BRINGING HOME THE BEAR. 
The horn of Chocorua rose into a sky full of 
threatening colors and shadows. Its own color¬ 
ing was sinister, its outlines vague, its height 
apparently greater than usual. Low, growling 
thunder came from its ledges and ravines. The 
forest at its feet, which ended at my door, was 
silent; no whisper swept through its waiting 
leaves. In the west as in the north, cloud 
masses were boiling up into the sky, covering 
the blue with white, gray, and black, through 
which now and then shot a ray of gold from the 
protesting sun. A tempest seemed brewing as 
a not unwelcome close of a mid-August day. 
A tall man emerged from the woods and came 
striding towards me across the grass. A rifle 
swung to and fro in his right hand as he walked. 
It was a repeating rifle, one of those inclusive 
successors of the fowling-piece, shot-pouch, 
powder-flask, cap-box, and wad-pocket of this 
tall man’s boyhood. The stride ended at my 
side, and the tall man and I spoke of the heat, 
the drought, and the approaching storm. Just 
as he was preparing to lope onwards down the 
ribbon road through the birches, I said: — 
