[Illustration]
Ever since nursery times Bruin has been largely a creature of
imagination. He dwells there a ferocious beast, prowling about gloomy
woods, red eyed and dangerous, ready to rush upon the unwary traveler
and eat him on the spot.
Sometimes, indeed, we have seen him out of imagination. There he is a
poor, tired, clumsy creature, footsore and dusty, with a halter round
his neck, and a swarthy foreigner to make his life miserable. At the
word he rises to his hind legs, hunches his shoulders, and lunges
awkwardly round in a circle, while the foreigner sings _Horry, horry,
dum-dum_, and his wife passes the hat.
We children pity the bear, as we watch, and forget the other animal
that frightens us when near the woods at night. But he passes on at
last, with a troop of boys following to the town limits. Next day
Bruin comes back, and lives in imagination as ugly and frightful as
ever.
But Mooween the Bear, as the northern Indians call him, the animal
that lives up in the woods of Maine and Canada, is a very different
kind of creature. He is big and glossy black, with long white teeth
and sharp black claws, like the imagination bear. Unlike him, however,
he is shy and wild, and timid as any rabbit. When you camp in the
wilderness at night, the rabbit will come out of his form in the ferns
to pull at your shoe, or nibble a hole in the salt bag, while you
sleep. He will play twenty pranks under your very eyes. But if you
would see Mooween, you must camp many summers, and tramp many a weary
mile through the big forests before catching a glimpse of him, or
seeing any trace save the deep tracks, like a barefoot boy's, left in
some soft bit of earth in his hurried flight.
Mooween's ears are quick, and his nose very keen. The slightest
warning from either will generally send him off to the densest cover
or the roughest hillside in the neighborhood. Silently as a black
shadow he glides away, if he has detected your approach from a
distance. But if surprised and frightened, he dashes headlong through
the brush with crash of branches, and bump of fallen logs, and volleys
of dirt and dead wood flung out behind him as he digs his toes into
the hillside in his frantic haste to be away.
In the first startled instant of such an encounter, one thinks there
must be twenty bears scrambling up the hill. And if you should
perchance get a glimpse of the game, you will be conscious chiefly of
a funny little pair of wrinkled black feet, turned up at you so
rapidly that they actually seem to twinkle through a cloud of flying
loose stuff.
That was the way in which I first met Mooween. He was feeding
peaceably on blueberries, just stuffing himself with the ripe fruit
that tinged with blue a burned hillside, when I came round the turn of
a deer path. There he was, the mighty, ferocious beast--and my only
weapon a trout-rod!
We discovered each other at the same instant. Words can hardly measure
the mutual consternation. I felt scared; and in a moment it flashed
upon me that he looked so. This last observation was like a breath of
inspiration. It led me to make a demonstration before he should regain
his wits. I jumped forward with a flourish, and threw my hat at him.--
_Boo!_ said I.
_Hoof, woof!_ said Mooween. And away he went up the hill in a
desperate scramble, with loose stones rattling, and the bottoms of his
feet showing constantly through the volley of dirt and chips flung out
behind him.
That killed the fierce imagination bear of childhood days deader than
any bullet could have done, and convinced me that Mooween is at heart
a timid creature. Still, this was a young bear, as was also one other
upon whom I tried the same experiment, with the same result. Had he
been older and bigger, it might have been different. In that case I
have found that a good rule is to go your own way unobtrusively,
leaving Mooween to his devices. All animals, whether wild or domestic,
respect a man who neither fears nor disturbs them.
Mooween's eyes are his weak point. They are close together, and seem
to focus on the ground a few feet in front of his nose. At twenty
yards to leeward he can never tell you from a stump or a caribou,
should you chance to be standing still.
If fortunate enough to find the ridge where he sleeps away the long
summer days, one is almost sure to get a glimpse of him by watching on
the lake below. It is necessary only to sit perfectly still in your
canoe among the water-grasses near shore. When near a lake, a bear
will almost invariably come down about noontime to sniff carefully all
about, and lap the water, and perhaps find a dead fish before going
back for his afternoon sleep.
Four or five times I have sat thus in my canoe while Mooween passed
close by, and never suspected my presence till a chirp drew his
attention. It is curious at such times, when there is no wind to bring
the scent to his keen nose, to see him turn his head to one side, and
wrinkle his forehead in the vain endeavor to make out the curious
object there in the grass. At last he rises on his hind legs, and
stares long and intently. It seems as if he must recognize you, with
his nose pointing straight at you, his eyes looking straight into
yours. But he drops on all fours again, and glides silently into the
thick bushes that fringe the shore.
Don't stir now, nor make the least sound. He is in there, just out of
sight, sitting on his haunches, using nose and ears to catch your
slightest message.
Ten minutes pass by in intense silence. Down on the shore, fifty yards
below, a slight swaying of the bilberry bushes catches your eye. That
surely is not the bear! There has not been a sound since he
disappeared. A squirrel could hardly creep through that underbrush
without noise enough to tell where he was. But the bushes sway again,
and Mooween reappears suddenly for another long look at the suspicious
object. Then he turns and plods his way along shore, rolling his head
from side to side as if completely mystified.
Now swing your canoe well out into the lake, and head him off on the
point, a quarter of a mile below. Hold the canoe quiet just outside
the lily pads by grasping a few tough stems, and sit low. This time
the big object catches Mooween's eye as he rounds the point; and you
have only to sit still to see him go through the same maneuvers with
greater mystification than before.
Once, however, he varied his program, and gave me a terrible start,
letting me know for a moment just how it feels to be hunted, at the
same time showing with what marvelous stillness he can glide through
the thickest cover when he chooses.
It was early evening on a forest lake. The water lay like a great
mirror, with the sunset splendor still upon it. The hush of twilight
was over the wilderness. Only the hermit-thrushes sang wild and sweet
from a hundred dead spruce tops.
I was drifting about, partly in the hope to meet Mooween, whose tracks
were very numerous at the lower end of the lake, when I heard him
walking in the shallow water. Through the glass I made him out against
the shore, as he plodded along in my direction.
I had long been curious to know how near a bear would come to a man
without discovering him. Here was an opportunity. The wind at sunset
had been in my favor; now there was not the faintest breath stirring.
Hiding the canoe, I sat down in the sand on a little point, where
dense bushes grew down to within a few feet of the water's edge. Head
and shoulders were in plain sight above the water-grass. My intentions
were wholly peaceable, notwithstanding the rifle that lay across my
knees. It was near the mating season, when Mooween's temper is often
dangerous; and one felt much more comfortable with the chill of the
cold iron in his hands.
Mooween came rapidly along the shore meanwhile, evidently anxious to
reach the other end of the lake. In the mating season bears use the
margins of lakes and streams as natural highways. As he drew nearer
and nearer I gazed with a kind of fascination at the big unconscious
brute. He carried his head low, and dropped his feet with a heavy
splash into the shallow water.
At twenty yards he stopped as if struck, with head up and one paw
lifted, sniffing suspiciously. Even then he did not see me, though
only the open shore lay between us. He did not use his eyes at all,
but laid his great head back on his shoulders and sniffed in every
direction, rocking his brown muzzle up and down the while, so as to
take in every atom from the tainted air.
A few slow careful steps forward, and he stopped again, looked
straight into my eyes, then beyond me towards the lake, all the while
sniffing. I was still only part of the shore. Yet he was so near that
I caught the gleam of his eyes, and saw the nostrils swell and the
muzzle twitch nervously.
Another step or two, and he planted his fore feet firmly. The long
hairs began to rise along his spine, and under his wrinkled chops was
a flash of white teeth. Still he had no suspicion of the motionless
object there in the grass. He looked rather out on the lake. Then he
glided into the brush and was lost to sight and hearing.
He was so close that I scarcely dared breathe as I waited, expecting
him to come out farther down the shore. Five minutes passed without
the slightest sound to indicate his whereabouts, though I was
listening intently in the dead hush that was on the lake. All the
while I smelled him strongly. One can smell a bear almost as far as he
can a deer, though the scent does not cling so long to the underbrush.
A bush swayed slightly below where he had disappeared. I was watching
it closely when some sudden warning--I know not what, for I did not
hear but only felt it--made me turn my head quickly. There, not six
feet away, a huge head and shoulders were thrust out of the bushes on
the bank, and a pair of gleaming eyes were peering intently down upon
me in the grass. He had been watching me at arm's length probably two
or three minutes. Had a muscle moved in all that time, I have no doubt
that he would have sprung upon me. As it was, who can say what was
passing behind that curious, half-puzzled, half-savage gleam in his
eyes?
[Illustration]
He drew quickly back as a sudden movement on my part threw the rifle
into position. A few minutes later I heard the snap of a rotten twig
some distance away. Not another sound told of his presence till he
broke out onto the shore, fifty yards above, and went steadily on his
way up the lake.
* * * * *
Mooween is something of a humorist in his own way. When not hungry he
will go out of his way to frighten a bullfrog away from his sun-bath
on the shore, for no other purpose, evidently, than just to see him
jump. Watching him thus amusing himself one afternoon, I was immensely
entertained by seeing him turn his head to one side, and wrinkle his
eyebrows, as each successive frog said _ke'dunk_, and went splashing
away over the lily pads.
A pair of cubs are playful as young foxes, while their extreme
awkwardness makes them a dozen times more comical. Simmo, my Indian
guide, tells me that the cubs will sometimes run away and hide when
they hear the mother bear returning. No amount of coaxing or of
anxious fear on her part will bring them back, till she searches
diligently to find them.
Once only have I had opportunity to see the young at play. There were
two of them, nearly full-grown, with the mother. The most curious
thing was to see them stand up on their hind legs and cuff each other
soundly, striking and warding like trained boxers. Then they would
lock arms and wrestle desperately till one was thrown, when the other
promptly seized him by throat or paw, and pretended to growl
frightfully.
They were well fed, evidently, and full of good spirits as two boys.
But the mother was cross and out of sorts. She kept moving about
uneasily, as if the rough play irritated her nerves. Occasionally, as
she sat for a moment with hind legs stretched out flat and fore paws
planted between them, one of the cubs would approach and attempt some
monkey play. A sound cuff on the ear invariably sent him whimpering
back to his companion, who looked droll enough the while, sitting with
his tongue out and his head wagging humorously as he watched the
experiment. It was getting toward the time of year when she would mate
again, and send them off into the world to shift for themselves. And
this was perhaps their first hard discipline.
Once also I caught an old bear enjoying himself in a curious way. It
was one intensely hot day, in the heart of a New Brunswick wilderness.
Mooween came out onto the lake shore and lumbered along, twisting
uneasily and rolling his head as if very much distressed by the heat.
I followed silently close behind in my canoe.
Soon he came to a cool spot under the alders, which was probably what
he was looking for. A small brook made an eddy there, and a lot of
driftweed had collected over a bed of soft black mud. The stump of a
huge cedar leaned out over it, some four or five feet above the water.
First he waded in to try the temperature. Then he came out and climbed
the cedar stump, where he sniffed in every direction, as is his wont
before lying down. Satisfied at last, he balanced himself carefully
and gave a big jump--Oh, so awkwardly!--with legs out flat, and paws
up, and mouth open as if he were laughing at himself. Down he came,
_souse_, with a tremendous splash that sent mud and water flying in
every direction. And with a deep _uff-guff_ of pure delight, he
settled himself in his cool bed for a comfortable nap.
In his fondness for fish, Mooween has discovered an interesting way
of catching them. In June and July immense numbers of trout and salmon
run up the wilderness rivers on their way to the spawning grounds.
Here and there, on small streams, are shallow riffles, where large
fish are often half out of water as they struggle up. On one of these
riffles Mooween stations himself during the first bright moonlight
nights of June, when the run of fish is largest on account of the
higher tides at the river mouth. And Mooween knows, as well as any
other fisherman, the kind of night on which to go fishing. He knows
also the virtue of keeping still. As a big salmon struggles by,
Mooween slips a paw under him, tosses him to the shore by a dexterous
flip, and springs after him before he can flounder back.
When hungry, Mooween has as many devices as a fox for getting a meal.
He tries flipping frogs from among the lily pads in the same way that
he catches salmon. That failing, he takes to creeping through the
water-grass, like a mink, and striking his game dead with a blow of
his paw.
Or he finds a porcupine loafing through the woods, and follows him
about to throw dirt and stones at him, carefully refraining from
touching him the while, till the porcupine rolls himself into a ball
of bristling quills,--his usual method of defense. Mooween slips a paw
under him, flips him against a tree to stun him, and bites him in the
belly, where there are no quills. If he spies the porcupine in a tree,
he will climb up, if he is a young bear, and try to shake him off. But
he soon learns better, and saves his strength for more fruitful
exertions.
Mooween goes to the lumber camps regularly after his winter sleep and,
breaking in through door or roof, helps himself to what he finds. If
there happens to be a barrel of pork there, he will roll it into the
open air, if the door is wide enough, before breaking in the head with
a blow of his paw.
Should he find a barrel of molasses among the stores, his joy is
unbounded. The head is broken in on the instant and Mooween eats till
he is surfeited. Then he lies down and rolls in the sticky sweet, to
prolong the pleasure; and stays in the neighborhood till every drop
has been lapped up.
Lumbermen have long since learned of his strength and cunning in
breaking into their strong camps. When valuable stores are left in the
woods, they are put into special camps, called bear camps, where doors
and roofs are fastened with chains and ingenious log locks to keep
Mooween out.
Near the settlements Mooween speedily locates the sweet apple trees
among the orchards. These he climbs by night, and shakes off enough
apples to last him for several visits. Every kind of domestic animal
is game for him. He will lie at the edge of a clearing for hours, with
the patience of a cat, waiting for turkey or sheep or pig to come
within range of his swift rush.
His fondness for honey is well known. When he has discovered a rotten
tree in which wild bees have hidden their store, he will claw at the
bottom till it falls. Curling one paw under the log he sinks the claws
deep into the wood. The other paw grips the log opposite the first,
and a single wrench lays it open. The clouds of angry insects about
his head meanwhile are as little regarded as so many flies. He knows
the thickness of his skin, and they know it. When the honey is at last
exposed, and begins to disappear in great hungry mouthfuls, the bees
also fall upon it, to gorge themselves with the fruit of their hard
labor before Mooween shall have eaten it all.
Everything eatable in the woods ministers at times to Mooween's need.
Nuts and berries are favorite dishes in their season. When these and
other delicacies fail, he knows where to dig for edible roots. A big
caribou, wandering near his hiding place, is pulled down and stunned
by a blow on the head. Then, when the meat has lost its freshness, he
will hunt for an hour after a wood-mouse he has seen run under a
stone, or pull a rotten log to pieces for the ants and larvæ concealed
within.
These last are favorite dishes with him. In a burned district, where
ants and berries abound, one is continually finding charred logs, in
which the ants nest by thousands, split open from end to end. A few
strong claw marks, and the lick of a moist tongue here and there,
explain the matter. It shows the extremes of Mooween's taste. Next to
honey he prefers red ants, which are sour as pickles.
Mooween is even more expert as a boxer than as a fisherman. When the
skin is stripped from his fore arms, they are seen to be of great
size, with muscles as firm to the touch as so much rubber. Long
practice has made him immensely strong, and quick as a flash to ward
and strike. Woe be to the luckless dog, however large, that ventures
in the excitement of the hunt within reach of his paw. A single swift
stroke will generally put the poor brute out of the hunt forever.
Once Simmo caught a bear by the hind leg in a steel trap. It was a
young bear, a two-year-old; and Simmo thought to save his precious
powder by killing it with a club. He cut a heavy maple stick and,
swinging it high above his head, advanced to the trap. Mooween rose to
his hind legs, and looked him steadily in the eye, like the trained
boxer that he is. Down came the club with a sweep to have felled an
ox. There was a flash from Mooween's paw; the club spun away into the
woods; and Simmo just escaped a fearful return blow by dropping to
the ground and rolling out of reach, leaving his cap in Mooween's
claws. A wink later, and his scalp would have hung there instead.
In the mating season, when three or four bears often roam the woods
together in fighting humor, Mooween uses a curious kind of challenge.
Rising on his hind legs against a big fir or spruce, he tears the bark
with his claws as high as he can reach on either side. Then placing
his back against the trunk, he turns his head and bites into the tree
with his long canine teeth, tearing out a mouthful of the wood. That
is to let all rivals know just how big a bear he is.
The next bear that comes along, seeking perhaps to win the mate of his
rival and following her trail, sees the challenge and measures his
height and reach in the same way, against the same tree. If he can
bite as high, or higher, he keeps on, and a terrible fight is sure to
follow. But if, with his best endeavors, his marks fall short of the
deep scars above, he prudently withdraws, and leaves it to a bigger
bear to risk an encounter.
In the wilderness one occasionally finds a tree on which three or four
bears have thus left their challenge. Sometimes all the bears in a
neighborhood seem to have left their records in the same place. I
remember well one such tree, a big fir, by a lonely little beaver
pond, where the separate challenges had become indistinguishable on
the torn bark. The freshest marks here were those of a long-limbed old
ranger--a monster he must have been--with a clear reach of a foot
above his nearest rival. Evidently no other bear had cared to try
after such a record.
Once, in the mating season, I discovered quite by accident that
Mooween can be called, like a hawk or a moose, or indeed any other
wild creature, if one but knows how. It was in New Brunswick, where I
was camped on a wild forest river. At midnight I was back at a little
opening in the woods, watching some hares at play in the bright
moonlight. When they had run away, I called a wood-mouse out from his
den under a stump; and then a big brown owl from across the
river--which almost scared the life out of my poor little wood-mouse.
Suddenly a strange cry sounded far back on the mountain. I listened
curiously, then imitated the cry, in the hope of hearing it again and
of remembering it; for I had never before heard anything like the
sound, and had no idea what creature produced it. There was no
response, however, and I speedily grew interested in the owls; for by
this time two or three more were hooting about me, all called in by
the first comer. When they had gone I tried the strange call again.
Instantly it was answered close at hand. The creature was coming.
I stole out into the middle of the opening, and sat very still on a
fallen log. Ten minutes passed in intense silence. Then a twig snapped
behind me. I turned--and there was Mooween, just coming into the
opening. I shall not soon forget how he looked, standing there big and
black in the moonlight; nor the growl deep down in his throat, that
grew deeper as he watched me. We looked straight into each other's
eyes a brief, uncertain moment. Then he drew back silently into the
dense shadow.
There is another side to Mooween's character, fortunately a rare one,
which is sometimes evident in the mating season, when his temper leads
him to attack instead of running away, as usual; or when wounded, or
cornered, or roused to frenzy in defense of the young. Mooween is then
a beast to be dreaded, a great savage brute, possessed of enormous
strength and of a fiend's cunning. I have followed him wounded through
the wilderness, when his every resting place was scarred with deep
gashes, and where broken saplings testified mutely to the force of his
blow. Yet even here his natural timidity lies close to the surface,
and his ferocity has been greatly exaggerated by hunters.
Altogether, Mooween the Bear is a peaceable fellow, and an interesting
one, well worth studying. His extreme wariness, however, enables him
generally to escape observation; and there are undoubtedly many queer
ways of his yet to be discovered by some one who, instead of trying to
scare the life out of him by a shout or a rifle-shot in the rare
moments when he shows himself, will have the patience to creep near,
and find out just what he is doing. Only in the deepest wilderness is
he natural and unconscious. There he roams about, entirely alone for
the most part, supplying his numerous wants, and performing droll
capers with all the gravity of an owl, when he thinks that not even
Tookhees, the wood-mouse, is looking.