"The dog darted after the hat."
"The dog took kindly to her foster-children."
Notwithstanding all the care which is now bestowed upon wild animals in our zoological gardens and menageries, nearly all of them suffer a little in some way or other by confinement. When we think of the great difference which exists between the surroundings natural to a free wild animal, and those of even the best zoological gardens, we cannot but be surprised that so many animals from all parts of the world can be kept alive and in good condition in a climate so changeable as ours. Every effort is made by the keepers to copy as far as possible the natural conditions to which each animal is accustomed.
It was usual, for instance, to deprive all the flesh-eating animals of one of the greatest travelling menageries of food during one day in each week. It was found by experience that the animals were healthier when they suffered periods of fasting like this, than they were when they were fed regularly every day without a break. The explanation of this was very simple. These animals, when they were living wild in the jungles, forests, deserts, or ice-fields, obtained all their food by hunting. When game was scarce or difficult to catch, they were compelled to go hungry; and this occurred so often as to be a natural condition to which they were well accustomed. When, therefore, they were placed in cages, and were fed as regularly, though not as frequently as human beings, their health was more or less impaired.
Animals in confinement often undergo slight changes even when no alteration in their appearance or falling-off in health is noticeable. Many of them, for instance, rarely have young ones, and even when they have, the young are seldom as healthy and robust as if born in a wild state. The keepers have frequently the utmost difficulty in rearing animals which are born in menageries and zoological gardens. Yet if these animals were born in their own countries and under natural conditions, they would grow up healthy and strong, without receiving any more care than a kitten receives from its mother.
An incident which occurred in the Zoo not long ago affords a striking illustration of these facts. A wolf had an ordinary family of eight young ones. The keepers, probably thinking that these were too many for the captive wolf to bring up alone, divided the family. Four of them were left with their mother, and four of them were placed in charge of a collie. The dog took kindly to her foster-children, and reared them successfully with her own. This was only what the keepers expected. But when they placed the young ones together again, and compared the collie's family with the wolf's family, they were surprised to find that the four which had been nurtured by the collie were stronger and better animals than their four brothers and sisters. The best explanation of this result is that the collie was living a healthy natural life, while the wolf, though to all appearance quite well, was not enjoying the full vigour which results from a free and active life.
W. A. Atkinson.
Some little time ago, there was what the newspapers described as 'unrest' in the West African colony of Lagos; telegrams were dispatched between that country and Great Britain, governors and deputy-governors were interviewed, and it was with difficulty that a native war was averted. The cause of all this commotion was an umbrella!
Now, in our country, as we all know, an umbrella is looked upon as a harmless possession—but not so in West Africa. There, amongst most of the native tribes, the umbrella is regarded as an emblem of royalty, and its possession is strictly confined to the chief or king of the tribe.
Therefore the indignation was intense on the part of one of these kings, when he found an inferior chief setting up an umbrella of his own. The king at once took a journey to Lagos, to lodge a formal complaint of the chief's treasonable conduct with the British Governor.
An African king's umbrella is a very elaborate affair, and it often costs large sums of money. Most of the umbrellas for Ashanti and the Gold Coast are made in London, and are of gigantic size, some of them when open measuring ten feet across.
The coverings of these umbrellas are of coloured silk—the brighter the better, with very deep fringes. The largest umbrellas are carried over the heads of chiefs, by bearers, while other bearers steady the umbrella by cords attached to the uppermost parts.
One state umbrella had for its apex a silver eagle standing on two silver cannons, whilst another umbrella had a gold hen on the top, the hen being surrounded by numerous chickens, to represent the chief and his tribe.
A cheap umbrella for a small chief can be had for ten pounds, but such state umbrellas as we have described are not to be had for less than sixty or even seventy guineas.
X.
A
BREEZE from the South made the rose-bushes quiver,And what did the South Wind say?'I met with an accident, crossing the river,The ice-covered river, to-day.''Twas frozen; and yesterday morning the skatersWere there in no end of a crowd,While Timothy Tubb in his scarf and his gaitersWas looking uncommonly proud.'So, early this morning, on reaching the river,I looked at its surface and cried:If Tim, on that ice, can show skating so clever,Now why shouldn't I have a slide?'But though I'm so light (oh, the thought makes me shiver),Crack! Bang! And from shore unto shoreThe water jumped out; I was half in the river,And don't mean to slide any more.'Yet—isn't it strange?—in the coldest of wintersTim Tubb can go skating with glee;While bang! goes the ice, and it cracks into splinters'Neath the foot of a South Wind like me.'
On a splendid night in the cool of the year, three men sat out in the Veldt in South Africa, talking and laughing over their camp fire. A few Kaffir drivers and huntsmen were similarly engaged at a second fire at some little distance. The light of the burning wood revealed fitfully the shape of the great waggon in the background, and the sound of munching behind it told of the presence of the team of oxen which had dragged it northwards from Bulawayo. Later on, when they trekked up into the lion-zone, the district in which lions and other dangerous beasts might be expected to visit them by night, if the way were left open for them, it would be necessary to encircle their camp with a ring of thorn-bushes or some other obstacles; but at present the party was only on the way to the hunting grounds, and it was still safe to run the risks of lions.
The three men were all English, or at least British, and all fairly young. Their names were Captain the Honourable Edward Vandeleur, Bobby Oakfield, an Indian civilian on a year's furlough, and Ralph Denison, a rich young man with nothing to do except to indulge his love of sport, whether fox-hunting, salmon-fishing, grouse-driving, or, as now, big-game shooting in any part of the world where large beasts were to be found.
Vandeleur, commonly known as Teddy, seemed to be the chief speaker this night; he was, at the moment of our introduction to the party, explaining a suggestion which he had just made to his friends. This is what he said:—
'We are likely to have longish watches over our camp fires, and perhaps we may get a bit tired of conversation night after night, with nothing much to talk about; now why not start a round of story-telling, each to spin a yarn in turn, one every evening, unless we should happen to feel more inclined for a talk, in which case we miss a day. Anybody who can't think of a tale must pay a fine of a shilling, the winner to take the total at the end.'
'Yes, but who is the winner?' asked Oakfield, laughing, 'The one who tells the best yarns?'
'Oh, no! who would be judge? The one who has had to pay the fewest fines takes the prize,' Denison said with a laugh.
'Good old Teddy!' he cried, 'he has a large collection of yarns all ready up his sleeve, Bobby, and he wants our shillings! Well, you shall have them willingly, old chap, if you keep us amused! Start at once—go on!'
'Why not draw lots for first yarn?' suggested Bobby, and the others fell in with the suggestion.
So lots were drawn, and it fell to Bobby himself to entertain the company.
'Start away at once, old chap. I'm tired of talking,and longing for a nap,' laughed Denison. 'If he makes it too long, Teddy, have we the right to ask him to finish it "in our next?" He might go on all night.'
'Certainly, any story may be split; if any fellow can entertain us for two nights on end, why, so much the better!'
'Off you go then, Bobby,' said Denison—"once upon a time"—fire ahead!'
Bobby Oakfield sat silent for a few minutes.
'I believe you are inventing,' said the irrepressible Ralph: 'is that allowed, Mr. President?'
'Realexperiences, as far as possible!' Vandeleur decided.
'Oh, it's real all right,' said Bobby; 'I was wondering whether to tell you first of a wolf adventure or a little meeting with a bear I once had—think I'll begin with the bear.'
This is the story of my first bear (began Bobby); the first I ever went out to hunt, I mean, though as a matter of fact he had more right to call me 'his first man,' than I to dub him 'my first bear,' for I fancy he was nearer getting me than I him. Which of us was most frightened, I hardly care to say! He must have been terribly alarmed if he suffered more than I did!
It was during one of my visits to Russia, and the season was early autumn. I was staying with a cousin, who was either part or sole proprietor, I forget which, of a big 'shoot,' some twenty miles out of town; and one day he received a letter which we both thought rather funny. It was from the head-keeper of the shooting club, and read something like this:—
'Most merciful lord' (my cousin was not a lord, but that's a detail; he would have made a very good one, I dare say), 'if your lordship's heart contains pity for humble fellow-creatures who are in distress, listen and be merciful. A bear has appeared here and is eating the uncut corn of the peasants. We have tried him with the usual methods, but they have proved useless. Come down and save us, merciful, for the appetite of the beast is very large; there is room in him for the whole of our harvest, therefore come quickly.'
'What are the usual methods?' I asked my cousin, and he replied with a laugh that probably the man meant that the elders of the village had pronounced a curse against the animal, or perhaps theguaharkaof the district, the 'wise woman,' had woven a spell, for these pagan customs survive even in Christian Russia.
'I'm afraid I'm too busy to go just at present,' said my cousin; 'I suppose you could not take on the business for me, could you?'
Well, I had not the slightest objection; indeed, I was delighted with the prospect.
'What am I to do?' I asked; 'hide myself in the standing corn and ambush him?'
'Leave it to old Michael, the keeper.' said my cousin. 'I will wire that you're coming to-morrow, I can telegraph within three miles of the lodge, and the message will be sent on.'
So my preparations were hurried forward, and I was ready and anxious to be off early on the following day.
"'Why not start a round of story-telling?'"
'Be kind to my dogs,' said my cousin; 'there are three of them there, red setters, beauties—Michael keeps them for me; have them into the room and pet them a bit, if you don't mind, for they have a dullish time down there, and I like them to see English folk now and then—it does them good!'
(Concluded on page26.)
IVE hundred years before the birth of Christ, Confucius declared that 'Music gives finish to the character, which has first been established by its rules of proficiency.' Moreover, he said, 'Wouldst thou know if a people be well governed, and if its manners be good or bad, examine the music it practises.'
When we reflect that the speaker was the most famous sage of the Chinese, to whom temples are built in every town of the vast empire of China, and to whose memory the Emperor himself offers homage twice a year at the Imperial College in Pekin, we may understand what weight his opinions have carried in his own country.
Long before his time, however, music had been studied there as a science. It was imported by the first invaders of the Celestial Empire, who hailed from the borders of the Caspian Sea. The Yellow Emperor, or Huang Ti, who reigned two thousand seven hundred years before the Christian era, established a fixed base note from which musical instruments were to be measured, much as in the modern musical system we take a key-note and found our chords and scales upon it. The connection between musical and State affairs was so business-like in those days that the precedence of the various classes was fixed according to the musical grade: F, the base note of the oldest known scale, represented the Emperor; G, the Prime Minister; A, the loyal subjects, and so on.
The "Tse King."
The "Ou" and playing stick.
Five hundred years later another Emperor, of a practical turn of mind, ordered that music should follow the sense of the words, and be simple and free from affectation, and he appointed a censor to see that his instructions were carried out. The latter, 'Couci' by name, declared that when he played upon his 'king,' the animals ranged themselves before him spell-bound by his melody.
We hear elsewhere of another ancient musician of China, whose music was 'so sweet that the very stars drew near to listen.' Later on in the history of the world we find this idea of the effects of music on animals and stars entertained both in Greece and India. The attention of the starry bodies can only be regarded as a beautiful myth, but the writer of this paper personally tested the animal love of music some years ago, when surrounded by a formidable herd of wild cattle in the Rocky Mountains.
The instrument known as 'king,' from which Couci drew such delightful sounds, is of very ancient date, and is made of a stone called 'yu,' which is of many colours, and looks like marble, being probably a form of agate intermixed with iron. The wonderful clearness and purity of the tone are supposed to result from long exposure to the sun and air.
'Yu' is most valuable when of whey colour; then light blue, dark yellow, orange, dark red, and pale green follow in order of merit. In all the colours it is essential that the stones be free from streaks or flaws of any kind. One of the chief attractions of the 'king' is that it always retains its pitch, not being influenced by cold, heat, damp, or dryness.
In construction the 'king' consists of sixteen stones hung in two rows of eight in an ornamental frame. Nowadays these stones are cut in oblong shape of varying thickness, tuned by slicing narrow shavings off the back and ends; but in former days they were fashioned like fishes, animals, or other quaint devices. The art of making 'kings' was lost for many centuries, but about 32 B.C. a specimen was fished up from the bottom of a pond which served as a model, and now every temple of importance has its 'king,' just as every church with us has its organ of some kind or other.
A smaller instrument of the same kind is also used in religious ceremonies, the 'the king,' made of one large block of 'yu,' suspended from an upright. It is played like the real 'king,' by being struck with a special stick or plectrum, and the tone, though less varied than that of the larger instrument, is equally deep and full.
Another curious Chinese instrument is the 'ou,' which is made of wood, and fashioned like a crouching tiger. It is hollow, and along its back run metal teeth, which are played with a small stick or brush. The 'ou' stands on a hollow pedestal, also of wood, which serves as a sounding board and increases the tone.
Helena Heath.
'Granny,' said Ethel Day, one Sunday, 'there was a lady in our seat at church that I never saw before. She was not very grandly dressed, but she must have been as rich—as rich as the king.'
'Why do you think so, Ethel?' asked Granny, smiling at the child's eagerness.
'Because, when the plate was passed to her—for the collection, you know—she put in a piece of gold money—real gold, I am sure it was. Oh! I should like to be rich enough to give as much as that.'
Granny was silent for a minute or two; she seemed to be thinking of something pleasant. 'I know of a golden offering that my little Ethel could make, if she were willing,' she said presently.
'Tell me what it is then, Granny: I shall be sure to be willing,' cried Ethel.
'The money the lady gave,' went on Granny, 'was for the poor sick people in the hospital. Look out of the window, Ethel, and you will see another kind of gold—a kind not counted so precious, perhaps, but really quite as beautiful.'
Ethel looked out: she only saw the flowers in her own garden. Lovely autumn flowers they were, for Ethel's father was a gardener, and he often gave his little daughter choice roots, or cuttings, for her plot of ground. But Ethel was accustomed to the sight of her flowers: dear as they were to her, and yellow as gold though they might be, Granny surely did not mean to compare them with the lady's half-sovereign.
That was Granny's meaning, however. 'There is a sick woman in the village,' she told Ethel, 'who cannot go to the hospital. She is so ill that, although she may live many years, she can never be cured, and so they cannot take her in. Because her illness has lasted so long, people have almost forgotten to be kind to her. I have been thinking, Ethel, that if you could spare a bunch of your flowers for poor Mary Ansell, it would be a real golden offering.'
It was Ethel's turn to be quiet now; her flowers were her most cherished possessions, and to pick a good bunch for Mary Ansell would make her little garden look bare and shabby. Granny knew that; she knew that Ethel's flowers would, in their way, be quite as costly a gift as the lady's golden coin.
But she was not much surprised, on the following morning, to find the best and brightest of the blossoms gone, and when next she went to see Mary Ansell, the poor woman still had the flowers in a jug by her bedside.
'You cannot think how it cheered me up,' said the invalid. 'That dear little girl, with her bright face, and the posy in her hands, was like a sunbeam coming in. She did me as much good as a mint of money.'
'Ah!' thought Granny, who knew how much real self-sacrifice must have been in the gift, 'I felt sure that Ethel too could make a golden offering.'
C. J. Blake.
(Continued from page11.)
'What will become of us if Thomas has gone away?' asked Estelle. 'Does the sea cover the beach very quickly? Will there be time for him to come back, or can we get away without him?'
'No, no,' cried Georgie, clinging to Marjorie; 'we can't go in the boat without Thomas! We shall all be drowned. Oh, I don't want to be—— '
'Shut up!' exclaimed Alan, impatiently. 'We are not drowned yet, and we are not going to be. You are frightening Estelle with your noise. It is all right, Estelle. Don't you be afraid. I can get the boat back all right with Marjorie's help if Thomas is not here in time. But there is no danger for an hour yet.'
'All the same, we had better find Thomas,' said Marjorie.
Neither she nor Alan had any serious belief in there being much mystery about Thomas's movements. They liked to imagine themselves in romantic positions, and were fond of weaving stories about any little event that attracted them. But the gardener's sudden disappearance, together with what Marjorie had seen in the cave, did seem strange.
'There's only one way of finding him,' remarked Alan, after he and Marjorie had stared at each other in silence for some moments. 'You see, he is nowhere in the cave. Now, what do you think has become of him?'
'Do you mean he has found a way up the cliff?' she asked, slowly, with what Alan called 'the pondering look' in her eyes. 'I wonder if he wanted to go into the woods when you saw him in the Wilderness, and if—if he has managed to get there now?'
'I never thought of that,' exclaimed Alan.
'If he has,' went on Marjorie, while Estelle and Georgie watched Alan anxiously, 'what do you mean by "only one way of finding him?"'
'Well,' returned Alan, hesitating as if his mind were not quite made up, 'we know of no path up, so there is nothing for it except to climb the cliff. I am sure I can do it, and who knows what I may find out?'
This proposal did not meet with favour from anybody. Marjorie declared it was impossible, and too dangerous to try—the cliff was far too steep. Alan and she could manage the boat quite well on a calm day. It would be less of a risk.
Estelle suggested they should go as far into the cave as possible—for Alan had told her that the end of it was above high-water mark—and remain there till the tide went down. It would certainly be very horrid, but it was better than going alone in the boat, or Alan trying to climb those terrible cliffs.
All her cousins laughed.
'It will be hours and hours before the tide is low again,' said Alan. 'Everybody would think we had come to grief, and there would be a pretty to-do. Aunt Betty would be wild, fancying you were lost. No, that will not do. It must be the cliff, and nothing but the cliff.'
Without waiting for further discussion, he went slowly along the beach, examining the great wall of rock. The other children followed, frightened into silence by his determined face and the dangers of the attempt. To Estelle there appeared to be no foothold possible in all that broad, dark surface; but Alan's keen eyes were not long in discovering a part which he might attack with some hope of success.
Pulling off his coat and tightening his belt, he took firm hold of the only projecting piece of rock he could find, and drew himself up to the first narrow ledge. There he paused to look back triumphantly, but such a row of anxious faces were staring up at him that he called out, impatiently, 'Now, do go and play. I am all right, and it is a jolly good thing to have a place to stand upon. Don't look at me all the time. You will make me nervous, and there will be an accident.'
But it was impossible for the other children to turn their eyes away as he crept up and up, hoisting himself by strength of arm in one place, seeking a foothold in another. Sometimes it appeared as if he were hanging literally by his fingers, and the lookers-on shuddered in terror lest he should fall. At other places he seemed to move along with more ease, and then they feared he would become careless.
It was well for Alan that his head was so steady, and that he did not attempt to glance down from the height he had already reached. Not for a moment would he dwell on the dangers of the ascent. Rather, he took a delight in matching himself against the stern rocks. With all his courage, however, it sometimes seemed to him as if his difficulties would never end. Three times he nearly as possible fell. The strength and fitness he had acquired in athletic sports and gymnasium at school stood him in good stead now.
Fortunately for him the ascent became far easier as soon as he got above high-water mark. The face of the precipice grew more and more uneven, offering greater support to his hands and feet, and by-and-by he was able to assist himself by the tufts of grass.
'He has reached the bushes!' cried Estelle, at last, with a cry of relief. 'He will be all right now, won't he?'
'Yes,' replied Marjorie, her voice still tremulous.
'And how's he coming down again?' asked Georgie, his fears by no means gone. 'And what are we to do if he doesn't come?'
Georgie and Estelle were gazing at Marjorie as if her words and her calm alone prevented them from breaking down. If she gave way to fear, what effect might it not have upon them? It was her duty to encourage and raise the spirits of the younger ones, and put aside her own misgivings. With an effort she forced herself to speak in cheerful tones.
'It is useless to think about it,' she said, 'and the best thing we can do is to amuse ourselves till it is time to go. Look, the boat ought to be pulled up higher. Let us see if we can manage it between us.'
Meantime Alan had reached the coastguard path which ran along the edge of the cliff. No one being in sight, he determined to take the narrow track which lay through a wooded hollow. It was part of the Moat House property, and he desired to see whether he and Marjorie had been correct in their guess that it was to this wood that Thomas had wished to come when he was seen in the Wilderness.
Scrambling over the queer stone stile, he descended the rugged pathway, where the thick brushwood and high trees shut out sky and sunlight. As he advanced the track became narrower and more mossy, while here and there the ground was broken by rocks. Now and again high mounds of earth, mossy and green, rose on either side, and the wood grew denser. He was uneasy, and half wished he had kept to the edge of the cliff, where the way was clear, for he seemed to have left the world behind him. There was something uncanny in the dead silence, and he quite startled when a rabbit jumped across his path into a hole. But the next moment, boy-like, he wished he had had the dogs with him that he might give chase.
(Continued on page30.)
"Alan paused to look back.""Alan paused to look back."
"Just then a man on horseback appeared.""Just then a man on horseback appeared."
'Now I will tie you to the garden gate, and pretend I have put my horse in the stable,' Fanny said to her little brother Dick, with whom she had been playing horses until she was hot and tired.
Her mother had gone to the market town, and would not be home until the evening, and so Fanny was left in charge of her brother.
Dick thought it was rather interesting to be tied up in a stable, and so he was quite happy when Fanny said that she wanted to run down the road to see her friend, Dora Barnes, for a few minutes.
At first Dick pretended to eat oats out of a manger; then he thought he would lie down and sleep. But that was dull, so he got up and pranced and kicked with impatience; and presently the time began to drag more and more slowly, and he wondered when Fanny would come back again.
'These knots are so tight, I cannot undo them, and I am so tired of playing at being a horse tied up in a stable,' he said sadly to himself.
After a time he gave up trying to pretend, but curled himself up and fell fast asleep. And still his sister did not come; but somebody else did.
In the meantime, Fanny had found her friend, and had heard the splendid news that a circus was just going to pass through the village.
This was enough to drive everything else out of Fanny's head. The two little girls started off to see the fun, and poor Dick was quite forgotten.
There were ladies riding in golden cars, and little piebald ponies, and an elephant, and all kinds of marvellous sights. Fanny and Dora followed the procession to the field in which the tent was to be put up, and it was growing late before they thought of setting out for home.
Then there suddenly came into Fanny's mind the remembrance of the little boy she had left fastened to the gate.
'I forgot all about him,' she said to Dora. 'I do hope he is all right.'
But when they reached the cottage, no Dick was to be seen!
'Perhaps he managed to untie the cords, and is in the house,' Dora suggested.
They hunted high and low, but no Dick was to be found, and Fanny burst into tears.
'Oh, Dora,' she cried, 'perhaps the circus people have been here and stolen him! You know they do steal little boys sometimes, and make them walk on tight-ropes. And they may be unkind to Dick. Oh! what shall I do?'
At this moment a man on horseback came down the lane, and there, riding in front of him, was Dick!
Fanny thought her worst fears were realised. The man must be a circus rider, and how could she hope to rescue her brother if the man chose to turn and gallop away!
She rushed to meet them. 'Oh, please, sir, don't carry Dick away!' she cried. 'He is so little, and he is too fat ever to learn to dance on a tight-rope!'
'Why, I am bringing him home,' the man said; 'and what have I to do with tight-ropes?'
Then Fanny recognised the gentleman as a friend of the Squire's, who was staying with him at the Hall.
'I beg your pardon, sir; I thought the circus people had stolen him,' she stammered.
'They have stolen a little girl's wits, I think,' said the gentleman, smiling. 'I found Dick all alone and very forlorn, so I took him for a ride, and am now bringing him back to see if there is any one here to take care of him. Are you the sister who was left in charge?'
'I forgot all about him,' Fanny confessed, blushing and hanging her head, 'and I was so frightened when I came home and did not find him here.'
'Well, look after your little brother better another time,' the gentleman said, as he lifted Dick down and rode away.
And forgetful Fanny remembered this lesson, and tried not to be so thoughtless again.
M. H.
O
H' what a terrible mistake!'Cried Mrs. Brahma Hen;'I'd set my heart on yellow chicks,And these are black again!'She ran at once to Dr. Goose,'What can I do?' cried she.'My charge for giving good adviceIs fifteen worms,' quoth he.It was such hot work catching them,It nearly made her faint:And fifteen worms'-worth of adviceWas 'Buy some yellow paint!'
A. Katherine Parkes.
A village schoolmaster in Germany one day did something at which the parents of one of his pupils foolishly took offence. On the following morning, the angry mother of the lad entered the schoolroom during lesson-time, and began to scold and rate the master. He knew what was coming, and, as she began, called out, in a tone of command, 'Children, the multiplication table!'
At once the whole school began to repeat the table in chorus. The woman stormed and raged, while the scholars only shouted the harder, and the master quietly laughed to himself. Speechless with anger and surprise, the woman at last went away, and the teacher was left master of the field of battle.
H. B. S.
(Concluded from page20.)
The hunting lodge proved a delightfully comfortable place, and old Michael was a splendid game-keeper. He seemed disappointed that my cousin had not come, for apparently he regarded Jack with great confidence. To me, however, he was very courteous and polite, and I think he did his best to hide his disappointment.
The bear was a big one, he said; he damaged as much corn as he ate, and since his inside was 'as large as a barn' (so Michael said), the unfortunate peasants were in great trouble with regard to their crops.
By this time I had learned enough Russian to keep up a simple conversation, in which of course grammar had no part whatever; I could make myself understood if my companion happened to be a person of sense, and this old Michael was. To my inquiry as to how the bear and I were to become acquainted, he replied that he had made all arrangements.
'There is flesh placed in an open space in the forest which he crosses sometimes,' Michael said; 'his tracks pass over it several times. When it is dusk I shall guide you to the place, and you shall climb a tree and pass the night in it; at early dawn he will come and eat, and then you will shoot.'
I liked the plan; it was something quite new—rather a chilly experience, perhaps, but one must put up with a little inconvenience in the pursuit of bears 'with insides like barns'! I would dress warmly.
I remembered Jack's request that I would be kind to his three lovely red setters, Duke, Monarch, and York, and during the rest of the day they were with me, noon, afternoon, and evening. They vied for my special favour; they could not make enough of me. 'It is so delightful to see an English face again,' they told me as plainly as if they could speak 'and we do like you so!' They ate most of my lunch; they walked out in the afternoon with me; they fought one another for my attention; they shared my dinner. We spent a short evening together; I grew dearer to them every moment, and when I said good-night to them, and they were locked up in Michael's stable, their howls were so loud that one might have supposed the greatest possible disaster had overtaken each one of them. I heard them howling and barking very miserably as I walked away with Michael into the forest, and for a mile their distressed voices were audible—really it was very flattering to me, I thought!
Arrived at the spot where Bruin's repast had been laid out, Michael pointed out to me the tree which he had selected as my ambush. It was indeed the only convenient one, standing as it did close to the place where the bear must stop to eat the supper arranged for him. So I climbed up into the branches, old Michael handing up my warm coat and rug, and settled myself as comfortably as possible in a place where a natural couch in the fork of the tree seemed to offer an inviting spot for slumber, while Michael bade me good-night and went off. I heard his footsteps for ten minutes as he tramped away into the darkness and silence of the forest; then these died away, and I was left alone with my thoughts and with the stillness and ghostliness of the night.
Things get a bit on one's nerves under these circumstances, and I felt very far from being sleepy. I started when a gust of wind caused some pine-tree to utter a groan; every rustle of twig upon twig sent the blood to my pulses—was the bear coming? Nevertheless, I did eventually fall asleepunawares, and it must have been early morning, about two o'clock, when I awoke with a start. A sound had roused me—what was it? I listened: undoubtedly the bear was here and busy over his meal; there was a gobbling and grunting, and the noise of greedy satisfaction. I was not nervous now; my sleep had done me good. If only I could see the brute, to point my rifle at him! I could just distinguish in the darkness a black mass which might be he, but it would be useless to risk a shot. So I waited with what patience I could muster, which was very little, and listened to the gobbling beneath me, and longed for daylight.
And as I sat and listened a new sound suddenly reached my ears—as I was a born Briton there were those wretches, Duke and Monarch and York, still crying for me in Michael's stables, maybe two miles away! How sounds do travel in the silence of night-time; probably a gust of wind from that direction had brought me this tale of their devotion to their new friend! Well, if so, they must be a terrible nuisance to the village, thought I, if this has been going on all night!
I continued to listen, and the yelping barks of the dogs came with marvellous distinctness to my ears, indeed, the sound seemed to grow more distinct. Was the wind rising? the tree-tops against the skyline seemed to be quiet enough. Surely the brutes—but no! they had been securely shut up in Michael's stable....
The bear appeared to be listening also; there was gobbling and a pause; more gobbling and another pause—oh! if he should grow nervous and bolt before I could get in a shot! A great change came over my feelings towards those dogs. I had thought them charming animals last night; now, as I listened to their yelping—it was growing more distinct, not a doubt of it!—I began to hate them bitterly. They were loose and were following my track through the forest! The splendid opportunity of scoring my first bear was trembling in the balance! The sounds came nearer and nearer. I tried to point my rifle at the dark opaque mass below me, but it was useless.
Then suddenly came a crisis. The bear had been gobbling less and listening more—did he mean to bolt? If he moved, I should risk a shot. Of a sudden there was a moan, a snarl, a shuffle; he had taken fright, he was off!
Wildly I raised my rifle, I tried to catch a glimpse of him—oh, for a ray of light! But for the life of me I could not distinguish even his big body; I could have wept for anger, for in another instant my opportunity would have gone.
Then came one of the few shocks, really bad ones, from which I have suffered during a fairly peaceful life; in one instant and without the slightest warning I became aware that the great brute was climbing my tree! My tongue was paralysed with horror, I could not even shout; I endeavoured to point my gun downwards, but the barrel caught against a bough; I gasped, attempting to shriek. I heard his panting breath close beneath me; then I felt that his claws had caught the end of my long fur coat, and all the pent-up horror I felt found vent at last in a shriek of anguish.
"Three yelping, delighted dogs."
Apparently this caused Bruin quite as much terror as he had caused me, for he fell back to the ground like a stone, and since his claws were attached to my coat, I fell with him. For one horrible moment we rolled together on the ground—I remember the animal smell of the brute to this day—and then he was gone! and coming in his place three yelping, delighted dogs were jumping about on me. I'm afraid I called those setters names which they must have thought very rude; I kicked at them and abused them; gradually they realised that I was not quite the nice fellow they had thought me.
I learnt later that a furious neighbour of Michael's, annoyed by their night-long barking, had opened the stable-door and let them out. But the bear—alas! I never saw him again; he left the place in sore dudgeon—so that the peasants saved the remains left to put up with certain rude remarks from my cousin Jack. I believe he thought these remarks humorous, but I assure you they were not in the least funny.