rotting inland to see
what was going on, under the impression that her mate had fallen foul of
a rival. At the inner extremity of the meadow, however, she caught sight
of the woodsman running in the same direction, whereupon her discretion
overcame all other emotions, and she made haste to escape from a
neighbourhood so full of the unexpected.

The woodsman never gave her a glance, but ran on at a swift lope, a
spark of excitement in his quiet gray eyes. When he reached the scene
of combat the bear had just got his brave antagonist down.

The hunter paused for a few seconds, to take in the situation
thoroughly. Then he raised his rifle. His sympathies were altogether
with the moose. He waited till he got the chance he wanted, then he sent
a heavy 45-70 expanding bullet through the bear's heart.

The great black form collapsed in a limp heap upon his adversary; and
the latter, struggling to his feet, threw the burden disdainfully aside.
At first he paid no attention to the woodsman, who, taking it for
granted that his injuries were hopeless, stood waiting compassionately
to end his sufferings. But this young bull was made of astonishingly
tough stuff. In his rage he had apparently not heard the sound of the
rifle. As soon as he had fairly regained his feet, he reared to his full
height, came down upon the bear's unresisting form, and trampled madly
for several seconds.

The woodsman stood watching with a grin of sympathetic approval, and
muttered, "Chuck full of ginger yet!"

At last the panting beast turned his head, and saw the man. The sight
sobered him. For a moment he stood staring and shaking his head, drunk
with his imagined triumph. Then discretion whispered in his ear. He
turned away sullenly, with one last, regretful look at his foe's
battered body, and trotted off into the mystic confusion of shine and
shadow.

The Prisoners of the Pitcher-plant

At the edge of a rough piece of open, where the scrubby bushes which
clothed the plain gave space a little to the weeds and harsh grasses,
stood the clustering pitchers of a fine young sarracenia. These
pitchers, which were its leaves, were of a light, cool green, vividly
veined with crimson and shading into a bronzy red about the lip and
throat. They were of all sizes, being at all stages of growth; and the
largest, which had now, on the edge of summer, but barely attained
maturity, were about six inches in length and an inch and a quarter in
extreme