failed, however, because I had spent more than $1,200 and lost five
months' time, was nearly broke, did not represent anybody but myself at
that stage of my bear-catching career, and for all I knew the editor
might have changed his mind about wanting a Grizzly at any price.

Finally I consented to take the bear and struck a bargain, and not
until money had passed and a receipt was to be signed did Mateo know
with whom he was dealing. He paid me the dubious compliment of
muttering that I was "un coyote," and as that animal is the B'rer
Rabbit of Mexican folk lore, I inferred that the excellent Mateo
intended to express admiration for the only evidence of business
capacity to be found in my entire career. That dicker for a bear
stands out as the sole trade I ever made in which I was not
unmistakably and comprehensively "stuck." Mateo was more than repaid
for his trouble, however. He helped me build a box, and get the bear
into it, and I took Monarch to San Francisco and sold him to the editor
of the enterprising paper, who eventually gave him to Golden Gate Park.

The newspaper account of the capture of Monarch was elaborated to suit
the exigencies of enterprising journalism, picturesque features were
introduced where the editorial judgment dictated, and mere facts, such
as the name of the county in which the bear was caught, fell under the
ban of a careless blue pencil and were distorted beyond recognition.

More than one-fourth of Joaquin Miller's "True Bear Stories"' consists
of that newspaper yarn, copied verbatim and without amendment, revision
or verification. The other three-fourths of the book, it is to be
hoped, is at least equally true.

Considering all the frills of fiction that were put into the story to