The following is a true story about the last bear ever seen and shot on Prince Edward Island. It was told to me by Bernard Leslie of Souris Line Road.

Dad arrived home from Souris one afternoon about 3 o'clock. The day was fine and calm and my brother George and I had been busy cleaning up in the workshop. We had stoked up the old stove with shavings and sawdust. The door was open to let out the excessive heat from the roaring fire and we noticed dad coming up the lane from the main road and he was coaxing the horse to go faster.

I remarked to George that Dad thinks we have the workshop on fire because of all the smoke boiling out the chimney and going straight up for maybe a quarter mile. Naturally, this would cause Dad to think maybe the shop was on fire.

We ran across the yard to take the horse and put him in the stable. Much to our great surprise Dad never mentioned the smoke because he was too busy trying to tell us something. The words pouring out but he wasn't making too much sense. The only word that was coherent was, "bear". Three or four times he stopped talking to try to light his pipe, and each time he would hold the match too long and burn his fingers. We were enjoying his excitement and chuckling to ourselves as he attempted to 'simmer down', but the words were coming so fast he could barely catch his breath. Now and then he would look at us with a withering glance, as if we were too stupid to understand anyway. Finally, he said, put the horse in the stable and I'll go in and tell your mother. Now it was us who got excited and no horse ever went into a stable so fast. We even forgot to knock the snowballs from his front feet.

The atmosphere in the kitchen was such that I shall never forget the smell of the old teapot steeping tea, mother hurrying to and fro, my sister was busy hooking a mat over in the corner and Dad hurrying to get off his overshoes, as he mumbled to himself.

My sister beckoned me to come closer. She held one finger to her mouth and said shh, he won't tell us what he's saying, but it's something about a bear, so wait until he finishes his cup of tea. With a grunt of satisfaction and an air of one who is the harbinger of exciting news, Dad looked at my sister and remarked "maybe you'll listen,"

"Yes Dad," she said and stopped her hooking. She followed Dad to the door and they stood on the steps, as he pointed towards the woods and said "you see where the snow has fallen off the branches in one spot, fair for the sun. Well, right in that direction and on the other side of Hainey River I saw a bear's track and he crossed the road and was heading east. I talked to Mike Maclnnis and he said two or three people besides himself had actually watched the bear meandering through the fields and on into the woods."

Well' if dad was excited when he arrived home, now it was our turn, "When, Where did you see the bear?" "how big was he?" "What colour was he?" "Get the musket! Get the rifle! Get the shotgun!" Dusk comes early in February and as the wintry, sickly looking sun was sinking low, my brother and I had the guns ready, but decided to wait until daybreak to take up the hunt.

One would never believe the visions that were dancing through our heads as we twisted and turned and tried to sleep.

Maybe it was an hour before daylight when we gulped down our breakfast and checked the guns and ammunition for about the 10th time.

Finally, with our lunch crammed into our pockets we were away and before we entered the woods we looked towards home. The smoke was curling lazily up from the chimney and the air was frosty and to look across at the rolling hills the whole area looked so beautiful. All the way as far as Harmony Junction we could see the smoke from every farmhouse. Approximately a mile east of Souris Line Road and almost fair in line with the direction of where the bear had crossed the road the day before, we picked up his tracks. He had been zig-zagging a course, possibly attracted by some occasional scent. Now the tension increases. We talk in whispers and the snow is about a foot deep.

We made no noise as we peer ahead and to each side of the clumps of bushes. The solitude seemed to close around us and even the trees seemed to move in closer. Excitement was the hardest thing to control. George was ahead, his legs sank deeply in the snow and he pulled himself over a crade hill by grabbing a low branch, and vanished in a shower of snow falling from the tree. I followed and after we went through a bunch of large trees, we stopped in our tracks and stared transfixed at the unbelievable fresh tracks the bear had made as he had passed by only a short time ago. No way could I explain the excitement as we double checked our guns and extra ammunition in our pockets.

The bear's tracks turned around as he had detoured past an old windfall. We came to a small clearing in the woods and about 20 feet across from us, we spotted him, sort of resting on the sunny side of a clump of small bushes. He saw us at about the same time. George fired first but the bear was part way up on his feet, when the shot hit him. He shuddered and fell over, but got back up, his teeth bared in a horrible snarl, as he pawed the snow with his front feet. George's voice was high pitched and nervous as he spoke and fired the second time. The poor ol'bear sort of fell against a tree and we were not sure if he was dead or just waiting to knock us over with a swipe of his mighty paws.

About that time, we noticed the snow was turning a blood red all around him, so we stomped across the clearing and sure enough, he was dead as a doornail. We had to drag him across an old log and man was he heavy. As we were skinning him with our knives we could see where the first shot went through the fleshy part of his hip, along his side and cut his jugular vein. We were still excited as we carried his pelt home.

The next day, we hauled the carcass home with a horse and sleigh and estimated he weighted about 600 Ibs. We cut the meat in junks and boiled it in an old farmer's boiler in order to collect the grease. He had been fairly fat and we filled a 15 Ib. firkin with grease. We had no idea what it might be used for but stored it away in the workshop.

We dried the pelt, but as we did not know how to cure it properly, it deteriorated after a few years and had to be discarded.

Maybe one of the greatest unexpected surprises came when one day a few weeks later we received a letter from a company in England. They had read about the shooting in the papers and wished to know if we would consider selling the fat. Naturally we were quite intrigued with the possibility of making money, so we shipped the fat and were 'tickled pink' to receive $14. for it. Just to think of the fact that it went all the way to England was in itself quite a thrilling thought.

I would like to mention in conclusion, the afternoon that I called at Bernard Leslie's on Souris Line road...to get the story of the last Bear.

We had the most enjoyable afternoon ...what with spinnin' yarns, drinkin' tea, and Bernard sending columns of smoke towards the ceiling, from his old pipe.

His good wife Maude, prepared a 'feast fit for a king'...what more could one ask for...this just had to be the most enjoyable afternoon for me...in a long time.

Copyright
Waldron H. Leard