The next evening, about dusk, all the children who had been visiting Nancy and Valentine came again in a troop, scrambling and crowding at the door to get in first. They were so anxious to hear the remainder of the Bear’s story. As they all came into the room, they cried out, “Is he come?—When will he come?”
Dr. Littlepump walked up and down the room with an air of serious anxiety; anyone could see he had something on his mind. Mrs. Littlepump also said more than once that she hoped no accident would happen on the road to prevent the coming of Mr. Bear. Margaret now became very anxious and fidgetty, and looked at Uncle Abraham, as though she was a little vexed at his indifference about the event in which everybody else took so much interest. Dorothea, Lydia, and Wallis, all said they, for their parts, had been unable to sleep all last night for thinking of the stout gentleman’s story. But nothing of all this seemed to move Uncle Abraham, who sat smoking his Dutch pipe and twinkling his eyes. Presently, however, the clock struck five, and he rose from his chair, saying he must go and make a little visit a few doors off before he went to bed. They all begged him very hard to stay and see Mr. Bear, but he shook his head, and said, “Pooh” and walked away. Margaret looked pleased when he was gone, but the children said it was very naughty of him not to stay.
Margaret said, “Let us play a little game until Mr. Bear arrives.”
They began to play the game, but they did not attend to it. Their minds were too much filled with the expectation of Mr. Bear.
“Oh, I do hope the gentleman Bear will be sure to come,” cried little Val.
As he said this they very plainly heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs coming up the street. They all ran to the window. What was their surprise and delight to see that it was the Bear on horseback! As the horse stopped before Dr. Littlepump’s door, the stout gentleman in the rough coat bent forward, then let himself slowly down, hanging carefully till his fur boots touched the ground. At this all the children burst out laughing; but instantly recollecting themselves, they ran away from the windows, and scrambled into seats round the stove, coughing a little, to pretend it had been only that. And now a knock was heard at the door and a loud ring! Margaret ran and opened the door and in came the Bear.
Everybody was so glad to see him. Wallis and Margaret helped him to take off his cloak and comforter. Mrs. Littlepump begged him to take a seat near the stove. Dorothea presented him with a large cup of nice coffee, hot, and strong, and very sweet, and Dr. Littlepump handed him Uncle Abraham’s pipe.
Everybody being now comfortably settled, the Bear rose from his chair, and, bowing all round, looked at Dr. Littlepump and said, “Mr. Dr. Littlepump, let me know what is the wish of our young friends here?”
“Oh, Mr. Good-Natured Bear!” cried Nancy, “do please continue your delightful story!”
The Bear laid one paw upon his heart,—bowed—sat down—and after looking thoughtfully into the bowl of his pipe for a few minutes, as if to collect his ideas, thus continued:
“At the foot of our cave, there was, as I have told you, a plot of high, green grass with a path through it up to the entrance. At the back of the rock in which the cave was, there grew several fine old oak trees, and some young elms, all promising to become very tall and beautiful. My father was very fond of walking alone among those fine trees.
One afternoon he was taking a nap on our bed of leaves in the cave, when he was aroused by a noise at the back of the rock, among the trees. The sound was that of a number of hard blows one after another. My father went to see what it was, and there he saw a woodman with an axe cutting down the young elms. In perfect rage, my father ran towards the man, who instantly scampered away as fast as he could, crying out: ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’
The next morning as soon as it was light the same noise was heard again among the trees. Up jumped my father, but my mother, fearing some danger, went with him. It was a good thing she did so, as the forester had brought his two sons with loaded guns to watch for my father while the woodman was at work. My mother saw the two youths each hiding behind a large tree and she begged my father, both for her sake and mine, to come away. At last he did so, though not without much gruffness and grumbling.
By the evening the woodman had cut down about a third part of the young elms. Then he went away, intending to come and carry them off in the morning. My mother tried to persuade my father not to interfere because it was too near our home. But my father said they were his trees and he could not bear to lose them. So at night he collected all the trees that were cut down, and carried them, one or two at a time, to a river, at a short distance, where the current was strong, and threw them in with a great splash. Long before morning the current had carried them all far away.
The next day the woodman came with his two sons, a team of horses, and ropes to drag the trees away. But there was not one to be seen! After wondering and sitting under an oak for an hour, the woodman again went to work with his axe and cut down more young elm trees. He sent one son back with the horses, as they were needed for the plow.
In the evening the woodman went away as before, leaving the trees, and thinking no one would steal them a second time. But at night my father went as before and threw them all into the river. In the morning the woodman came again with the team. ‘What!’ cried he, ‘All gone again!—it must be the work of some fairy! Thieves could never carry away clean out of sight all those heavy young trees,—unless, indeed, it were the Forty Thieves, for it would need as many.’
Again the woodman cut down the trees and now there was not an elm left standing. He went away in the evening, as before, leaving the trees upon the ground. My father was sallying out to carry them off in the same way as before when my mother said, ‘Do not go, Benjamin (we always spoke in Bear language, you know, and not as I talk to you), do not go to-night, Benjamin, I beg you!’
‘Why, that unfeeling rascal has cut down all my young elms and the next thing you know he will cut down my oaks. I will not endure it,’ said my father angrily.
‘But this is by no means certain,’ reasoned my mother. ‘He seems to want only the elms. And at the worst we could find another cave with oaks near it.’
‘But not with oaks and a nice river, too!’ said my father.
‘Then the child (meaning me) and I must go with you and help to do it as quickly as possible. After it is done we will go and sleep for a few nights in the forest over the northern hills, for my mind is very uneasy about matters,’ said my mother.
My father laughed and said ‘GOOFF-ZUGDT,’ which, in Bear language, means ‘Nonsense!’
So we all went out of the cave and worked away at a great rate. My father and mother carried the largest of the young trees, and I such of the smallest as my tender years would allow. By midnight we had just finished and my father was carrying the last tree, when suddenly a shout was heard and we saw a flash of torches! The trees had been seen floating downstream, by some men who were coming to watch for the thieves, or to see if it was the work of fairies.
‘Cross the stream, higher up, and run for the northern hills,’ shouted my mother. At the same time she seized me by one ear in her mouth and lugged me along till we came to the river bank. Instantly she soused me into the water. When I came to the surface, I instantly felt my ear again in my mother’s warm mouth, and we soon landed on the other side. My father was not with us. We took it for granted that he had run in some other direction, and would rejoin us shortly. The shouts, however, followed us and so did the men with torches. My mother never once looked behind, but ran, lugging me along by one ear, through fields and woods, up hill and down dale. At last she laid me on some warm leaves under thick bushes. But my father did not join us. We never saw him again. He was captured and taken to the village.
My poor father was now lost to us; therefore, my mother set herself busily to work at my education. She divided every day into various portions; and although a large share was given to amusement in which I played with several young bears of my own age, and had sometimes a gambol with other young animals, still there was nothing that gave me more pleasure than the lessons I received from her. For this purpose she would generally take me into some quiet part of the wood. There, under a wide-spreading tree, she taught my young ideas ‘how to shoot!’ One lesson in particular, I remember, as she took great pains to impress it on my memory. I have followed the idea in all my conduct through life and I can truly say with the best results to myself. I will recite for you the verse which tells the lesson she taught
Oh! thou small Bear,
Learn to bear, and forbear,
And of good luck, or good friends, never despair.
A few days after I had received this lesson, I found myself placed in a situation which needed the good advice of the little verse. An extremely well-behaved young pig, and a very merry little fox, with whom I was playing, asked me what I had been doing the other day near a certain hollow tree. I told them I often collected acorns there in the morning and went in the evening to eat them. They said no more, and we went on playing round about the trees—and sometimes climbing up them—that is—the merry little fox and I did this. The young wild pig could not. But after that day, whenever I collected acorns in the morning and put them into the hollow tree, and then went at night to eat them, they were all gone!
One evening, however, as I was returning home after my disappointment and wondering who it could be, I heard a laughing in the thickets, and entering suddenly there I saw the little fox and my friend the wild pig who were just going to run away when they saw me. They both looked very foolish as our eyes met. So the thought struck me that they were the thieves, and I at once accused them. The wild pig became angry and denied that he had stolen a single acorn. He said he would not be called a thief by anybody. The little fox said he had never eaten a single acorn in all his life, nor had his father before him. Also, he said he would not be called a glutton by anybody.
On hearing this I understood how it all was. ‘Jemmy,’ said I, fixing my eyes upon the little fox, ‘Jemmy! you know very well that you stole my acorns. We have often played together and this is the first bad trick you have served me. You know I am quite able to punish you severely, and take your tail away from you. But I forgive you this time.’
Then I turned to the young wild pig and said, ‘Hugo, you have eaten my acorns. You know that I am stronger than you, that I could throw my arms around your neck and give you such a one! (meaning a hard hug)—but I forbear for the sake of our old friendship. I feel sure this will never happen again, and, no doubt, we shall all be better friends than ever.’
At this, the little fox shed a great many tears, and continued to rub his eyes with his little yellow brush for five minutes afterwards. The wild young pig stood silently for some time, as if he were trying to understand all about it. When he did speak it was only ‘ouff’—but I thought he felt what I had said.
At night, when we were going to bed, I told the whole story to my mother. She said I had acted rightly, according to what she had taught me in the verse. ‘For what,’ said she, ‘would have been the use of beating and squeezing the young thieves? It would not have brought back the acorns, and would have made them both enemies in the future, ready to steal anything. But as it is you have got two friends, and lost nothing.’
After thinking a moment, I said, ‘Yes, Mother, but I’ve lost my acorns!’
‘They are not more lost than if you had eaten them,’ said my mother. ‘When a thing is eaten, it is lost. All you have to complain of is that the wild young pig ate them for you. But as you have forgiven him of course you ought to think no more of the matter. Act thus through life toward your fellow creatures. Do so for the sake of the verse I taught you, and trust to nature for good results. Now, child, go to sleep.’
In this manner I passed my early youth and was just coming to my full size and strength when the dreadful thing happened which I spoke of when I first had the honour of talking to the present company. It was the terrible thing which made me an orphan in the world.
We were greeted one evening by a very ragged but wise old ape who had managed to escape from the menagerie in the big city. He was disguised as a Chinese tea-merchant, and he begged a night’s lodging, as he thought himself out of all danger. He told us news about my poor father. He was put in a menagerie in the village and there he grieved himself to death.
My mother never recovered after this sad news. She made no complaint, nor did she appear to give way to grief, but she gradually sank, and sank. Her feet failed her and her teeth fell out. One night, in a more than usually affectionate manner she had her last talk with me. She told me to act always with honesty, truth, and good feeling towards everyone; to bear all injuries and misfortunes as firmly as I could. She begged me in all dealings to keep from feelings of revenge and hatred. She then gave me an embrace, and told me to sleep well, and remember her words. In the morning I found her lying dead upon the moist green grass, with her head gently resting upon one paw.”
As the Bear uttered these last words, he seemed overcome with many feelings and thoughts of other years. Then, suddenly rising from his chair, he hastily put on his hat and cloak, and hurried out of the room. His friends heard the sound of the street-door closing, and two of the children ran on tiptoe to the window; but he was out of sight.