Part 3

In the morning I began to scrub the cabin vigorously. When I went after another cake of soap, I saw that there was nothing left but a piece of the wrapper about the size of a curl paper, and, since I have the usual masculine aversion to curl papers and wrappers, I gave an exclamation of horror.

Jagg’s guilty face betrayed him, and I hastened to my table. “If you ate that soap,” I wrote, “you will have to stay here while I go to town for more. If you ate it, nod, and if you are willing to stay, nod. It will be better for you if you decide to stay.” These last words I underlined with red ink to give them a sinister significance.

After assimilation, Jagg came to me and nodded twice. He was evidently sincere in his repentance, so I took my suit case, and my note-books, and set out for the station with a light heart. He sat in the door of the cabin, watching me wistfully, and the old, familiar, Indian-blanket odour sensibly decreased as I progressed.

When I boarded the train, he was nowhere in sight, and my pulses throbbed with exultation. Freedom at last, after weeks of Jagg! It was too good to believe.

I found my new cabin occupied by a morose, hickory-shirted individual christened “Abadiah,” but known simply as “Ab.” He refused to believe that I was the rightful owner of the place, and I had no way of proving it, as my evidence had been eaten. He said he’d just “squat” round there until he saw a written order to move out, and I made the best of a bad bargain. There were two cots in the cabin, so I did not mind particularly, and it was not altogether unpleasant to have someone of my own species with me after my long isolation.

Weary, but foolishly light-hearted, I went to sleep. When I awoke, I had the same old uneasy feeling of being watched, and, rubbing my eyes, I saw, sitting on the foot of my cot—who should it be but Jagg, chewing the cud of reflection?

An old silk hat was wedged tightly over his horns, there was a baleful gleam of mockery in his singularly human eyes, and around his neck was tied an ordinary express tag, which was inscribed, simply: “Please pass the Butter.” Where he had obtained it, I do not know, but he had evidently taken the next train.

When Ab woke up, he viewed the new arrival with disfavour, which was promptly reciprocated by said arrival.

“Likely lookin’ animile,” grunted Ab. “Whose is it?”

“It seems to be ours,” I answered, with a hollow laugh.

“Smells like thunder, don’t it?” asked Ab.

Jagg bleated five times in rapid succession and plunged out into the fresh air, then turned toward the spring where we got our drinking water and took off the brakes. Before any one could prevent him, he had taken a bath in the spring and emerged dripping wet, with his hat still on.

Ab’s disgust knew no bounds. “Bilin’ the water won’t help it none now,” he said. “Reckon we’ll have to drink bug juice.” He drew a flask from his pocket and took a long draught, smacking his lips with evident enjoyment.

Here Jagg did his Skootaway stunt, and Ab blinked. There was not even a glimmer of white in the air—one merely had the impression that something had gone by.

“Say, pardner,” said Ab, brokenly, “tell me the truth. Have I got ’em, or was there a Goat with a plug hat on settin’ here a minute ago?”

“The Goat and the hat were both here,” I assured him, and he sighed in relief. “I suppose,” he continued, meditatively, “that we both orter take the pledge.”

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?”