got him to-morrer. I saw him yisterday even- 
ing about dark, an’ I w'as coinin’ hyar to lay fer him.” 
“With this much to start with Jim went into a long and 
bewildering account of the adventures he had (never) 
gone through with this particular bear. He reckon’d it 
was the last b’ar in the Sacramento foothills, and he 
finally acquired sufficient momentum to allege that he had 
been after this bear for seven years, averring that we’d 
surely find him full of lead and splinters of bone., 
“It was late in the afternoon when we had the bear 
dressed and hung up. The Iianging we had only accom- 
plished by quartering him, and then swinging the quar- 
ters upon a pole, with leverage in the fork of a tree. He 
was not fat or he would have weighed 600 pounds or 
more. Beyond question he had been after hogs, for in 
his post-mortem explorations Jim found great balls of 
hair and hoofs of pigs.” 
“Look thar !” he exclaimed. “An’ look thar ! Thet’s 
ole Nancy’s litter o’ pigs shore; he must a’ got the whole 
lot of ’em!” 
“I don’t see any lead in him, Jim.” 
“No, well thar’s a lot of it in the meat somewhar. I’ve 
been a shootin’ bullets into this b’ar for nine or ten year. 
Never got jes’ the right bead on him. I’ll bet ” 
“But he went on and on, growing more and more fluent 
and utterly reckless in his statements, until in the end 
he claimed to have killed the animal the day before and 
was unlucky enough to lose track of it. When he began 
to express gratitude to me, for finding it for him, I was 
mad, fighting mad, but I set out for Bell’s, intent on get- 
ting a wagon there. I intended to carry the bear’s skin 
with me, but when it was removed I found that it was 
all that I could lift, and the old target rifle was all that 
I could manage to carry the four miles, after that tire- 
some and exciting day. And so we hung the skin up 
with the meat.” 
“That was a long yarn,” yawned Enochs. 
“That’s not all of it. Most of the danger and excite- 
ment came later. I came nearer being killed after that 
bear was hauled in than ever before. Bell ” 
“Let that go. I’m — I’m ” asleep he might have said, 
for the unmistakable snores of Enochs, Dick and Jack 
pervaded the tent. To these and all other matters I, too, 
was soon oblivious. Ransacker. 
Do Animals Fear Death? 
A FEW days ago, having nothing to do except think 
about my sins, and not finding this a pleasant subject 
for prolonged contemplation, I took occasion tO' recall 
some reminiscences which, under the above heading, may 
l)e wortlr noting. That wild animals fear and avoid cap- 
ture and fight restraint is undoubtedly true, whether or 
not they fear death is another question. But I am not 
going to theorize, only to state three or four facts which 
(hose who indulge in theorizing on subjects they know 
little or nothing about, may add to their stock of knowl- 
edge. 
1. When shooting from a blind out on the open water 
down cn the Atlantic coast, I have frequently noticed 
that wi.h some varieties of wildfowl (notably Brcmta 
hemic ‘a) when one of a flock on the wing is shot and 
killed, the rest of the flock will return, apparently to re- 
cover its lost mate, and if the shooter remains so com- 
ifletely hidden as not to be seen he may shoot the entire 
flock, cue or two at a time, as the survivors continue to 
return. But if the shooter is seen they will seldom re- 
turn. Evidently in such cases the only fear which gov- 
erns them is the fear of man, and not of his gun. Nor 
does it seem reasonable to suppose that they have any idea 
of death as a result of the shooting, even though one or 
more dead members of the flock lie motionless on the 
water. The sight of the shooter will keep them away, 
but the sound of the gun which drops one bird will not. 
Hence, in that particular class of cases it would look 
much as if man and not death was the occasion of the 
fear. 
2. Once when out in a sailboat, going to my blind, 
A- ith gun unloaded, a small duck {Chm'itonetta alheola) 
fiew' past unusually near, and near enough for its every 
movement to be distinctly seen. Just as it was passing 
an eagle, wdiich I had not previously noticed, swooped 
down and grasped the duck fairly between the claws of 
both feet. After being thus caught the duck made no 
resistance or effort to escape, but crouched or drew itself 
together much as if paralyzed, and so continued as long 
as it remained in sight — which, however, was not long. 
Doubtless this crouching was an indication of probable 
fear, or even terror; but whether of anticipated death or 
not I do not know. Of course I can guess, as everybody 
c'se can, but I do not see that guesses under such condi- 
tions amount to much. 
It is also well known that there are many wild animals, 
some of ferocious instincts and habits, which, when thor- 
o'’ghly cowed or overcome, make no further resistance to 
any treatment. Grasping a live wolf by its lower jaw 
well back of its front teeth, as recently narrated by Presi- 
dent Roosevelt, and then, but while still so holding it, 
liandling it as freely and harmles.sly as one would a kit- 
ten, is a case in point. If, under such conditions, the 
wolf had any fear or apprehension, or even conception of 
death, it is very singular that it made no effort w'hatever 
to avoid it. 
On the other hand, there are many wild animals that, 
even after being overpowered, will fight savagely as long 
as strength remains to use tooth or claw, but what par- 
ticular motive or feeling so prompts is another matter 
for guess-work. 
3. There is another phase of animal life which, though 
it "doubtless is well known to stock raisers, I have never 
seen described in print. 
In early life (and a long time ago) as the son of a 
country farmer, I had much to, do with domestic animals. 
Nearly every, spring some one_ calf was selected for 
slaughter, and allorved to run wdth its mother until pi’op- 
(.•rlv° fatted and sufficiently matured for table supply 
Ordinirily the mother cow, on suddenly losing her off- 
' living, would low almost incessantly for an hour or more 
at a time, and keep it up day after day sometimes for a 
week or more, apparently calling for her calf. At times 
her lowing would become almo.st pitjfuk My father was 
rather more than ordinarily humane, and he discovered 
that if, after killing the calf, he took off the skin care- 
fully, say on a clean barn floor, or on a bed of straws 
avoided “mussing up” its hair, and kept it free from taint 
of blood, and then hung it, stretched out, on a low gate 
or fence, hair side outside, and allowed the mother cow 
to smell of it and stay with it for a half hour or so, that 
the usual lowing w^as rarely heard, or at most, lasted only 
for the residue of that day. 
Now (unless it were well authenticated) I would not 
believe this story myself if I had not witnessed such an 
occurrence time after time. I do not know any reason- 
able or probable theory of animal physchology which can 
account for or explain it. Evidently in each such case the 
mother cow' perceived that her calf — which she could of 
course identify by the natural odor of its hide — that some- 
thing had happened to it, that it was not a calf any 
longer. The old and familiar calf odor was there; the 
hide was there; but the calf wasn’t. How it was that such 
perception so acquired could end or terminate the natural 
and usual expression 'of her motherly instincts is some- 
thing I cannot explain. But did this experience convey 
to the cow an idea or conception of what we call death ; 
and that this death w,as something to which she and all 
other cows, and their calves as well, were subject; and 
that it was a calamity to be fought off, shunned and 
avoided at all hazards? Possibly so, but the observed 
facts, whatever else they may indicate, do not prove quite 
that much. 
4. Another fact bearing on the animal consciousness 
of serious danger may be worth reporting. 
At the end of the Civil War of 1861-5 the corps to 
which I belonged was sent to the Mexican frontier, sup- 
posedly as a notice to Napoleon III. to- withdraw from 
Mexico the French army which he had sent there to sup- 
port the pretensions of the ill-fated Maximilian. Our 
regiment was landed on a barren sand beach a few miles 
east of the mouth of the Rio Grande. Several regiments 
were already encamped there and their requirements ex- 
hausted the fresh water supply. We could get no water 
for man or horse. Our horses, sent in another boat, had 
been landed the previous day. To relieve our distress, 
we were ordered to march that night to the Rio Grande, 
where, of course, fresh water w'as abundant. We arrived 
at the river about ii P. M. of a clear, starlit night in 
June ; no moon, but it was light enough for us tO' dis- 
tinguish water from land, but that was all. To the eye 
as I sat on my horse, the water of the river was break- 
ing 111 ripples on what seemed to be a shelving beach. As 
rny horse had had no water for fully twenty-four hours, 
I decided, without even waiting to dismount, to let him 
drink at once. He put his head down, smelt of the shore, 
and stepped back. I drew up his head, gave him a dig 
with the spur, and the performance was repeated. I was 
too tired to quarrel with him, so, mentally cussing him for 
a dashed fool, I dismounted and turned him over to the 
care of an orderly. When daylight came I found that 
the river was on a freshet and was running bank full, 
with, just at that place, an abrupt shore of loose alluvial 
sand, and that the water, nearly flush with the surface like 
the soil, and probably twenty feet deep, was running like 
the tail race of a mill. If the horse had taken another 
step forward, as I urged him to do, neither his life nor 
mine would have been worth the value of a one cent 
canceled postage stamp of the most common' vintage. As 
it was, one or two of our men fell in as the treacherous 
bank crumbled beneath them when lying down to drink, 
and were never seen again. 
Now, that hor.se, half-famished though he was with 
thirst, perceived in some way that that place was dan- 
gerous for him. Now, was he a timid horse? He had 
become well inured to pretl}>- much all the dangers inci- 
dent to active war. Artillery and musketry firing and 
steam whistles he cared nothing for. He would walk 
without hesitation up the narrow and steep gang-plank of 
a transport even while steani was noisilyblowingoffclo.se 
beside him. He would pick his way over the broken cor- 
duroys in front of Richmond, and flounder through the 
mud of the James River flats, just as if he enjoyed it. 
On no other occasion, either before or afterward, in day- 
light or darkness, did he hesitate to go anjrwhere I 
wished. But on that occasion he evidently perceived 
danger. And what was the danger as it existed in his 
perception? Did he perceive a danger of death, or was 
it only of some danger recognizable by his horse sense 
as a thing to be avoided — somewhat as the brant {Brcmta 
bernicla) avoids flying ever land*; or as some of us elderly 
men with a touch of gout avoid icy pavements? I don’t 
know. Anybody that dees can have the floor. 
Shaganoss. 
The American Bison Society. 
The movement for the preservation of the last few 
hundred buffalo, which was started nearly two years ago, 
and which has been growing steadily ever since, will 
hereafter be conducted by the American Bison Society, 
a national organization, of which President Roosevelt is 
the chief officer and leading spirit. 
This Society was organized last week at the New York 
Zoological Park, at a meeting attended by many promi- 
nent naturalists and sportsmen, chiefly of New York and 
Boston. 
The meeting was called to order at 10:30 A. M., and 
Mr. William T. Hornaday was made chairman pro tern. 
A nominating committee was appointed, and this com- 
mittee shortly presented the following list of officers : 
Honorary President, Hon. Theodore Roosevelt, Presi- 
dent of the United States; President, William T. Horna- 
day, Director of the New York Zoological Park; Vice- 
Presidents, Dr. Charles S. Minot, Harvard University, 
and A. A. Anderson, president of the Camp-Fire 
Club of America; Secretary, Ernest Harold Baynes, 
Meriden, N. H. ; Treasurer, Edmund Seymour, banker, 
45 Wall street. New York; Advisory Board — Prof. 
Franklin W. Hooper, director of the Brooklyn Institute 
of Arts and Sciences; Madison Grant, of New York; 
Prof. David Starr Jordan, Leland Stanford University, 
Cal.; Prof. Morton J. Elrod, University of Montana; 
Prof. L. L. Dyche, University of Kansas; Prof. John J. 
Gerould, Dartmouth College; William Lyman Under- 
wood, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and Ernest 
Thompson-Seton, Coscob, Conn. The secretary pro' tern, 
was instructed to cast one ballot. All the officers elected 
had previously expressed their willingness to serve. 
Then followed a discussion on the advisability of seek- 
ing the co-operation of (he Canadian Government, which 
not only possesses a large and thriving herd of buffalos 
in the National Park at Banff, but has under its protec- 
tion the only wild herd of any importance now in exist- 
ence. 
It was the opinion of all present that the Canadians 
would be deeply interested in the movement, and a mo- 
tion by Professor Hooper that the Governor-General and 
Premier of Canada, respectively, be asked to accept hon- 
orary offices in the newly-formed Society, was carried 
unanimously. 
_ On being requested by the. Society to appoint an Execu- 
tive Committee of seven, the President named Madison 
Grant, secretary of the Boone and Crockett Club; Fred- 
erick H. Kennard, Boston Society of Natural History; 
William Lyman Underwood, Massachusetts Institute of 
Technology, and Ernest Harold Baynes. Three other 
members are still to be appointed. At the suggestion of 
G. O. Shields the Executive Committee was instructed 
to draft a permanent form of organization. 
It W'as decided that there should be three forms of 
membership, for one of which the annual dues should be 
$1, for another $5. the third form to be obtained on the 
pa-'^ment of $100 or more at one time. The names of the 
several forms of membership were left to the Executive 
Committee. This committee was also instructed to ap- 
