310 FOREST AND STREAM JUNE, 1920 
THE! FELLOWSHIP OF CAMP 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
H AVE you ever lazily stretched your 
tired muscles to the crackling of a 
small stick-fire, after a day of labor on 
the tump trail? Have you ever rested 
with your head upon a saddle, while in 
the glow of a prairie chip-fire you blew 
weaving rings of smoke from a veteran 
pipe and reminiscently dreamed? Have 
you ever laid in the shelter of a pup-tent 
with a couple of army pals and told 
stories to the tune of the drumming of the 
sleet upon the canvas? If you have had 
experiences similar to these, you will 
understand what it is that I refer to as 
the fellowship of camp. If you have not, 
go camping! Go and find that comrade- 
ship, that harmony, that indefinable, su- 
preme sense of satisfaction that develops 
under the environment of a well made 
camp. 
Let me tell you of Percy’s camp on 
Loon Creek in Saskatchewan, where for 
a quarter of a century the latch string 
has hung out and the hospitality of the 
plains has been extended to the constant 
stream of home-seekers that have passed 
on their way to the newer west. Directly 
southeast of Markinch, about two miles 
along a draw that breaks the monotony of 
the prairie’s almost endless roll, you come 
upon the head of a long, narrow, poplar- 
bordered lake that nearly half fills the 
deepening ravine for about half a mile of 
its length and then dwindles to a small 
stream that flows on through a narrow 
pass between the giant gray-brown hills: 
this is Loon Creek. Up the first wooded 
draw to the east, after you come through 
the cut at the foot of the lake, there is a 
little clearing among the rank grown pop- 
lar scrub, in which peacefully reposes a 
small pole-and-sod shanty with a round- 
ing, car roof and a cheerfully drunken 
chimney that leans invitingly toward the 
trail as if in welcome; this is Percy’s. 
It was at Percy’s that we used to 
gather; Cameron of the mounted police, 
Dunn of Yukon experience, the stolid 
Diapot breed, myself, and others. In the 
long summer evenings of the north prairie 
I would sit and watch the intermittent 
glowing of their pipes and listen to the 
anecdotes they related of many trails and 
camps. I was beginning to develop a sense 
of the comradeship of the trail, and I 
revelled in the experience. 
Several years passed, — and again I 
found myself in a real camp. Picture, if 
you can, our particular portion of the 
39th Infantry camp at Acy: a neat ap- 
pearing, little “A”-shaped tent, with its 
sharp outline quite distinct through the 
camouflage of brush that covered it, from 
the triangular opening of which pro- 
truded three pairs of muddy hob-nails 
LETTEES, 
QUESTIONS 
AND] ANSWEE, 
that wagged in unison to the strains of a 
jews-harp. Give this picture a back- 
ground of innumerable dog-tents, all 
alertly peeking through the brush; frame 
it with the dripping beeches above, and 
the grassy slope below; and you have 
what is indelibly impressed upon the 
memories of those who dwelt there. 
To that snug little tent we came, after 
a day of dissatisfactions, after a day of 
arduous drill and manoeuver, after a day 
partially spent in cursing everything and 
each other, — and peaceful unity settled 
over our diminutive abode. We pulled a 
slicker over the three pairs of feet, now 
devoid of the heavy shoes, pillowed our 
heads in the hollows of our steel helmets, 
and two of us softly sang to the accom- 
paniment of a wheezy mouth organ. Ours 
was the relaxation that no idler ever real- 
izes. Ours was the unparalleled apprecia- 
tion that the associations of genuine com- 
radeship bring. 
Would you share the fellowship of 
camp? Would you seek to experience the 
blessings of the trail’s end? Then travel 
the trail, for that is the only way you may 
reach its end. Gravitate to the world’s 
frontiers and mix with the men of the 
camps. They are the same the world 
over, and you will be welcome among 
them. 
Kenneth B. Law, Minnesota. 
MORE ABOUT THE GRIZZLY BEAR 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
R EADING Mr. Vaught’s letter about 
the grizzly bear in the May number 
of Forest and Stream brought to my 
mind an incident I remember reading in 
one of the Boone and Crockett Club books 
concerning the killing of a bear by a 
young bull buffalo. Thinking it might be 
of interest to your readers I had it copied 
and send it herewith: 
“The grizzly bear fed to some extent on 
the carcasses of buffalo drowned in the 
rivers or caught in the quicksands, and 
occasionally they caught living buffalo 
and killed them. A Blackfoot Indian told 
me of an attempt of this kind which he 
witnessed. He was lying hidden by a 
buffalo trail in the Bad Lands, near a lit- 
tle creek, waiting for a small bunch to 
come down to water, so that he might kill 
one. The buffalo came on in single file as 
usual, the leading animal being a young 
heifer. When they had nearly reached 
the water, and were passing under a 
vertical clay wall, a grizzly bear lying 
hid on a shelf of this wall, reached down, 
and with both paws caught the heifer 
about the neck and threw himself upon 
her. The others at once ran off, and a 
short struggle ensued, the bear trying to 
kill the heifer, and she to escape. Almost 
at once, however, the Indian saw a splen- 
did young bull come rushing down the trail 
toward the scene of conflict, and charge 
the bear, knocking him down. A fierce 
combat ensued. The bull would charge 
the bear, and when he struck him fairly 
would knock him off his feet, often inflict- 
ing severe wounds with his sharp horns. 
The bear struck at the bull, and tried to 
catch him by the head or shoulders, and 
to hold him, but this he could not do. 
After fifteen or twenty minutes of fierce 
and active fighting, the bear had received 
all the punishment he cared for, and tried 
to escape, but the bull would not let him 
go, and kept up the attack until he had 
killed his adversary. Even after the bear 
was dead the bull would gore the carcass 
and sometimes lift it clear of the ground 
on his horns. He seemed insane with 
rage, and, notwithstanding the fact that 
"most of the skin was torn from his head 
and shoulders, appeared to be looking 
about for something else to fight. The In- 
dian was very much afraid lest the bull 
should discover and kill him, and was 
greatly relieved when he finally left the 
bear and went off to join the band. This 
Blackfoot had never head of Uncle Re- 
mus’ tales, but he imitated Brer Rabbit — 
laid low and said nothing.” 
A Reader. 
GROUSE IN VERMONT 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
W HILE at Woodstock, Vermont, last 
June I heard grouse drumming 
everywhere. There seemed to be a good 
stock when they closed the shooting for 
a year, and there is every indication now 
that they will be as plentiful as ever. 
However, we will know more about that 
when we go after them. They hatched 
well near Woodstock during the Spring 
of 1918 and were plentiful enough up 
until the first week of September. I 
know this positively from personal ob- 
servation. My friend, Mr. Connett, of 
New York, who has a summer house at 
Barnard, Vermont, near mine, had many 
broods under observation also. We had 
about decided that when we went out 
after them we would be able to kill our 
limit every day for two weeks, should we 
care to do so, without decimating them 
seriously. 
There were none killed before the sea- 
son opened but when we went after them 
