IN WHICH LITTLE BLACK BEAR MEETS SHAGG, THE CARPENTER
Now, usually the very first thing one does after taking a tumble is to
scramble up again. And that is exactly what Little Black Bear was of a
mind to do when the rock on which he was standing turned over and he
suddenly found himself sprawling almost at the feet of the great bear
who was at work in the clearing. But he did not recover himself before
the one with the hammer had taken full account of his plight.
“Tacks, jackplanes and drawshaves, and what is all this!” roared that
ponderous party, as he put his arms akimbo and gazed in astonishment at
the mass of curly black hair that lay there before him.
“Why—why, it’s just me come to call,” sputtered Little Black Bear, as he
winked and blinked from his place on the ground.
“That’s quite plain to see,” the other agreed, in a voice that resembled
nothing so much as thunder. “But gluepots and gimlets, what is the
notion of prostrating yourself in this humble fashion. For I assure you
that I am neither a prince nor a king but merely a hard-working
carpenter.”
“Oh, that—,” Little Bear repeated as he finally got to his feet, “Oh,
that wasn’t my notion, sir; it was just the rock’s. You see it kind of
rolled out from under me.” And he explained the happening in so droll a
manner that the big bear laughed so loud and so long that the forest
fairly echoed in answer.
“There, there, forgive me,” he finally said, as he wiped the tears from
his eyes with the top of his cap, “but you surely cut a most comical
figure. And now, though it may be none of my affair, let me ask just
what it is that has brought you.”
Thus encouraged, Little Black Bear told his story as to just who he was,
whence he had come, and what it was that he sought.
“Well, well, now that is indeed interesting,” the other exclaimed. “My
name’s Shagg—Shagg, the Carpenter—and I’ll be glad to help in any way I
can.” With that he extended a paw, the two shook hands and then, at
Shagg’s suggestion, they sat down at the foot of the tree that stood
near the bench.
“So you are a circus bear. My, what a lot of wonderful places you must
get to see. I’ve often thought it would be splendid to leave the forest
and travel into the world. But then there is Mrs. Shagg. And there are
the things to be built.”
“Why, I should think this would be the jolliest kind of a place,”
rejoined Little Black Bear. “I can’t imagine anything quite as
interesting as building things. Have you always been a carpenter?”
“Ever since I was old enough to handle a saw and a hammer,” answered
Shagg. “You see carpentering, and especially chair-making, has been the
family trade for quite a long time; in fact, ever since the days of the
Three Bears.”
“The three bears,” said the other. “The three bears—why, you surely
don’t mean the very Three Bears!”
“To be sure,” answered Shagg. “What is so unusual about that?”
“But there’s been books and stories and everything written about them!”
cried Little Black Bear in rapt admiration, “about them and Goldilocks,
you know.”
“Goldilocks—hum—Goldilocks,” mused Shagg. “What a piece of good fortune
came to our family when she broke those beds and chairs. For—so the
family tradition goes—it was in mending them that Great Big Bear found
he had a knack for handling tools. That very same summer he built an
entirely new set of chairs. Then he got to making things for the
neighbors and now—why, just look here.”
And going to the doors that were made from small trees, Shagg swung them
apart and so disclosed a deep cavern that extended far into the side of
the mountain. There, inside, were whole dozens of beds with inviting
looking rocks for mattresses, many massive chairs and no end of
footstools to match.
“My, what a lot of them!” marveled Little Black Bear. “Do you sell
many?”
“Well, not at this time of year,” explained Shagg, as he closed and
bolted the doors. “Most of the bear families are too busy vacationing
and roaming about through the forest during the summer to have much use
for furniture. But as autumn wanes and they begin to think of the long
winter nights when they will sit at home sucking their paws and drowsing
before the fire, I’ll tell you the thought of possessing a big roomy
chair and a footstool is a highly pleasing one. And, though I do say it,
no one makes better furniture than Shagg, the Carpenter. Why, with
anything like care, and provided the owner isn’t a terribly loud snorer,
one of my chairs will last all of two winters. But, of course, there are
snorers that will loosen the joints of the best chair that ever was
made.”
And so he rambled on, telling no end of interesting things until,
chancing to glance up at the sun, he sprang to his feet.
“Screws and screw drivers!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea it was so
late.” And he hurried back to the bench. “You see I always aim to build
at least one chair every morning. Would you care to watch me work?”
“Oh, I’d love to,” answered Little Black Bear.
“Ever use a saw?” the big fellow asked as he busied himself at the vise.
“Goodness, no. I shouldn’t know how to begin,” answered the watcher, as
he climbed to a seat on the far end of the bench.
“Well, just remember this, then,” instructed Shagg, as he gave the
vise-handle an extra hard twist, “if you ever do use one—or any tool for
that matter—don’t hold it too tightly. That’s nearly always the trouble
with beginners. They just grip for all they’re worth and try to do all
of the aiming. But what I say is—let a saw alone. Give it something like
a free head and it will follow the line most every time.”
“Why, it’s the same way with guiding a bicycle,” chimed Little Black
Bear. “I know when I first began to ride in the circus I used to grip
the handle bars like everything, but—”
And so—having become fast friends—Shagg and Little Black Bear visited on
through the hours, their voices mingling with the song of the saw, the
ring of the hammer, and all the happy sounds that came to the clearing
from the depths of the forest below.
Little by little the morning advanced. Little by little the shadows
crept nearer the rocks and the trees. Little by little the thing on the
sawhorses became more like a chair. And then, just as the last touch was
added, the soft hum of noontide was broken by a voice that came from
neither here nor there nor, for that matter, from any particular
direction at all.
“Shagg—ee! Shagg—ee!” it called in an odd, muffled note that seemed very
near and yet far away.
“All right, mother! Coming, mother!” roared Shagg as if in reply.
“Hurry, then, before the dinner gets cold,” again called the voice, and
this time Little Black Bear realized that it came right up from the
ground.
“Indeed, we will,” declared the big fellow as he put down his hammer and
untied his apron. “Come, now—”
“Oh, thank you very much,” protested Little Black Bear, “but really, I
have my lunch right here in my paper bag.”
“Nonsense!” insisted Shagg, “why mother wouldn’t hear to me leaving you
up here. So come along with you.” And leading the way to the far edge of
the clearing, Shagg uncovered an iron ring, raised a heavy trap door,
and the two descended a well-worn flight of winding stone steps until
they came to a great, rugged room that was almost as broad as the
clearing above.
It required but a glance for Little Black Bear to see that the place in
which he so suddenly found himself was a cave. There to the right was
what had once been its entrance but which had at some time or other been
turned into a window—a window that was framed with trailing wild roses
and through which he could see the trees of the forest and the bright
green of the grass underneath. On that side of the cave that was across
from the stairway rose a huge fireplace and in front of it—her back
turned toward them, and slowly stirring the contents of a very fat and
very round pot that hung over the flames—bent Mrs. Shagg.
“Mother, this is Little Black Bear; I have brought him down to dine with
us,” said Shagg.
“Why, isn’t that fine, now,” cried she, coming forward. “Indeed, young
sir, you are most welcome. You will find the spring over in the corner,
should you care to wash. It won’t take me a minute to put on an extra
bowl and then we’ll sit right down.”
As she hustled about, laying another place at the big wooden table that
stood in the middle of the cave, Little Black Bear thought he had never
met any one with such a white cap and apron. He just positively knew
there never were any starched quite as stiff and as straight nor adorned
with such beautiful bows. Indeed, he had hard work in trying to tell
whether the merry crackling sound that now and then filled the room came
from the apron or the fire on the hearth.
“Hurry along with the both of you, now,” called she, as Shagg and Little
Black Bear returned from the spring. And soon they were all three at
table. Little Black Bear had never before seen such lovely
dishes—beautiful iron ones and so delightfully black. Of course there
was porridge—three bountiful bowls of it—and a deep dish fairly
overflowing with honey. As they ate they talked, the guest telling many
stories of the circus and a great deal about Diggeldy Dan, the Pretty
Lady, and of Spangleland.
“Now, goodness, do eat your dinner,” Mrs. Shagg kept saying. “Shagg, do
help Little Black Bear to some more of the porridge.”
Dinner over with, Shagg and Little Black Bear drew their chairs back
from the table so that Mrs. Shagg might clear the dishes, and this gave
the visitor more of an opportunity of looking about. Along the sides of
the cave were a number of chairs, all with very high backs, and, between
these, no less than a dozen quaint chests with corners of brass and
handles of iron. On the walls of the cave were many big frames fashioned
from bark and each displaying subjects of a most interesting kind. One
pictured a wide-waisted hogshead labeled “Molasses”; while another
showed a huge honeybee drawn many times larger than bees really are and
bearing the title, “The Bears’ Very Best Friend.” In fact, Little Black
Bear thought all of the paintings in excellent taste and quite in the
style that one might expect to find in the dining room of almost any
bruin.
At the back of the cave was a stout wooden door which somehow or other
wore a mysterious look. Eyeing it closely, Little Black Bear was just
going to ask as to where the door led, when, glancing at Shagg, he saw
that the big fellow had gone sound asleep. Next he discovered that Mrs.
Shagg had done exactly the same thing in a comfortable rocker that stood
near the fire.
“Well, well,” said Little Black Bear to himself, “if that’s to be the
way of it, I, too, shall indulge in a nap.”
So, twisting about until he had got himself into a quite snoozy
position, he was just on the point of closing his eyes, when there,
among the wild roses, appeared a pink-frocked little girl with long
yellow curls. Even as he watched, she placed her two hands on the
window, and then, softly raising it, stepped into the cave.