Grandad’s Last Bear. 
r.vas winter morning, and mother earth 
rsplendent in a mantle of scintillating snow, 
alley had a setting of mountain forests, 
Mch all the black green shades of virgin 
us, hemlocks and pines were interlaced 
cquisitely blended with the bleak branches 
sitwoods. Here and there boulders and 
; nearly obscured from view by bushes 
ningled with hickories and chestnuts. As 
; eye could reach across flats and foothills, 
rouses nestled close to gnarled orchards. 
>: from their hardwood fires, rising in 
iit columns, cast an inviting sense of com¬ 
ber the Schoharie valley. A line of snow- 
: along the base of South Mountain filled 
>tnd fence corners, and blocked the high- 
,;o that travelers were forced to make 
i s to reach Richmondville. The hard 
: road-bed creaked under the runners of 
ing sleigh. It was twenty degrees below 
s I stepped from the Herald office and 
: briskly to the Farmer House, 
itered about a box stove was a motley 
«ing of elderly men, discussing a town 
:g, the weather and prophecies of an early 
1 
Ilo! old man,” cried the proprietor, Fat 
, s I closed the door with a bang. ‘‘Sit 
r I want to read you a letter I received 
r?ht from an old school mate of mine, now 
fin Northwest Canada. He writes an in- 
;ig account of a bear hunt in that region.” 
rersation ceased as Fat Art. drew the 
b from his pocket and commenced to 
. Suddenly Uncle Billy Johnson tilted his 
"lack and broke the silence with a long 
' out: 
Geehosephat! so old Poke Evans’ son, 
i .like, has actually killed a bear. Put a 
through his head. Pretty clean shootin’ 
amit, but then big-game huntin isn’t as 
as it was when I was a boy back in 
A In those days it took almost as much 
ae to hunt bears as it did to be a rent 
in Rensselaer county. Rifles were 
: oaders, and if their first ball failed to 
1 work, a man was tollable likely to be 
! 'to finish the job with a knife.” 
Billy was the oldest of several men 
dly gathered in favorite corners of village 
• es and debated local questions, or 
fd for hours of old-time friends and ac- 
lnces. 
fr hunting was my Grandad’s favorite 
• and I can recall hearing him tell of 
' Trilling experiences in this very region,” 
n ’Cd. “The gulley on South Mountain, 
' e ca B the Bear Gulf, was in the early 
•favorite haunt of the critters, and he an’ 
1 nds often came here to hunt. It was 
| er the close of the Mexican war that he 
'■s last bear, and I can remember it 
ty. 
the time, Grandad lived with my parents 
D 'd ^ ager farm in Middlebury township, 
and I was just big enough to be proud of the 
fuzz on my face and to hanker for girl company. 
As there were eleven of us in the family, all 
told, we were pretty well crowded for room, 
so in August, after my sister Prudence was 
born, Dad concluded to get out timber and 
build an addition during the coming winter. 
That fall cold weather set in about the 
middle of October, and before we finished one 
season s work the river froze over. After about 
a month of zero weather, it turned off warm and 
began to snow. The storm became a blizzard 
that blockaded the turnpikes and brought suffer¬ 
ing to both stock and people before it stopped 
three days later. 
“Of course we were obliged to turn out with 
ploughs and shovels and break road, and were 
only too glad to help the daily stage through. 
Six of those old-time yellow coaches passed 
our door each day, rolling easily on their heavy 
leather springs. Sometimes they were drawn by 
six horses, but more often by four, and us boys 
never lost an opportunity to swing onto a 
boot for a ride, usually much to our own 
personal discomfort, for stage drivers were ex¬ 
tremely dexterous with their long whips. 
“After opening the highway, we broke a 
road to our north wood lot and struck in. Dad 
and my brothers, Freegift and Abijah, did the 
felling and Grandad and I snaked the logs to a 
skidway back of the house with the oxen. We 
all knew mighty well that such an early winter 
was liable to a sudden breakup, and we worked 
hard to complete our timber cutting, but before 
it was half finished it commenced to thaw. For 
a day or two the South Hills roared as they do 
before a spring freshet, then rain fell in 
torrents, washing the country clear of snow. 
The ice going out of the river jammed in a 
narrow bend below our farm, turning the flats 
into a lake. Work in the woods was difficult, 
but as there were frame timbers to be hewn 
out, we had plenty to do. Accordingly I was 
dispatched in a dug-out to Hezekiah Kinnicutt, 
three miles up the river, to borrow tools, and 
when I got back with them, actual work on the 
addition began. It was a regular April morning 
and we hewed away like beavers until nearly 
dinner time, when Grandad dragged out the 
grindstone, and he and I started to edge up 
our tools, while the rest fed the stock. 
“He was in a story-telling mood and began 
relating, in his quaint and fascinating way, an 
incident of his early life. Boy-like I was 
deeply interested in his graphic description of 
being treed by a pack of timber wolves, while 
returning home from the sap bush late at night, 
and how Grandmother Johnson, hearing their 
howls and suspecting his plight, came to his 
rescue with a flaming pine knot. Suddenly his 
tale was interrupted by Mother’s crying from 
the kitchen window. 
“‘Father! father! what’s that animal swim¬ 
ming the river?’ 
“As we jumped to our feet, Shep came tearing 
around the corner. Grandad glanced at the 
frightened dog and bounded for the log pile. 
For a moment he scanned the stream in a vain 
attempt to follow Mother’s excited directions. 
Then his eyes rested on a shaggy black head 
in the water. 
‘“Well, I swan! it’s a bear. Quick, Billy, 
the paddles!’ he commanded; and snatching 
up an ax, ran for the dugout, tearing one of 
Mother’s flannel sheets from the line as he 
ran. Trembling with excitement, I raced at 
his heels, a paddle in each hand. We shoved 
off and circled toward the opposite bank, but 
the bear paid scant attention to us until we 
lushed upon him, then he turned, and with a 
snarl, came toward us. We halted and waited 
for him to resume his course. Mistaking 
Grandad’s low voiced command, I suddenly drove 
our craft forward, and the bear reared in the 
water to meet our attack. Like lightning 
Grandad snatched up his ax and delt him a 
blow, partially crippling one paw. The momen¬ 
tum and the animal s floundering nearly capsized 
our boat, but by quick action we righted her 
and managed to get safely beyond reach. The 
bear struggled to reach us while we darted 
hither and yon in the effort to tire him out. 
At last he headed for land, and when he struck 
the sluggish current, Grandad, with a deft 
motion, cast the flanned blanket over his head. 
Its wet folds clung close, shut off his view and 
hampered his movements, and before he could 
shake himself free. Grandad drove the ax blade 
through his skull near the neck.” 
Carl Schurz Shafer. 
Death of Lansing Hotaling. 
Lansing Hotaling, one of her oldest and best 
known lawyers, died in Albany, N. Y., July 22. 
He was born in Albany, April 17, 1839, and 
was admitted to the bar in 1859. He served 
as District Attorney from 1877 to 1880 and later 
became a member of the Legislature. He was a 
trustee of the Albany County Savings Bank, and 
a director of the Albany County Bank. 
Mr. Hotaling was thoroughly an outdoor man 
and his favorite recreation was hunting and fish¬ 
ing. For forty years it had been his practice 
to go into camp every spring or summer at 
Salmon Lake in Herkimer County, N. Y., where 
he had reasonable sport, and where, above all 
things, he could enjoy outdoor life. This out¬ 
door life, no doubt, had much to do with his 
usual good health, and it is said that up to his 
illness in the autumn of igo8 he had not been 
absent from his work on account of illness for 
a single day in the last twenty-five years. 
Mr. Flotaling was most highly esteemed as a 
lawyer and business man. The Trustees of the 
Albany County Savings Bank and the Directors 
of the Albany County Bank at special meetings 
held the day after his death adopted minutes 
expressing their high sense of his ability, char¬ 
acter and worth. He was faithful to the trusts 
reposed in him, devoted to his friends, a lover 
of nature. An old friend writes, “His nature 
and life were as pure and fragrant as the moun¬ 
tain air he loved to breathe.” 
