Dec. 24, 19x0.] 
FOREST AND STREAM 
1011 
From the tamarack swamp at the foot of the 
long hill came a musically soothing frog chorus 
supplemented by the plaintive notes of a whip¬ 
poorwill in a neighboring glen, while aloft little 
erratic and isolated winds chased each other 
about among the softly responsive branches of 
the pines, and the now sleepy songsters of the 
day answered the slight disturbance with drowsy 
twitter. Across the river, 200 yards away, cau¬ 
tious hoof beats were heard among the stones, 
the rustle of bushes and later the splash of water 
told that a moose had come down to drink. The 
sharp bark of a fox was heard in the “barrens,” 
and the mother mallard in a nearby pond, recog 1 - 
nizing the presence of an ancient enemy, with 
inherent caution and subdued quack, led her 
brood away from shore, making rippling phos¬ 
phorescent lines still seen in the lingering light. 
A splash in the rock-bound pool at the foot of 
.the narrows was only a belated muskrat making 
his way down to the larger home pond below, 
and this sound recalled to-morrow’s hopes and 
the shoals of trout that the water held. I let 
my pipe go out and entered the lodge to dream 
again, perhaps of piscatorial exploits unknown 
outside of dreams and fishy story. 
In that country the June day may be said to 
be at least twenty hours in length; the long 
twilight of morning and evening leaving only 
two or three hours of darkness, and the hunter 
or angler, who resolves to rise at dawn, may 
find himself hurriedly preparing for a day’s sport 
at 2 o’clock in the morning. This prospective 
angler was apprehensive that he might over¬ 
sleep, and while trying to think of some plan 
whereby he might be roused at just the right 
time to interview voracious trout, he remem¬ 
bered that in the equipment of the cabin there 
should be a small alarm clock left there during 
a moose hunting trip the previous autumn. In 
the cabin chest the clock was found, was wound 
up, and the a’arm set for four in the morning. 
Then the angler climbed into his bunk to sleep, 
if possible, and await the summons of the aggres¬ 
sive little time piece. If luck on the following- 
day had proved anything like the piscatorial ex¬ 
ploits of those three hours in dreamland, his 
astounding experiences might have furnished 
material for a volume of fascinating angling 
lore. How fish did bite! How they leaped from 
the water to meet the falling fly! How they 
stood upon their heads, or danced, tail down, and 
laughed! After a thrilling battle with a great 
fish, the angler awoke to find that the little time 
piece had not yet sounded its ringing call. 
It seemed to be broad day, but in reality was 
only just that point of time when the birds 
awake, and night prowler is skulking to his lair. 
Lying in my bunk evolving plans for a great 
day among the trout pools and lazily wondering 
if the little monitor upon the table, still busy 
with its insistent tick, tock, had not forgotten 
to sound the call, my ear caught the thump, 
thump, of a heavy tread outside. Around the 
cabin it went leisurely, and suggestive of a care¬ 
ful and thorough inspection of the locality. 1 
remembered, with some apprehension, that the 
door, though made of heavy plank, was not 
fastened, and opened inward, and just as I was 
beginning to hope that the prowler, whatever it 
might be, would not consider it worth while to 
enter, the door was slowly pushed open and an 
enormous bear ambled in. To use a common, 
but in this case truly expressive phrase, I was 
scared. Too scared, in fact, to attempt to reach 
the rifle that hung above the window half way 
to the door. The intruder acted as if he were 
at home, and the now trembling creature up in 
the bunk sincerely wished that he were. I cud¬ 
dled down in the bunk as flat as possible, keep¬ 
ing a single eye above its edge to watch the 
visitor in fascination. I knew that so soon as 
his curiosity about everything within his reach 
was satisfied, he would then discover me and 
proceed with proverbial humor to have some 
fun. But he seemed to be rather good natured 
and I hoped that he had had his breakfast. With 
a sort of inquiring grin he tipped the kettle 
ON A LOOKOUT ON MOUNT PENROSE. 
from the stove, and for a moment seemed lost 
in observant wonder at the watej flowing from 
its spout. Noticing the water bucket he thrust 
his nose therein and took two t or three laps of 
its contents. 
Turning about now, he saw what in all 
probability had first lured him into the cabin— 
my sack containing bacon, bread and cheese. 
This, fastened to a wire hook to be out of the 
way of mice and woodrats during the night, 
hung to within some six feet of the floor. On 
this discovery he rose on his hind feet and 
found he could just touch the bag with the ex- 
Irerne points of his claws, and vainly tried with 
blow after blow to dislodge the tempting bait, 
while the sack swung like a pendulum to and 
fro. Presently, in making an unusually vicious 
blow at the evasive object of his desire, he 
tumbled over on his side and lay there for a 
moment, and while seemingly contemplating the 
swinging object of bis desires, his ear caught 
the ticking of the little dock. The sack no 
longer interested him, and he shuffled over to 
the table where the little time piece was still in¬ 
sistently striving to attract attention and to en¬ 
tertain. 
“Well, now,” he seemed to say to himself, 
“what curious little animal is this?” And he 
tipped his head sidewise and cocked his ear 
toward the sound. For what seemed to me a 
long, long time he remained intent upon the 
object of his curiosity—watching it with a curi¬ 
ously expressive grin, and seemingly charmed 
by its rhythmic tick-a-tock, until just as I was 
beginning to hope that he might discover its 
use and learn that it was time to leave, the 
alarm went off with a roar that to my then state 
of nerves was like the continued crash of mus¬ 
ketry. I expected then to see the marauder 
smash the clock to fragments with a blow of 
his great paw. But he did nothing of the kind. 
For the hundredth part of a moment he seemed 
stunned, and the muscles of his countenance 
wrinkled into expressive fear, and then, with 
a terrified snort he whirled and bolted for the 
door. Over went the bench and water bucket, 
and a small cupboard, filled with pots and pans, 
came tumbling down, and as he dashed through 
the door it closed against his side and was burst 
from its hinges. Somehow I reached outdoors, 
rifle in hand, to note the bear going down the 
slope at railway speed, scattering dead leaves 
and twigs in all directions. I had time to give 
him a single parting shot, that, if possible, ac¬ 
celerated his speed, but I was laughing so as to 
make it impossible to hit one out of a compact 
flock of flying barns, and with a crash he burst 
into the tamarack swamp and disappeared. 
Among the archives of the Quimby Club, in 
old Acadia, may be found a little nickle-plated 
clock, its voice now silent in keeping with the 
unwonted silence of the old hall. Upon its 
nickle back — traced by a hand long since at rest 
— will be found the legend of its last and greatest 
service. While old Earl Glencairn, now white 
of head, but young in spirit and strong of body, 
and now the only custodian of the treasures of 
Quimby Flail, still delights to relate in the sly 
humor of his rugged Gaelic, how it once saved 
the life of a friend. 
Dr. Grenfell’s Joke. 
In one of his lectures W. T. Grenfell, the 
Labrador missionary-physician, told of the wire¬ 
less apparatus on his vessel and about intercept¬ 
ing a dispatch from Captain Peary when the 
latter was returning from the trip to the pole 
and was wiring Bridgman as to what he should 
do with the supplies which he had on hand. 
“Shall I sell my supplies to Grenfell or give 
them to the hospital for him?” Peary asked. 
Grenfell broke into that long distance talk 
over unseen leagues of wild water with: 
“Give them to him!” 
And Peary gave. 
Cost of Living. 
“What has become of your zoological garden?” 
“Well, we thought meat was too valuable to 
have it loafing around in cages to look at.”— 
Meggendorfer Blatter. 
