The Mossy-Crested Flea-Resistant Water-Treading Bear 
In an age now behind us as pioneers marched west: hunting, trapping, and being a pest to forest, to folk, to mountain and hill; to river, to lake, to flyway and field; many a wild animal was deprived of its skin by knife-wielding, gun-toting civilized men.
The beaver, the fox, the otter, the mink; the wolf; the bear cub, the cougar; the lynx; grew fewer, and fewer, and we now know why the bison herds vanished in the bat of an eye; for all were wrangled and robbed of their skins by greedy grubstaking civilized men.
A few animals though were keener than most and these stole away and got themselves lost. The svelte passenger pigeon was one of these and today vacations with the dodo in a tropical breeze; on some remote stretch of uncharted isle sand, immune from exploitation by *ahem* civilized man.
There was another ... whose rumored whereabouts I maybe can share. It is the mossy-crested flea-resistant water-treading bear. Once bears were common in fact they numbered lots, until hunted - now this one is only one of the few that we’ve gots; and this uncanny sly bruin hid away in a far furtive place where it remained safe from extinction for a long welcome space.
For decades it has hid in a swamp in the south by crouching in pond scum clear up to its mouth; eating a strict diet of reptiles and slippery meals, and shuddering when a mud midget might stir at its heels. An alga coats its whiskers, moss covers its mop, and wee birds unwisely make nests of the lichen on top.
But dark swampy pools are home to catfish and big ones it seems like those in tall tales and in all fishermen's dreams; and this tempts sportsmen to brave mosquito and snake as they wallow through the swamps for trophydom's sake; but the biggest gamble of all ... of which they are unaware: is they are trespassing on the mossy-crested flea-resistant swamp-leasing bear.
"A fisherman," it confided, "is the world's biggest chump. I ain't met the first one that could tell a bear from a stump."
Disguised as a floating woodpile the bear has free reign in the bog, except at night when sleeping it will stretch out like a log. Over the years it has become the most recognized landmark in all the quagmire; first by the great tangle of rusting fishhooks ensnared in its hair, and second by the two knotholes that look to be squinty eyes. But let me assure you no fisherman ever investigated that came away wise.
Meanwhile the bear picks at its fizzing tooth with a shard of cane pole, and speculates with slanty eyes gleaming like twin sisters of dark coal, just how big are the lazy catfish nesting in wrecked canoes on the bottom [sunken derelicts of genteel fishermen that run off and forgot 'em]; countless maritime disasters not recorded anywhere, except in the secret memoirs of a mossy-crested flea-resistant *ahem* man-fishing bear.
So when you spread rumors of Sasquatch, swamp boogers, and folkish abominations of myth, you might want to addend the swamp bears name to the front of the list. I ain't saying that I seen him and I ain't saying I ain't, but there's folks still in them swamps who ain't saying cause they cain't.
"Of course he exists," affirmed a unsmiling swamp chap. "And it's us alligators are getting a bad rap."
"As a matter of fact," said the gator, "I know just where it hides. And I can take you right to him *wink* *wink* if you are up to a ride."
Heavens child! I should hope you are smarter than that.
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