84 AT THE NORTH OF BEARCAMP WATER. 
The rage around Chocorua deepened. Boom, 
boom, of thunder rolled downward from the 
heights of storm. The peak was swept by 
masses of rain. Flash after flash lit up the 
darkening sky behind the grim mountain. Still 
the nearer forests lay at rest, waiting. Then a 
golden rift came in the western cloud-bank. 
One half of the storm rolled past us on the 
south, drenching Ossipee and Wolf borough, the 
other half on the north, soaking Conway and 
Fryeburg; we alone were dry. 
The morning of the 18th of August was 
breathlessly hot. Even the hermit thrushes 
forgot to sing. A rattle of wheels brought me 
from breakfast to join the party organized to 
bring home the bear. A strong, sure-footed 
horse was drawing a farm wagon which had 
been the stand-by of an earlier generation, and 
which, therefore, was made of solid stuff. My 
tall friend and two of his hunting satellites 
were in it, and around them were strewn rifle, 
hatchet, ropes, empty grain-bags, and other ap¬ 
paratus to be used in bringing the dead brute 
down the mountain. My master of the horse, 
an alert and muscular Prince Edward Islander, 
stood by ready to march, so the word was given, 
and we five, some walking, some in the ancient 
wagon, started for the mountain. 
For a quarter of a mile the road was good, 
