THE DOUGHNUT BAIT.
A schoolboy a few weeks since told me of an amusing encounter that he and his brother had just had with a bear. It was at Thanksgiving time, and they were enjoying the few days' vacation in hunting in the Maine woods. The locality, to be exact, was the north side of Roach River, about half-way from the first pond to where the stream empties into Moosehead Lake.
Near a deserted log hut, known as "McPheter's Camp," they had discovered signs of a bear—his tracks, and the spot where he had lain down among the tall dead grasses.
"Let's stay here all night and watch for him," said Willie—Willie was the one who related the adventure to me.
"That wouldn't be right; for they're looking for us at home," replied his brother Dick to this somewhat tempting invitation. "Besides there might not come a bear here again for a week."
"Well, let's rest here a few minutes anyway," said Willie.
Opposite the door of the hut was its one window, the glass so covered with cobwebs that very little light came through. It was dark enough in there for a bear's den—he might, in fact, be in there. But flinging the door wide open, the boys ventured in. There was a visible movement at the window, but it proved to be only three or four great, gray spiders hurrying to their coverts from the unwonted light.
"What's this, Dick?" and Will kicked a tangled mass of iron from a corner into the sunshine.
Dick eyed it a moment. "Aha—it's a bear trap," said he.
"Well, we will catch him, now," said Will triumphantly.