Part 4

“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.