alders. From the numerous tracks and the look of the place, I
knew instantly that I had stumbled upon a bear's bathing pool.
The water was still troubled and muddy; huge tracks, all soppy
and broken, led up the hillside in big jumps; the moss was torn,
the underbrush spattered with shining water drops. "No room 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.