It wasn't a regular bear hunt; that is, I didn't do nearly as much hunting as the bear did. I did not start out intending to hunt. He did. I went to get the butter, when— But I am getting ahead of my story. It was when I was about thirteen years old that my father took my brother and myself camping with him in the Adirondacks. We pitched our tent at the head of Little Tupper Lake. There was a spring of fine cold water not far back in the woods. So, after making our beds out of pine boughs, building a fire, and setting up the table, we went down to the spring, and put our butter—which was in a tin pail fitted with a water-tight cover—in it to keep cool.
All went well for the first few days. Father and brother Will (who was fifteen) shot a deer, so that we had plenty of venison. The guide caught a quantity of trout, and we were enjoying ourselves so thoroughly that we began to dread the time when we should have to return home.
"Can't we stay longer than two weeks?" I asked father one morning.
"We'll stay until the butter gives out," he replied, laughing.
The nearest place to get butter was twenty miles away, and as it was disappearing rapidly, owing to the appetites of growing boys, father had already warned us of the necessity of economy in that direction. We were, after that, very sparing in our use of butter, and it seemed, to bid fair to last longer than the promised two weeks. As the guide was preparing supper one evening, father said, "Will, I wish that you would go down to the spring and get some water; and, Charlie, you go too, and bring up some butter." It was a simple request, but thereby hangs the tale of my first and only bear hunt.
We started off, and soon came to the spring. The path led around it into a thicket of huckleberry bushes. Will proposed that we should pick some for supper. We plunged into the thicket, and soon were busy picking the delicious fruit. We had not been occupied in this manner very long when we heard a crashing in the bushes near the spring, and as we looked back, we saw a great black bear. He was not fifty feet away from us, and was gazing into the spring with a complacent air.
"He's looking at himself," said Will.
"See him grin," I replied, divided between fear and curiosity.
"Thinks he's handsome," whispered Will.
Bruin looked over in our direction with an annoyed expression, and we decided to suspend our remarks as to his personal appearance until some more convenient time—when he was further away, in fact. He continued to peer intently into the spring, and we were beginning to get impatient, when, to our horror, he slowly extended his paw, and without much trouble fished up our butter pail. He calmly seated himself on the ground, and taking the pail between his hind-paws, regarded it reflectively for a few moments. He seemed lost in thought. Then he smiled blandly, and slowly passed one of his strong fore-claws around the rim of the pail. He repeated the operation, while Will and I looked on in despair.