for doubt here," I thought; "Mooween was asleep in
this pool, and the kingfisher woke him up--but why? and did he do it on
purpose?"

I remembered suddenly a record in an old notebook, which reads:
"Sugarloaf Lake, 26 July.--Tried to stalk a bear this noon. No luck.
He was nosing alongshore and I had a perfect chance; but a kingfisher
scared him." I began to wonder how the rattle of a kingfisher, which is
one of the commonest sounds on wilderness waters, could scare a bear,
who knows all the sounds of the wilderness perfectly. Perhaps Koskomenos
has an alarm note and uses it for a friend in time of need, as gulls
go out of their way to alarm a flock of sleeping ducks when danger is
approaching.

Here was a new trait, a touch of the human in this unknown, clattering
suspect of the fishing streams. I resolved to watch him with keener
interest.

Somewhere above me, deep in the tangle of the summer wilderness, Mooween
stood watching his back track, eyes, ears, and nose alert to discover
what the creature was who dared frighten him out of his noonday bath.
It would be senseless to attempt to surprise him now; besides, I had
no weapon of any kind.--"To-morrow, about this time, I shall be coming
back; then look out, Mooween," I thought as I marked the place and stole
away to my canoe.

But the next day when I came to the place, creeping along the upper edge
of the alders so as to make no noise, the pool was clear and quiet, as
if nothing but the little trout that hid under the foam bubbles had ever
disturbed its peace. Koskomenos was clattering about the bay below as
usual. Spite of my precaution he had seen me enter the alders; but he
gave me no attention whatever. He went on with his fishing as if he knew
perfectly that the bear had deserted his bathing pool.

It was nearly a month before I again camped on the beautiful lake.
Summer was gone. All her warmth and more than her fragrant beauty still
lingered on forest and river; but the drowsiness had gone from the
atmosphere, and the haze had crept into it. Here and there birches and
maples flung out their gorgeous banners of autumn over the silent water.
A tingle came into the evening air; the lake's breath lay heavy and
white in the twilight stillness; birds and beasts became suddenly
changed as they entered the brief period of sport and of full feeding.

I was drifting about a reedy bay (the same bay in which the almost
forgotten kingfisher had cheated me out of my