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.”
[Illustration: bear drawing]
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.
I soon identified many of the Squirrels and singled them out from among
their fellows. One of the red Squirrels I named “Meeko,” because he was
far from meek, and because it is an Indian word meaning
“mischief-maker.” Another one, also a red Squirrel, was called
“Bismarck.” These two were suitors for Kitchi-Kitchi’s hand. She had
other admirers, of course, but the race soon narrowed down to these two.
It was Bismarck who greeted me one afternoon when I ran my canoe ashore
near camp. He stood on his hind legs, on the sandy beach, barking and
gesticulating furiously. When I landed, he went to a log near by and ran
the whole length of it three times, barking madly meanwhile, then back
to me, then to the log again. It was not until he sat up on the log and
beckoned to me with his right paw that I discovered what he meant. He
was asking me, as plainly as any Squirrel could, to follow him.
With every sense instantly alert, I did as he wished me to. He led me to
a hole he had dug in the leaves and pointed to it, still barking. I bent
over it and found a Toad, which had been bitten through the back and
could not hop.
I picked up the Toad and held him in my hand, meditating upon the
mutability of all earthly things, and Bismarck almost went mad with
excitement. He had evidently found the strange creature and bitten it
through to make it lie still until he could find me. Now he was asking
me what it was and whether or not it was edible.
By signs I made Bismarck understand that it was not edible in its raw
state, and that I had no inclination whatever to cook it for him. I put
it back into the hole, covered it, and went off a little way. Bismarck
uncovered it, bit it once more, and was immediately taken very sick. He
was well satisfied to leave it alone after that, and I made a corset of
splints for it, lacing it on with a bit of twine I happened to have in
my pocket. This done, the Toad hopped off in a great hurry, not even
staying to say “thank you.” He evidently had no desire to pit his feeble
strength against Bismarck again.
At the time, this whole incident was new to me, but after reaching home,
I discovered much the same thing in a new book on Natural History. The
other observer had found a Lizard in the hole, instead of a Toad, and he
made no corset for the injured animal—at least if he did, he did not
record it, but I always record everything.
Every morning, at four o’clock, Meeko, Bismarck, and Kitchi-Kitchi would
waken me by giving a dance, with quadrille calls, on the roof of my
cabin. I soon formed the habit of early rising and once I was up, ready
for the day’s toil, before three. In order to let them know how it
seemed, I pounded with an axe on the trees where the three had their
nests, and they all scampered down, very much frightened. After that, I
was not disturbed until half-past five, when they insisted upon my
rising, and to which, as a compromise measure, I did not in the least
object.
Kitchi-Kitchi, Meeko, and Bismarck would come into my cabin several
times each day to be tickled. At first I found the novelty of it rather
amusing, but at length it became wearing, and I was obliged to shut the
doors and windows in order to have any time to write. Even then, they
would dance on the roof and pound on the window glass in a way which was
exceedingly disturbing to one of my artistic temperament.
My table was near the fireplace and Kitchi-Kitchi came in one day by way
of the chimney. She arrived on the fair, open page of my observation
ledger, sooty, panting, but thoroughly happy, and demanded to be
tickled.