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Jacob A. Riis (1849–1914). Theodore Roosevelt, the Citizen. 1904.

Page 86

bangs and the bare brown boyish legs, his music lesson. One groping foot—for the lesson would n’t come—dangled within reach of the ugliest grizzly’s head a distorted fancy could conceive of. I know it, for I stumble over it regularly when I come there, until I have got it charted for that particular trip. The skin to which it is attached is one Mr. Roosevelt sets great store by. It is a memento of the most thrilling moment of his life, when he was hunting alone in the foothills of the Rockies. He had made his camp “by the side of a small, noisy brook with crystal water,” and had strolled off with his rifle to see if he could pick up a grouse for supper, when he came upon the grizzly and wounded it. It took refuge in a laurel thicket, where Roosevelt laid siege to it. While he was cautiously skirting the edge, peering in, in the gathering dusk, the bear suddenly came out on the hillside: “Scarlet strings of froth hung from his lips; his eyes burned like embers in the gloom.”
  Roosevelt fired, and the bullet shattered the point of the grizzly’s heart. “Instantly the great bear turned with a harsh roar of fury and challenge, blowing the bloody foam from