But when I led the way to the fatal spot, and pointed out the bear, lying peacefully wrapped in his own skin, something like terror seized the boarders, and genuine excitement the natives.  It was a no-mistake bear, by George! and the hero of the fight well, I will not insist upon that.  But what a procession that was, carrying the bear home! and what a congregation, was speedily gathered in the valley to see the bear!  Our best preacher up there never drew anything like it on Sunday.

And I must say that my particular friends, who were sportsmen, behaved very well, on the whole.  They didn’t deny that it was a bear, although they said it was small for a bear.  Mr...  Deane, who is equally good with a rifle and a rod, admitted that it was a very fair shot.  He is probably the best salmon fisher in the United States, and he is an equally good hunter.  I suppose there is no person in America who is more desirous to kill a moose than he.  But he needlessly remarked, after he had examined the wound in the bear, that he had seen that kind of a shot made by a cow’s horn.

This sort of talk affected me not.  When I went to sleep that night, my last delicious thought was, “I’ve killed a bear!”

II

LOST IN THE WOODS

It ought to be said, by way of explanation, that my being lost in the woods was not premeditated.  Nothing could have been more informal.  This apology can be necessary only to those who are familiar with the Adirondack literature.  Any person not familiar with it would see the absurdity of one going to the Northern Wilderness with the deliberate purpose of writing about himself as a lost man.  It may be true that a book about this wild tract would not be recognized as complete without a lost-man story in it, since it is almost as easy for a stranger to get lost in the Adirondacks as in Boston.  I merely desire to say that my unimportant adventure is not narrated in answer to the popular demand, and I do not wish to be held responsible for its variation from the typical character of such experiences.

We had been in camp a week, on the Upper Au Sable Lake.  This is a gem—­emerald or turquoise as the light changes it—­set in the virgin forest.  It is not a large body of water, is irregular in form, and about a mile and a half in length; but in the sweep of its wooded shores, and the lovely contour of the lofty mountains that guard it, the lake is probably the most charming in America.  Why the young ladies and gentlemen who camp there occasionally vex the days and nights with hooting, and singing sentimental songs, is a mystery even to the laughing loon.