56 
February, 1922 
group for the museum, I did not deem it 
advisable to let any bear get out of my 
sight once I had decided that his skin 
would be worth having. The distance 
now from the game being 122 yards, a 
very fine sight was taken, as my .gun was 
targeted for 100 yards and adjusted to 
place the bullets six inches above “six 
o'clock” on the bull’s-eye. Aiming half 
way between the shoulder and brisket 
and about nine inches anterior to the 
front leg, I let the bullet go, and it did 
all that one could expect. Breaking the 
shoulder blade, it 
penetrated the 
spinal column and 
shattered it. My sec- 
ond shot entered the 
forward part of the 
pelvis and ran diag- 
onally through the 
body, knocking her 
down. I then fired 
four shots at the 
cub, which was mak- 
ing off down hill at 
a good pace. The 
final shot bowled it 
completely over. Fa- 
tal as the first shot 
at the old bear had 
been, it required two 
more bullets before 
she collapsed and we 
felt safe to ap- 
proach. Her coat 
proved to be in 
prime condition and 
she was as beautiful 
FOREST AND STREAM 
a specimen as any I have ever seen. 
After photographing and skinning the 
bears, we rolled the skins up in bundles, 
the guide carrying one and our packer 
shouldering the other. The larger skin 
must have weighed nearly a hundred 
pounds, a heavy burden and a clumsy one 
to carry. Over the many miles that lay 
between ns and camp we trudged along 
slowly through glacier streams and over 
snow bridges. Ptarmigan were calling 
to one another in the twilight from the 
sprouting alder brush. A white arctic 
hare sat hunched up, with his ears 
thrown back, watching us as we passed. 
Down a deep, grassy ravine a shadowy 
object moved nervously about. It was a 
handsome red fox. He was not aware 
of our presence, but was sneaking in our I 
direction, halting every now and then to 
sniff the air. Alert, keen and cunning, 
he presented a phase of wild life inter- 
esting to behold. Night came on, but 
still we were miles away from camp. The 
loads seemed to become heavier at every 
step and the going was not any too good. 
Floundering about 
in a boggy canyon, 
trying to locate in 
the uncertain light a I 
place to ford a i 
stream, it dawned 
upon us that the 
melting snow had i 
transformed what 
was a fordable brook 1 
in the morning into 
a rushing river at l| 
the end of the day. , 
At last we decided 
to leave the skins 
on the river bank 
with a fluttering 
cloth attached to 
discourage wolver- 
ines from spoiling ' 
our trophies. Then, 
with nothing to : 
carry, we arrived at * 
camp half an hour 
before midnight, 
{C ant’d on page 82 ) 
Bear camp on the Alaska Peninsula 
CANVAS -BACKS AND OPEN WATER 
HOW LONG JOHN REVIVED THE SINKING SPIRIT THAT 
ATTENDS THE LAST FEW DAYS OF THE DUCKING SEASON 
I T was zero weather in Dixieland; a re- 
lentless north wind swept the frozen 
wheat fields partly bare of the pro- 
tecting mantle of newly fallen snow. 
The frigid blasts raced impetuously 
across the broad expanse of frozen river, 
uncovering large, gray patches of ice and 
moulding the drifting snow in wave-like 
patterns. The mercury had been flirting 
desperately with zero for days. Such a 
condition of sustained cold had never be- 
fore been known on the Eastern Shore. 
Even the ancient historians of local con- 
ditions — those doubtful weather prognos- 
ticators who are found and are tolerated 
in all rural communities — were unable to 
match this spell of weather with any 
their uncanny memories or their over- 
exercised imaginations might resurrect 
from the dusty pigeon-holes of their 
minds. The Miles River was frozen 
solid; so was Eastern Bay and, in fact, 
most of Chesapeake Bay proper. 
Ducks had been unusually plentiful on 
the river before the freeze. The exact 
reason for this decided increase in their 
number was hard to determine. Long 
John, the oysterman, said it was because 
By WILLIAM STARR 
of an abundance in certain sea weeds 
which form the natural food of the wild 
duck. It was more likely due to the se- 
verity of the cold weather up North. All 
our old friends were back. The fat little 
butter-ball with its gay black and white 
markings, its playful disposition and its 
miraculous capacity for sustained under- 
water manoeuvers ; the sombre blackhead 
which usually formed the bulk of our 
bags ; the large golden-eye or whistler 
with its gorgeous male headdress. Only 
the clown or fool of this otherwise typ- 
ical Miles River representation was ab- 
sent ; no merganser had come to amuse us 
this fall. 
We boys, all members in good stand- 
ing of the great free fraternity of the 
outdoors, were given a short but appetiz- 
ing taste of real duck-shooting before old 
Boreas clamped down the lid. We had 
banged at them as they decoyed out in 
front of our blinds, we had stalked them 
along the wooded shores of the cove and 
we had winged them as they flew over 
the long sand spit. Had our killings been 
large we might have reached that condi- 
tion of satiety which dulls the keen edge 
of any sport. While the north wind 
raged and whistled and moaned about the 
corners of the old brick house we hugged 
the big open fire. Our spirits had 
dropped with the mercury, for we thor- 
oughly believed there would be no more 
ducking this season and we regretfully 
remembered that the season for quail and 
rabbits was closed. 
Long John, the most ardent if not the' 
most consistent gunner of the lot, had be- 
come thoroughly tired of this enforced 
period of hibernation. He muttered 
something about getting outside for exer-^ 
cise. He received no enthusiastic re- 
sponse, not even from the indomitable 
hunter. Bones, who, in response to a 
short whistle, rose reluctantly from the 
warm hearth, stretched leisurely, yawned 
audibly and followed his master with a 
lingering, stiff-legged gait. 
■ 
I 
COMETHING unusual had happened I j 
or was about to happen. Long John’s , 
approaching steps were accelerated by t 
some urgent mission. Now, Long John I 
is never in a hurry, not even for meals 
which he relishes nevertheless, so we all f 
