OF
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EATEN BY A BEAR
Aug. 20, 1877
It is a very unheroic and even disagreeable epitaph. That “eaten by
a bear” is intolerable. It is grotesque. And then I thought what an
inadequate language the English is for compact expression. It would not
answer to put upon the stone simply “eaten”; for that is indefinite, and
requires explanation: it might mean eaten by a cannibal. This difficulty
could not occur in the German, where essen signifies the act of feeding
by a man, and fressen by a beast. How simple the thing would be in
German!
HIER LIEGT
HOCHWOHLGEBOREN
HERR ---- ------
GEFRESSEN
Aug. 20, 1877
That explains itself. The well-born one was eaten by a beast, and
presumably by a bear,--an animal that has a bad reputation since the
days of Elisha.
The bear was coming on; he had, in fact, come on. I judged that he could
see the whites of my eyes. All my subsequent reflections were confused.
I raised the gun, covered the bear's breast with the sight, and let
drive. Then I turned, and ran like a deer. I did not hear the bear
pursuing. I looked back. The bear had stopped. He was lying down. I then
remembered that the best thing to do after having fired your gun is to
reload it. I slipped in a charge, keeping my eyes on the bear. He never
stirred. I walked back suspiciously. There was a quiver in the hindlegs,
but no other motion. Still, he might be shamming: bears often sham. To
make sure, I approached, and put a ball into his head. He didn't mind
it now: he minded nothing. Death had come to him with a merciful
suddenness. He was calm in death. In order that he might remain so, I
blew his brains out, and then started for home. I had killed a bear!
Notwithstanding my excitement, I managed to saunter into the house with
an unconcerned air. There was a chorus of voices:
“Where are your blackberries?” “Why were you gone so long?” “Where's
your pail?”
“I left the pail.”
“Left the pail? What for?”
“A bear wanted it.”
“Oh, nonsense!”
“Well, the last I saw of it, a bear had it.”
“Oh, come! You didn't really see a bear?”
“Yes, but I did really see a real bear.”
“Did he run?”
“Yes: he ran after me.”
“I don't believe a word of it. What did you do?”
“Oh! nothing particular--except kill the bear.”
Cries of “Gammon!” “Don't believe it!” “Where's the bear?”
“If you want to see the bear, you must go up into the woods. I couldn't
bring him down alone.”
Having satisfied the household that something extraordinary had
occurred, and excited the posthumous fear of some of them for my own
safety, I went down into the valley to get help. The great bear-hunter,
who keeps one of the summer boarding-houses, received my story with
a smile of incredulity; and the incredulity spread to the other
inhabitants and to the boarders as soon as the story was known. However,
as I insisted in all soberness, and offered to lead them to the bear, a
party of forty or fifty people at last started off with me to bring the
bear in. Nobody believed there was any bear in the case; but everybody
who could get a gun carried one; and we went into the woods armed with
guns, pistols, pitchforks, and sticks, against all contingencies or
surprises,--a crowd made up mostly of scoffers and jeerers.
But when I led the way to the fatal spot, and pointed out the bear,
lying peacefully wrapped in his own skin, something like terror seized
the boarders, and genuine excitement the natives. It was a no-mistake
bear, by George! and the hero of the fight well, I will not insist upon
that. But what a procession that was, carrying the bear home! and what
a congregation, was speedily gathered in the valley to see the bear! Our
best preacher up there never drew anything like it on Sunday.
And I must say that my particular friends, who were sportsmen, behaved
very well, on the whole. They didn't deny that it was a bear, although
they said it was small for a bear. Mr... Deane, who is equally good with
a rifle and a rod, admitted that it was a very fair shot. He is probably
the best salmon fisher in the United States, and he is an equally good
hunter. I suppose there is no person in America who is more desirous to
kill a moose than he. But he needlessly remarked, after he had examined
the wound in the bear, that he had seen that kind of a shot made by a
cow's horn.
This sort of talk affected me not. When I went to sleep that night, my
last delicious thought was, “I've killed a bear!”