It led me to make a demonstration before he should regain
his wits. I jumped forward with a flourish, and threw my hat at him.--
_Boo!_ said I.
_Hoof, woof!_ said Mooween. And away he went up the hill in a
desperate scramble, with loose stones rattling, and the bottoms of his
feet showing constantly through the volley of dirt and chips flung out
behind him.
That killed the fierce imagination bear of childhood days deader than
any bullet could have done, and convinced me that Mooween is at heart
a timid creature. Still, this was a young bear, as was also one other
upon whom I tried the same experiment, with the same result. Had he
been older and bigger, it might have been different. In that case I
have found that a good rule is to go your own way unobtrusively,
leaving Mooween to his devices. All animals, whether wild or domestic,
respect a man who neither fears nor disturbs them.
Mooween's eyes are his weak point. They are close together, and seem
to focus on the ground a few feet in front of his nose. At twenty
yards to leeward he can never tell you from a stump or a caribou,
should you chance to be standing still.
If fortunate enough to find the ridge where he sleeps away the long
summer days, one is almost sure to get a glimpse of him by watching on
the lake below.
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