Next morning, as I went to the early fishing, Chigwooltz, the patient, sat by the same stone, his fore feet at the edge of the same bronze lily leaf.  At noon he was still there; in twenty-four hours at least he had not moved a muscle.

At twilight I was following a bear along the shore.  It was the restless season, when bears are moving constantly; scarcely a twilight passed that I did not meet one or more on their wanderings.  This one was heading for the upper end of the lake, traveling in the shallow water near shore; and I was just behind him, stealing along in my canoe to see what queer thing he would do.  He was in no hurry, as most other bears were, but went nosing along shore, acting much as a fat pig would in the same place.  As he approached the alder point he stopped suddenly, and twisted his head a bit, and set his ears, as a dog does that sees something very interesting.  Then he began to steal forward.  Could it be—­I shot my canoe forward—­yes, it was Chigwooltz, still sitting by the green stone, with his eye, like Bunsby’s, on the coast of Greenland.  In thirty-two hours, to my knowledge, he had not stirred.

Mooween the bear crept nearer; he was crouching now like a cat, stealing along in the soft mud behind Chigwooltz so as to surprise him.  I saw him raise one paw slowly, cautiously, high above his head.  Down it came, souse! sending up a shower of mud and water.  And Chigwooltz the restful, who could sit still thirty-two hours without getting stiff in the joints, and then dodge the sweep of Mooween’s paw, went splashing away hippety-ippety over the lily pads to some water grass, where he said K’tung! and disappeared for good.

A few days later Simmo and I moved camp to a grove of birches just above the alder point.  From behind my tent an old game path led down to the bay where the big frogs lived.  There were scores of them there; the chorus at night, with its multitude of voices running from a whistling treble to deep, deep bass, was at times tremendous.  It was here that I had the first good opportunity of watching frogs feeding.

Chigwooltz, I found, is a perfect gourmand and a cannibal, eating, besides his regular diet of flies and beetles and water snails, young frogs, and crawfish, and turtles, and fish of every kind.  But few have ever seen him at his hunting, for he is active only at night or on dark days.

I used to watch them from the shore or from my canoe at twilight.  Just outside the lily pads a shoal of minnows would be playing at the surface, or small trout would be rising freely for the night insects.  Then, if you watched sharply, you would see gleaming points of light, the eyes of Chigwooltz, stealing out, with barely a ripple, to the edge of the pads.  And then, when some big feeding trout drove the minnows or small fry close in, there would be a heavy plunge from the shadow of the pads; and you would hear Chigwooltz splashing if the fish were a larger one than he expected.