Once also I caught an old bear enjoying himself in a curious way.  It was one intensely hot day, in the heart of a New Brunswick wilderness.  Mooween came out onto the lake shore and lumbered along, twisting uneasily and rolling his head as if very much distressed by the heat.  I followed silently close behind in my canoe.

Soon he came to a cool spot under the alders, which was probably what he was looking for.  A small brook made an eddy there, and a lot of driftweed had collected over a bed of soft black mud.  The stump of a huge cedar leaned out over it, some four or five feet above the water.

First he waded in to try the temperature.  Then he came out and climbed the cedar stump, where he sniffed in every direction, as is his wont before lying down.  Satisfied at last, he balanced himself carefully and gave a big jump—­Oh, so awkwardly!—­with legs out flat, and paws up, and mouth open as if he were laughing at himself.  Down he came, souse, with a tremendous splash that sent mud and water flying in every direction.  And with a deep uff-guff of pure delight, he settled himself in his cool bed for a comfortable nap.

In his fondness for fish, Mooween has discovered an interesting way of catching them.  In June and July immense numbers of trout and salmon run up the wilderness rivers on their way to the spawning grounds.  Here and there, on small streams, are shallow riffles, where large fish are often half out of water as they struggle up.  On one of these riffles Mooween stations himself during the first bright moonlight nights of June, when the run of fish is largest on account of the higher tides at the river mouth.  And Mooween knows, as well as any other fisherman, the kind of night on which to go fishing.  He knows also the virtue of keeping still.  As a big salmon struggles by, Mooween slips a paw under him, tosses him to the shore by a dexterous flip, and springs after him before he can flounder back.

When hungry, Mooween has as many devices as a fox for getting a meal.  He tries flipping frogs from among the lily pads in the same way that he catches salmon.  That failing, he takes to creeping through the water-grass, like a mink, and striking his game dead with a blow of his paw.

Or he finds a porcupine loafing through the woods, and follows him about to throw dirt and stones at him, carefully refraining from touching him the while, till the porcupine rolls himself into a ball of bristling quills,—­his usual method of defense.  Mooween slips a paw under him, flips him against a tree to stun him, and bites him in the belly, where there are no quills.  If he spies the porcupine in a tree, he will climb up, if he is a young bear, and try to shake him off.  But he soon learns better, and saves his strength for more fruitful exertions.

Mooween goes to the lumber camps regularly after his winter sleep and, breaking in through door or roof, helps himself to what he finds.  If there happens to be a barrel of pork there, he will roll it into the open air, if the door is wide enough, before breaking in the head with a blow of his paw.