Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty.Treeing a Bear.The doctor was the only one not taking part in the conversation. Even the rude guides listened. All that related to game interested them, even the scientific details given by the hunter-naturalist. The doctor had ridden on in front of us. Some one remarked that he wanted water to mix with the contents of his flask, and was therefore searching for a stream. Be this as it may, he was seen suddenly to jerk his spare horse about, and spur back to us, his countenance exhibiting symptoms of surprise and alarm.“What is it, doctor?” inquired one.“He has seen Indians,” remarked another.“A bear—a bear!” cried the doctor, panting for breath; “a grizzly bear! a terrible-looking creature I assure you.”“A bar! d’you say?” demanded Ike, shooting forward on his old mare.“A bar!” cried Redwood, breaking through the bushes in pursuit.“A bear!” shouted the others, all putting spurs to their horses, and galloping forward in a body.“Where, doctor? Where?” cried several.“Yonder,” replied the doctor, “just by that great tree. I saw him go in there—a grizzly, I’m sure.”It was this idea that had put the doctor in such affright, and caused him to ride back so suddenly.“Nonsense, doctor,” said the naturalist, “we are yet far to the east of the range of the grizzly bear. It was a black bear you saw.”“As I live,” replied the doctor, “it was not black, anything but that. I should know the black bear. It was a light brown colour—almost yellowish.”“Oh! that’s no criterion. The black bear is found with many varieties of colour. I have seen them of the colour you describe. It must be one of them. The grizzly is not found so far to the eastward, although it is possible we may see them soon; but not in woods like these.”There was no time for farther explanation. We had come up to the spot where the bear had been seen; and although an unpractised eye could have detected no traces of the animal’s presence, old Ike, Redwood, and the hunter-naturalist could follow its trail over the bed of fallen leaves, almost as fast as they could walk. Both the guides had dismounted, and with their bodies slightly bent, and leading their horses after them, commenced tracking the bear. From Ike’s manner one would have fancied that he was guided by scent rather than by sight.The trail led us from our path, and we had followed it some hundred yards into the woods. Most of us were of the opinion that the creature had never halted after seeing the doctor, but had run off to a great distance. If left to ourselves, we should have given over the chase.The trappers, however, knew what they were about. They asserted that the bear had gone away slowly—that it had made frequent halts—that they discovered “sign” to lead them to the conclusion that the animal’s haunt was in the neighbourhood—that its “nest” was near. We were, therefore, encouraged to proceed.All of us rode after the trackers. Jake and Lanty had been left with the waggon, with directions to keep on their route. After a while we heard the waggon moving along directly in front of us. The road had angled as well as the bear’s trail, and the two were again converging.Just at that moment a loud shouting came from the direction of the waggon. It was Lanty’s voice, and Jake’s too.“Och! be the Vargin mother! luck there! Awch, mother o’ Moses, Jake, such a haste!”“Golly, Massa Lanty, it am a bar!”We all heard this at once. Of course we thought of the trail no longer, but made a rush in the direction of the voices, causing the branches to fly on every side.“Whar’s the bar?” cried Redwood, who was first up to the waggon, “whar did ye see’t?”“Yander he goes!” cried Lanty, pointing to a pile of heavy timber, beset with an undergrowth of cane, but standing almost isolated from the rest of the forest on account of the thin open woods that were around it.We were too late to catch a glimpse of him, but perhaps he would halt in the undergrowth. If so we had a chance.“Surround, boys, surround!” cried the Kentuckian, who understood bear-hunting as well as any of the party. “Quick, round and head him;” and, at the same time, the speaker urged his great horse into a gallop. Several others rode off on the opposite side, and in a few seconds we had surrounded the cane-brake.“Is he in it?” cried one.“Do you track ’im thur, Mark?” cried Ike to his comrade from the opposite side.“No,” was the reply, “he hain’t gone out this away.”“Nor hyur,” responded Ike.“Nor here,” said the Kentuckian.“Nor by here,” added the hunter-naturalist.“Belike, then, he’s still in the timmor,” said Redwood. “Now look out all of yees. Keep your eyes skinned; I’ll hustle him out o’ thar.”“Hold on, Mark, boy,” cried Ike, “hold on thur. Damn the varmint! hyur’s his track, paddled like a sheep pen. Wagh, his den’s hyur—let me rout ’im.”“Very wal, then,” replied the other, “go ahead, old fellow—I’ll look to my side—thu’ll no bar pass me ’ithout getting a pill in his guts. Out wi’ ’im!” We all sat in our saddles silent and watchful. Ike had entered the cane, but not a rustle was heard. A snake could not have passed through it with less noise than did the old trapper.It was full ten minutes before the slightest sound warned of what he was about. Then his voice reached us.“This way, all of you! The bar’s treed.”The announcement filled all of us with pleasant anticipations. The sport of killing a bear is no everyday amusement, and now that the animal was “treed” we were sure of him. Some dismounted and hitched their horses to the branches; others boldly dashed into the cane, hurrying to the spot, with the hope of having first shot.Why was Ike’s rifle not heard if he saw the bear treed? This puzzled some. It was explained when we got up. Ike’s words were figurative. The bear had not taken shelter in a tree, but a hollow log, and, of course, Ike had not yet set eyes on him. But there was the log, a huge one, some ten or more feet in thickness, and there was the hole, with the well-beaten track leading into it. It was his den. He was there to a certainty.How to get him out? That was the next question.Several took their stations, guns in hand, commanding the entrance to the hollow. One went back upon the log, and pounded it with the butt of his gun. To no purpose. Bruin was not such a fool as to walk out and be peppered by bullets.A long pole was next thrust up the hollow. Nothing could be felt. The den was beyond reach.Smoking was next tried, but with like success. The bear gave no sign of being annoyed with it. The axes were now brought from the waggon. It would be a tough job—for the log (a sycamore) was sound enough except near the heart. There was no help for it, and Jake and Lanty went to work as if for a day’s rail splitting.Redwood and the Kentuckian, both good axemen, relieved them, and a deep notch soon began to make its appearance on each side of the log. The rest of us kept watch near the entrance, hoping the sound of the axe might drive out the game. We were disappointed in that hope, and for full two hours the chopping continued, until the patience and the arms of those that plied the axe were nearly tired out.It is no trifling matter to lay open a tree ten feet in diameter. They had chosen the place for their work guided by the long pole. It could not be beyond the den, and if upon the near side, of it, the pole would then be long enough to reach the bear, and either destroy him with a knife-blade attached to it, or force him out. This was our plan, and therefore we were encouraged to proceed.At length the axes broke through the wood and the dark interior lay open. They had cut in the right place, for the den of the bear was found directly under, but no bear! Poles were inserted at both openings, but no bear could be felt either way. The hollow ran up no farther, so after all there was no bear in the log.There were some disappointed faces about—and some rather rough ejaculations were heard. I might say that Ike “cussed a few,” and that would be no more than the truth. The old trapper seemed to be ashamed of being so taken in, particularly as he had somewhat exultingly announced that the “bar was treed.”“He must have got off before we surrounded,” said one.“Are you sure he came into the timber?” asked another—“that fool, Lanty, was so scared, he could hardly tell where the animal went.”“Be me soul! gintlemen, I saw him go in wid my own eyes, Oil swear—”“Cussed queer!” spitefully remarked Redwood.“Damn the bar!” ejaculated Ike, “whur kid the varmint a gone?”Where was A—? All eyes were turned to look for the hunter-naturalist, as if he could clear up the mystery. He was nowhere to be seen. He had not been seen for some time!At that moment, the clear sharp ring of a rifle echoed in our ears. There was a moment’s silence, and the next moment a loud “thump” was heard, as of a heavy body falling from a great height to the ground. The noise startled even our tired horses, and some of them broke their ties and scampered off.“This way, gentlemen!” said a quiet voice, “here’s the bear!”The voice was A—’s; and we all, without thinking of the horses, hurried up to the spot. Sure enough, there lay the great brute, a red stream oozing out of a bullet-hole in his ribs.A— pointed to a tree—a huge oak that spread out above our heads.“There he was, in yonder fork,” said he. “We might have saved ourselves a good deal of trouble had we been more thoughtful. I suspected he was not in the log when the smoke failed to move him. The brute was too sagacious to hide there. It is not the first time I have known the hunter foiled by such a trick.”The eyes of Redwood were turned admiringly on the speaker, and even old Ike could not help acknowledging his superior hunter-craft.“Mister,” he muttered, “I guess you’d make a darned fust-rate mountain-man. He’s a gone Injun when you look through sights.”All of us were examining the huge carcass of the bear—one of the largest size.“Your sure it’s no grizzly?” inquired the doctor.“No, doctor,” replied the naturalist, “the grizzly never climbs a tree.”

The doctor was the only one not taking part in the conversation. Even the rude guides listened. All that related to game interested them, even the scientific details given by the hunter-naturalist. The doctor had ridden on in front of us. Some one remarked that he wanted water to mix with the contents of his flask, and was therefore searching for a stream. Be this as it may, he was seen suddenly to jerk his spare horse about, and spur back to us, his countenance exhibiting symptoms of surprise and alarm.

“What is it, doctor?” inquired one.

“He has seen Indians,” remarked another.

“A bear—a bear!” cried the doctor, panting for breath; “a grizzly bear! a terrible-looking creature I assure you.”

“A bar! d’you say?” demanded Ike, shooting forward on his old mare.

“A bar!” cried Redwood, breaking through the bushes in pursuit.

“A bear!” shouted the others, all putting spurs to their horses, and galloping forward in a body.

“Where, doctor? Where?” cried several.

“Yonder,” replied the doctor, “just by that great tree. I saw him go in there—a grizzly, I’m sure.”

It was this idea that had put the doctor in such affright, and caused him to ride back so suddenly.

“Nonsense, doctor,” said the naturalist, “we are yet far to the east of the range of the grizzly bear. It was a black bear you saw.”

“As I live,” replied the doctor, “it was not black, anything but that. I should know the black bear. It was a light brown colour—almost yellowish.”

“Oh! that’s no criterion. The black bear is found with many varieties of colour. I have seen them of the colour you describe. It must be one of them. The grizzly is not found so far to the eastward, although it is possible we may see them soon; but not in woods like these.”

There was no time for farther explanation. We had come up to the spot where the bear had been seen; and although an unpractised eye could have detected no traces of the animal’s presence, old Ike, Redwood, and the hunter-naturalist could follow its trail over the bed of fallen leaves, almost as fast as they could walk. Both the guides had dismounted, and with their bodies slightly bent, and leading their horses after them, commenced tracking the bear. From Ike’s manner one would have fancied that he was guided by scent rather than by sight.

The trail led us from our path, and we had followed it some hundred yards into the woods. Most of us were of the opinion that the creature had never halted after seeing the doctor, but had run off to a great distance. If left to ourselves, we should have given over the chase.

The trappers, however, knew what they were about. They asserted that the bear had gone away slowly—that it had made frequent halts—that they discovered “sign” to lead them to the conclusion that the animal’s haunt was in the neighbourhood—that its “nest” was near. We were, therefore, encouraged to proceed.

All of us rode after the trackers. Jake and Lanty had been left with the waggon, with directions to keep on their route. After a while we heard the waggon moving along directly in front of us. The road had angled as well as the bear’s trail, and the two were again converging.

Just at that moment a loud shouting came from the direction of the waggon. It was Lanty’s voice, and Jake’s too.

“Och! be the Vargin mother! luck there! Awch, mother o’ Moses, Jake, such a haste!”

“Golly, Massa Lanty, it am a bar!”

We all heard this at once. Of course we thought of the trail no longer, but made a rush in the direction of the voices, causing the branches to fly on every side.

“Whar’s the bar?” cried Redwood, who was first up to the waggon, “whar did ye see’t?”

“Yander he goes!” cried Lanty, pointing to a pile of heavy timber, beset with an undergrowth of cane, but standing almost isolated from the rest of the forest on account of the thin open woods that were around it.

We were too late to catch a glimpse of him, but perhaps he would halt in the undergrowth. If so we had a chance.

“Surround, boys, surround!” cried the Kentuckian, who understood bear-hunting as well as any of the party. “Quick, round and head him;” and, at the same time, the speaker urged his great horse into a gallop. Several others rode off on the opposite side, and in a few seconds we had surrounded the cane-brake.

“Is he in it?” cried one.

“Do you track ’im thur, Mark?” cried Ike to his comrade from the opposite side.

“No,” was the reply, “he hain’t gone out this away.”

“Nor hyur,” responded Ike.

“Nor here,” said the Kentuckian.

“Nor by here,” added the hunter-naturalist.

“Belike, then, he’s still in the timmor,” said Redwood. “Now look out all of yees. Keep your eyes skinned; I’ll hustle him out o’ thar.”

“Hold on, Mark, boy,” cried Ike, “hold on thur. Damn the varmint! hyur’s his track, paddled like a sheep pen. Wagh, his den’s hyur—let me rout ’im.”

“Very wal, then,” replied the other, “go ahead, old fellow—I’ll look to my side—thu’ll no bar pass me ’ithout getting a pill in his guts. Out wi’ ’im!” We all sat in our saddles silent and watchful. Ike had entered the cane, but not a rustle was heard. A snake could not have passed through it with less noise than did the old trapper.

It was full ten minutes before the slightest sound warned of what he was about. Then his voice reached us.

“This way, all of you! The bar’s treed.”

The announcement filled all of us with pleasant anticipations. The sport of killing a bear is no everyday amusement, and now that the animal was “treed” we were sure of him. Some dismounted and hitched their horses to the branches; others boldly dashed into the cane, hurrying to the spot, with the hope of having first shot.

Why was Ike’s rifle not heard if he saw the bear treed? This puzzled some. It was explained when we got up. Ike’s words were figurative. The bear had not taken shelter in a tree, but a hollow log, and, of course, Ike had not yet set eyes on him. But there was the log, a huge one, some ten or more feet in thickness, and there was the hole, with the well-beaten track leading into it. It was his den. He was there to a certainty.

How to get him out? That was the next question.

Several took their stations, guns in hand, commanding the entrance to the hollow. One went back upon the log, and pounded it with the butt of his gun. To no purpose. Bruin was not such a fool as to walk out and be peppered by bullets.

A long pole was next thrust up the hollow. Nothing could be felt. The den was beyond reach.

Smoking was next tried, but with like success. The bear gave no sign of being annoyed with it. The axes were now brought from the waggon. It would be a tough job—for the log (a sycamore) was sound enough except near the heart. There was no help for it, and Jake and Lanty went to work as if for a day’s rail splitting.

Redwood and the Kentuckian, both good axemen, relieved them, and a deep notch soon began to make its appearance on each side of the log. The rest of us kept watch near the entrance, hoping the sound of the axe might drive out the game. We were disappointed in that hope, and for full two hours the chopping continued, until the patience and the arms of those that plied the axe were nearly tired out.

It is no trifling matter to lay open a tree ten feet in diameter. They had chosen the place for their work guided by the long pole. It could not be beyond the den, and if upon the near side, of it, the pole would then be long enough to reach the bear, and either destroy him with a knife-blade attached to it, or force him out. This was our plan, and therefore we were encouraged to proceed.

At length the axes broke through the wood and the dark interior lay open. They had cut in the right place, for the den of the bear was found directly under, but no bear! Poles were inserted at both openings, but no bear could be felt either way. The hollow ran up no farther, so after all there was no bear in the log.

There were some disappointed faces about—and some rather rough ejaculations were heard. I might say that Ike “cussed a few,” and that would be no more than the truth. The old trapper seemed to be ashamed of being so taken in, particularly as he had somewhat exultingly announced that the “bar was treed.”

“He must have got off before we surrounded,” said one.

“Are you sure he came into the timber?” asked another—“that fool, Lanty, was so scared, he could hardly tell where the animal went.”

“Be me soul! gintlemen, I saw him go in wid my own eyes, Oil swear—”

“Cussed queer!” spitefully remarked Redwood.

“Damn the bar!” ejaculated Ike, “whur kid the varmint a gone?”

Where was A—? All eyes were turned to look for the hunter-naturalist, as if he could clear up the mystery. He was nowhere to be seen. He had not been seen for some time!

At that moment, the clear sharp ring of a rifle echoed in our ears. There was a moment’s silence, and the next moment a loud “thump” was heard, as of a heavy body falling from a great height to the ground. The noise startled even our tired horses, and some of them broke their ties and scampered off.

“This way, gentlemen!” said a quiet voice, “here’s the bear!”

The voice was A—’s; and we all, without thinking of the horses, hurried up to the spot. Sure enough, there lay the great brute, a red stream oozing out of a bullet-hole in his ribs.

A— pointed to a tree—a huge oak that spread out above our heads.

“There he was, in yonder fork,” said he. “We might have saved ourselves a good deal of trouble had we been more thoughtful. I suspected he was not in the log when the smoke failed to move him. The brute was too sagacious to hide there. It is not the first time I have known the hunter foiled by such a trick.”

The eyes of Redwood were turned admiringly on the speaker, and even old Ike could not help acknowledging his superior hunter-craft.

“Mister,” he muttered, “I guess you’d make a darned fust-rate mountain-man. He’s a gone Injun when you look through sights.”

All of us were examining the huge carcass of the bear—one of the largest size.

“Your sure it’s no grizzly?” inquired the doctor.

“No, doctor,” replied the naturalist, “the grizzly never climbs a tree.”

Chapter Twenty One.The Black Bear of America.After some time spent in recovering the horses, we lifted the bear into Jake’s waggon, and proceeded on our journey. It was near evening, however, and we soon after halted and formed camp. The bear was skinned in a trice,—Ike and Redwood performing this operation with the dexterity of a pair of butchers; of course “bear-meat” was the principal dish for supper; and although some may think this rather a savage feast, I envy those who are in the way of a bear-ham now.Of course for that evening nothing was talked of but Bruin, and a good many anecdotes were related about the beast. With the exception of the doctor, Jake and Lanty, all of us had something to say upon that subject, for all the rest had more or less practice in bear-hunting.The black or “American bear” (Ursus Americanus) is one of the best-known of his tribe. It is he that is oftenest seen in menageries and zoological gardens, for the reason, perhaps, that he is found in great plenty in a country of large commercial intercourse with other nations. Hence he is more frequently captured and exported to all parts.Any one at a glance may distinguish him from the “brown bear” of Europe, as well as the other bears of the Eastern continent—not so much by his colour (for he is sometimes brown too), as by his form and the regularity and smoothness of his coat. He may be as easily distinguished, too, from his congeners of North America—of which there are three—the grizzly (Ursus ferox), the brown (Ursus arctus), and the “polar” (Ursus maritimus). The hair upon other large bears (the polar excepted) is what may be termed “tufty,” and their forms are different, being generally more uncouth and “chunkier.” The black bear is, in fact, nearer to the polar in shape, as well as in the arrangement of his fur,—than to any other of the tribe. He is much smaller, however, rarely exceeding two-thirds the weight of large specimens of the latter.His colour is usually a deep black all over the body, with a patch of rich yellowish red upon the muzzle, where the hair is short and smooth. This ornamental patch is sometimes absent, and varieties of the black bear are seen of very different colours. Brown ones are common in some parts, and others of a cinnamon colour, and still others with white markings, but these last are rare. They are all of one species, however, the assertion of some naturalists to the contrary notwithstanding. The proof is, that the black varieties have been seen followed by coloured cubs, andvice versa.The black bear is omnivorous—feeds upon flesh as well as fruit, nuts, and edible roots. Habitually his diet is not carnivorous, but he will eat at times either carrion or living flesh. We say living flesh, for on capturing prey he does not wait to kill it, as most carnivorous animals, but tears and destroys it while still screaming. He may be said to swallow some of his food alive!Of honey he is especially fond, and robs the bee-hive whenever it is accessible to him. It is not safe from him even in the top of a tree, provided the entrance to it is large enough to admit his body; and when it is not, he often contrives to make it so by means of his sharp claws. He has but little fear of the stings of the angry bees. His shaggy coat and thick hide afford him ample protection against such puny weapons. It is supposed that he spends a good deal of his time ranging the forest in search of “bee trees.”Of course he is a tree-climber—climbs by the “hug,” not by means of his claws, as do animals of the cat kind; and in getting to the ground again descends the trunk, stern-foremost, as a hod-carrier would come down a ladder. In this he again differs from thefelidae.The range of the black bear is extensive—in fact it may be said to be colimital with the forest, both in North and South America—though in the latter division of the continent, another species of large black bear exists, theUrsus ornatas. In the northern continent the American bear is found in all the wooded parts from the Atlantic to the Pacific, but not in the open and prairie districts. There the grizzly holds dominion, though both of them range together in the wooded valleys of the Rocky Mountains. The grizzly, on the other hand, is only met with west of the Mississippi, and affects the dry desert countries of the uninhabited West. The brown bear, supposed to be identical with theUrsus arctusof North Europe, is only met with in the wild and treeless track known as “Barren grounds,” which stretch across nearly the whole northern part of the continent from the last timber to the shores of the Arctic Sea, and in this region the black bear is not found. The zone of the polar bear joins with that of the brown, and the range of the former extends perhaps to the pole itself.At the time of the colonisation of America, the area of the present United States was the favourite home of the black bear. It was a country entirely covered with thick forests, and of course a suitablehabitatfor him. Even to this day a considerable number of bears is to be found within the limits of the settlements. Scarcely a State in which some wild woodlands or mountain fastnesses do not afford shelter to a number of bears, and to kill one of them is a grand object of the hunter’s ambition. Along the whole range of the Alleghanies black bears are yet found, and it will be long ere they are finally extirpated from such haunts. In the Western States they are still more common, where they inhabit the gloomy forests along the rivers, and creek bottoms, protected alike by the thick undergrowth and the swampy nature of the soil.Their den is usually in a hollow tree—sometimes a prostrate log if the latter be large enough, and in such a position as is not likely to be observed by the passing hunter. A cave in the rocks is also their favourite lair, when the geological structure of the country offers them so secure a retreat. They are safer thus; for when a bear-tree or log has been discovered by either hunter or farmer the bear has not much chance of escape. The squirrel is safe enough, as his capture will not repay the trouble of felling the tree; but such noble game as a bear will repay whole hours of hard work with the axe.The black bear lies torpid during several months of the winter. The time of his hibernation depends upon the latitude of the place and the coldness of the climate. As you approach the south this period becomes shorter and shorter, until in the tropical forests, where frost is unknown, the black bear ranges throughout the year.The mode of hunting the black bear does not differ from that practised with the fox or wild cat. He is usually chased by dogs, and forced into his cave or a tree. If the former, he is shot down, or the tree, if hollow, is felled. Sometimes smoking brings him out. If he escapes to a cave, smoking is also tried; but if that will not succeed in dislodging him, he must be left alone, as no dogs will venture to attack him there.The hunter often tracks and kills him in the woods with a bullet from his rifle. He will not turn upon man unless when wounded or brought to bay. Then his assault is to be dreaded. Should he grasp the hunter between his great forearms, the latter will stand a fair chance of being hugged to death. He does not attempt to use his teeth like the grizzly bear, but relies upon the muscular power of his arms. The nose appears to be his tenderest part, and his antagonist, if an old bear-hunter, and sufficiently cool, will use every effort to strike him there. A blow upon the snout has often caused the black bear to let go his hold, and retreat terrified!The log trap is sometimes tried with success. This is constructed in such a way that the removal of the bait operates upon a trigger, and a large heavy log comes down on the animal removing it—either crushing it to death or holding it fast by pressure. A limb is sometimes only caught; but this proves sufficient.The same kind of trap is used throughout the northern regions of America by the fur trappers—particularly the sable hunters and trappers of the white weasel (Mustela erminea). Of course that for the bear is constructed of the heaviest logs, and is of large dimensions.Redwood related an adventure that had befallen him while trapping the black bear at an earlier period of his life. It had nearly cost him his life too, and a slight halt in his gait could still be observed, resulting from that very adventure.We all collected around the blazing logs to listen to the trapper’s story.

After some time spent in recovering the horses, we lifted the bear into Jake’s waggon, and proceeded on our journey. It was near evening, however, and we soon after halted and formed camp. The bear was skinned in a trice,—Ike and Redwood performing this operation with the dexterity of a pair of butchers; of course “bear-meat” was the principal dish for supper; and although some may think this rather a savage feast, I envy those who are in the way of a bear-ham now.

Of course for that evening nothing was talked of but Bruin, and a good many anecdotes were related about the beast. With the exception of the doctor, Jake and Lanty, all of us had something to say upon that subject, for all the rest had more or less practice in bear-hunting.

The black or “American bear” (Ursus Americanus) is one of the best-known of his tribe. It is he that is oftenest seen in menageries and zoological gardens, for the reason, perhaps, that he is found in great plenty in a country of large commercial intercourse with other nations. Hence he is more frequently captured and exported to all parts.

Any one at a glance may distinguish him from the “brown bear” of Europe, as well as the other bears of the Eastern continent—not so much by his colour (for he is sometimes brown too), as by his form and the regularity and smoothness of his coat. He may be as easily distinguished, too, from his congeners of North America—of which there are three—the grizzly (Ursus ferox), the brown (Ursus arctus), and the “polar” (Ursus maritimus). The hair upon other large bears (the polar excepted) is what may be termed “tufty,” and their forms are different, being generally more uncouth and “chunkier.” The black bear is, in fact, nearer to the polar in shape, as well as in the arrangement of his fur,—than to any other of the tribe. He is much smaller, however, rarely exceeding two-thirds the weight of large specimens of the latter.

His colour is usually a deep black all over the body, with a patch of rich yellowish red upon the muzzle, where the hair is short and smooth. This ornamental patch is sometimes absent, and varieties of the black bear are seen of very different colours. Brown ones are common in some parts, and others of a cinnamon colour, and still others with white markings, but these last are rare. They are all of one species, however, the assertion of some naturalists to the contrary notwithstanding. The proof is, that the black varieties have been seen followed by coloured cubs, andvice versa.

The black bear is omnivorous—feeds upon flesh as well as fruit, nuts, and edible roots. Habitually his diet is not carnivorous, but he will eat at times either carrion or living flesh. We say living flesh, for on capturing prey he does not wait to kill it, as most carnivorous animals, but tears and destroys it while still screaming. He may be said to swallow some of his food alive!

Of honey he is especially fond, and robs the bee-hive whenever it is accessible to him. It is not safe from him even in the top of a tree, provided the entrance to it is large enough to admit his body; and when it is not, he often contrives to make it so by means of his sharp claws. He has but little fear of the stings of the angry bees. His shaggy coat and thick hide afford him ample protection against such puny weapons. It is supposed that he spends a good deal of his time ranging the forest in search of “bee trees.”

Of course he is a tree-climber—climbs by the “hug,” not by means of his claws, as do animals of the cat kind; and in getting to the ground again descends the trunk, stern-foremost, as a hod-carrier would come down a ladder. In this he again differs from thefelidae.

The range of the black bear is extensive—in fact it may be said to be colimital with the forest, both in North and South America—though in the latter division of the continent, another species of large black bear exists, theUrsus ornatas. In the northern continent the American bear is found in all the wooded parts from the Atlantic to the Pacific, but not in the open and prairie districts. There the grizzly holds dominion, though both of them range together in the wooded valleys of the Rocky Mountains. The grizzly, on the other hand, is only met with west of the Mississippi, and affects the dry desert countries of the uninhabited West. The brown bear, supposed to be identical with theUrsus arctusof North Europe, is only met with in the wild and treeless track known as “Barren grounds,” which stretch across nearly the whole northern part of the continent from the last timber to the shores of the Arctic Sea, and in this region the black bear is not found. The zone of the polar bear joins with that of the brown, and the range of the former extends perhaps to the pole itself.

At the time of the colonisation of America, the area of the present United States was the favourite home of the black bear. It was a country entirely covered with thick forests, and of course a suitablehabitatfor him. Even to this day a considerable number of bears is to be found within the limits of the settlements. Scarcely a State in which some wild woodlands or mountain fastnesses do not afford shelter to a number of bears, and to kill one of them is a grand object of the hunter’s ambition. Along the whole range of the Alleghanies black bears are yet found, and it will be long ere they are finally extirpated from such haunts. In the Western States they are still more common, where they inhabit the gloomy forests along the rivers, and creek bottoms, protected alike by the thick undergrowth and the swampy nature of the soil.

Their den is usually in a hollow tree—sometimes a prostrate log if the latter be large enough, and in such a position as is not likely to be observed by the passing hunter. A cave in the rocks is also their favourite lair, when the geological structure of the country offers them so secure a retreat. They are safer thus; for when a bear-tree or log has been discovered by either hunter or farmer the bear has not much chance of escape. The squirrel is safe enough, as his capture will not repay the trouble of felling the tree; but such noble game as a bear will repay whole hours of hard work with the axe.

The black bear lies torpid during several months of the winter. The time of his hibernation depends upon the latitude of the place and the coldness of the climate. As you approach the south this period becomes shorter and shorter, until in the tropical forests, where frost is unknown, the black bear ranges throughout the year.

The mode of hunting the black bear does not differ from that practised with the fox or wild cat. He is usually chased by dogs, and forced into his cave or a tree. If the former, he is shot down, or the tree, if hollow, is felled. Sometimes smoking brings him out. If he escapes to a cave, smoking is also tried; but if that will not succeed in dislodging him, he must be left alone, as no dogs will venture to attack him there.

The hunter often tracks and kills him in the woods with a bullet from his rifle. He will not turn upon man unless when wounded or brought to bay. Then his assault is to be dreaded. Should he grasp the hunter between his great forearms, the latter will stand a fair chance of being hugged to death. He does not attempt to use his teeth like the grizzly bear, but relies upon the muscular power of his arms. The nose appears to be his tenderest part, and his antagonist, if an old bear-hunter, and sufficiently cool, will use every effort to strike him there. A blow upon the snout has often caused the black bear to let go his hold, and retreat terrified!

The log trap is sometimes tried with success. This is constructed in such a way that the removal of the bait operates upon a trigger, and a large heavy log comes down on the animal removing it—either crushing it to death or holding it fast by pressure. A limb is sometimes only caught; but this proves sufficient.

The same kind of trap is used throughout the northern regions of America by the fur trappers—particularly the sable hunters and trappers of the white weasel (Mustela erminea). Of course that for the bear is constructed of the heaviest logs, and is of large dimensions.

Redwood related an adventure that had befallen him while trapping the black bear at an earlier period of his life. It had nearly cost him his life too, and a slight halt in his gait could still be observed, resulting from that very adventure.

We all collected around the blazing logs to listen to the trapper’s story.

Chapter Twenty Two.The Trapper Trapped.“Well, then,” began Redwood, “the thing I’m agoin’ to tell you about, happened to me when I war a younker, long afore I ever thought I was a coming out hyar upon the parairas. I wan’t quite growed at the time, though I was a good chunk for my age.“It war up thar among the mountains in East Tennessee, whar this child war raised, upon the head waters of the Tennessee River.“I war fond o’ huntin’ from the time that I war knee high to a duck, an’ I can jest remember killin’ a black bar afore I war twelve yeer old. As I growed up, the bar had become scacer in them parts, and it wan’t every day you could scare up such a varmint, but now and then one ud turn up.“Well, one day as I war poking about the crik bottom (for the shanty whar my ole mother lived war not on the Tennessee, but on a crik that runs into it), I diskivered bar sign. There war tracks o’ the bar’s paws in this mud, an’ I follered them along the water edge for nearly a mile—then the trail turned into about as thickety a bottom as I ever seed anywhar. It would a baffled a cat to crawl through it.“After the trail went out from the crik and towards the edge o’ this thicket, I lost all hopes of follerin’ it further, as the ground was hard, and covered with donicks, and I couldn’t make the tracks out no how. I had my idea that the bar had tuk the thicket, so I went round the edge of it to see if I could find whar he had entered.“For a long time I couldn’t see a spot whar any critter as big as a bar could a-got in without makin’ some sort o’ a hole, and then I begun to think the bar had gone some other way, either across the crik or further down it.“I war agoin’ to turn back to the water, when I spied a big log lyin’ half out o’ the thicket, with one eend buried in the bushes. I noticed that the top of this log had a dirty look, as if some animal had tramped about on it; an’ on goin’ up and squintin’ at it a little closter, I seed that that guess war the right one.“I clomb the log, for it war a regular rouster, bigger than that ’n we had so much useless trouble with, and then I scrammelled along the top o’ it in the direction of the brush. Thar I seed the very hole whar the bar had got into the thicket, and thar war a regular beaten-path runnin’ through the brake as far as I could see.“I jumped off o’ the log, and squeezed myself through the bramble. It war a trail easy enough to find, but mighty hard to foller, I can tell ye. Thar war thistles, and cussed stingin’ nettles, and briars as thick as my wrist, with claws upon them as sharp as fish-hooks. I pushed on, howsomever, feelin’ quite sartin that sich a well-used track must lead to the bar’s den, an’ I war safe enough to find it. In coorse I reckoned that the critter had his nest in some holler tree, and I could go home for my axe, and come back the next morning—if smoking failed to git him out.“Well, I poked on through the thicket a good three hundred yards, sometimes crouching, and sometimes creeping on my hands and knees. I war badly scratched, I tell you, and now and then I jest thought to myself, what would be the consyquince if the bar should meet me in that narrow passage. We’d a had a tough tussel, I reckon—but I met no bar.“At last the brash grew thinner, and jest as I was in hopes I might stumble on the bar tree, what shed I see afore me but the face o’ a rocky bluff, that riz a consid’able height over the crik bottom. I begun to fear that the varmint had a cave, and so, cuss him! he had—a great black gulley in the rocks was right close by, and thar was his den, and no mistake. I could easily tell it by the way the clay and stones had been pattered over by his paws.“Of coorse, my tracking for that day war over, and I stood by the mouth of the cave not knowin’ what to do. I didn’t feel inclined to go in.“After a while I bethought me that the bar mout come out, an’ I laid myself squat down among the bushes facing the cave. I had my gun ready to give him a mouthful of lead, as soon as he should show his snout outside o’ the hole.“’Twar no go. I guess he had heard me when I first come up, and know’d I war thar. I laid still until ’twar so dark I thought I would never find my way back agin to the crik; but, after a good deal of scramblin’ and creepin’ I got out at last, and took my way home.“It warn’t likely I war agoin’ to give that bar up. I war bound to fetch him out o’ his boots if it cost me a week’s hunting. So I returned the next morning to the place, and lay all day in front o’ the cave. No bar appeared, an’ I went back home a cussin’.“Next day I come again, but this time I didn’t intend to stay. I had fetched my axe with me wi’ the intention of riggin’ up a log trap near the mouth o’ the cave. I had also fetched a jug o’ molasses and some yeers o’ green corn to bait the trap, for I know’d the bar war fond o’ both.“Well, I got upon the spot, an’ makin’ as leetle rumpus as possible, I went to work to build my trap. I found some logs on the ground jest the scantlin, and in less than an hour I hed the thing rigged an’ the trigger set. ’Twan’t no small lift to get up the big log, but I managed it wi’ a lever I had made, though it took every pound o’ strength in my body. If it come down on the bar I knew it would hold him.“Well, I had all ready except layin’ the bait; so I crawled in, and was fixin’ the green yeers and the ’lasses, when, jest at that moment, what shed I hear behind me but the ‘sniff’ o’ the bar!“I turned suddently to see. I had jest got my eye on the critter standin’ right in the mouth o’ his cave, when I feeled myself struck upon the buttocks, and flattened down to the airth like a pancake!“At the first stroke I thought somebody had hit me a heavy blow from behind, and I wish it had been that. It war wusser than that. It war the log had hit me, and war now lying with all its weight right acrosst my two leg’s. In my hurry to git round I had sprung the trigger, and down comed the infernal log on my hams.“At fust I wan’t scared, but I war badly hurt. I thought it would be all right as soon as I had crawled out, and I made an attempt to do so. It was then that I become scared in airnest; for I found that I couldn’t crawl out. My legs were held in such a way that I couldn’t move them, and the more I pulled the more I hurt them. They were in pain already with the heavy weight pressin’ upon them, and I couldn’t bear to move them. No more could I turn myself. I war flat on my face, and couldn’t slew myself round any way, so as to get my hands at the log. I war fairly catched in my own trap!“It war jest about then I began to feel scared. Thar wan’t no settlement in the hul crik bottom but my mother’s old shanty, an’ that were two miles higher up. It war as unlikely a thing as could happen that anybody would be passing that way. And unless some one did I saw no chance of gettin’ clar o’ the scrape I war in. I could do nothin’ for myself.“I hollered as loud as I could, and that frightened the bar into his cave again. I hollered for an hour, but I could hear no reply, and then I war still a bit, and then I hollered again, an’ kept this up pretty much for the hul o’ that blessed day.“Thar wan’t any answer but the echo o’ my own shoutin’, and the whoopin’ of the owls that flew about over my head, and appeared as if they war mockin’ me.“I had no behopes of any relief comin’ from home. My ole mother had nobody but myself, and she wan’t like to miss me, as I’d often stayed out a huntin’ for three or four days at a time. The only chance I had, and I knew it too, war that some neighbour might be strayin’ down the crik, and you may guess what sort o’ chance that war, when I tell you thar wan’t a neighbour livin’ within less than five mile o’ us. If no one come by I knew I must lay there till I died o’ hunger and rotted, or the bar ate me up.“Well, night come, and night went. ’Twar about the longest night this child remembers. I lay all through it, a sufferin’ the pain, and listening to the screechin’ owls. I could a screeched as loud as any of them if that would a done any good. I heerd now and then the snuffin’ o’ the bar, and I could see thar war two o’ them. I could see thar big black bodies movin’ about like shadows, and they appeared to be gettin’ less afeerd o’ me, as they come close at times, and risin’ up on their hind-quarters stood in front o’ me like a couple o’ black devils.“I begun to get afeerd they would attack me, and so I guess they would a-done, had not a circumstance happened that put them out o’ the notion.“It war jest grey day, when one o’ them come so clost that I expected to be attacked by him. Now as luck would have it, my rifle happened to be lyin’ on the ground within reach. I grabbed it without saying a word, and slewin’ up one shoulder as high as I could, I was able to sight the bar jest behind the fore leg. The brute wan’t four feet from the muzzle, and slap into him went wad and all, and down he tumbled like a felled ox. I seed he war as dead as a buck.“Well, badly as I war fixed, I contrived to get loaded again, for I knowed that bars will fight for each other to the death; and I thought the other might attack me. It wan’t to be seen at the time, but shortly after it come upon the ground from the direction of the crik.“I watched it closely as it shambled up, having my rifle ready all the while. When it first set eyes on its dead comrade it gave a loud snort, and stopped. It appeared to be considerably surprised. It only halted a short spell, and then, with a loud roar, it run up to the carcass, and sniffed at it.“I hain’t the least o’ a doubt that in two seconds more it would a-jumped me, but I war too quick for it, and sent a bullet right plum into one of its eyes, that come out again near the back o’ its neck. That did the business, and I had the satisfaction to see it cowollop over nearly on top o’ the other ’n.“Well, I had killed the bars, but what o’ that. That wouldn’t get me from under the log; and what wi’ the pain I was sufferin’, and the poor prospect o’ bein’ relieved, I thought I mout as well have let them eat me.“But a man don’t die so long as he can help it, I b’lieve, and I detarmined to live it out while I could. At times I had hopes and shouted, and then I lost hope and lay still again.“I grew as hungry as a famished wolf. The bars were lying right before me, but jest beyond reach, as if to tantylise me. I could have ate a collop raw if I could a-got hold of it, but how to reach it war the difeeculty.“Needcesity they say is the mother o’ invention; and I set myself to invent a bit. Thar war a piece o’ rope I had brought along to help me wi’ the trap, and that I got my claws on.“I made a noose on one eend o’ it, and after about a score o’ trials I at last flung the noose over the head o’ one o’ the bars, and drew it tight. I then sot to work to pull the bar nearer. If that bar’s neck wan’t well stretched I don’t know what you’d call stretchin’, for I tugged at it about an hour afore I could get it within reach. I did get it at last, and then with my knife I cut out the bar’s tongue, and ate it raw.“I had satisfied one appetite, but another as bad, if not wusser, troubled me. That war thirst—my throat war as dry as a corn cob, and whar was the water to come from. It grew so bad at last that I thought I would die of it. I drawed the bar nearer me, and cut his juglar to see if thar war any relief from that quarter. Thar wan’t. The blood war froze up thick as liver. Not a drop would run.“I lay coolin’ my tongue on the blade o’ my knife an’ chawin’ a bullet, that I had taken from my pouch. I managed to put in the hul of the next day this away, now and then shoutin’ as hard as I could. Towards the evenin’ I grew hungry again, and ate a cut out o’ the cheek o’ the bar; but I thought I would a-choked for want o’ water.“I put in the night the best way I could. I had the owls again for company, and some varmint came up and smelt at the bars; but was frightened at my voice, and run away again. I suppose it war a fox or wolf, or some such thing, and but for me would a-made a meal off o’ the bar’s carcass.“I won’t trouble you with my reflexshuns all that night; but I can assure ye they war anything but pleasant. I thought of my ole mother, who had nobody but me, and that helped to keep up my spirits. I detarmined to cut away at the bar, and hold out as long as possible.“As soon as day broke I set up my shoutin’ again, restin’ every fifeteen minutes or so, and then takin’ afresh start. About an hour after sun-up, jest as I had finished a long spell o’ screechin’, I thought I heerd a voice. I listened a bit with my heart thumpin’ against my ribs. Thar war no sound; I yelled louder than ever, and then listened. Thar war a voice.“‘Damn ye! what are ye hollowin’ about?’ cried the voice.“I again shouted ‘Holloa!’“‘Who the hell’s thar?’ inquired the voice.“‘Casey!’ I called back, recognising the voice as that of a neighbour who lives up the crik; ‘for God’s sake this way.’“‘I’m a-comin’,’ he replied; ‘’Taint so easy to get through hyar—that you, Redwood? What the hell’s the matter? Damn this brush!’“I heard my neighbour breakin’ his way through the thicket, and strange I tell ye all, but true it is, I couldn’t believe I war goin’ to get clar even then until I seed Casey standin’ in front o’ me.“Well, of coorse, I was now set free again, but couldn’t put a foot to the ground. Casey carried me home to the shanty, whar I lay for well nigh six weeks, afore I could go about, and damn the thing! I han’t got over it yet.”So ended Redwood’s story.

“Well, then,” began Redwood, “the thing I’m agoin’ to tell you about, happened to me when I war a younker, long afore I ever thought I was a coming out hyar upon the parairas. I wan’t quite growed at the time, though I was a good chunk for my age.

“It war up thar among the mountains in East Tennessee, whar this child war raised, upon the head waters of the Tennessee River.

“I war fond o’ huntin’ from the time that I war knee high to a duck, an’ I can jest remember killin’ a black bar afore I war twelve yeer old. As I growed up, the bar had become scacer in them parts, and it wan’t every day you could scare up such a varmint, but now and then one ud turn up.

“Well, one day as I war poking about the crik bottom (for the shanty whar my ole mother lived war not on the Tennessee, but on a crik that runs into it), I diskivered bar sign. There war tracks o’ the bar’s paws in this mud, an’ I follered them along the water edge for nearly a mile—then the trail turned into about as thickety a bottom as I ever seed anywhar. It would a baffled a cat to crawl through it.

“After the trail went out from the crik and towards the edge o’ this thicket, I lost all hopes of follerin’ it further, as the ground was hard, and covered with donicks, and I couldn’t make the tracks out no how. I had my idea that the bar had tuk the thicket, so I went round the edge of it to see if I could find whar he had entered.

“For a long time I couldn’t see a spot whar any critter as big as a bar could a-got in without makin’ some sort o’ a hole, and then I begun to think the bar had gone some other way, either across the crik or further down it.

“I war agoin’ to turn back to the water, when I spied a big log lyin’ half out o’ the thicket, with one eend buried in the bushes. I noticed that the top of this log had a dirty look, as if some animal had tramped about on it; an’ on goin’ up and squintin’ at it a little closter, I seed that that guess war the right one.

“I clomb the log, for it war a regular rouster, bigger than that ’n we had so much useless trouble with, and then I scrammelled along the top o’ it in the direction of the brush. Thar I seed the very hole whar the bar had got into the thicket, and thar war a regular beaten-path runnin’ through the brake as far as I could see.

“I jumped off o’ the log, and squeezed myself through the bramble. It war a trail easy enough to find, but mighty hard to foller, I can tell ye. Thar war thistles, and cussed stingin’ nettles, and briars as thick as my wrist, with claws upon them as sharp as fish-hooks. I pushed on, howsomever, feelin’ quite sartin that sich a well-used track must lead to the bar’s den, an’ I war safe enough to find it. In coorse I reckoned that the critter had his nest in some holler tree, and I could go home for my axe, and come back the next morning—if smoking failed to git him out.

“Well, I poked on through the thicket a good three hundred yards, sometimes crouching, and sometimes creeping on my hands and knees. I war badly scratched, I tell you, and now and then I jest thought to myself, what would be the consyquince if the bar should meet me in that narrow passage. We’d a had a tough tussel, I reckon—but I met no bar.

“At last the brash grew thinner, and jest as I was in hopes I might stumble on the bar tree, what shed I see afore me but the face o’ a rocky bluff, that riz a consid’able height over the crik bottom. I begun to fear that the varmint had a cave, and so, cuss him! he had—a great black gulley in the rocks was right close by, and thar was his den, and no mistake. I could easily tell it by the way the clay and stones had been pattered over by his paws.

“Of coorse, my tracking for that day war over, and I stood by the mouth of the cave not knowin’ what to do. I didn’t feel inclined to go in.

“After a while I bethought me that the bar mout come out, an’ I laid myself squat down among the bushes facing the cave. I had my gun ready to give him a mouthful of lead, as soon as he should show his snout outside o’ the hole.

“’Twar no go. I guess he had heard me when I first come up, and know’d I war thar. I laid still until ’twar so dark I thought I would never find my way back agin to the crik; but, after a good deal of scramblin’ and creepin’ I got out at last, and took my way home.

“It warn’t likely I war agoin’ to give that bar up. I war bound to fetch him out o’ his boots if it cost me a week’s hunting. So I returned the next morning to the place, and lay all day in front o’ the cave. No bar appeared, an’ I went back home a cussin’.

“Next day I come again, but this time I didn’t intend to stay. I had fetched my axe with me wi’ the intention of riggin’ up a log trap near the mouth o’ the cave. I had also fetched a jug o’ molasses and some yeers o’ green corn to bait the trap, for I know’d the bar war fond o’ both.

“Well, I got upon the spot, an’ makin’ as leetle rumpus as possible, I went to work to build my trap. I found some logs on the ground jest the scantlin, and in less than an hour I hed the thing rigged an’ the trigger set. ’Twan’t no small lift to get up the big log, but I managed it wi’ a lever I had made, though it took every pound o’ strength in my body. If it come down on the bar I knew it would hold him.

“Well, I had all ready except layin’ the bait; so I crawled in, and was fixin’ the green yeers and the ’lasses, when, jest at that moment, what shed I hear behind me but the ‘sniff’ o’ the bar!

“I turned suddently to see. I had jest got my eye on the critter standin’ right in the mouth o’ his cave, when I feeled myself struck upon the buttocks, and flattened down to the airth like a pancake!

“At the first stroke I thought somebody had hit me a heavy blow from behind, and I wish it had been that. It war wusser than that. It war the log had hit me, and war now lying with all its weight right acrosst my two leg’s. In my hurry to git round I had sprung the trigger, and down comed the infernal log on my hams.

“At fust I wan’t scared, but I war badly hurt. I thought it would be all right as soon as I had crawled out, and I made an attempt to do so. It was then that I become scared in airnest; for I found that I couldn’t crawl out. My legs were held in such a way that I couldn’t move them, and the more I pulled the more I hurt them. They were in pain already with the heavy weight pressin’ upon them, and I couldn’t bear to move them. No more could I turn myself. I war flat on my face, and couldn’t slew myself round any way, so as to get my hands at the log. I war fairly catched in my own trap!

“It war jest about then I began to feel scared. Thar wan’t no settlement in the hul crik bottom but my mother’s old shanty, an’ that were two miles higher up. It war as unlikely a thing as could happen that anybody would be passing that way. And unless some one did I saw no chance of gettin’ clar o’ the scrape I war in. I could do nothin’ for myself.

“I hollered as loud as I could, and that frightened the bar into his cave again. I hollered for an hour, but I could hear no reply, and then I war still a bit, and then I hollered again, an’ kept this up pretty much for the hul o’ that blessed day.

“Thar wan’t any answer but the echo o’ my own shoutin’, and the whoopin’ of the owls that flew about over my head, and appeared as if they war mockin’ me.

“I had no behopes of any relief comin’ from home. My ole mother had nobody but myself, and she wan’t like to miss me, as I’d often stayed out a huntin’ for three or four days at a time. The only chance I had, and I knew it too, war that some neighbour might be strayin’ down the crik, and you may guess what sort o’ chance that war, when I tell you thar wan’t a neighbour livin’ within less than five mile o’ us. If no one come by I knew I must lay there till I died o’ hunger and rotted, or the bar ate me up.

“Well, night come, and night went. ’Twar about the longest night this child remembers. I lay all through it, a sufferin’ the pain, and listening to the screechin’ owls. I could a screeched as loud as any of them if that would a done any good. I heerd now and then the snuffin’ o’ the bar, and I could see thar war two o’ them. I could see thar big black bodies movin’ about like shadows, and they appeared to be gettin’ less afeerd o’ me, as they come close at times, and risin’ up on their hind-quarters stood in front o’ me like a couple o’ black devils.

“I begun to get afeerd they would attack me, and so I guess they would a-done, had not a circumstance happened that put them out o’ the notion.

“It war jest grey day, when one o’ them come so clost that I expected to be attacked by him. Now as luck would have it, my rifle happened to be lyin’ on the ground within reach. I grabbed it without saying a word, and slewin’ up one shoulder as high as I could, I was able to sight the bar jest behind the fore leg. The brute wan’t four feet from the muzzle, and slap into him went wad and all, and down he tumbled like a felled ox. I seed he war as dead as a buck.

“Well, badly as I war fixed, I contrived to get loaded again, for I knowed that bars will fight for each other to the death; and I thought the other might attack me. It wan’t to be seen at the time, but shortly after it come upon the ground from the direction of the crik.

“I watched it closely as it shambled up, having my rifle ready all the while. When it first set eyes on its dead comrade it gave a loud snort, and stopped. It appeared to be considerably surprised. It only halted a short spell, and then, with a loud roar, it run up to the carcass, and sniffed at it.

“I hain’t the least o’ a doubt that in two seconds more it would a-jumped me, but I war too quick for it, and sent a bullet right plum into one of its eyes, that come out again near the back o’ its neck. That did the business, and I had the satisfaction to see it cowollop over nearly on top o’ the other ’n.

“Well, I had killed the bars, but what o’ that. That wouldn’t get me from under the log; and what wi’ the pain I was sufferin’, and the poor prospect o’ bein’ relieved, I thought I mout as well have let them eat me.

“But a man don’t die so long as he can help it, I b’lieve, and I detarmined to live it out while I could. At times I had hopes and shouted, and then I lost hope and lay still again.

“I grew as hungry as a famished wolf. The bars were lying right before me, but jest beyond reach, as if to tantylise me. I could have ate a collop raw if I could a-got hold of it, but how to reach it war the difeeculty.

“Needcesity they say is the mother o’ invention; and I set myself to invent a bit. Thar war a piece o’ rope I had brought along to help me wi’ the trap, and that I got my claws on.

“I made a noose on one eend o’ it, and after about a score o’ trials I at last flung the noose over the head o’ one o’ the bars, and drew it tight. I then sot to work to pull the bar nearer. If that bar’s neck wan’t well stretched I don’t know what you’d call stretchin’, for I tugged at it about an hour afore I could get it within reach. I did get it at last, and then with my knife I cut out the bar’s tongue, and ate it raw.

“I had satisfied one appetite, but another as bad, if not wusser, troubled me. That war thirst—my throat war as dry as a corn cob, and whar was the water to come from. It grew so bad at last that I thought I would die of it. I drawed the bar nearer me, and cut his juglar to see if thar war any relief from that quarter. Thar wan’t. The blood war froze up thick as liver. Not a drop would run.

“I lay coolin’ my tongue on the blade o’ my knife an’ chawin’ a bullet, that I had taken from my pouch. I managed to put in the hul of the next day this away, now and then shoutin’ as hard as I could. Towards the evenin’ I grew hungry again, and ate a cut out o’ the cheek o’ the bar; but I thought I would a-choked for want o’ water.

“I put in the night the best way I could. I had the owls again for company, and some varmint came up and smelt at the bars; but was frightened at my voice, and run away again. I suppose it war a fox or wolf, or some such thing, and but for me would a-made a meal off o’ the bar’s carcass.

“I won’t trouble you with my reflexshuns all that night; but I can assure ye they war anything but pleasant. I thought of my ole mother, who had nobody but me, and that helped to keep up my spirits. I detarmined to cut away at the bar, and hold out as long as possible.

“As soon as day broke I set up my shoutin’ again, restin’ every fifeteen minutes or so, and then takin’ afresh start. About an hour after sun-up, jest as I had finished a long spell o’ screechin’, I thought I heerd a voice. I listened a bit with my heart thumpin’ against my ribs. Thar war no sound; I yelled louder than ever, and then listened. Thar war a voice.

“‘Damn ye! what are ye hollowin’ about?’ cried the voice.

“I again shouted ‘Holloa!’

“‘Who the hell’s thar?’ inquired the voice.

“‘Casey!’ I called back, recognising the voice as that of a neighbour who lives up the crik; ‘for God’s sake this way.’

“‘I’m a-comin’,’ he replied; ‘’Taint so easy to get through hyar—that you, Redwood? What the hell’s the matter? Damn this brush!’

“I heard my neighbour breakin’ his way through the thicket, and strange I tell ye all, but true it is, I couldn’t believe I war goin’ to get clar even then until I seed Casey standin’ in front o’ me.

“Well, of coorse, I was now set free again, but couldn’t put a foot to the ground. Casey carried me home to the shanty, whar I lay for well nigh six weeks, afore I could go about, and damn the thing! I han’t got over it yet.”

So ended Redwood’s story.

Chapter Twenty Three.The American Deer.During our next day’s journey we fell in with and killed a couple of deer—a young buck and doe. They were the first of these animals we had yet seen, and that was considered strange, as we had passed through a deer country. They were of the species common to all parts of the United States’ territory—the “red” or “fallow” deer (Cervus Virginianus). It may be here remarked that the common deer of the United States, sometimes called “red deer,” is the fallow deer of English parks, that the “elk” of America is the red deer of Europe, and the “elk” of Europe is the “moose” of America. Many mistakes are made in relation to this family of animals on account of these misapplied names.In North America there are six well-defined species of deer—the moose (Cervus alces); the elk (Cervus Canadensis); the caribou (tarandus); the black-tail or “mule” deer (macrotis); the long-tail (leucurus); and the Virginian, or fallow deer (Virginianus). The deer of Louisiana (Cervus nemoralis) is supposed by some to be a different species from any of the above; so also is the “mazama” of Mexico (Cervus Mexicanus). It is more probable that these two kinds are only varieties of theGenus Virginianus—the difference in colour, and other respects, resulting from a difference in food, climate, and such like causes.It is probable, too, that a small species of deer exists in the Russian possessions west of the Rocky Mountains, quite distinct from any of the six mentioned above; but so little is yet known of the natural history of these wild territories, that this can only be taken as conjecture. It may be remarked, also that of the caribou (Cervus tarandus) there are two marked varieties, that may almost be regarded in the light of species. One, the larger, is known as the “woodland caribou,” because it inhabits the more southern and wooded districts of the Hudson’s Bay territory; the other, the “barren ground caribou,” is the “reindeer” of the Arctic voyagers.Of the six well-ascertained species, the last-mentioned (Cervus Virginianus) has the largest geographical range, and is the most generally known. Indeed, when the word “deer” is mentioned, it only is meant. It is the deer of the United States.The “black-tails” and “long-tails” are two species that may be called new. Though long known to trappers and hunters, they have been but lately described by the scientific naturalist. Theirhabitatis the “far west” in California, Oregon, the high prairies, and the valleys of the Rocky Mountains. Up to a late period naturalists have had but little to do with these countries. For this reason theirfaunahas so long remained comparatively unknown.The geographical disposition of the other four species is curious. Each occupies a latitudinal zone. That of the caribou, or rein deer, extends farthest north. It is not found within the limits of the United States.The zone of the moose overlaps that of the caribou, but, on the other side, goes farther south, as this species is met with along the extreme northern parts of the United States.The elk is next in order. His range “dovetails” into that of the moose, but the elk roves still farther into the temperate regions, being met with almost as far south as Texas.The fourth, the common deer, embraces in his range the temperate and torrid zones of both North and South America, while he is not found in higher latitudes than the southern frontier of Canada.The common deer, therefore, inhabits a greater area than any of his congeners, and is altogether the best-known animal of his kind. Most persons know him by sight. He is the smallest of the American species, being generally about five feet in length by three in height, and a little more than 100 pounds in weight. He is exceedingly well formed and graceful; his horns are not so large as those of the stag, but, like his, they are annually caducous, falling off in the winter and returning in the spring. They are rounded below, but in the upper part slightly flattened or palmated. The antlers do not rise upward, but protrude forward over the brow in a threatening manner. There is no regular rule, however, for their shape and “set,” and their number also varies in different individuals. The horns are also present only in the male or buck; the doe is without them. They rise from a rough bony protuberance on the forehead, called the “burr.” In the first year they grow in the shape of two short straight spikes; hence the name “spike-bucks” given to the animals of that age. In the second season a small antler appears on each horn, and the number increases until the fourth year, when they obtain a full head-dress of “branching honours.” The antlers, or, as they are sometimes called, “points,” often increase in number with the age of the animal, until as many as fifteen make their appearance. This, however, is rare. Indeed, the food of the animal has much to do with the growth of his horns. In an ill-fed specimen they do not grow to such size, nor branch so luxuriantly as in a well-fed fat buck.We have said that the horns fall annually. This takes place in winter—in December and January. They are rarely found, however, as they are soon eaten up by the small-gnawing animals.The new horns begin to grow as soon as the old ones have dropped off. During the spring and summer they are covered with a soft velvety membrane, and they are then described as being “in the velvet.” The blood circulates freely through this membrane, and it is highly sensitive, so that a blow upon the horns at this season produces great pain. By the time the “rutting” season commences (in October), the velvet has peeled off, and the horns are then in order for battle—and they need be, for the battles of the bucks during this period are terrible indeed.—Frequently their horns get “locked” in such conflicts, and, being unable to separate them, the combatants remain in this situation until both perish by hunger, or fall a prey to their natural enemy—the wolf. Many pairs of horns have been found in the forest thus locked together, and there is not a museum in America without this singular souvenir of mutual destruction!The hair of the American deer is thickly set and smooth on the surface. In winter it grows longer and is of a greyish hue; the deer is then, according to hunter phraseology, “in the grey.” In the summer a new coat is obtained, which is reddish, or calf-coloured. The deer is then “in the red.” Towards the end of August, or in autumn, the whole coat has a blue tinge. This is called “in the blue.” At all times the animal is of a whitish appearance on the throat and belly and insides of the legs. The skin is toughest when “in the red,” thickest “in the blue,” and thinnest “in the grey.” In the blue it makes the best buckskin, and is, therefore, most valuable when obtained in autumn.The fawns of this species are beautiful little creatures; they are fawn-coloured, and showered all over with white spots which disappear towards the end of their first summer, when they gradually get into the winter grey.The American deer is a valuable animal. Much of the buckskin of commerce is the product of its hides, and the horns are put to many uses. Its flesh, besides supplying the tables of the wealthy, has been for centuries almost the whole sustenance of whole nations of Indians. Its skins have furnished them with tents, beds, and clothing; its intestines with bowstrings, ball “raquets,” and snow-shoes; and in the chase of this creature they have found almost their sole occupation as well as amusement.With so many enemies, it is a matter of wonder that this species has not long been extirpated; not only has man been its constant and persevering destroyer, but it has a host of enemies besides, in the cougar, the lynxes, the wolverine, and the wolves.The last are its worst foes. Hunters state that for one deer killed by themselves, five fall a prey to the wolves. These attack the young and feeble, and soon run them down. The old deer can escape from a wolf by superior speed; but in remote districts, where the wolves are numerous, they unite in packs of eight or ten, and follow the deer as hounds do, and even with a somewhat similar howling. They run by the nose, and unless the deer can reach water, and thus escape them, they will tire it down in the end.Frequently the deer, when thus followed in winter, makes for the ice, upon which he is soon overtaken by his hungry pursuers.Notwithstanding all this, the American deer is still common in most of the States, and in some of them even plentiful. Where the wolves have been thinned off by “bounty” laws, and the deer protected during the breeding season by legislative enactments, as is the case in New York, their number is said to be on the increase. The markets of all the great cities in America are supplied with venison almost as cheap as beef, which shows that the deer are yet far from being scarce.The habits of this creature are well-known. It is gregarious in its naturalhabitat. The herd is usually led by an old buck, who watches over the safety of the others while feeding. When an enemy approaches, this sentinel and leader strikes the ground sharply with his hoofs, snorts loudly, and emits a shrill whistle; all the while fronting the danger with his horns set forward in a threatening manner. So long as he does not attempt to run, the others continue to browse with confidence; but the moment their leader starts to fly, all the rest follow, each trying to be foremost.They are timid upon ordinary occasions, but the bucks in the rutting season are bold, and when wounded and brought “to bay,” are not to be approached with impunity. They can inflict terrible blows, both with their hoofs and antlers; and hunters who have come too near them on such occasions have with difficulty escaped being gored to death.They are foes to the snake tribe, and kill the most venomous serpents without being bitten. The rattle-snake hides from their attack. Their mode of destroying these creatures is similar to that employed by the peccary (dicotyles): that is, by pouncing down upon them with the four hoofs held close together, and thus crushing them to death. The hostility of the peccary to snakes is easily understood, as no sooner has it killed one than it makes a meal of it. With the deer, of course, such is not the case, as they are not carnivorous. Its enmity to the reptile race can be explained only by supposing that it possesses a knowledge of their dangerous qualities, and thinks they should therefore be got rid of.The food of the American deer consists of twigs, leaves of trees, and grass. They are fonder of the tree-shoots than the grass; but their favourite morsels are the buds and flowers ofnymphae, especially those of the common pond-lily. To get these, they wade into the lakes and rivers like the moose, and, like them, are good swimmers.They love the shady forest better than the open ground, and they haunt the neighbourhood of streams. These afford them protection, as well as a means of quenching thirst. When pursued, their first thought is to make for water, in order to elude the pursuer, which they often succeed in doing, throwing both dogs and wolves off the scent. In summer, they seek the water to cool themselves, and get free from flies and mosquitoes, that pester them sadly.They are fond of salt, and repair in great numbers to the salines, or salt springs, that abound in all parts of America. At these they lick up quantities of earth along with the salt efflorescence, until vast hollows are formed in the earth, termed, from this circumstance, salt “licks.” The consequence of this “dirt-eating” is, that the excrement of the animal comes forth in hard pellets; and by seeing this, the hunters can always tell when they are in the neighbourhood of a “lick.”The does produce in spring—in May or June, according to the latitude. They bring forth one, two, and very rarely three fawns at a birth. Their attachment to their young is proverbial. The mothers treat them with the greatest tenderness, and hide them while they go to feed. The bleating of the fawn at once recalls the mother to its side. The hunter often imitates this with success, using either his own voice, or a “call,” made out of a cane-joint. An anecdote, told by Parry, illustrates this maternal fondness:—“The mother, finding her young one could not swim as fast as herself, was observed to stop repeatedly, so as to allow, the fawn to come up with her; and, having landed first, stood watching it with trembling anxiety as the boat chased it to the shore. She was repeatedly fired at, but remained immovable, until her offspring landed in safety, when they both cantered out of sight.” The deer to which Parry refers is the small “caribou;” but a similar affection exists between the mother and fawns of the common deer.The American deer is hunted for its flesh, its hide, and “the sport.” There are many modes of hunting it. The simplest and most common is that which is termed “still” hunting. In this, the hunter is armed with his rifle or deer-gun—a heavy fowling-piece—and steals forward upon the deer, as he would upon any other game. “Cover” is not so necessary as silence in such a hunt. This deer, like some antelopes, is of a “curious” disposition, and will sometimes allow the hunter to approach in full view without attempting to run off. But the slightest noise, such as the rustling of dry leaves, or the snapping of a stick, will alarm him. His sense of hearing is extremely acute. His nose, too, is a keen one, and he often scents the hunter, and makes off long before the latter has got within sight or range. It is necessary in “still” hunting to leave the dog at home; unless, indeed, he be an animal trained to the purpose.Another species of hunting is “trailing” the deer in snow. This is done either with dogs or without them. The snow must be frozen over, so as to cut the feet of the deer, which puts them in such a state of fear and pain, that the hunter can easily get within shot. I have assisted in killing twenty in a single morning in this way; and that, too, in a district where deer were not accounted plentiful.The “drive” is the most exciting mode of hunting deer; and the one practised by those who hunt for “the sport.” This is done with hounds, and the horsemen who follow them also carry guns. In fact, there is hardly a species of hunting in America in which fire-arms are not used.Several individuals are required to make up a “deer drive.” They are generally men who know the “lay” of the country, with all its ravines and passes. One or two only accompany the hounds as “drivers,” while the rest get between the place where the dogs are beating the cover and some river towards which it is “calculated” the startled game will run. They deploy themselves into a long line, which sometimes extends for miles through the forest. Each, as he arrives at his station, or “stand,” as it is called, dismounts, ties his horse in a thicket, and takes his stand, “covering” himself behind a log or tree. The stands are selected with reference to the configuration of the ground, or by paths which the deer are accustomed to take; and as soon as all have so arranged themselves, the dogs at a distant point are set loose, and the “drive” begins.The “stand men” remain quiet, with their guns in readiness. The barking of the dogs, afar off through the woods, usually admonishes them when a deer has been “put up;” and they watch with eager expectation, each one hoping that the game may come his way.Hours are sometimes passed without the hunter either seeing or hearing a living thing but himself and his horse; and many a day he returns home from such a “chase” without having had the slightest glimpse of either buck, doe, or fawn.This is discouraging; but at other times he is rewarded for his patient watching. A buck comes bounding forward, the hounds after him in full cry. At intervals he stops, and throws himself back on his haunches like a halted hare. His eyes are protruded, and watching backward. His beautiful neck is swollen with fear and rage, and his branching antlers tower high in the air. Again he springs forward, and approaches the silent hunter, who, with a beating heart, holds his piece in the attitude of “ready.” He makes another of his pauses. The gun is levelled, the trigger pulled; the bullet speeds forth, and strikes into his broad chest, causing him to leap upward in the spasmodic effort of death.The excitement of a scene like this rewards the hunter for his long and lonely vigil.“Torch-hunting,” or “fire-hunting,” as it is sometimes termed, is another method of capturing the fallow deer. It is done by carrying a torch in a very dark night through woods where deer are known to frequent. The torch is made of pine-knots, well dried. They are not tied in bunches, as represented by some writers, but carried in a vessel of hard metal. A frying-pan with a long handle, as already stated, is best for the purpose.The “knots” are kindled within the pan, and, if good ones, yield a blaze that will light the woods for a hundred yards around. The deer seeing this strange object, and impelled by curiosity, approaches within range; and the “glance” of his eyes, like two burning coals, betrays him to the hunter, who with his deadly rifle “sights” between the shining orbs and fire.While we were on the subject of torch-hunting the doctor took up the cue, and gave us an account of a torch-hunt he had made in Tennessee.“I will tell you of a ‘torch-hunt,’” said he, “of whichpars magna fui, and which ended with a ‘catastrophe.’ It took place in Tennessee, where I was for a while sojourning. I am not much of a hunter, as you all know; but happening to reside in a ‘settlement,’ where there were some celebrated hunters, and in the neighbourhood of which was an abundance of game, I was getting very fond of it. I had heard, among other things, of this ‘torch-hunting,’—in fact, had read many interesting descriptions of it, but I had never witnessed the sport myself; and was therefore eager, above all things, to join in a torch-hunt.“The opportunity at length offered. A party was made up to go hunting, of which I was one.“There were six of us in all; but it was arranged that we should separate into three pairs, each taking its own torch and a separate course through the woods. In each pair one was to carry the light, while the other managed the ‘shooting iron.’ We were all to meet at an appointed rendezvous when the hunt was over.“These preliminaries being arranged, and the torches made ready, we separated. My partner and I soon plunged into the deep forest.“The night was dark as pitch—dark nights are the best—and when we entered the woods we had to grope our way. Of course, we had not yet set fire to our torch, as we had not reached the place frequented by the deer.“My companion was an old hunter, and by right should have carried the gun; but it was arranged differently, out of compliment to me—the stranger, he held in one hand the huge frying-pan, while in a bag over his shoulder was a bushel or more of dry pine-knots.“On arriving at the place where it was expected deer would be found, we set fire to our torch, and in a few moments the blaze threw its glaring circle around us, painting with vermilion tints the trunks of the great trees.“In this way we proceeded onward, advancing slowly, and with as little noise as possible. We talked only in whispers, keeping our eyes turned upon all sides at once. But we walked and walked, up hill and down hill, for, I should say, ten miles at the least; and not a single pair of bright orbs answered to our luminary. Not a deer’s eye reflected the blaze of our torch.“We had kept the fire replenished and burning vividly to no purpose, until hardly a knot remained in the bag.“I had grown quite tired in this fruitless search. So had my companion, and both of us felt chagrin and disappointment. We felt this the more keenly as there had been a ‘supper-wager’ laid between us and our friends, as to what party would kill the greatest number of deer, and we fancied once or twice that we heard shots far off in the direction the others had gone. We were likely to come back empty-handed, while they, no doubt, would bring a deer each, perhaps more.“We were returning towards the point from which we had started, both of us in a most unamiable mood, when all at once an object right before us attracted my attention, and brought me to a sudden halt. I did not wait to ask any questions. A pair of small round circles glistened in the darkness like two little discs of fire. Of course they were eyes. Of course, they were the eyes of a deer.“I could see no body, for the two luminous objects shone as if set in a ground of ebony. But I did not stay to scan in what they were set. My piece was up. I glanced hastily along the barrel. I sighted between the eyes. I pulled the trigger. I fired.“As I did so, I fancied that I heard my companion shouting to me, but the report hindered me from hearing what he said.“When the echoes died away, however, his voice reached me, in a full, clear tone, pronouncing these words:—“‘Tarnation, doctor! You’ve shot Squire Robbins’s bull!’“At the same time the bellowing of the bull, mingling with his own loud laugh, convinced me that the hunter had spoken the truth.“He was a good old fellow, and promised to keep dark; but it was necessary to make all right with ‘Squire Robbins.’ So the affair soon got wind, and my torch-hunt became, for a time, the standing joke of the settlement.”

During our next day’s journey we fell in with and killed a couple of deer—a young buck and doe. They were the first of these animals we had yet seen, and that was considered strange, as we had passed through a deer country. They were of the species common to all parts of the United States’ territory—the “red” or “fallow” deer (Cervus Virginianus). It may be here remarked that the common deer of the United States, sometimes called “red deer,” is the fallow deer of English parks, that the “elk” of America is the red deer of Europe, and the “elk” of Europe is the “moose” of America. Many mistakes are made in relation to this family of animals on account of these misapplied names.

In North America there are six well-defined species of deer—the moose (Cervus alces); the elk (Cervus Canadensis); the caribou (tarandus); the black-tail or “mule” deer (macrotis); the long-tail (leucurus); and the Virginian, or fallow deer (Virginianus). The deer of Louisiana (Cervus nemoralis) is supposed by some to be a different species from any of the above; so also is the “mazama” of Mexico (Cervus Mexicanus). It is more probable that these two kinds are only varieties of theGenus Virginianus—the difference in colour, and other respects, resulting from a difference in food, climate, and such like causes.

It is probable, too, that a small species of deer exists in the Russian possessions west of the Rocky Mountains, quite distinct from any of the six mentioned above; but so little is yet known of the natural history of these wild territories, that this can only be taken as conjecture. It may be remarked, also that of the caribou (Cervus tarandus) there are two marked varieties, that may almost be regarded in the light of species. One, the larger, is known as the “woodland caribou,” because it inhabits the more southern and wooded districts of the Hudson’s Bay territory; the other, the “barren ground caribou,” is the “reindeer” of the Arctic voyagers.

Of the six well-ascertained species, the last-mentioned (Cervus Virginianus) has the largest geographical range, and is the most generally known. Indeed, when the word “deer” is mentioned, it only is meant. It is the deer of the United States.

The “black-tails” and “long-tails” are two species that may be called new. Though long known to trappers and hunters, they have been but lately described by the scientific naturalist. Theirhabitatis the “far west” in California, Oregon, the high prairies, and the valleys of the Rocky Mountains. Up to a late period naturalists have had but little to do with these countries. For this reason theirfaunahas so long remained comparatively unknown.

The geographical disposition of the other four species is curious. Each occupies a latitudinal zone. That of the caribou, or rein deer, extends farthest north. It is not found within the limits of the United States.

The zone of the moose overlaps that of the caribou, but, on the other side, goes farther south, as this species is met with along the extreme northern parts of the United States.

The elk is next in order. His range “dovetails” into that of the moose, but the elk roves still farther into the temperate regions, being met with almost as far south as Texas.

The fourth, the common deer, embraces in his range the temperate and torrid zones of both North and South America, while he is not found in higher latitudes than the southern frontier of Canada.

The common deer, therefore, inhabits a greater area than any of his congeners, and is altogether the best-known animal of his kind. Most persons know him by sight. He is the smallest of the American species, being generally about five feet in length by three in height, and a little more than 100 pounds in weight. He is exceedingly well formed and graceful; his horns are not so large as those of the stag, but, like his, they are annually caducous, falling off in the winter and returning in the spring. They are rounded below, but in the upper part slightly flattened or palmated. The antlers do not rise upward, but protrude forward over the brow in a threatening manner. There is no regular rule, however, for their shape and “set,” and their number also varies in different individuals. The horns are also present only in the male or buck; the doe is without them. They rise from a rough bony protuberance on the forehead, called the “burr.” In the first year they grow in the shape of two short straight spikes; hence the name “spike-bucks” given to the animals of that age. In the second season a small antler appears on each horn, and the number increases until the fourth year, when they obtain a full head-dress of “branching honours.” The antlers, or, as they are sometimes called, “points,” often increase in number with the age of the animal, until as many as fifteen make their appearance. This, however, is rare. Indeed, the food of the animal has much to do with the growth of his horns. In an ill-fed specimen they do not grow to such size, nor branch so luxuriantly as in a well-fed fat buck.

We have said that the horns fall annually. This takes place in winter—in December and January. They are rarely found, however, as they are soon eaten up by the small-gnawing animals.

The new horns begin to grow as soon as the old ones have dropped off. During the spring and summer they are covered with a soft velvety membrane, and they are then described as being “in the velvet.” The blood circulates freely through this membrane, and it is highly sensitive, so that a blow upon the horns at this season produces great pain. By the time the “rutting” season commences (in October), the velvet has peeled off, and the horns are then in order for battle—and they need be, for the battles of the bucks during this period are terrible indeed.—Frequently their horns get “locked” in such conflicts, and, being unable to separate them, the combatants remain in this situation until both perish by hunger, or fall a prey to their natural enemy—the wolf. Many pairs of horns have been found in the forest thus locked together, and there is not a museum in America without this singular souvenir of mutual destruction!

The hair of the American deer is thickly set and smooth on the surface. In winter it grows longer and is of a greyish hue; the deer is then, according to hunter phraseology, “in the grey.” In the summer a new coat is obtained, which is reddish, or calf-coloured. The deer is then “in the red.” Towards the end of August, or in autumn, the whole coat has a blue tinge. This is called “in the blue.” At all times the animal is of a whitish appearance on the throat and belly and insides of the legs. The skin is toughest when “in the red,” thickest “in the blue,” and thinnest “in the grey.” In the blue it makes the best buckskin, and is, therefore, most valuable when obtained in autumn.

The fawns of this species are beautiful little creatures; they are fawn-coloured, and showered all over with white spots which disappear towards the end of their first summer, when they gradually get into the winter grey.

The American deer is a valuable animal. Much of the buckskin of commerce is the product of its hides, and the horns are put to many uses. Its flesh, besides supplying the tables of the wealthy, has been for centuries almost the whole sustenance of whole nations of Indians. Its skins have furnished them with tents, beds, and clothing; its intestines with bowstrings, ball “raquets,” and snow-shoes; and in the chase of this creature they have found almost their sole occupation as well as amusement.

With so many enemies, it is a matter of wonder that this species has not long been extirpated; not only has man been its constant and persevering destroyer, but it has a host of enemies besides, in the cougar, the lynxes, the wolverine, and the wolves.

The last are its worst foes. Hunters state that for one deer killed by themselves, five fall a prey to the wolves. These attack the young and feeble, and soon run them down. The old deer can escape from a wolf by superior speed; but in remote districts, where the wolves are numerous, they unite in packs of eight or ten, and follow the deer as hounds do, and even with a somewhat similar howling. They run by the nose, and unless the deer can reach water, and thus escape them, they will tire it down in the end.

Frequently the deer, when thus followed in winter, makes for the ice, upon which he is soon overtaken by his hungry pursuers.

Notwithstanding all this, the American deer is still common in most of the States, and in some of them even plentiful. Where the wolves have been thinned off by “bounty” laws, and the deer protected during the breeding season by legislative enactments, as is the case in New York, their number is said to be on the increase. The markets of all the great cities in America are supplied with venison almost as cheap as beef, which shows that the deer are yet far from being scarce.

The habits of this creature are well-known. It is gregarious in its naturalhabitat. The herd is usually led by an old buck, who watches over the safety of the others while feeding. When an enemy approaches, this sentinel and leader strikes the ground sharply with his hoofs, snorts loudly, and emits a shrill whistle; all the while fronting the danger with his horns set forward in a threatening manner. So long as he does not attempt to run, the others continue to browse with confidence; but the moment their leader starts to fly, all the rest follow, each trying to be foremost.

They are timid upon ordinary occasions, but the bucks in the rutting season are bold, and when wounded and brought “to bay,” are not to be approached with impunity. They can inflict terrible blows, both with their hoofs and antlers; and hunters who have come too near them on such occasions have with difficulty escaped being gored to death.

They are foes to the snake tribe, and kill the most venomous serpents without being bitten. The rattle-snake hides from their attack. Their mode of destroying these creatures is similar to that employed by the peccary (dicotyles): that is, by pouncing down upon them with the four hoofs held close together, and thus crushing them to death. The hostility of the peccary to snakes is easily understood, as no sooner has it killed one than it makes a meal of it. With the deer, of course, such is not the case, as they are not carnivorous. Its enmity to the reptile race can be explained only by supposing that it possesses a knowledge of their dangerous qualities, and thinks they should therefore be got rid of.

The food of the American deer consists of twigs, leaves of trees, and grass. They are fonder of the tree-shoots than the grass; but their favourite morsels are the buds and flowers ofnymphae, especially those of the common pond-lily. To get these, they wade into the lakes and rivers like the moose, and, like them, are good swimmers.

They love the shady forest better than the open ground, and they haunt the neighbourhood of streams. These afford them protection, as well as a means of quenching thirst. When pursued, their first thought is to make for water, in order to elude the pursuer, which they often succeed in doing, throwing both dogs and wolves off the scent. In summer, they seek the water to cool themselves, and get free from flies and mosquitoes, that pester them sadly.

They are fond of salt, and repair in great numbers to the salines, or salt springs, that abound in all parts of America. At these they lick up quantities of earth along with the salt efflorescence, until vast hollows are formed in the earth, termed, from this circumstance, salt “licks.” The consequence of this “dirt-eating” is, that the excrement of the animal comes forth in hard pellets; and by seeing this, the hunters can always tell when they are in the neighbourhood of a “lick.”

The does produce in spring—in May or June, according to the latitude. They bring forth one, two, and very rarely three fawns at a birth. Their attachment to their young is proverbial. The mothers treat them with the greatest tenderness, and hide them while they go to feed. The bleating of the fawn at once recalls the mother to its side. The hunter often imitates this with success, using either his own voice, or a “call,” made out of a cane-joint. An anecdote, told by Parry, illustrates this maternal fondness:—“The mother, finding her young one could not swim as fast as herself, was observed to stop repeatedly, so as to allow, the fawn to come up with her; and, having landed first, stood watching it with trembling anxiety as the boat chased it to the shore. She was repeatedly fired at, but remained immovable, until her offspring landed in safety, when they both cantered out of sight.” The deer to which Parry refers is the small “caribou;” but a similar affection exists between the mother and fawns of the common deer.

The American deer is hunted for its flesh, its hide, and “the sport.” There are many modes of hunting it. The simplest and most common is that which is termed “still” hunting. In this, the hunter is armed with his rifle or deer-gun—a heavy fowling-piece—and steals forward upon the deer, as he would upon any other game. “Cover” is not so necessary as silence in such a hunt. This deer, like some antelopes, is of a “curious” disposition, and will sometimes allow the hunter to approach in full view without attempting to run off. But the slightest noise, such as the rustling of dry leaves, or the snapping of a stick, will alarm him. His sense of hearing is extremely acute. His nose, too, is a keen one, and he often scents the hunter, and makes off long before the latter has got within sight or range. It is necessary in “still” hunting to leave the dog at home; unless, indeed, he be an animal trained to the purpose.

Another species of hunting is “trailing” the deer in snow. This is done either with dogs or without them. The snow must be frozen over, so as to cut the feet of the deer, which puts them in such a state of fear and pain, that the hunter can easily get within shot. I have assisted in killing twenty in a single morning in this way; and that, too, in a district where deer were not accounted plentiful.

The “drive” is the most exciting mode of hunting deer; and the one practised by those who hunt for “the sport.” This is done with hounds, and the horsemen who follow them also carry guns. In fact, there is hardly a species of hunting in America in which fire-arms are not used.

Several individuals are required to make up a “deer drive.” They are generally men who know the “lay” of the country, with all its ravines and passes. One or two only accompany the hounds as “drivers,” while the rest get between the place where the dogs are beating the cover and some river towards which it is “calculated” the startled game will run. They deploy themselves into a long line, which sometimes extends for miles through the forest. Each, as he arrives at his station, or “stand,” as it is called, dismounts, ties his horse in a thicket, and takes his stand, “covering” himself behind a log or tree. The stands are selected with reference to the configuration of the ground, or by paths which the deer are accustomed to take; and as soon as all have so arranged themselves, the dogs at a distant point are set loose, and the “drive” begins.

The “stand men” remain quiet, with their guns in readiness. The barking of the dogs, afar off through the woods, usually admonishes them when a deer has been “put up;” and they watch with eager expectation, each one hoping that the game may come his way.

Hours are sometimes passed without the hunter either seeing or hearing a living thing but himself and his horse; and many a day he returns home from such a “chase” without having had the slightest glimpse of either buck, doe, or fawn.

This is discouraging; but at other times he is rewarded for his patient watching. A buck comes bounding forward, the hounds after him in full cry. At intervals he stops, and throws himself back on his haunches like a halted hare. His eyes are protruded, and watching backward. His beautiful neck is swollen with fear and rage, and his branching antlers tower high in the air. Again he springs forward, and approaches the silent hunter, who, with a beating heart, holds his piece in the attitude of “ready.” He makes another of his pauses. The gun is levelled, the trigger pulled; the bullet speeds forth, and strikes into his broad chest, causing him to leap upward in the spasmodic effort of death.

The excitement of a scene like this rewards the hunter for his long and lonely vigil.

“Torch-hunting,” or “fire-hunting,” as it is sometimes termed, is another method of capturing the fallow deer. It is done by carrying a torch in a very dark night through woods where deer are known to frequent. The torch is made of pine-knots, well dried. They are not tied in bunches, as represented by some writers, but carried in a vessel of hard metal. A frying-pan with a long handle, as already stated, is best for the purpose.

The “knots” are kindled within the pan, and, if good ones, yield a blaze that will light the woods for a hundred yards around. The deer seeing this strange object, and impelled by curiosity, approaches within range; and the “glance” of his eyes, like two burning coals, betrays him to the hunter, who with his deadly rifle “sights” between the shining orbs and fire.

While we were on the subject of torch-hunting the doctor took up the cue, and gave us an account of a torch-hunt he had made in Tennessee.

“I will tell you of a ‘torch-hunt,’” said he, “of whichpars magna fui, and which ended with a ‘catastrophe.’ It took place in Tennessee, where I was for a while sojourning. I am not much of a hunter, as you all know; but happening to reside in a ‘settlement,’ where there were some celebrated hunters, and in the neighbourhood of which was an abundance of game, I was getting very fond of it. I had heard, among other things, of this ‘torch-hunting,’—in fact, had read many interesting descriptions of it, but I had never witnessed the sport myself; and was therefore eager, above all things, to join in a torch-hunt.

“The opportunity at length offered. A party was made up to go hunting, of which I was one.

“There were six of us in all; but it was arranged that we should separate into three pairs, each taking its own torch and a separate course through the woods. In each pair one was to carry the light, while the other managed the ‘shooting iron.’ We were all to meet at an appointed rendezvous when the hunt was over.

“These preliminaries being arranged, and the torches made ready, we separated. My partner and I soon plunged into the deep forest.

“The night was dark as pitch—dark nights are the best—and when we entered the woods we had to grope our way. Of course, we had not yet set fire to our torch, as we had not reached the place frequented by the deer.

“My companion was an old hunter, and by right should have carried the gun; but it was arranged differently, out of compliment to me—the stranger, he held in one hand the huge frying-pan, while in a bag over his shoulder was a bushel or more of dry pine-knots.

“On arriving at the place where it was expected deer would be found, we set fire to our torch, and in a few moments the blaze threw its glaring circle around us, painting with vermilion tints the trunks of the great trees.

“In this way we proceeded onward, advancing slowly, and with as little noise as possible. We talked only in whispers, keeping our eyes turned upon all sides at once. But we walked and walked, up hill and down hill, for, I should say, ten miles at the least; and not a single pair of bright orbs answered to our luminary. Not a deer’s eye reflected the blaze of our torch.

“We had kept the fire replenished and burning vividly to no purpose, until hardly a knot remained in the bag.

“I had grown quite tired in this fruitless search. So had my companion, and both of us felt chagrin and disappointment. We felt this the more keenly as there had been a ‘supper-wager’ laid between us and our friends, as to what party would kill the greatest number of deer, and we fancied once or twice that we heard shots far off in the direction the others had gone. We were likely to come back empty-handed, while they, no doubt, would bring a deer each, perhaps more.

“We were returning towards the point from which we had started, both of us in a most unamiable mood, when all at once an object right before us attracted my attention, and brought me to a sudden halt. I did not wait to ask any questions. A pair of small round circles glistened in the darkness like two little discs of fire. Of course they were eyes. Of course, they were the eyes of a deer.

“I could see no body, for the two luminous objects shone as if set in a ground of ebony. But I did not stay to scan in what they were set. My piece was up. I glanced hastily along the barrel. I sighted between the eyes. I pulled the trigger. I fired.

“As I did so, I fancied that I heard my companion shouting to me, but the report hindered me from hearing what he said.

“When the echoes died away, however, his voice reached me, in a full, clear tone, pronouncing these words:—

“‘Tarnation, doctor! You’ve shot Squire Robbins’s bull!’

“At the same time the bellowing of the bull, mingling with his own loud laugh, convinced me that the hunter had spoken the truth.

“He was a good old fellow, and promised to keep dark; but it was necessary to make all right with ‘Squire Robbins.’ So the affair soon got wind, and my torch-hunt became, for a time, the standing joke of the settlement.”

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