Alone, and while blazing a line for this proposed road, one sunny afternoon, I came onto a table-rock, in a little opening in the woods, where fifty feet in front of me lay a large pine tree that had blown down. As some small brush crackled under my feet, a bear, which I have ever since believed from descriptions that had previously been given me, was the much wanted great bear, stood up in front of me, close by the fallen tree. Presumably he had been awakened from an afternoon nap. The only weapon that I possessed was what is known as a boy's ax, the size and kind usually carried by land examiners. I had not sought this new acquaintance, nor did I at that moment desire a closer one, but mentally decided, and that quickly, that the wrong thing to do would be to make any effort to get to a place of safety. I therefore decided to stand my ground and to put up the best fight possible with my small ax, in case the bear insisted on a closer acquaintance. Why I should have laughed on such an occasion as this, I never have known, but the perfect helplessness of my situation seemed so ridiculous, that I broke into a loud laugh. I have often wondered why that bear at that moment seemed to think that he had seen enough of the man whom he faced. Certain it was, that he turned on his hind legs, leaped over the log, and disappeared, leaving only the occasional sound of a twig breaking under his feet. So well pleased was I with the less distinct notes of the breaking twigs, that I waited and listened until I could no longer hear any of the welcome, receding music. The excitement having subsided, an inspection of the little ax revealed the fact that the head was nearly, but not quite off its handle. This incident has always been sufficient to convince me that I have no desire to approach nearer to this animal of the northern woods. [Illustration: The midday luncheon is welcomed by the automobile tourists. (Page 180.)] In the summer of 1899, some special work was required north of Grand Rapids, Minnesota. Accompanied by my son, Frank Merton, and a cook named Fred Easthagen, I left Grand Rapids on a buckboard drawn by two horses and driven by Dan Gunn, the popular proprietor of the Pokegama Hotel. Our route was over a new road where stumps and pitch holes were plentiful. The team of horses was said to have been raised on the western plains, and objected strenuously to being driven over this stump road. One of the horses balked frequently, and, when not standing still, insisted on running. The passengers, except Easthagen, became tired of this uneven mode of travel, and preferred to walk, being able to cover the ground equally as fast as the team. Easthagen, however, sat tight through it all; he having come from the far West, refused to walk when there was a team to pull him.