Whistler; or, The Manly Boy

by Walter Aimwell

“No, a wolf didn’t do this. He would have eaten or carried off more of the hens,” replied Clinton.

“Don’t you suppose the wolves come down here from the forests, sometimes?” inquired Whistler.

“Yes, I know they do,” replied Clinton. “Last winter two men were in the woods, about a dozen miles north of Brookdale, when a deer dashed out from a thicket, within two rods of them, with a large wolf close on to his heels. Before they could raise their rifles the wolf had the deer by the neck; but they fired, and shot them both dead. I saw both of the animals over to the Cross Roads. The wolf was over seven feet long, and he was a savage-looking fellow, I can assure you. Another man, last winter, was crossing a pond on skates, when a pack of wolves made after him, and, in his hurry and fright, he skated into a hole in the ice, and was drowned.”

“Do the wolves ever come this way in the summer?” inquired Whistler.

“Yes,” replied Clinton; “there are often great fires in the woods, in summer, that burn for weeks, and then the wolves, and bears, and moose, get driven from their quarters, and sometimes they pay us a visit. Mr. Oakley, who lives on the Passagamet river, fifteen miles from here, had ten sheep killed by wolves, about a year ago. A part of the flock came round the house, and looked frightened, and the folks went over to the pasture where the sheep were kept, to see what the matter was. They found seven of them dead, and some of them were torn dreadfully; but three of them were alive, and were hurt but very little. They only had a little scratch on the throat, that looked as if it might have been made with the point of a pin. They carried these three home, and clipped off the wool around their wounds, and washed off the blood, and put on some salve; but they all died in an hour or two. The wolves poisoned them, or else they were frightened to death.”

“And you say bears sometimes prowl around here, too,” said Whistler.

“Yes,” replied Clinton; “four or five years ago, one was seen over in the woods, where we went the other day when we saw Dick Sneider. Last winter father and I rode over to a logging-camp, in a sleigh, and spent two or three days with the loggers. We had a capital time. We ate with the men, and slept on heaps of leaves, in their log huts. They had rousing fires, burning all night, in the middle of the huts; and, instead of chimneys, the smoke went off through a large hole in the roof. But that isn’t what I was going to tell you about. We stopped one night at ‘Uncle Tim’s,’ as they call him, about half way between here and the camp. He lives in a ‘clearing’ in the woods, and there’s no other house for miles around. He told me a good many stories about wild beasts, and one of them was about a bear that he killed last fall. One morning he discovered that some creature had made great havoc in his cornfield in the night, and he found the tracks of a bear all over the lot. He saw, by the tracks, that it was a very large and heavy animal; and, as he had a bear-trap, he thought he would try to catch him with it, rather than have a fight with him. So he baited the trap, and set it in the cornfield; but the next morning he found it just as he left it. The bear had walked all around it two or three times; but he knew too much to go into it, and he made his supper off of green corn again. Well, Uncle Tim said his dander was up, then, and he made up his mind that if the bear got any more of his corn, he should take some of his bullets with it. So, in the evening, he took his rifle, and hid himself among the trees just by the edge of his clearing, pretty near the place where the bear’s tracks were. Well, he waited, and waited, hour after hour, but he couldn’t hear nor see anything of the bear. It wasn’t very dark, as there was a moon. His wife and two boys, and his big dog, were in the house, waiting and watching as patiently as they could; for Uncle Tim told them not to show themselves unless he gave a loud whistle. Well, about one o’clock in the morning, he thought he heard a slight noise, and, sure enough, there was the old fellow within a few feet of him, and looking directly at him. Uncle Tim took good aim, and then blazed away, with as heavy a charge as his gun would bear. The ‘varmint’ gave one spring towards him, and fell dead almost at his feet. He weighed about five hundred pounds, and I don’t remember how much oil Uncle Tim got out of him, but it was a good lot. He got a bounty from the state, too, for killing him.”

“He must be a brave man,” said Whistler.

“O, these old pioneers don’t mind such things,” said Clinton; “they soon get used to bears and wolves. But I saw in a newspaper, the other day, an account of a fight a little boy had with a bear, that was really worth bragging about. He lived near Lake Umbagog, which is on the line between Maine and New Hampshire, and I believe he was only nine years old. He saw a bear in an oatfield, near the house, and he thought he would pepper him with a few buck shot. The bear was wounded, and showed fight; so the little fellow picked up a club, and went at him. The boy’s mother saw the fight, and she gave the alarm to his father and an older brother, who were at work near by; but when the bear saw them coming, he made off as fast as he could. The family gave chase, but they were not well armed, and were obliged to let him escape. Well, a few days after, that same bear was seen near the same place, with a sheep in his mouth; and that same little fellow went at him again, with a club, and made him drop the sheep, and scamper off into the woods. At another time this bear came to the house, when the woman was alone. He put his fore paws on the window sill, and stuck his head and shoulders into the room, and, after he had looked around a little, he walked off without touching anything.”