THE CINNAMON CUB
HAD the man been nearer, mother brown bear would have fought to save
her cubs. But there was time for escape. As quick as lightning she
turned and went racing back to the den, her cubs following at her heels.
This region, so far up the glacier-polished slopes, was so smooth that
a burro could hardly walk across it without slipping. As the man turned
to stare at the unaccustomed motion in the landscape, the little family
was just disappearing behind the bowlder that camouflaged the entrance
to the den. All but Fuzzy-Wuzz! That fat, furry mite slipped on the
smooth granite slope, his short hind legs slid out from under him,
and before he could get his balance, he was rolling down, down, too
surprised even to call for help. Indeed, the breath was all knocked
out of him and he couldn’t have squealed had he tried.
The river rolled at the foot of the slope, as green as the woods that
bordered it, save where it churned in white foam over the upstanding
bowlders. The next thing Fuzzy knew, splash! He was in deep water!
He struck out with all fours, like a pup, trying to run through the
water. Of course he swam, as all young animals can when they have to.
But the water was icy from the melting snows of the surrounding peaks.
Worse, the current here above the falls was so strong that soon it
was all he could do to keep his nose above water, to say nothing of
paddling back to the bank.
Had he let out a frightened whimper now, his mother, with the two
remaining cubs to lead safely into the depths of the cave, would not
have heard him. The water whirled the wee brown mite this way and that.
Choking and spluttering, he was soon too tired to paddle.
[Illustration: Clinging to the raft so mysteriously flung to him,
Fuzzy-Wuzz was towed to shore.]
At that climactic moment, something solid went floating by his right
fore paw, and with all his feeble might he grabbed for it. It was a
branch the Ranger had thrown in after him, and the branch was tied to a
rope.
Clinging, chilled and strangled, to the raft so mysteriously flung to
him, Fuzzy-Wuzz was towed to shore. Had the little bear been caught at
any other time, he would have done effective work with his needle-sharp
little teeth. But he was so nearly drowned that he could make no
protest when the Ranger rubbed him down and fitted a leash to his neck.
A pan of warm canned milk and water won his trust, though the Ranger
had to dip his unaccustomed muzzle into the fluid before he saw that
the thing to do was to plant both fore paws firmly in the pan and suck
with a noise like a little pig.
The Ranger made him a bed on the top of the pack that the burro
carried, and tied him so that he couldn’t get down,--and there he
was shortly snoozing, while the June sun dried his fur, and the
trail climbed higher and higher. Life had taken a new turn for young
Fuzzy-Wuzz.