Late one evening in August, our ship was plowing her way through a sea of slushy ice and small pans in Hudson Straits. The weather was dead calm. Ahead of us, to the northwest, the sun was sinking over the horizon, staining sky and ice in crimson. Astern—to starboard—miles away, the rugged coast of Baffin Land loomed up, faint and dark.

The only sound which struck the ear was the steady droning of the engine; while now and then a pan of ice, cut in two by the ship’s stem, cracked under the impact, then groaned and grinded as it slid and was crushed under the keel.

Suddenly a sharp cry rang out from the crow’s nest, “White bear ahead—a she bear with two cubs. Two points at starboard.” Instantly every one rushed to the bow. Five hundred yards away, floundering through the ice, in and out of the water, was a great big bear. She had seen us and was trying to get away. A few yards in front of her were two small cubs—four months old—struggling hard to keep ahead of their mother.

The whole crew was in a turmoil of excitement. The skipper already had a rifle in his hands. So had the cook and one of the sailors. For a long time the bears were able to keep their distance. The pans of ice were large and fairly close together. Mother and cubs would climb on one—race a few hundred yards—dive, swim a few feet—then get out of the water and run again.

Meanwhile the ship had to wind her way between the ice, or butt the heaviest pans which sometimes slowed her down completely. We reached, at last, a spot where the ice was scattered. Huge lakes separated each pan.

Although the bears swam bravely, the ship was gaining on them. In a few minutes we were almost on top of them—just as they reached some more ice and climbed on it.

The young animals were now getting exhausted. The cubs, their tongues out, were giving signs of distress. Their only idea was to stop, lie down, bury their heads in their front paws and rest. But the old mother was undaunted. She turned around, faced the ship, rose on her hind legs and gazed steadily at us towering above her. Then, turning around like a flash, she lifted each grovelling cub with a jerk of her snout, cuffed its hind quarters hard with a swift tap of her front paw and launched both of them again ahead of her in full flight. This she repeated time and again. Her courage was so amazing that no one fired a shot.

Finally we reached a last pan of ice on the very edge of the floe. Further on was the open sea. Mother and cubs scrambled on that piece of ice a few yards in front of the steamer which had been put down to “dead slow”. The little cubs “were done”. They just lay on the ice and panted. The mother could have taken to the water—dived like a duck—made a bid for her life. But she remained beside her young, facing the ship squarely, silently, fearlessly. Her jaws were half open in a snarl. Now and then she would lift a front paw and cuff the air as if she wanted to show how hard she could hit our steel stern if ever our vessel touched her.

There was silence on board. Suddenly our skipper’s voice rang out: “Hard over at port,” while the telegraph rang, “Full speed ahead.” The same voice called out again. “Leave those bears alone, you sons of....”

As the ship swung over—gathered way and passed the pan of ice—three blasts of the steamer’s foghorn blared out in a salute! It was the old Newfoundland master. He was leaning over the side of his bridge, waving to the old she bear who still stood, undaunted, right over the bodies of her two little cubs.