iting 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