Chapter II: Part 2

Jagg returned in time for breakfast and sat opposite us. The dislike between him and Ab speedily ripened into hate, and I could see that a catastrophe was due before long, but I made no allusion to it.

“What be you goin’ to call the beast?” asked Ab.

“Haven’t thought about it,” I returned, shortly.

“I suppose he wouldn’t need to be called,” remarked Ab. “He seems to be here most of the time.”

I smiled as pleasantly as could be expected under the circumstances, and Ab went on with his part of the sketch. “Too bad he ain’t a Sheep.”

“Why?” I asked, seeing that he was waiting for the question.

“Had a fool friend once,” observed Ab, “with one of them high-toned stock farms. He had one cussed old Sheep of some fancy breed that he paid five thousand dollars for. The boys used to call him Hi-ram.”

I made no answer, being busy with the dishes, and Ab retreated into the shrubbery. “Say,” he yelled, from a respectful distance, “be you English?”

My blood burned to be at him, but I did not wish to quarrel with the only human being for miles around, nor to lower myself to the level of my kindred of the wild, who fight it out with claw and tooth and fang. Jagg, who was sitting near me, snorted loudly with anger and the hair on the back of his neck bristled.

He came to me, and by repeated significant gestures made me understand that he wished me to remove his hat. I did so, but with difficulty.

When Ab appeared at dinner time, Jagg took no apparent notice of him. The kettle was singing cheerily and the delicious scent of the frying bacon was abroad in the landscape. “Ab,” I called, “get some more sticks and put them on the fire.”

He bent over the cheerful flame and replenished the blaze with an armful of chips which he had found in the woods. Jagg was not a part of the domestic scene and I did not know where he was, but I heard a loud imprecation, saw Ab careening madly in midair, and fancied that I saw a glimmer of white just over the shrubbery.

My quick, active mind at once inferred that I should have to add Ab’s biography to my great work: _The Lives of the Bunted_.

Nothing was said, and on the surface, at least, all things were as usual, but I saw the red gleam of implacable hate in the faces of my two companions, and dreaded the deadly combat which must soon take place.

For a week or more there was comparative peace, then, one morning when I opened my cabin door to admit the fresh air of dawn, I saw a pathetic sight. On my threshold, faithful to the last, was Jagg, stark and stiff and cold in death.

He lay flat on his back, his eyes wide open, and his feet were at right angles to his body. The _rigor mortis_ had already set in to such an extent that I felt as if I had struck a picket fence when I endeavoured to pass. It was characteristic of him, perhaps, that he could not even die without arranging some kind of a trap for me to fall into. I was obliged to move him before I could get outdoors, and the undertaking proved unusually difficult.

I gave him a decent burial, and painted him a headstone, but I never saw Ab again. The Goat’s body was bloated in a way which led me to suspect poison, and, as time goes on, my suspicion becomes stronger, for the end of a wild animal is always a tragedy, and Jagg was unquestionably wild.

SNOOF

I passed the remaining weeks of my exile in hermit-like solitude. I was not disposed to make further studies in my chosen calling, and time hung heavily upon my hands. I checked off the days upon my calendar with red ink, so that I should not become confused and miss the date of my departure. Having been shipped out of town until September first, to save my life, I did not intend to sacrifice it by returning on August thirty-first. “Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well,”—a trite copy-book maxim, that, but none the less a true one.

The English language, vast as it is, can convey no adequate idea of my longing for civilisation. The rush and roar of city life, the loud-voiced clangour of commerce, and the fine, inspiring click of my telegraph instrument would have been music to me. I packed up, ready to start at one minute after twelve on the night of my release. Happily, there was a train at a quarter past one, and I could get to town in time for breakfast.

From the time of my packing until I set off on the long trail, at one minute after twelve, by my jewelled repeater, I experienced the discomfort of those who have moved mentally, but are still clamped, physically, to the places they have moved from.

My stern fidelity to truth compels me to record the fact that my arrival in the city was not as pleasing as I had fancied it would be. The noise was terrible, and before eating my simple breakfast at a quick-lunch counter, I was obliged to stuff cotton into my ears. This did not prevent me from hearing the candid comments made upon my personal appearance by the pretty waitresses.

“Uncle Rube, from Hayville,” observed a dashing blonde to her giggling companion. “Pipe the alfalfa on the jay’s mug,” said another. At this there were hissing murmurs of: “Sh-h! He’ll hear you!” “Naw,” said the speaker, “he’s deef. He’s calked his listeners with white fur. Bet his wife had a hand in it. She don’t want him to bring home no gold bricks in his carpet-bag.”

The talk had risen to such a crescendo pitch that passers-by were fain to take an interest in it, and it seemed to me that it was time to interfere.

“Young ladies,” I said, clearing my throat, “I have neither wife nor carpet-bag. I have calked my listeners, as you concisely put it, to keep the chatter of green parrots from interfering with my noteworthy meditations. I am a Scientist—an unchristian Scientist, I may add, and I shall take pleasure in sending a copy of _The Ladies’ Own_ to this restaurant for the guidance of the help. Read it carefully, study it, ponder over its noble precepts, and it will enable you to win the respect of your employer and his customers.”

In the midst of a profound silence I walked out, discovering two blocks farther on that I still held the green check calling for fifteen cents. I bought two copies of _The Ladies’ Own_ and sent a boy back with them, thus more than repaying my indebtedness.

I determined to report at my physician’s office before returning to my apartments. In the reception-room of his suite, I first caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and was compelled to admit that I looked seedy. My hair, which had not been cut for over three months, hung down over my collar in the manner of Buffalo Bill’s, and I had a thirteen weeks’ growth of undisciplined beard upon my erstwhile smooth countenance. My linen, also, was questionable.

Finally, I was admitted, and my medical adviser gasped out something which sounded like “gosh,” but which doubtless was not, since he is a perfect gentleman.

“Dear friend,” I cried, advancing with outstretched hands, “I have come to thank you for my life!”

“Don’t mention it,” he returned, modestly. “I assure you, it is nothing worth speaking of.”

“When I left you,” I continued, “I was a physical wreck. Behold me now! I have lived next to the ground and studied the ways of those wonderful creatures whom, in our arrogant self-esteem, we call the lower animals. I have had for my friends all the wood folk—Upsidaisi, the Field Mouse, Unk Munk, the Porcupine, Ka-Ka, the Pole-Cat, Tom-Tom, the _felinis simpaticus_, Kitchi-Kitchi, the Red Squirrel, Hoop-La, Sing-Sing, Pitti-Bird, Chee-Wee——”

Here my medical adviser interrupted me. “Mr. Johnson-Sitdown,” he said, wearily, “as this is my busy day, it will be a kindness if you will put the remainder of that into a phonograph and have it sent. The collection of Chinese laundry checks is doubtless interesting and valuable, but I am obliged to specialise in my own line. Permit me to give you another prescription.”

He rose from his chair, handed me a bit of folded paper, and opened the door. My Summer in the wilderness had so sharpened my naturally acute senses, that I instantly perceived my friend’s wish to be alone, and accordingly, with rare tact, I bowed myself out. How I pitied the man who could not be a hermit except between patients! Nevertheless, one must have patience before one can be a hermit.

At the first drug store I handed in the prescription, and the clerk returned presently with the remark that they did not keep it. I asked him where I could find it, and he suggested a barber-shop.

Outside, I opened the prescription. It read as follows:

“1 bath, repeat twice daily,
3 shaves,
8 hair cuts,
New clothes.”

I spent the rest of the day and all the money I had left in explicitly following out the directions of my gifted friend. In the morning I was back at my desk.

Throughout the Winter I spent my evenings studying Natural History and writing out my own experiences for the magazines. A boom was on in this kind of literature and the supply was not at all equal to the demand, so, in place of the returned manuscripts, I speedily acquired some sort of a vogue. Doubtless the reader will remember that I had some pieces, carefully edited, in _The Ladies’ Own_ and _The Girlie’s Close Companion_. Meanwhile my income was pleasurably increased, and I shortly became so independent that I wholly ignored those miserable sheets which pay “on publication” and publish when they like. I planned to quit work entirely during the warm months, and this choice morsel of news was noised about among the literary editors. In more than one paper I read that “Mr. O. Sitdown-Johnson Johnson-Sitdown, the well-known naturalist, will spend the Summer in Yellowstone Park, studying the animals of that region.” Before I left town, I had contracted for the publication of all the work I could do—and more, too, as it afterward proved.

That was a great year for Bears, and all through the West they were unusually abundant. Cattle and sheep were killed on the range, chicken coops rifled, and provisions stolen from the lumber camps. In fact, the nuisance became so great that a bounty was put upon Bear pelts in more than one State and every trail was practically barricaded with traps.

Indians coming in reported that the woods were vocal with low, mournful sounds which, in every case, originated at the Bear traps. When a Bear was caught in a deadfall, his mate, or her mate, as the case might be, would sit by, holding the poor head in tender arms, and rock back and forth, moaning, until the men came to remove the body. Considerations of safety alone would put the bereaved mate to flight. This is the law of the wilderness—self-preservation first, the old, primeval instinct, supported by claw and tooth and fang and the swift pace down the trail.

Other observers have found two instances only of a Bear sitting by the trap, holding its dead mate in its arms, and moaning. Whether I was more fortunate or more observing, it is not for me to say, but that year, and in that locality, the woods were full of it.

Naturally, with all this material at my disposal, I made up my mind to study Bears first. I had not been in the Geyser House three minutes before I was out in the kitchen, making earnest inquiries of the cook and scullery maids. I learned, to my delight, that Bears came to the back door every day, and that by sitting on the step, I might see them. One of the scullery maids suggested to me that I peel the potatoes as I sat there. It seemed that the odour of this succulent root was very attractive to Bears, and, in fact, they never came to the back door except when potatoes were being peeled.

There were few guests at the Geyser House, as it was comparatively early in the season, but I studied the register carefully. Upon it, in an angular hand, I noted the names of “Mrs. Miranda Kirsten,” and “Miss Miranda Kirsten.” For some reason, these names moved me profoundly, and I was still thinking of them when I fell asleep.

In the morning, when I went down to breakfast, a lady and a child were seated at my table. At once, I knew who they were. The mother ignored me, but the little girl’s eyes were fastened upon me with tender interest. While she was engaged in contemplating me, she choked on her near-food, and doubtless would have strangled had I not with swift presence of mind gone to the rescue. I grasped the child, reversed her, and swung her back and forth by the heels until the section of straw mattress which she had vainly attempted to swallow was dislodged from the main line of her bronchial system.

“Dear sir, kind sir,” said the mother, with tears in her eyes, as I put the thoroughly frightened child into her outstretched arms, “how shall I ever thank you for preserving my daughter’s life!”

“Do not mention it,” I replied, in the happy and appropriate words of my medical adviser; “I assure you, it is nothing worth speaking of.”

“Sir-r-r-r!” exclaimed the mother, in a freezing tone.

“I mean, dear Mrs. Kirsten,” I went on, in my best manner, “that I am accustomed to it. From Maine to San Francisco, every Summer, it has been my good fortune to save the lives of unnumbered children who have choked upon near-food.”

Here the little Miranda slipped out of her mother’s arms and came to me. “Pitty man,” she said, placing her hand upon mine with tender confidence. “Baby loves ’oo.”

That settled it. I was at once restored to the mother’s good graces, and we chatted pleasantly all through breakfast.

Immediately afterward, with my camera and my note-books, I went out to see Bears. I felt, rather than heard the animals, for, as every observer knows, the soft, padded feet of a Bear make no noise whatever upon the trail.

I walked along as carefully as possible, but saw nothing to photograph until the path turned. There, sitting up on her haunches, not twenty paces from me, was a large black Bear!

Her Cub, also upon his haunches, was about a yard and three-eighths behind her, and I realised that my situation was serious. I had no weapon—the authorities do not allow weapons of any description to be carried in the Park, except the pen, which is mightier than the sword, but no use to anybody in an emergency like mine unless it is a Bear pen. If I turned and ran, she would doubtless follow me and overtake me long before I reached the hotel. In fact, I was sure that I never should reach it, if the Bear followed me. There was nothing left for me to do but to try the power of the human eye.

Now, as everyone knows, Bears are near-sighted, and I was almost upon the animal before she saw me. Then she gave a loud “_S-n-o-o-f!_” and ran into the depths of the forest, her Cub so hot upon her trail that he might have stepped on it and torn it.

So great was my relief that I laughed aloud, but I could not help wondering what would have happened if the Bear had been more near-sighted than she was. Nature gives the animals what they most desire—the silent wing to the Owl, the keen claws to the Panther, and the soft walk to the Bear.

I walked about for some little time, but saw no more Bears. I chronicled the incident in my note-book, immediately, naming the mother “Snoof,” and the Cub “Snooflet.” I supposed she was one of those who had been widowed by the traps in the forest outside of the Park limits, but inquiry at the hotel assured me that both she and her Cub were well known. I was told, also, that if I wished to see Bears, I must go to the garbage heap, a mile away from the Geyser House.

That night, as we sat upon the veranda of the hotel, I regaled Mrs. Kirsten and the little girl with the story of my morning’s adventure. The moon was shining brightly, and my fair companion had the immemorial charm of the widow, with the added witchery of moonlight. Together, the combination was a powerful one.

Miranda climbed into my lap and nestled sleepily in the hollow of my arm. “Tell me,” said Mrs. Kirsten, in a soft, musical voice, “why are you here?”

“Because you are,” I responded, gallantly. “Why are you here?”

“On Miranda’s account,” she said, shortly. She snatched the sleeping child out of my arms, and in less time than it takes to tell it, she was gone.

I waited nearly three hours, but she did not return, so I went off into the Park a little way to compose my thoughts for the night. In a clearing, four miles from the hotel, I came upon a strange sight. Snoof sat on her haunches, with one arm around her Cub. With her free paw, she was pointing to the heavens, outlining, as I shortly saw, the constellations of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor for her offspring. Reverently removing my hat, I tiptoed away. Truly, maternal devotion has depths far beyond my ken.

In the night, I saw Snoof and Mrs. Kirsten, Miranda and Snooflet, waltzing around the garbage heap, and I was overjoyed to wake and discover that the painful spectacle was merely a fantasy of sleep.

It must have been two or three days later that I went downstairs very early in the morning and found Mrs. Kirsten upon the veranda with her little daughter. She was removing the child’s shoes and stockings, and I did not make my presence known for fear of embarrassing them both.

Miranda toddled off, and her mother sat down upon the top step, watching her with agonised mother-eyes until she was well out of sight. Then a dry, tearless moan welled up from the depths of her heart. A moment later, her face was buried in her handkerchief, and she was shaking with sobs.

This was too much for me. I am a landlubber when it comes to salt water, and have never been able to endure a woman’s tears. I hastened out and put my hand upon her shoulder.

“Mrs. Kirsten,” I said, very gently, “you are troubled. Let me help you!”

“Oh, sir,” she answered, breaking down utterly at the unexpected sympathy, “you cannot help me—no one can! The most celebrated physicians and alienists have given up the case.”

“Dear Mrs. Kirsten, Miranda the First,” I continued, “you can at least tell me. Two heads are three times as good as one if the extra head is mine.” To the critical reader this may sound egotistical, but the situation was tense, and it was no more than the truth.

“Oh, how can I bear to tell you! I, who have always lived a decent, respectable life, holding my head as high as my neighbours’ heads, I, to have this shame, this fear!”

“Dear Miranda the First,” I pleaded, forgetting all conventional forms, “tell me! Believe me, I am your friend!”

“I know it,” she cried, “but it is too terrible! Miranda, my darling little daughter, my own and only child, is—is—is—is——”

“Is what?” I demanded, excitedly.

“A Little Sister to the Woods!” she gasped, then hid her face against my shoulder.

With rare comprehension, for a man, I only stroked the weeper’s spine and said nothing. At last her sobs quieted. “You do not despise me?” she asked, tremulously.

“Despise you?” I repeated. “No, dear lady, no!”

When she was calm, she told me the whole miserable story. From her birth, Miranda the Second had been exceedingly fond of animals and had refused to associate with children at all. She drew animals of all kinds as a sheet of sticky fly-paper draws Flies. She made friends with Lizards, Spiders, Toads, Bumblebees, Hornets, Foxes, Wasps, Rabbits,—in fact everything that crossed her path, with the single exception of Snakes. For three days she had been lost, and when she was finally discovered, it was in the wake of an Italian who had a dancing Bear. Miranda wept bitterly when the police took her home, and for over a week she raged and screamed, demanding with every breath to be taken back to the “pitty Bear.”

It was only upon the promise of seeing plenty of Bears that she had quieted down at all, and her mother had brought her to Yellowstone Park, knowing that the animals there would be practically harmless, especially to one of Miranda’s gifts, and in the hope that satiety might work a cure.

Yet every morning, for the three weeks they had been there, Miranda had insisted upon going forth alone. “My baby,” sobbed the mother, “my baby, out there alone with the wild beasts! I cannot go with her, for she is safer without me. I am no relation whatever to the woods, to say nothing of being a Little Sister.”

“But her shoes and stockings,” I said, pointing to the soft bundle half concealed by Mrs. Kirsten’s skirt, “why are they here?”

“I do not know,” she answered, shaking her head, sadly. “It is possible, of course, that they may insulate her, as it were, from her mother earth, and thus make her so different from the other animals that they could not recognise her as one of them. It is possible, also, that she sees more Bears when she is barefooted.”

There was a long silence, then the little toddler came within range of our vision. She was accompanied by a huge grizzly Bear, who was walking beside her on his hind legs. Her little hand rested confidingly in his great paw, and I confess that the sight made me shudder. They came together, the great Bear walking slowly to accommodate Miranda’s short steps, until they reached a point half-way between the hotel and the edge of the forest.

Then the Bear stopped, pointed to us with his free paw, and Miranda nodded, in token that she understood. She ran on ahead a little way, then turned back. The great grizzly bowed very low, with his right paw placed over the pit of his stomach, then came down on all fours and ambled off into the forest.

Miranda came to us, breathless and laughing. “Oh,” she cried, with her face aglow, “pitty Bears! Booful, booful Bears!”

“Pray, what does ‘booful’ mean?” I inquired in a low tone of the mother, as she put on Miranda’s shoes and stockings.

“It is early English for ‘beautiful,’” explained Mrs. Kirsten, her face white with pain.

Perceiving that it would be the truest kindness to the woman I had learned to love, I stole away. My keen scientific mind quickly grasped the possibility before me. Miranda might be of great use to me—so much was plain—but would it be right? Then I saw that I could not hope to cure Miranda’s malady until I had seen the working of it so often that I fully understood its character and scope. Happy, happy thought!

That afternoon, while Mrs. Kirsten slept the sleep of utter exhaustion, I told Miranda the story of Goldenhair and the Three Bears, and so won her childish affections forever. As yet, I dared not suggest my plan to Mrs. Kirsten, but I felt sure that the time would come when I might appropriately do so.

The next day I went out to the garbage heap, and settled myself comfortably under the tree nearest to it. I must have seen over two hundred Bears, but I was near enough to none of them to make the observations I desired. So, with the true Scientist’s fine disregard of inconvenience, I made an excavation in the top of the garbage heap, climbed in, and concealed myself as well as I might with the litter. I do not claim that it was pleasant, but it was unavoidable.

All day I saw Bears, meanwhile plying my camera and note-book vigorously. They came and went, but before night I was so familiar with the different individuals that I had named many of them and knew them all by sight. I saw nothing of Snoof and Snooflet, however, and began to wonder where they were keeping themselves.

Shortly after sunset, the Bears disappeared from the garbage heap, apparently with one accord. They moved so silently that I did not see any of them go away. I waited half an hour but none of them came back. Then I determined to extricate myself from my unsavoury predicament, but some sixth sense bade me wait a few moments longer.

Presently I saw the huge grizzly who was Miranda’s friend, cautiously limping toward the garbage heap, and my heart grew heavy with portent, for he was an ugly customer to meet without a weapon of any sort. He pawed over the cans, setting some aside with evident care, and kicking the others far away in disgust. I snapped my camera at him, and at the click he pricked up his ears, then gave a deep, thunderous growl which echoed and re-echoed through the silence.

I scarcely dared to breathe. In my inner consciousness I promptly christened him “Growler,” but I did not attempt to take his picture again.

Hard upon the roar came Snoof, and she instantly rushed Growler away from the garbage heap. He made no defence, but simply slunk away, and I gathered that he was a suitor of hers who had not as yet found favour. He was old and rheumatic, and many a time, after that, I found him wallowing in the hot mud around the sulphur spring to cure his rheumatism, but this belongs in another book.

She sniffed over the cans, and angrily thrust aside those that he had gathered together, though I could see that some of them were nearly full. She tasted here and there, but ate nothing, and presently went back into the forest.

Snooflet met her here. She washed his face after the manner of a Cat, paying special attention to his neck, then began on his hands and nails. I did not know that Bears did this, though I have since discovered it in a new book on Natural History. Then, from its hiding-place at the root of a tree, she took a comb, made from an Elk’s horn, and a very creditable comb it was, too. She combed poor Snooflet until he howled, then collared him and cuffed him, finally making him sit still until she completed her own toilet.

Together they approached the garbage heap, Snooflet sniffing loudly in anticipation of the feast. He seized immediately upon a tin which had contained maple syrup, and began to eat greedily, but his mother gave him another pair of cuffs and took it away from him.

I wondered what her object could be, but I was not long left in doubt. Bidding him be quiet, she pawed over the rubbish until she found two tins which had contained condensed soup. They ate the remnants of this, polishing the inside of the cans with their rough tongues until the metal shone like new. Then Snooflet had a salmon can and his mother a lobster tin which contained little aside from the juice. Next they each had an entire can of roast beef, which had somehow been spoiled in transit, some cold potatoes, some peelings of raw potatoes, half a can of peas, and a canned tomato or two. A dry cracker came next, with some salad dressing and a hard rind of Roquefort. I wondered why she did not make a presentable salad of the tomato and the dressing—salads are always made of leftovers and these things had been left over a long time, but I dared not make the suggestion for fear my first name would have to be changed to Claude if I did so.

Then came dessert. Snooflet had his maple syrup tin, and his mother the remnants of a pot of raspberry jam. Having eaten their dinner in well-bred seclusion and in the proper order, they went away together, apparently happy.

By this time I was hungry myself, so I climbed out and made my way to the Geyser House. Mrs. Kirsten was on the veranda, and at the sight of me she laughed the first hearty, unconscious laugh I had ever heard from her lips. “Hello, garbage pail,” she said, merrily, when the paroxysm had subsided somewhat, “why don’t you go around the back way?”

I looked at myself. A sardine box hung on my tie, a lobster tin protruded from my pocket, and I was covered from head to foot with melon seeds. A cabbage leaf and a melon rind adorned my hat.

Melancholy though I was, I was about to pass her in a frigid, dignified manner, and go up to my room, but the stony-hearted manager of the hotel interfered. “Here, you blamed old scavenger,” he cried, “this isn’t a dump heap. Go and bury your clothes! Why you look like a guy, sir!”

“Is not this the Geyser House?” I asked. The joke, which might have been sold to a funny paper for three dollars, was utterly lost upon him. He repeated his impolite suggestion about my clothes and said he would send a boy to me with more.

I had no choice but to obey. In my changed raiment I was allowed to go to my room, where a bath, clean linen, and a shave speedily set me right again. I had left my clothes in the woods for future expeditions of the same sort.

Elaborating my notes and developing my plates took me the better part of a week, and all the time, there was a decided coolness between Mrs. Kirsten and myself. Not so with Miranda. She loved me, if her mother did not, and pleaded with me at every meal to take her with me when I went to see the “pitty Bears.”

The next morning I was sitting on one corner of the veranda and Mrs. Kirsten on the other, with Miranda’s shoes and stockings in her lap. I knew where the child had gone and surmised that a tempest was raging in the mother’s heart, but she was too proud to turn to me for even a look of sympathy.

Presently Miranda came toward us at the top of her speed, with a Bear in full pursuit. Man though I was, my heart stood still with fear. I had no weapon—I was utterly helpless—and Mrs. Kirsten, literally paralysed with horror, stood like a statue.

The Bear was gaining at every step. Go it, Miranda! On, for Heaven’s sake on! Heed not the thorns that pierce thy tender feet, but run, Miranda, run!

With an inarticulate moan, Mrs. Kirsten flew down the steps, her arms outstretched, and I followed, willing to sacrifice my own life, if need be, to save the child of the woman I loved. But we were too late. Snoof—for it was she—felled Miranda to the ground with one blow, turned her limp body over, face upward, and took something out of her hand, throwing it aside with an angry sniff.

In a twinkling, Miranda was on her feet, violently chastising the Bear with her chubby hands. “Naughty, bad Snoofie!” she screamed. “Take Miwanda’s bewwies!”

Snoof cast a glance of peculiar intelligence at me, winked suggestively, then ambled off into the forest to rejoin her Cub, who was calling her plaintively.

I hastened to find what the Bear had thrown away. It was a little china mug, ornate with blue and gold, and the inscription, “For A Good Girl,” lettered on it. All around were scattered the bright red berries which Miranda had picked. At once I understood—they were poison, and Snoof had saved Miranda’s life.

In a few well-chosen words, I acquainted the mother with the facts. She promptly spanked Miranda and carried her into the house, yelling like any normal child. In an hour she returned, pale, haggard, and trembling with emotion.

“To think,” she said, brokenly, “that that old Bear should have saved my child’s life! I will never doubt the wisdom of Providence again. Had it not been for Snoof, Miranda would at this moment have been a cold, cold corpse. The Little Sister of the Woods would have known the ‘pitty Bears’ no more!”

I was gratified at the change in my loved one’s demeanour, but the next morning the bars were up again and Mrs. Kirsten treated me with the barest politeness.

Some days later the grizzly came up to the hotel, dressed in the coat and vest, collar and tie, which I had left in the woods. He had evidently found that the trousers did not fit him, for he had made no more attempt than a Highlander to dress the rest of him, and went about, with equal unconcern, in his bare legs.

He coquetted around for a long time, watching for Miranda, then Snoof appeared, with a tin pail in each hand. She had come to the hotel, as she often did, for milk and molasses. Miranda came out and spoke in friendly fashion with the grizzly, using a language I did not understand, but she paid no attention whatever to Snoof. Having secured her milk and molasses, Snoof went away, leaving her suitor conversing amiably with Miranda, but I could see a red look in her eyes that boded no good to anybody.

The end came shortly afterward. Miranda and I had been playing croquet and Miranda still kept her mallet in her tiny, chubby hand. Not expecting visitors from the suburbs, Miranda wore her shoes. I mention this, that the reader may judge whether or not it had any influence upon what followed.

We sat down upon the steps to rest a moment. The steps of the Geyser House were very comfortable indeed, being made of soft wood and having been given two coats of paint.

Suddenly the grizzly materialised. You can never hear a Bear come. Now you see it and now you don’t—they make no noise whatever. He had on my coat and vest and was walking on all fours, but at the sight of Miranda, he stood up and began to walk like a man—a man with the rheumatism.

The child laughed gleefully at the sight. “Wait,” she said, “baby make circus.”

She called the Cat, set it upon the grizzly’s back, and made them gallop around an imaginary ring in spite of the grizzly’s loud yowls of pain. While the fun was in full blast, Snoof appeared, aflame with hatred and jealousy, and charged straight at Miranda.

My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth and I tasted blood, but Miranda, with great calmness, raised her croquet mallet, and waited,—the merest fraction of a second. At the proper instant, she brought it down with a sounding whack upon the end of Snoof’s nose—her single vulnerable spot. The great Bear fell to earth, stunned.

I quickly finished the execution with my pocket knife. The grizzly, frightened, tore madly off into the woods, forgetting his rheumatism, and leaving us alone with the dead.

It was not pleasant, even though the end of a wild animal is always a tragedy. The only way to make a story of this kind untragic is to quit before you get through.

An astounding change was taking place in Miranda. She leaned over the corpse, her eyes dilated and her small body tense. Her breast was heaving and she shook like an aspen. I would have picked her up and carried her to her mother, but I was fascinated by her face, and moreover, I wanted to see what would happen. The true Scientist must ever sacrifice his emotions to his reason.

Gradually, the entire expression of her face altered. The eerie, wild look had vanished completely, and in its place was a very normal fright. “Tum!” she shrieked. “Baby ’fraid!”

I took up the Little Sister of the Woods and ran into the hotel, rejoicing in my heart that the child was cured. That evening, I proposed marriage to Mrs. Kirsten, who was overjoyed at her child’s sudden recovery, but my hopes were felled to earth as suddenly as Snoof had been that very afternoon.

“The bigamy laws are very strict,” she sighed, meditatively. “Do you not find them so?”

“What,” I gasped, “is your husband alive?”

“Yes,” she returned, “if he hasn’t drunk himself to death since we came here. If Miranda had only been able to charm Snakes,” she continued, “we could have lived very happily with her Pa.”

KITCHI-KITCHI

Strangely enough, this episode made me very weary of the Yellowstone. Mrs. Kirsten and the cured Miranda departed by the first train, leaving a formal farewell for me with the hotel clerk, who grinned sheepishly as he delivered the message. Republics are said to be proverbially ungrateful, and women are proverbially uncertain. I concluded to trust them no more, but to go back to one of my lodges in the vast wilderness and spend the remainder of the Summer far from maddening woman’s ignoble wiles.

I paid my William at the hotel—I have too much respect for it to call it a bill—and returned to my hermitage by the river and the little stream, where Jagg lay buried. As before, I found that my cabin had recently been occupied.

Human belongings were strewn upon my cot, and a kettle, hung in gypsy fashion, sang merrily over my camp-fire. I was righteously incensed, and I determined to make Ab understand, once for all, that my possessions were not to be trifled with. He had poisoned my pet, the principle remaining the same even though I was anxious to rid myself of that selfsame pet, and had made himself obnoxious in every possible way. With every heart-beat my ire grew until it assumed fairly tremendous proportions.

I went back to my cabin in search of some sort of a weapon, muttering to myself and savagely shaking my fists. When I came out, armed with a base-ball bat, an Indian stood by the fire, regarding me with pained astonishment.

He was about six feet six in height, and wide in proportion. His hair was short, and he wore no feathered head-dress, much to my surprise, for I thought an Indian always wore a feathered head-dress to keep his wigwa’m. His powerful bronze body was artistically draped in a Navajo blanket, however, and he had moccasins on his feet, so he looked his part.

Students of psychology have often observed the inexplicable effect that a surprise has upon the emotions. Frequently a complete reversal takes place, and it was so with me. A moment before, I had been furious and literally aflame with the lust of slaughter. Now I was conscious only of a broad, far-reaching brotherly love, and a keen, deep-seated desire to be friends with that Indian.

Acting swiftly upon this impulse, I advanced with hands outstretched and a smile of welcome upon my lips. “How!” I exclaimed. “The White Father is overjoyed to find his brother, the Red Man, sharing his humble hospitality. Too long have the feet of the palefaces had the right of way upon the trail. The woods are lonely without their brothers, the Red Men, and together we will live in this peaceful solitude until Bliz-Bliz, the snow-bird, spreads his wings and brings the cold. In my knapsack I have ample provisions to make the heart of my noble brother glad—Ma-Ma, the white bread, Bow-Wow, the Bologna sausage, Fishy-Can-Dish, the sardine, a package of the famous Polly crackers, Ah-Sid, the lemon, and a fragment of Phew-Phew, the well-known German cheese. Strange lands have sent their best viands to grace this notable occasion. Will not my brother, the Red Man, accept these small gifts until such time as I can go to the city after more? This very night I will set out upon the long trail, returning upon the wings of the wind with further tokens. If this is pleasing to my brother, I will now spread the evening meal, and after it, while the Night Owl searches for his prey, we will smoke the Perfectos of Peace. Will not my brother, the Red Man, tell the paleface his name?”

“John Baldwin,” said the Indian, very quietly. “Carlisle, ’99. Centre rush on the team.”

When I came to my senses, he was fanning me with a corner of his blanket, and moistening my numb lips with brandy. Presently I was able to sit up against a pine tree, though still weak, and take notice.

“Are you—?” I stammered. “Are you civilised?”

“No,” returned the Indian, with well-bred composure. “Are you?”

I could not tell whether I was or not, and with the swift, silent movements peculiar to his race, Mr. Baldwin emptied out the contents of my knapsack. He squeezed the lemon over the sardines, rubbing the mixture to a paste, cut the bread in very thin slices, and expeditiously made a pile of sandwiches. He brought me one on a burdock leaf.

“How,” he said. “Fishy-Can-Dish make paleface strong. Heap good sandwich.”

Trembling, I ate, and the stony features relaxed into a smile. “What part of the country did you come from?” he asked.

“All over it,” I answered. “The world is my country, humanity my people, and studying Natural History my job.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Baldwin. “I see. There was one of those blokes at Carlisle, but the boys chased it out of him.”

I would fain have risen to my feet, but I was held back. “Don’t get excited, partner,” continued my friend, who had one of his huge paws laid on my shoulder in a way that implied intimacy. “Whose cabin is this?”

“It was mine,” I explained, “until you came. Now it is yours.”

“No,” replied Mr. Baldwin, “it is still yours. You are off your trolley there. I beg your pardon for my intrusion, and to-morrow I will leave you. I would go to-night, but there is no train, and I must perforce trespass upon your hospitality a little further.”

“You are welcome,” I said, feebly. “It is the greatest joy of my life to have you here.”

“I do not doubt it,” he rejoined. “No one who heard your simple, sincere words could think otherwise. Such fine feelings are rare in the prosaic age we live in, do you not think so?”

I could only acquiesce. In fact, every time he said anything, I found that I had precisely the same point of view, and he must have thought me a very agreeable companion.

My night’s rest was illuminated with vivid dreams in which the war-whoop and the tomahawk played a star part, but whenever I started from my cot with my hair bristling, I was reassured by the peaceful breathing of my companion, who slept soundly on the other cot on the opposite side of the room.

In the morning he explained his Summer adventuring as a reversion to type. He was a lawyer in Oklahoma, but nevertheless he had been consumed with the longing to live as his ancestors did and to dress as they dressed. He had felt the call of the wild while he was toiling over briefs and contracts, and so far he had carried out his plan, omitting only the murderous features of his forefathers’ working days.

As his train did not leave until afternoon, he spent the time from breakfast to luncheon in my society, and afterward I was glad that he did so, for I learned many curious facts which I might otherwise have missed.

The trees around my cabin were so full of Squirrels that you could hardly see the leaves, let alone the branches, which were obscured by the bark of the Squirrels until their native covering was wholly hidden. The chatter was incessant and was like nothing so much as the composite sound one hears at the entrance to the Dog Show. Perceiving that I was interested, Mr. Baldwin very kindly gave up a little of his time to the Squirrel proposition.

“What is the Indian name for Squirrel?” I asked.

“Kitchi-Kitchi,” he replied.

“How did it happen?” I inquired. “What is the application?”

With a fine smile upon his bronze face, he went to the foot of a tree, where the Squirrels were having a nutty argument, and called very softly, using a language I did not understand. Then he retired almost to the door of the cabin, and sat down, still making the same peculiar call. Presently, with a swift, searching glance from a pair of bright eyes and a soft rustle like that made by a new silk petticoat, a lady Squirrel, of the red variety, came down the tree and ran straight into his lap.

“Kitchi-Kitchi,” said Mr. Baldwin.

At this the Squirrel turned over, and the Indian, with a playful forefinger, tickled her in the ribs, again saying, “Kitchi-Kitchi.” The Squirrel shrieked with delight and ran away, returning almost immediately to have the pleasant pastime repeated.

The argument in the tree broke up, and Mr. Baldwin tickled Squirrels, each time saying, “Kitchi-Kitchi,” until his finger must have ached, strong though it was.

I was very much astonished and keenly interested. From his ancestors, all of whom belonged to the First Families of America, this young Carlisle man had inherited the wonderful lore of the woods. What could I not hope to accomplish if I had him with me!

When I broached the subject, he frowned, and said he must be going. Within four minutes he was gone, as completely as if the earth had swallowed him. I was left alone with my books, a half-eaten sardine sandwich, Kitchi-Kitchi, and my thoughts.

I devoted some days to replenishing my larder. It was only twenty miles to the nearest village and I went every day, bringing back all I could carry each time. I laid in a liberal supply of pemmican, army beef, home-made biscuits, and other condensed foods, and rolled a barrel of flour before me on one of my last trips home. On the very last trip of all, I brought a bushel of shelled corn and two bushels of nuts for the Squirrels.

For a few days there was silence in the branches, then the racket began once more and from that time on there were plenty of Squirrels. My affections, however, were principally engaged by the bright little lady Squirrel I had first seen and whom I named “Kitchi-Kitchi.” She was a beautiful creature, in her mahogany-coloured coat with its fine markings, her dancing eyes, and her magnificent tail. She had all the airs of a soubrette and continually played to the front row.

I soon identified many of the Squirrels and singled them out from among their fellows. One of the red Squirrels I named “Meeko,” because he was far from meek, and because it is an Indian word meaning “mischief-maker.” Another one, also a red Squirrel, was called “Bismarck.” These two were suitors for Kitchi-Kitchi’s hand. She had other admirers, of course, but the race soon narrowed down to these two.

It was Bismarck who greeted me one afternoon when I ran my canoe ashore near camp. He stood on his hind legs, on the sandy beach, barking and gesticulating furiously. When I landed, he went to a log near by and ran the whole length of it three times, barking madly meanwhile, then back to me, then to the log again. It was not until he sat up on the log and beckoned to me with his right paw that I discovered what he meant. He was asking me, as plainly as any Squirrel could, to follow him.

With every sense instantly alert, I did as he wished me to. He led me to a hole he had dug in the leaves and pointed to it, still barking. I bent over it and found a Toad, which had been bitten through the back and could not hop.

I picked up the Toad and held him in my hand, meditating upon the mutability of all earthly things, and Bismarck almost went mad with excitement. He had evidently found the strange creature and bitten it through to make it lie still until he could find me. Now he was asking me what it was and whether or not it was edible.

By signs I made Bismarck understand that it was not edible in its raw state, and that I had no inclination whatever to cook it for him. I put it back into the hole, covered it, and went off a little way. Bismarck uncovered it, bit it once more, and was immediately taken very sick. He was well satisfied to leave it alone after that, and I made a corset of splints for it, lacing it on with a bit of twine I happened to have in my pocket. This done, the Toad hopped off in a great hurry, not even staying to say “thank you.” He evidently had no desire to pit his feeble strength against Bismarck again.

At the time, this whole incident was new to me, but after reaching home, I discovered much the same thing in a new book on Natural History. The other observer had found a Lizard in the hole, instead of a Toad, and he made no corset for the injured animal—at least if he did, he did not record it, but I always record everything.

Every morning, at four o’clock, Meeko, Bismarck, and Kitchi-Kitchi would waken me by giving a dance, with quadrille calls, on the roof of my cabin. I soon formed the habit of early rising and once I was up, ready for the day’s toil, before three. In order to let them know how it seemed, I pounded with an axe on the trees where the three had their nests, and they all scampered down, very much frightened. After that, I was not disturbed until half-past five, when they insisted upon my rising, and to which, as a compromise measure, I did not in the least object.

Kitchi-Kitchi, Meeko, and Bismarck would come into my cabin several times each day to be tickled. At first I found the novelty of it rather amusing, but at length it became wearing, and I was obliged to shut the doors and windows in order to have any time to write. Even then, they would dance on the roof and pound on the window glass in a way which was exceedingly disturbing to one of my artistic temperament.

My table was near the fireplace and Kitchi-Kitchi came in one day by way of the chimney. She arrived on the fair, open page of my observation ledger, sooty, panting, but thoroughly happy, and demanded to be tickled.

After that, the others came in that way, and even when the doors and windows were wide open, they would sometimes come in by the chimney route just for the fun of the thing.

“She arrived on the fair, open page of my observation ledger, sooty,
panting, but thoroughly happy.”]

It is not generally known that the Flying Squirrel has not a monopoly of the aërial navigation business as far as mammals are concerned. His body, it is true, is especially constructed for flying. The loose skin with which his legs are connected spreads out in falling, parachute fashion. Perhaps the other Squirrels have learned this from him; perhaps they learned it independently, but it is certain that a Squirrel can fall from almost any height without apparent inconvenience. They flatten their bodies and tails against the air and sail triumphantly downward, alighting easily and scampering off unhurt.

I did not know this before, but now I saw it done repeatedly. It was one of Kitchi-Kitchi’s favourite amusements to send Meeko and Bismarck to the topmost branch of a lofty oak near by, and at her signal make them jump. The one reaching the ground first was rewarded with a nut and a playful, coquettish pat.

Like the Chipmunks, the Squirrels hide their food, though it is done differently and on a much smaller scale. The Chipmunk will hide much and all in one storehouse; the Squirrel hides very little and everything in a different place—an ear of corn in the crotch of a tree, a handful of acorns under the eaves of a barn, bits of bread between two twigs, relying on the spring of the wood to keep it in position, and nuts everywhere.