460 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Marcu 24, 1906. 

long oath to them, which they repeated after 
him, while they squatted on the ground with 
their right hands resting on the Koran. After 
the Moros had been sworn, Pershing took an 
oath of friendship with them, which was also 
administered by the pandita and translated into 
Spanish by an interpreter. Then Pershing was 
formally made and declared a Datto with due 
and proper ceremonies and adopted into the 
families of all who had taken the oath of 
friendship. 
When the ceremony of making a Datto of 
Pershing had been completed, the meeting ad- 
journed, and proceeded to do justice to a feast 
of his providing, after which he took his leave 
and returned to camp, having driven another 
nail, and this time a regular spike, into the 
edifice of good feeling, which he was trying to 
erect between the people of Moroland and our- 
selves, AHMI COoMISSARIO. 
How to Renew Youth. 
THERE was recently delivered at the Brooklyn 
Institute a lecture on an expedition in the 
Northwest. The lecturer was a man certainly 
not under the “allotted span,’ and yet he seemed 
to irradiate a sort of perennial youth. It is true 
he was bald and somewhat rotund, but his com- 
plexion was hale, his eye bright and his move- 
ments full of elasticity. But it was his mind 
especially that gave the impression of youthful- 
ness. Such vivacity—such wit—such humor! 
Such an intense interest in things, animate and 
inanimate, and such a joy in telling all he knew 
about them! 
At this man’s time of life most men have 
settled down in an easy chair, with their feet 
in woolen slippers. The suggestion even of an 
expedition into the wilderness would be sufficient 
to fill them with terror. “Good gracious!” 
they would cry, “are you mad? Do you think 
I have no care for my health, or comfort? 
Don’t mention such a thing again, please. Ugh! 
Positively it has given me a chill. Here, mother, 
won’t you pull this blanket over my shoulders— 
and don’t you think that pesky furnace could 
be made to smc ke up a bit?” 
What induced the lecturer to forego the cus- 
tomary ease did not appear, but certainly he 
turned his back on the easy chair, the woolen 
slippers e¢ al. and set out to brave the perils and 
hardships of the wild. On the Peace River he 
courted death among the rapids, or on its con- 
tiguous shores he exposed himself to the risk 
of being devoured alive by mosquitoes. At night 
he lay his head upon the gunwale of a boat, or 
a sod of earth indifferently. For sustenance he 
had often to rely upon tea and hardtack, but 
when times were good he indulged in the luxury 
of bear meat and black bread of the North. 
To hear him talk of these things was a veri- 
table treat. No boy returned from an outing in 
the woods could have waxed more exuberant— 
more enthusiastic. Nor was there the least pre- 
tense or affectation. The sound of the man’s 
voice—his whole manner and expression— 
sufficiently proved that. 
It was rather curious and interesting to hear 
the comments of two old gentlemen after the 
lecture. Quoth one, buttoning up his coat with 
a determined air: “Too rough for me. Yes, 
sir!’ Quoth the other with a peculiar wise 
smile and shake of the head: “I’d rather be in 
a Pullman sleeper.” These comments incited a 
scrutiny of the speakers. One was stooped and 
flaccid and sallow; the other was lean and wan 
and ricketty. And both were full apparently of 
the disillusionment and weariness of life. Per- 
fect types of the indolent, luxuriant denizens of 
big hotels, or apartment houses! By the way, 
breakfasting in the restaurant of one of these 
lately, the writer had for a vis-a-vis a man of 
fifty-five or thereabouts. “Bring me some brown 
bread,” he snapped to the waiter who had placed 
some white bread before him. “I’m afraid we’re 
all out of brown, sir,” said the waiter apologetic- 
ally. “Then take that away,” roared the dyspep- 
tic one, “it ain’t fit for a dog.’ The sight of that 
beautiful white bread rejected so scornfully was a 
sad and painful one, and the writer could not re-. 
frain from exclaiming (mentally, of course): 
“Ah, how a few months on the trail would benefit 
you, my friend!” 
Now that the lecturer enjoyed his expedition 
there can not be the least doubt. Nor is it really 
in any way surprising. The novelty of change 
—the getting away from the old conventional 
ruts—was a mental alterative to begin with. 
Then the extraordinary fascination of the wild 
asserted itself and the physical man began to 
grow young under the influence of simple diet, 
pure air and exercise. Hardships there were no 
doubt, but hardships accompanied by adventure 
are a very different thing from hardships under 
tame or monotonous circumstances. There is 
something in the former wonderfully piquant to 
the imagination, and the memory loves to store 
them up for future contemplation, as is well 
attested by the works of travelers. 
Not every old man of course would do well 
to venture on such an expedition as that de- 
scribed, but it is safe to say that many a one 
now given over to enervating ease and dull and 
dreary cogitation about the past, or fruitless and 
disquieting speculation about the future could 
not do better than follow in the footsteps of the 
lecturer. Even if he succumbed on the trail 
there would be something glorious in his death 
as in a battle. After all dying in bed is a 
prosaic and disappointing business. And no man 
can truthfully tell himself that he has lived un- 
less he has “roughed it.” FRANK MOooNAN. 

Spence Pitcher’s Bear. 
Ir was away back in the days of flintlocks. 
At that time the northern border of Cattarau- 
gus and Chautauqua counties was mostly a 
wilderness, with only here and there small 
openings, which were made in the heavy 
timbered forest by the early pioneer settlers. 
This section of country is somewhat rough and 
broken, although not very mountainous, and was 
at that early day as well, or perhaps better, 
stocked with game than any other portion of 
the State. Here were wolves, wildcats, foxes, 
raccoons, bears and deer; also marten, which 
were found in great numbers all through the 
southern part of the State, as well as in Penn- 
sylvania, and were eagerly hunted and trapped 
for their skins, which were always a ready sale, 
and were among the most choice specimens of 
fine furs that were being collected in the North- 
ern and Middle States. Those beautiful little 
animals have become nearly extinct. Perhaps 
a few may yet be found in the northeastern part 
of New York or in Northern Michigan. There 
was one other species of game that deserves 
mention. This was the panther; but it soon 
fled beyond the pale of civilization. It was 
rarely seen and more rarely caught. In every 
new settlement there were plenty of imaginative 
individuals who were ever hearing panther 
screams, and who verily believed that panthers 
never traveled through the forest without mak- 
ing night hideous with terrific yells and screech- 
ing. If there had been no owls there would have 
been no less number of panthers heard from. I 
have tramped and camped in the woods more 
or less for more than fifty years, and I must 
confess that my ears were never greeted with a 
single yell or scream from a panther. 
The first settlers of this region were men who 
had energy and perseverance, some of whom im- 
migrated from Rhode Island, and others from 
the Mohawk Valley. There were but few skilled 
hunters among them, and their guns were of 
the coarsest kind—mostly of the old musket 
pattern. Deer were plently, however, and they 
could generally obtain a supply of venison when 
other supplies failed. It was sometimes ob- 
tained by crust-hunting in the month of Feb- 
ruary or March, when any unprincipled wretch 
could succeed in killing deer. 
I always noticed that the most indefatigable 
crust-hunters were those that never used a gun, 
but with knife and ax followed up the dogs until 
the deer was pulled down. I have been dis- 
gusted at the sight of the many fresh (and 
worthless) deer skins which I have seen hang- 
ing around some of the settlers’ cabins in the 
months of February and March. 
Bears were frequently caught in traps or 
log pens, and some were followed up with dogs 
and shot. I remember of one being caught in 
a somewhat singular manner, which I believe 
never had a precedent. 
Spencer Pitcher was a noted hunter, who 
came with the first settlers, and was known far 
and near only by the name Spence. He was. 
five feet eight inches high and weighed 170 
pounds; his speed and endurance were remark- 
able, and perhaps he seldom, if ever, found his 
equal. Now the majority of the inhabitants 
worked most of the time and hunted occasion- 
ally, but Spence hunted most of the time and’ 
worked occasionally. He was hunting deer one 
rainy day about the first of November, when 
he discovered a bear, but his gun missed fire. 
Ordinarily his flintlock was sure-fire, but the 
rain had wet the charge, and by the time he 
found that his gun had become useless the bear 
had begun to make off. Now a bear when 
started will almost invariably run up hill where 
he has a decided advantage over his pursuer if 
he has the chance; but as they were then on 
the summit of a hill, there was no other course 
open but down hill. So the bear started on a 
full run, and Spence was close at his heels. 
There was some three inches of snow, and the 
continued rain had made it slippery and slushy, 
and some fallen timber lay in the way, but the 
bear made good time and Spence kept well up 
in the rear. At every attempt which he made to 
crush in the bear’s cranium with the muzzle end 
of his rifle, it would just seem to slip about half 
a length ahead, and every time he struck it 
lessened his own speed, so that he had to put 
in his best to catch up again. 
They soon struck level land where the woods. 
were clear of logs and brush. Here they both 
settled down into ’a dead run. The bear was 
rather lean and in good trim for running, and 
Spence for once had met his match, and so had 
the bear. The flat extended for a half mile, 
the course leading toward another hill, at the 
foot of which runs a small brook. Spence knew 
very well that when the bear reached the foot 
of the hill he would soon be left far in the rear, 
and what he was going to do toward capturing 
the bear he probably did not know himself, un- 
less he could provoke the bear to turn upon him, 
in which case we would suppose that the chances 
would have been more than two to one against 
him. The small stream before mentioned had 
a bank five or six feet high on one side, while 
the opposite was flat and covered with sand and 
gravel. Up to this bank they came at a 2:40 
gait; the bear plunged down the bank into the 
water, while Spence, dropping his gun, leaped 
over the bear, landing on the gravel some ten 
feet beyond. Here he snatched up a round stone 
which happened to lie within his reach, and 
whirling around, threw it at the bear’s head, 
which was not more than six feet distant. The 
stone struck the end of his nose, probably the 
most vulnerable part of the animal, when the 
bear suddenly turned around, dropped his head 
between his forelegs, and as quick as thought 
Spence grabbed him by the long wooly hair 
on each flank, which caused a sudden flank 
movement that brought them both into the mid- 
dle of the stream, here about two feet deep. 
Bruin was caught at a disadvantage, he had a 
heavy incumbrance tugging at his hindquarters. 
He tried hard to turn on his captor, he tried 
to wring out and tried to kick out, but it was no 
go, Spence hung to him with the tenacity of a 
forty-pound steel trap. 
His success depended wholly on his active 
muscular power, in keeping the bear’s rear end 
well raised up, which brought his head under 
water. Then by a mighty effort he succeeded 
in forcing his head under the edge of the op- 
posite bank, where he held on (as he said) until 
the bear kicked his last kick. He always as- 
serted that if they had crossed the stream at 
any other place, that he would have been unable 
to have overleaped the bear, and if that round 
stone had not laid precisely where it did lay, he 
could not have stopped him. 
Spence lived to hunt with pill-percussion prim- 
ing, also until percussion caps were used, and 
died when about sixty years of age, long before 
breechloaders came into use. AS 
