CHAPTER IV

Now, there is one thing, Children, which often plays a sorry part in the lives of two-legged men! Often it leads them a worse dance than the dogs led the bear! That is fear.

And in this case fear, foolish and unreal, not only proved to be bad for the shepherd man who was starting to cross the plain with the full bag of flour on his back, but it made trouble for the mother bear, too, who, snorting around among the bushes with her cubs, watched him from the top of the mound.

If she had been alone, if she hadn't had two little baby bears with her, she never would have thought of chasing that fat shepherd man at all.

But, all of a sudden, as she looked down at him, a queer, false fear took hold of her and made her hunch her back up; it was that, if she didn't chase him, the two-legged man might do some harm to her cubs, whom she loved so much.

But still he looked so harmless, walking slowly upon the plain, with the flour-sack upon his back, that I really don't think she would have done it; I think she would have let him go on his way quietly to the hill of the sheep and the starry lights, if he hadn't looked up and seen her.

However, this is what happened: he did see her. And although he was a good shepherd man who prayed to God, was kind to his sheep and lambs, and tried to reflect divine Love in his heart and life, fear took hold of him when he looked at that great mound of earth above the swamp and saw a big, brown animal, with a hunched-up back moving around there among the bushes.

"A bear!" he gasped to himself and the flour-sack shook upon his back. "A she-bear--and cubs with her! Oh! my fat legs! I c-can't run very fast. Maybe, maybe, she'll chase me!"

Then the foolish fear shook his fat legs so much that he couldn't just keep quietly and calmly walking on, with his bag of flour.

He began to run, himself, away from the bear--away from the mother bear that wasn't yet chasing him! To run faster and faster on his fat legs, just as fast as he could without dropping the bag of flour.

Of all the foolish things that he could have done, this was the most foolish, for fear was in the mother bear's heart, too, as you know, fear for her cubs. And when she saw that shepherd man running, jogging along--joggetty-jog--as fast as he could over the plain, why, then she was sure that he meant some mischief to her two cubs.

Perhaps she felt without reasoning about it, that if he had a good conscience and didn't mean any harm to her yellow bear cubs, he wouldn't have been running away from her, that he would just have walked quietly on, without taking any notice at all of the bears on the mound, which was what he ought to have done.

But now, she was so full of blind fear herself, that she didn't hesitate another minute, she just ran after him as fast as ever she could.

Down the mound she galloped, snorting like an angry pony, with her back curved and her eyes glaring.

She didn't stop when she got to the soft swamp of mud and dark stagnant water at the foot of the mound, but, sliding, rolling, galloping, plunged right into it.

When she came out at the other side, on the plain, she was wet all over and plastered with mud, a sorry sight! And, O my! she was to be a sorrier sight--or a funnier sight--still, before the blind fear and anger which were driving her forward got through with her.

Such a funny sight she was bound to be that it makes me laugh even to think of it, before I tell you of her further doings, at all.

She did not stop chasing the man because she was wet and muddy. Not a bit of it! She ran after him all the faster over the dim plain on which the evening shadows were falling, while her two fat, whining cubs, left alone among the scampering wood mice, looked down at her from the mound.

As for the shepherd man, with the heavy bag of flour on his shoulders, he became so frightened when he heard her growling and galloping behind him, that his fat legs felt as thin and weak under him as your little finger. And no wonder!

He didn't want to drop the bag of flour, which he had brought all the way from that distant house on the other side of the river, because he knew that, if he did, both he and the other poor shepherd man who was waiting for him on the distant hill, with the sheep, would have to go hungry for days.

"Oh!" he groaned to himself. "Oh, if I can only reach that hill where the lights are and the sheep and sheep-dogs! Oh, if I can only reach it without losing all my flour! But I haven't a gun or even a stick with me, to fight the mother bear who is chasing me, because I don't like fighting wild animals; I'd rather be friends with them!"

This ought to have made him braver at the beginning. But now, as he raced on over the plain, he was becoming weaker in those fat legs of his and more scared every instant.

His heart was jumping up and down inside him. The full flour-bag seemed to weigh a ton upon his shoulders.

But still, you never saw a fat man run so fast. Now and again, he tripped over a bush or a stone upon the darkening plain and rocked from side to side under his load of flour, waddling like a goose before he could straighten up again.

I think the two little bear cubs, Timmy and his twin brother, left alone upon the mound of mice, must have laughed to see him.

But no matter how fast he ran, the mother bear galloped faster. In spite of the fact that he had pretty good odds to begin with--and every child knows what odds are in a race--his hair was just combed with shivers until it stood up and his skin turned cold, for now he heard the angry old mother bear's growls only a dozen feet behind him.

Another instant, and he could feel the gusts of her hot, panting breath blowing out before her on the plain.

"Oh!--Oh! there's no help for it--the flour must go," panted the poor shepherd man. "I just must drop my bag of flour that I've carried so far! The other shepherd who is waiting for me on the hill with the sheep--and I, too--will have to go hungry to bed to-night!"

So he let the full, bulging flour-bag fall from his shoulders, on to the plain. And, as he did so, he threw back his head, gathered all his panting breath and gave a long shrill whistle. Then another! A whistle which sounded as if he were calling with all his might upon some unseen friends to come and save him from the chasing bear.

Now you wonder why he whistled, don't you?--why he whistled so hard, looking off toward the hill where were the sheep and the ring of red lights,--the hill he was trying to reach, which was, at the moment that he dropped the flour-bag, only about half a mile away.

Well, I'll tell you, presently, why he whistled, although, knowing that there are sheep-dogs on that hill, you can, perhaps, guess for yourselves. But first, I must tell you what happened to the mother bear--shaggy Mrs. Cinnamon Bear--and the shepherd's bag of flour.

Do you remember my saying that bears are curious by nature, that is, as eager as little children to find out all there is to know about the things they see? that they ask questions with their noses and keep poking those noses into everything? That is very true! And although this mother bear was so angry by now, with the fleeing shepherd man (just because she was filled with such a false fear about her cubs) that she wanted to scratch him with her claws, yet she couldn't help stopping to tear open the flour-bag first to find out what was in it.

So she checked her heavy, lumbering gallop and sniffed at the full bag as it lay on the ground. Then she rolled it over curiously. Next, she struck at it with her paw which had those five sharp claws on it that cut the canvas bag open, like a knife.

O my! Out streamed the shepherd's precious white flour and sprinkled the plain!

But Mrs. Cinnamon Bear wasn't satisfied with tearing the flour-bag open; she thrust her nose into it, just as she had thrust it into the bee-tree, to sniff at the wild bees' honey.

She was as hungry as the shepherd men, for she hadn't caught many mice for supper; and she thought that the dry flour might do for an evening meal.

Finding that it didn't sting her as the wild bees did, she thrust her whole shaggy head into the bag, nosing around there.

"Boo-oo-itt!" she growled. "This dry stuff is not good to eat! It only fills my eyes and ears and my big throat, and chokes me! Oo-oo-oo-o! Honk! Booitt!" she grunted, nosing and snorting.

But now, Children, the funniest thing of all happened, brought about by false fear!

For now--now--there was a white bear where a brown one had been!

Do you remember my saying that I would tell you about a bear in a white mask?

Well, if you, little Boys and Girls, had been on the wide plain that evening, you would have seen a bear in a white mask.

For Mrs. Cinnamon Bear's shaggy light-brown fur was very thick over her head and face, as it was over all her body, although her face was smoother than the rest of her.

And it was wet, too, that thick, brown fur, wet and miry, for she had plunged through a swamp.

So the dry flour just stuck in a white plaster over her face and head, even to the tips of her ears, so that never since time began did anybody see such a funny-looking body in the shape of a bear!

She was floured all over, even to her short tail, with the white, dusty contents of the shepherd's bag.

I declare to you that, as she whisked around upon the plain, growling and rolling the flour-bag over until there wasn't a pinch of flour left in it, she looked more like a white donkey than a cinnamon bear.

It was funnier, still, when she stood upon her hind legs for a moment and growled savagely, because she was very cross at finding that she could not eat the raw flour, it was too dry and powdery.

Then she might have been a boy dressed up in a light-colored, furry skin, with an animal mask on.

For that caked flour, thickly sticking to her, made a snow-white mask over her face and head which shone in the dusk of the plain.

So there you have your bear in the white mask.

Really, her own cubs wouldn't have known her.

Why, even the scared shepherd man whom she had been chasing, when he looked back over his shoulder, nearly fell to pieces with laughing at her.

"O my fat legs!" he gasped. "O my fat sides! Surely, I shall split them because I don't dare stop, not for a minute, to laugh as I want to! Did anybody ever before see a bear like that--floured all over? Huh! Huh! He! He! Ha! Ha!"

But the next moment he had something else to think of, besides his fat sides. For Mother Cinnamon Bear, choking with the dry flour in her throat and nostrils, suddenly remembered the dark, running figure of a man on the plain ahead of her and that she had been chasing him.

"Whoo-oof! Ouk-k!" she snorted and started after him again. But that flour-bag had saved the fleeing, frightened shepherd man.

He was nearer to the hill of the lights now and he had kept whistling, whistling shrilly and piteously, as he ran, puffing, along.

And now, at last, he got an answer, the answer he wanted.

It wasn't the voice of the other shepherd man, coming to frighten the bear off with a gun.

No, it was the bark of a dog! The howling bark of a sheep-dog! The very bark which the mother bear had heard on the evening when she came back late to the cave, when her biggest cub trotted out to meet her.

Then another, a different bark chimed on.

Down, down from the hill of the lights, like the wind, came Glen and Watch, the two strong, wise sheep-dogs, who had chased this very bear away before and prevented her carrying off a little lamb.

"Uf! Uf! Ou-ouf! Wou-ouf! We're coming, Shepherd Man!" they barked. "We're coming as fast as we can! We'll save you from the bear! We're your own Glen and Watch, whom you trust to drive home your sheep and to watch them all night through! ... Uf-f! Wouf-f! We're blowing along like the wind--to--meet--you!"

Oh! how glad the poor, tired, puffing shepherd was, jogging on, joggetty-jog, upon his fat legs, at hearing their brave, barking answer.

But the bear wasn't. She slackened speed and began to look around for a place to hide in, because she didn't want to be made to dance like a white madcap all over the plain, with two saucy dogs barking and snipping at her heels.

Glen and Watch were too quick for her, however. They were upon her before she could hide, those two frilled sheep-dogs.

"Ow-ow-o w-w! Dance, White Bear Woman, dance, Dance to our music, ow-w!"

they barked at her wildly, while Glen took a nip at her heels and sprang away before she could catch him, although she galloped this way and that, shaking and ducking her white head in its mask of flour.

"Dance, Bear Woman, dance, Dance to our game of tag, Woof! What a bear are you, To put your head in a flour-bag!"

barked Watch, with another nip.

It really seemed as if the dogs were laughing at the mother bear for putting her head in a bag.

And so, as night came on, the game of tag which they played with her went on all over the plain.

The tired shepherd man shook his fat sides again at seeing it.

But then, as he jogged on, joggetty jog, toward the hill of the lights, he suddenly felt more like crying than laughing, for, although he had been saved from the bear, he had lost all his flour which was scattered over the plain, as much of it as wasn't powdering that bear's thick fur.

He would have to go to bed, starving, without any pancakes for supper; and so would the other hungry shepherd who was waiting for him on the hill where the sheep and little lambs were already asleep upon their bedding ground, with the rosy ring of lights burning around them.

That was what false fear brought to him, for if he hadn't run away, ten to one the mother bear wouldn't have chased him, at all.

And what did blind, angry fear bring to that Mother Cinnamon Bear?

Well, after an hour of playing tag and dance with her, the sheep-dogs chased her away from the plain altogether, off into a narrow glen, or gully, a long way from the mound of the mice where she had left her two little cubs when she set out to chase the shepherd with his flour-bag.

All night long little fat Timmy and his twin brother whined and cried for her. But she didn't come.

And the truth is, although I hate to tell you, Children, that those two fat bear cubs, left alone among the mousie white-foots, the singing wood mice, never saw their mother again.