started on our day's paddle cf 25 or 30 miles. A light lunch at noon saw us through until we camped in the evening on the first suitable spot that appeared. By the time tea had been prepared it would generally be past sunset. Then we would of necessity be compelled to eat by moonlight, assisted by our candle-lantern. By the way, that last mentioned article we consider a grand invention; no coal oil to leak or spill, merely a few pounds of candles and a light globe lantern.

I have camped in this same locality for

some years past, but my brothers agree with me that until this fall we never knew what real camping was. For those who do not mind roughing it, and can put up 'with and enjoy little inconveniences, a canoe trip through these islands is an ideal outing. The constant exercise, pure and invigorating air, dazzlingly clear water. ever changing scenery, and abundance of fish and game, combine to make one of the most enjoyable experiences that one could imagine.

"Lizzie's come home from th' city with a lot o' newfangled cookin' idees," said Mr. Meddergrass. "Fixed up a new kind o' custard pie last night with what she called a mee-rang on top of it."

"Mee-rang?" said Mr. Cartapple. "Now, what'n airth's thet like ?"

"Hanged if I know. Somepin' like sweetened soapsuds."--Judge.

"Please print instructions for smoking sausage," wrote the constant reader to the answers-for-the-anxious editor.

"Which-the long or the fine cut?" he wrote beneath the query.-Judge.

In July, 1885, my partner, Billy, and I left the round-up on Bridger creek, Wyoming, for a trip to Yellowstone park. At that time it was generally thought impossible to enter the park from the Southeast, or by following the Shoshone river. We had a good pack outfit of tt horses, with the necessary camp duffle, 2 No. 6 Newhouse bear traps and some beaver traps.

After many mishaps we arrived at the head of the North fork of Stinking Water, and were glad to be in the open country above timber line, after our struggles with the canyon and its dense timber. Once

clear of the timber, Billy stopped, looked the prospect over, and advised that we camp there, kill an elk, and jerk the meat for us during the journey through the park. I agreed, and pointing to a scrubby spruce, suggested that we pitch camp under it.

Billy rode ahead to reconnoitre, while I turned to drive forward the pack train. Chancing to look to my right, I saw an enormous silvertip with his fore paws on a log, looking us over and listening interestedly to our conversation. He was not more than 30 yards off. I tried to warn Billy, whose rifle was in his hands; my gun was in its sling, that I might be able to give my whole attention to the horses. Billy did not hear me. A second call in a louder tone alarmed the bear, which made for a deep gulch to the rear.

I dismounted, snatched my repeater from its scabbard, ran to where I had last scen the bear, and waited. He came into view 200 yards away, lumbering leisurely along. I fired twice, but without effect, as it proved. At the report of my rifle Billy came tcaring back to know what was up. I replied, somewhat gruffly, that if he had kept his ears open, he might have had a good shot at short range.

We unpacked hastily, prepared a quick snack, and then took the bear's trail to see if I had bled him. Convinced that I had missed, we gave it up and devoted ourselves to looking for elk signs. Those we found in plenty, and bear signs everywhere. Climbing to the summit, we found a perpendicular wall cutting off all travel toward the East. Below us was a bunch of elk, 25 or 30, but the wall was so high they seemed ao bigger than sheep. Taking a look around with our field glass, we were convinced we could not reach the band without a flying machine, or making a wide circuit.

As we were about to turn away, Billy called my attention to an object to the right of the elk, which proved to be a bear coming out of the timber. He went to a

miry place, dug a hole and wallowed as a hog does on a hot day. We rolled a boulder over the wall. Bruin raised on his haunches to listen, then resumed his mud bath. The elk paid no attention.

Returning to the timber, we struck an old, well defined game trail, which we followed toward a wooded point. On the way I discovered a white faced bear. We had heard a good deal about bald faced bears and resolved to kill this one. We managed to get a bunch of scrubby pines between him and us, and sneaked up closer. Then we found there were 2 bears and that they were on the opposite side of a deep gulch. Flat down we lay and crawled to a line behind a second bunch of pines, where we took a fresh peep.

Holy Moses! There were 4 of them! Another bunch or 2 of pines and there might be a score!

They were feeding on roots, which they were busily digging. One more sneak and Baldy would be ours. Watching when heads were all down, we stole to a last pine bunch. There, Billy suggested, we were between them and the shelter they would seek when we began shooting. I said I couldn't help it; I wanted Baldy's dress suit, even if we had to climb a tree.

Old Baldy was highest up the bank, and just then turned broadside on. I told Billy I would kill Baldy and he could then take another as they started out. Taking a careful bead on the white faced old fellow, just back of the shoulder, I pressed the trigger. Dirt flew up beyond him, and at first I thought I had missed, but in a moment I saw him rolling down hill. As I rose to my knees Billy shouted, "Look out! Here they come!"

Sure enough! And 5 of them at that! Within 15 yards of us they came, tearing for the timber, and whether we or they were most scared I can not tell. I know we should have stopped the whole bunch, and we got only 3-Baldy and a pair of yearlings.

My first shot, a 45-90 bullet, had gone through Baldy's heart, but it did not stop him under 200 yards. We examined his bald face with interest, and I am convinced he was only a silvertip so old as to be turning gray. Around the ears and extending below the eyes was a gray streak 3 inches wide. There was another band of gray hair reaching more than half way round the neck on the upper side. I should like to hear through RECREATION from others who have had to do with bald faced bears.

Some years ago a certain Eastern man went to a well known summer resort in the mountains for the avowed purpose of hunting bear. He put up at the best hotel, employed a guide, engaged saddle horses and spent several days in preparation for the trip, meantime telling the other guests at the house what a mighty hunter he was, how many wild animals he had slain, how anxious he was to meet a big grizzly and how he would annihilate him when he did meet him.

At intervals, the hunter would bring down a gun, a revolver, a knife, a belt of cartridges or some other item of his outfit, show it to the loiterers, explain to them how he was going to use it when he met the bear, and entertain them with stories of his hunting exploits in other regions. Finally, the morning of the eventful day dawned. The mighty hunter appeared early on the veranda, clad in hunting togs and armed to the teeth. In due time his guide came, riding one horse and leading another. The hunter mounted and proceeded to pose for some of the kodakers on the balcony. He was a fearful and wonderful sight. He was a short, stout man, and when in the saddle looked nearly as big one way as the other. He wore a suit of brand new, stiff brown canvas, including a fore and aft cap, from beneath which his bushy gray hair protruded slightly. He had one rifle in a holster under his right leg, and another slung over his back by a strap. He wore a belt outside his short hunting coat, some 4 inches wide and filled from end to end with long cartridges. On this belt hung 2 revolvers and a big knife. He wore heavy leather hunting boots that came above his knees, and that were laced in front and on the sides. On these he wore big spurs, and in his hand he carried a saucy looking quirt. Finally, after having displayed himself to the gaze of the admiring crowd for what he deemed a sufficient length of time, he and his guide rode away up a mountain trail.

They had gone 3 or 4 miles when the guide saw in the trail the track of a large grizzly. Without mentioning the fact to the hunter, he dropped out and said to his patron,

"You'd better ride ahead now. We are in the bear country and you are likely to get a shot anywhere along here."

The hunter touched his cayuse with the spur and moved forward. The guide said he would follow at a little distance, so that the hunter might have all the better opportunity to find game.

The guide was riding leisurely along, some 50 yards behind his modern Don Quixote, when all at once he heard a yell and the clatter of hoofs. He guessed the cause and turned out of the trail.

There was a mighty crashing of brush and rattling of rocks, a succession of yells which sounded like "Police! Help! Murder!" and various other startling ejaculations. In an instant the mighty bear hunter came down the trail at breakneck speed, with his eyes fairly sticking out. He passed the guide, apparently without seeing him, and went out of sight in a flash, the horse hitting only the high places.

The guide pursued the fleeing apparition and after riding a mile or 2 overtook his employer. The former had by that time somewhat recovered from the stampede, had slowed down to a walk and was looking back. When the guide overtook him and asked what was the trouble, a storm of curses and imprecations broke forth.

"You blankety blank idiot! You imp of Satan! You vile conspirator! You infernal jailbird! What do you mean by trying to get me killed? You ought to be shot for taking a man into such a death trap as that!"

The guide remonstrated with the hunter and asked him to explain.

"Why, you blithering idiot, didn't you see him?"

"See what?"

"The bear."

"No. Where was any bear?"

"Why, up there. He rose up in the trail not 30 feet from me, and I'd take my oath he was 12 feet high, 4 feet wide and you are liable to get some man killed by taking him into such a country as that, and I shall report you to the police as soon as we get to the hotel."

Then the hunter put spurs to his horse again and the next the guide saw of him was when he called at the hotel to ask for his pay.

The Nimrod had cooled off by that time and was busy packing his guns, ammunition and hunting togs into his trunks. He said he had found all the bear he wanted, and took the next train for the East.

A certain Englishman came to America, went West and got off the train at Red Dog. He told the people he had come out to hunt bear, especially grizzlies. He had killed several other kinds of big game, but had never killed a bear and that was what he aspired to do now. Several loung

ers offered their services as guides, but he said he did not want a guide. He was competent to take care of himself, find his own game and kill it. The people sized him up as a rank tenderfoot, and, winking at one another, several of them advised him how to proceed. Two or 3 of the Northwest mounted police were present and regarded the stranger rather more seriously than the cow punchers did. They feared he might get lost if he went into the woods and perhaps starve to death. The sergeant told one of the policemen to notice which way the man went, follow him at a distance, and after a few hours to bring him back to the station.

The cowboys told the Englishman to take the main road down the valley, and that after getting out of town a mile or so he would stand a good show of finding a bear anywhere. After dinner, the Englishman shouldered his fancy double barrel express rifle, hooked on his cartridge belt, in which he carried a large hunting knife, and walked off down the road.

The town loafers were having all sorts of fun among themselves as to what the result would be. There were ranches all along the road and the hunter could hardly get out of sight of a house anywhere within 20 miles. Bets were made as to how long it would take him to get tired of hunting bear and return to the village.

Night came on and all eyes were turned down the road, watching for a dusty traveler; but none appeared, and at 9 or 10 o'clock the men scattered to their bunks.

The next morning the sergeant started 2 of the police officers to hunt the Englishman. Several of the loiterers mounted their horses and accompanied the officers. They had gone but 4 or 5 miles down the valley when they saw smoke rising from among the trees, a hundred yards from the road. They turned out and found the Englishman complacently leaning against a tree, in front of his fire, eating some crackers and cheese he had carried with him, and 10 feet away lay one of the biggest grizzlies that had been killed in that country in years. The Englishman had simply stumbled into a piece of luck. He had found a fresh track of a bear crossing the road, had followed it so quietly that he came on the bear before it knew there was any harm in sight, and had bowled the old chap over with 2 well directed shots. The laugh was on the men who had laughed at the tenderfoot.

Another Englishman went to Bozeman some years ago and made known to the local gun dealer his desire to go on a bear hunt. A guide, cook and packer were employed, an outfit of horses, food, tents, etc., was pulled together, and the next morning

the party strung out for the mountains. This Bozeman crowd had also sized up their patron as a tenderfoot and had congratulated themselves on having an easy snap in sight. They had gone but a short distance into the foothills when they found where a big bear had crossed the trail. The track was several days old, but they did not say so to the Englishman. They told him it was fresh, and that a bear nearly always returned on his trail within a few hours.

"Now," said they, "if you will just sit down here and keep quiet, you are sure to get a shot before night, or if the bear does not come back to-day he will to-morrow or the next day. We will go up the next creek a mile from here, make camp, and have dinner ready for you about dusk."

The Englishman was obedient and confiding, so he did as he was told. He sat there patiently all the afternoon, looking up the side of the hill and waiting for the bear to come doubling back on his trail. The afternoon wore away, the sun sank behind the mountain, darkness began to gather, and when it got too dark to see to shoot the Englishman shouldered his gun and hit the trail for camp. On arrival there the boys expressed their sympathy with him and said,

"You are sure to get a shot to-morrow or the next day, if you stick to it."

The camp was astir before daylight and by the time it was light enough to see the trail the Englishman was at his post again.

He stayed till near sundown, when he showed up at camp and asked the boys to come down with him and help skin the bear. At first they thought he was joking, but when he assured them he was in dead earnest, they were speechless with surprise. They could scarcely believe he was in his right mind. However, they went with him and when they arrived at the place where they had stationed him, they found an immense grizzly with 3 or 4 bullet holes through him. Again the laugh was on the Smart Alecks.

A writer who lives in Washington, D. C., was traveling in the Canadian Rockies in search of adventures and other things, on which to write a book. He found one thing that he probably did not record in his book. One day while in camp at the junction of Bear creek and the SaskatcheIwan river he and 2 of his men went out to look for something to write about, and found a big white animal, of which they got a fleeting glimpse as it moved through the bushes. One man fired at the animal and wounded it. The bookish man asked them what it was and they said it was a grizzly, whereupon Litterateur shinned up a tree. The men followed the wounded