Part 8

For the first time in my life I knew the fear of which men and books tell you. Many had been the stories told by hunters who passed the cabin, of the ferocity of mountain lions and wildcats, although none of them had ever been seen in the woods around us, because civilization was too near. These beasts, said the hunters, kept to the higher hills and the deeper wooded forests, where game abounded and men seldom came. So when I saw the tawny animal so close that one light spring would have carried the powerful body upon me, my first impulse was to run—blindly, madly—to run until I could run no more, or until the fierce claws of the great cat should bear me to the ground—

The wildcat had not moved except to lift its head ever so slightly and to draw back its jowls in a hissing snarl that displayed cruel, white fangs. The amber eyes watched me without flickering, yet in them I saw distrust, startled anger, and ever so little of a desire to spring—to kill—

In that one instant I had many thoughts—dizzy, rambling thoughts, that chased themselves across my mind like dried leaves blown by a wind. I noticed the straight, white whiskers on either side of the wildcat’s nostrils; I heard the distant fall of a tree; I saw a grasshopper leap from a blade of grass that was bending under his weight; I heard the scuttle of leaves somewhere in the woods and knew that a bevy of quail was there. But I could not move. I stood still in the grip of that numb terror.

What would have happened I can not say. Suddenly the fear left me—for I _knew_! I knew that the tawny animal before me was a wild thing of the woods even as were the other wild things I loved. I knew that fear of fire had driven him from his familiar haunts far up in the mountains, that he sought these woods for protection, not for killing, and I knew that I, having been in those woods longer than he, was hostess there, and that it was my place to make him welcome, to extend to him the friendly greetings that I would have tendered to any of my woods friends. The fear was gone, utterly. I wanted to put my hand on his sleek head, to stroke his glossy back, to put my cheek against the russet satin of his thick coat.

But I made no move. I spoke to him, as I would have spoken to any other of my woods friends, telling him that he was welcome, that the woods were his as well as mine, and that I hoped the fire would spare his relatives who were dear to him.

As I spoke, the amber eyes opened wider, the snarl died away, and suddenly he yawned, voluminously, with a snap of his jaws and a careless licking motion of his red tongue. Then his eyes closed indifferently, and I knew he had understood me. I knew that between us was no thought of fear or hate. I walked past him up the trail, so close that I might have touched him, and he did not move. Only the amber eyes met mine squarely, and it was as if the wild thing from the deeper woods had said with words,

“We are friends—go in peace.”

When I had gone up the trail a way, I stopped at the bend in the path and looked back. The wildcat was in the same position, but he was watching me still with eyes unblinking and unafraid.

So that is why, some years later, when Ethel raised her head and met my eyes, the icy fear slipped away. For I saw her, not a savage, bloodthirsty beast, but a wild thing of the deep woods, girded round with iron bars and stinging whips, a wild thing ruled by pain instead of kindliness, and there surged into my heart a great love and pity for her. I wanted to take the whip from the man, to break it into bits, to tell her that she was free to go back to her mountain fastnesses.

So, disregarding the cry of warning from the trainer and the gasps from those who stood outside the cage, I walked slowly toward the crouching lioness, saying to her the things I would have said had I met her in the woods, telling her that I, too, belonged to the out-of-doors, that I, too, was a captive, that between us there was a bond. Slowly the snarling lips relaxed, the glint of green went out of her slanting eyes, and she no longer crouched. I knelt beside her on the floor of the cage, while the lions above on their pedestals watched with curious, sullen eyes, and the trainer’s voice died away in a series of gulps. Gently I put out my hand and touched her rough, tawny head. She flinched and snarled, but I did not draw my hand away, and the next instant I felt her tense muscles relax, and she was quiet under the steady stroking of my hand.

The trainer spoke to me in an agonized whisper, telling me to come away quickly, and as I rose from my kneeling position, Ethel rose, too. Padding over to the pedestal which was hers, she mounted to it with a spring and sat there quietly, her eyes never leaving me or missing a motion I made.

When we left the cage, Ethel padded close to my side, and the trainer said in jest that I might take her for a pet.

If I only could have! My heart was aching for her as I left, for I, too, am sometimes rebellious at the ways of civilization and of a world that does not know or care about the things of life that have nothing to do with money. I, too, am lonely for the freshness of leaves wet with dew, the feeling of moss underfoot, the glint of sunlight through laced branches. I think I know a little of the longing that is hers as she paces back and forth in her narrow cage, for hers is not a savage heart—only a wild heart; and I know that love can speak to it and soothe its hurt.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● HTML alt text was used for images that didn’t have captions.