I looked beyond the mourning friends, and thought what
kind of an epitaph they would be compelled to put upon the stone.
Something like this:
HERE LIE THE REMAINS
OF
_______________
EATEN BY A BEAR
Aug. 20, 1877
It is a very unheroic and even disagreeable epitaph. That "eaten by
a bear" is intolerable. It is grotesque. And then I thought what an
inadequate language the English is for compact expression. It would
not answer to put upon the stone simply "eaten"; for that is
indefinite, and requires explanation: it might mean eaten by a
cannibal. This difficulty could not occur in the German, where essen
signifies the act of feeding by a man, and fressen by a beast. How
simple the thing would be in German!
HIER LIEGT
HOCHWOHLGEBOREN
HERR _____ _______
GEFRESSEN
Aug. 20, 1877
That explains itself. The well-born one was eaten by a beast, and
presumably by a bear, - an animal that has a bad reputation since the
days of Elisha.
The bear was coming on; he had, in fact, come on. I judged that he
could see the whites of my eyes. All my subsequent reflections were
confused. I raised the gun, covered the bear's breast with the
sight, and let drive. Then I turned, and ran like a deer. I did not
hear the bear pursuing. I looked back. The bear had stopped. He
was lying down. I then remembered that the best thing to do after
having fired your gun is to reload it. I slipped in a charge,
keeping my eyes on the bear. He never stirred. I walked back
suspiciously. There was a quiver in the hindlegs, but no other
motion. Still, he might be shamming: bears often sham. To make
sure, I approached, and put a ball into his head. He didn't mind it
now: he minded nothing. Death had come to him with a merciful
suddenness. He was calm in death. In order that he might remain so,
I blew his brains out, and then started for home. I had killed a
bear!
Notwithstanding my excitement, I managed to saunter into the house
with an unconcerned air. There was a chorus of voices:
"Where are your blackberries?"
"Why were you gone so long?"
"Where's your pail?"
"I left the pail."
"Left the pail? What for?"
"A bear wanted it."
"Oh, nonsense!"
"Well, the last I saw of it, a bear had it."
"Oh, come! You didn't really see a bear?"
"Yes, but I did really see a real bear."
"Did he run?"
"Yes: he ran after me."
"I don't believe a word of it. What did you do?"
"Oh! nothing particular - except kill the bear."
Cries of "Gammon!" "Don't believe it!" "Where's the bear?"
"If you want to see the bear, you must go up into the woods. I
couldn't bring him down alone."
Having satisfied the household that something extraordinary had
occurred, and excited the posthumous fear of some of them for my
own safety, I went down into the valley to get help. The great
bear-hunter, who keeps one of the summer boarding-houses, received my
story with a smile of incredulity; and the incredulity spread to the
other inhabitants and to the boarders as soon as the story was known.
However, as I insisted in all soberness, and offered to lead them to
the bear, a party of forty or fifty people at last started off with
me to bring the bear in. Nobody believed there was any bear in the
case; but everybody who could get a gun carried one; and we went into
the woods armed with guns, pistols, pitchforks, and sticks, against
all contingencies or surprises, - a crowd made up mostly of scoffers
and jeerers.
But when I led the way to the fatal spot, and pointed out the bear,
lying peacefully wrapped in his own skin, something like terror
seized the boarders, and genuine excitement the natives. It was a
no-mistake bear, by George! and the hero of the fight well, I will
not insist upon that. But what a procession that was, carrying the
bear home! and what a congregation, was speedily gathered in the
valley to see the bear! Our best preacher up there never drew
anything like it on Sunday.
And I must say that my particular friends, who were sportsmen,
behaved very well, on the whole. They didn't deny that it was a
bear, although they said it was small for a bear. Mr... Deane, who
is equally good with a rifle and a rod, admitted that it was a very
fair shot. He is probably the best salmon fisher in the United
States, and he is an equally good hunter. I suppose there is no
person in America who is more desirous to kill a moose than he. But
he needlessly remarked, after he had examined the wound in the bear,
that he had seen that kind of a shot made by a cow's horn.
This sort of talk affected me not. When I went to sleep that night,
my last delicious thought was, "I've killed a bear!"
II
LOST IN THE WOODS
It ought to be said, by way of explanation, that my being lost in the
woods was not premeditated. Nothing could have been more informal.
This apology can be necessary only to those who are familiar with the
Adirondack literature. Any person not familiar with it would see the
absurdity of one going to the Northern Wilderness with the deliberate
purpose of writing about himself as a lost man. It may be true that
a book about this wild tract would not be recognized as complete
without a lost-man story in it, since it is almost as easy for a
stranger to get lost in the Adirondacks as in Boston. I merely
desire to say that my unimportant adventure is not narrated in answer
to the popular demand, and I do not wish to be held responsible for
its variation from the typical character of such experiences.
