“What could a man wish more?” he muttered to himself, with a contented expression of face, as he fixed a square piece of birch-bark in the fork of the branch, and on this platter arranged his food, commenting thereon as he proceeded: “Roast prairie hen. Capital grub, with a bit o’ salt pork, though rather dry an’ woodeny-like by itself. Buffalo rib. Nothin’ better, hot or cold, except marrow-bones; but then, you see, marrow-bones ain’t just parfection unless hot, an’ this is bound to be a cold supper. Hunk o’ pemmican. A safe stand-by at all times. Don’t need no cookin’, an’ a just proportion o’ fat to lean, but doesn’t do without appetite to make it go down. Let me be thankful I’ve got that, anyhow.”
At this point Little Tim thought it expedient to make the line of his net fast to this limb of the tree. After doing so, he examined the priming of his gun, made a few other needful arrangements, and then gave himself up to the enjoyment of the hour, smiling benignly to the moon, which happened to creep out from behind a mountain peak at the time, as if on purpose to irradiate the scene.
“It has always seemed to me,” muttered the hunter, as well as a large mouthful of the prairie hen would permit—for he was fond of muttering his thoughts when alone; it felt more sociable, you see, than merely thinking them—“It has always seemed to me that contentment is a grand thing for the human race. Pity we hasn’t all got it!”
Inserting at this point a mass of the hunk, which proved a little too large for muttering purposes, he paused until the road was partially cleared, and then went on—“Of course I don’t mean that lazy sort o’ contentment that makes a man feel easy an’ comfortable, an’ quite indifferent to the woes an’ worries of other men so long as his own bread-basket is stuffed full. No, no. I means that sort o’ contentment that makes a man feel happy though he hasn’t got champagne an’ taters, pigeon-pie, lobscouse, plum-duff, mustard an’ jam at every blow-out; that sort o’ contentment that takes things as they come, an’ enjoys ’em without grumpin’ an’ growlin’ ’cause he hasn’t got somethin’ else.”
Another hunk here stopping the way, a somewhat longer silence ensued, which would probably have been broken as before by the outpouring of some sage reflections, but for a slight sound which caused the hunter to become what we may style a human petrifaction, with a half-chewed morsel in its open jaws, and its eyes glaring.
A few seconds more, and the sound of breaking twigs gave evidence that a visitor drew near. Little Tim bolted the unchewed morsel, hastily sheathed his hunting-knife, laid one hand on the end of his line, and waited.
He had not to wait long, for out of the woods there sauntered a grizzly bear of such proportions that the hunter at first thought the moonlight must have deceived him.
“Sartinly it’s the biggest that I’ve ever clapped eyes on,” he thought but he did not speak or move. So anxious was he not to scare the animal, that he hardly breathed.
Bruin seemed to entertain suspicions of some sort, for he sniffed the tainted air once or twice, and looked inquiringly round. Coming to the conclusion, apparently, that his suspicions were groundless, he walked straight up to the lump of buffalo-meat and sniffed it. Not being particular, he tried it with his tongue.
“Good!” said the bear—at least if he did not say so, he must have thought so, for next moment he grasped it with his teeth. Finding it tethered hard and fast, he gathered himself together for the purpose of exercising main force.