Ways of Wood Folk Part 11

They were well fed, evidently, and full of good spirits as two boys.

But the mother was cross and out of sorts. She kept moving about uneasily, as if the rough play irritated her nerves. Occasionally, as she sat for a moment with hind legs stretched out flat and fore paws planted between them, one of the cubs would approach and attempt some monkey play. A sound cuff on the ear invariably sent him whimpering back to his companion, who looked droll enough the while, sitting with his tongue out and his head wagging humorously as he watched the experiment. It was getting toward the time of year when she would mate again, and send them off into the world to shift for themselves. And this was perhaps their first hard discipline.

Once also I caught an old bear enjoying himself in a curious way. It was one intensely hot day, in the heart of a New Brunswick wilderness.

Mooween came out onto the lake sh.o.r.e and lumbered along, twisting uneasily and rolling his head as if very much distressed by the heat.

I followed silently close behind in my canoe.

Soon he came to a cool spot under the alders, which was probably what he was looking for. A small brook made an eddy there, and a lot of driftweed had collected over a bed of soft black mud. The stump of a huge cedar leaned out over it, some four or five feet above the water.

First he waded in to try the temperature. Then he came out and climbed the cedar stump, where he sniffed in every direction, as is his wont before lying down. Satisfied at last, he balanced himself carefully and gave a big jump--Oh, so awkwardly!--with legs out flat, and paws up, and mouth open as if he were laughing at himself. Down he came, _souse_, with a tremendous splash that sent mud and water flying in every direction. And with a deep _uff-guff_ of pure delight, he settled himself in his cool bed for a comfortable nap.

In his fondness for fish, Mooween has discovered an interesting way of catching them. In June and July immense numbers of trout and salmon run up the wilderness rivers on their way to the sp.a.w.ning grounds.

Here and there, on small streams, are shallow riffles, where large fish are often half out of water as they struggle up. On one of these riffles Mooween stations himself during the first bright moonlight nights of June, when the run of fish is largest on account of the higher tides at the river mouth. And Mooween knows, as well as any other fisherman, the kind of night on which to go fishing. He knows also the virtue of keeping still. As a big salmon struggles by, Mooween slips a paw under him, tosses him to the sh.o.r.e by a dexterous flip, and springs after him before he can flounder back.

When hungry, Mooween has as many devices as a fox for getting a meal.

He tries flipping frogs from among the lily pads in the same way that he catches salmon. That failing, he takes to creeping through the water-gra.s.s, like a mink, and striking his game dead with a blow of his paw.

Or he finds a porcupine loafing through the woods, and follows him about to throw dirt and stones at him, carefully refraining from touching him the while, till the porcupine rolls himself into a ball of bristling quills,--his usual method of defense. Mooween slips a paw under him, flips him against a tree to stun him, and bites him in the belly, where there are no quills. If he spies the porcupine in a tree, he will climb up, if he is a young bear, and try to shake him off. But he soon learns better, and saves his strength for more fruitful exertions.

Mooween goes to the lumber camps regularly after his winter sleep and, breaking in through door or roof, helps himself to what he finds. If there happens to be a barrel of pork there, he will roll it into the open air, if the door is wide enough, before breaking in the head with a blow of his paw.

Should he find a barrel of mola.s.ses among the stores, his joy is unbounded. The head is broken in on the instant and Mooween eats till he is surfeited. Then he lies down and rolls in the sticky sweet, to prolong the pleasure; and stays in the neighborhood till every drop has been lapped up.

Lumbermen have long since learned of his strength and cunning in breaking into their strong camps. When valuable stores are left in the woods, they are put into special camps, called bear camps, where doors and roofs are fastened with chains and ingenious log locks to keep Mooween out.

Near the settlements Mooween speedily locates the sweet apple trees among the orchards. These he climbs by night, and shakes off enough apples to last him for several visits. Every kind of domestic animal is game for him. He will lie at the edge of a clearing for hours, with the patience of a cat, waiting for turkey or sheep or pig to come within range of his swift rush.

His fondness for honey is well known. When he has discovered a rotten tree in which wild bees have hidden their store, he will claw at the bottom till it falls. Curling one paw under the log he sinks the claws deep into the wood. The other paw grips the log opposite the first, and a single wrench lays it open. The clouds of angry insects about his head meanwhile are as little regarded as so many flies. He knows the thickness of his skin, and they know it. When the honey is at last exposed, and begins to disappear in great hungry mouthfuls, the bees also fall upon it, to gorge themselves with the fruit of their hard labor before Mooween shall have eaten it all.

Everything eatable in the woods ministers at times to Mooween's need.

Nuts and berries are favorite dishes in their season. When these and other delicacies fail, he knows where to dig for edible roots. A big caribou, wandering near his hiding place, is pulled down and stunned by a blow on the head. Then, when the meat has lost its freshness, he will hunt for an hour after a wood-mouse he has seen run under a stone, or pull a rotten log to pieces for the ants and larvae concealed within.

These last are favorite dishes with him. In a burned district, where ants and berries abound, one is continually finding charred logs, in which the ants nest by thousands, split open from end to end. A few strong claw marks, and the lick of a moist tongue here and there, explain the matter. It shows the extremes of Mooween's taste. Next to honey he prefers red ants, which are sour as pickles.

Mooween is even more expert as a boxer than as a fisherman. When the skin is stripped from his fore arms, they are seen to be of great size, with muscles as firm to the touch as so much rubber. Long practice has made him immensely strong, and quick as a flash to ward and strike. Woe be to the luckless dog, however large, that ventures in the excitement of the hunt within reach of his paw. A single swift stroke will generally put the poor brute out of the hunt forever.

Once Simmo caught a bear by the hind leg in a steel trap. It was a young bear, a two-year-old; and Simmo thought to save his precious powder by killing it with a club. He cut a heavy maple stick and, swinging it high above his head, advanced to the trap. Mooween rose to his hind legs, and looked him steadily in the eye, like the trained boxer that he is. Down came the club with a sweep to have felled an ox. There was a flash from Mooween's paw; the club spun away into the woods; and Simmo just escaped a fearful return blow by dropping to the ground and rolling out of reach, leaving his cap in Mooween's claws. A wink later, and his scalp would have hung there instead.

In the mating season, when three or four bears often roam the woods together in fighting humor, Mooween uses a curious kind of challenge.

Rising on his hind legs against a big fir or spruce, he tears the bark with his claws as high as he can reach on either side. Then placing his back against the trunk, he turns his head and bites into the tree with his long canine teeth, tearing out a mouthful of the wood. That is to let all rivals know just how big a bear he is.

The next bear that comes along, seeking perhaps to win the mate of his rival and following her trail, sees the challenge and measures his height and reach in the same way, against the same tree. If he can bite as high, or higher, he keeps on, and a terrible fight is sure to follow. But if, with his best endeavors, his marks fall short of the deep scars above, he prudently withdraws, and leaves it to a bigger bear to risk an encounter.

In the wilderness one occasionally finds a tree on which three or four bears have thus left their challenge. Sometimes all the bears in a neighborhood seem to have left their records in the same place. I remember well one such tree, a big fir, by a lonely little beaver pond, where the separate challenges had become indistinguishable on the torn bark. The freshest marks here were those of a long-limbed old ranger--a monster he must have been--with a clear reach of a foot above his nearest rival. Evidently no other bear had cared to try after such a record.

Once, in the mating season, I discovered quite by accident that Mooween can be called, like a hawk or a moose, or indeed any other wild creature, if one but knows how. It was in New Brunswick, where I was camped on a wild forest river. At midnight I was back at a little opening in the woods, watching some hares at play in the bright moonlight. When they had run away, I called a wood-mouse out from his den under a stump; and then a big brown owl from across the river--which almost scared the life out of my poor little wood-mouse.

Suddenly a strange cry sounded far back on the mountain. I listened curiously, then imitated the cry, in the hope of hearing it again and of remembering it; for I had never before heard anything like the sound, and had no idea what creature produced it. There was no response, however, and I speedily grew interested in the owls; for by this time two or three more were hooting about me, all called in by the first comer. When they had gone I tried the strange call again.

Instantly it was answered close at hand. The creature was coming.

I stole out into the middle of the opening, and sat very still on a fallen log. Ten minutes pa.s.sed in intense silence. Then a twig snapped behind me. I turned--and there was Mooween, just coming into the opening. I shall not soon forget how he looked, standing there big and black in the moonlight; nor the growl deep down in his throat, that grew deeper as he watched me. We looked straight into each other's eyes a brief, uncertain moment. Then he drew back silently into the dense shadow.

There is another side to Mooween's character, fortunately a rare one, which is sometimes evident in the mating season, when his temper leads him to attack instead of running away, as usual; or when wounded, or cornered, or roused to frenzy in defense of the young. Mooween is then a beast to be dreaded, a great savage brute, possessed of enormous strength and of a fiend's cunning. I have followed him wounded through the wilderness, when his every resting place was scarred with deep gashes, and where broken saplings testified mutely to the force of his blow. Yet even here his natural timidity lies close to the surface, and his ferocity has been greatly exaggerated by hunters.

Altogether, Mooween the Bear is a peaceable fellow, and an interesting one, well worth studying. His extreme wariness, however, enables him generally to escape observation; and there are undoubtedly many queer ways of his yet to be discovered by some one who, instead of trying to scare the life out of him by a shout or a rifle-shot in the rare moments when he shows himself, will have the patience to creep near, and find out just what he is doing. Only in the deepest wilderness is he natural and unconscious. There he roams about, entirely alone for the most part, supplying his numerous wants, and performing droll capers with all the gravity of an owl, when he thinks that not even Tookhees, the wood-mouse, is looking.