Although it was a little past the "prime" season for bearskins, Wakayoo's coat was splendidly thick and black.
For a quarter of an hour Baree watched him while he knocked fish out of the pool.

When at last he stopped, there were twenty or thirty fish among the stones, some of them dead and others still flopping.

From where he lay flattened out between two rocks, Baree could hear the crunching of flesh and bone as the bear devoured his dinner.

It sounded good, and the fresh smell of fish filled him with a craving that had never been roused by crayfish or even partridge.
In spite of his fat and his size, Wakayoo was not a glutton, and after he had eaten his fourth fish he pawed all the others together in a pile, partly covered them by raking up sand and stones with his long claws, and finished his work of caching by breaking down a small balsam sapling so that the fish were entirely concealed.

Then he lumbered slowly away in the direction of the rumbling waterfall.
Twenty seconds after the last of Wakayoo had disappeared in a turn of the creek, Baree was under the broken balsam.