THE VAGABONDS
Pedro and Black Bruin were vagabonds, going up and down the country as
the spirit moved them, living like two tramps without home, shelter or
friends, save as they made them by the way.
Some nights they slept in haystacks, or in old barns. Sometimes they
crawled into wagon sheds and slept upon loads of grain or produce that
had been gotten ready for the morrow's marketing. More frequently they
bivouacked in the open, under the blue canopy of heaven, merely
sheltered a little by a friendly spruce or pine, with the silver moon
for a lamp, and the bright stars for candles. The great shaggy beast
and the little dark man slept in one bed, as it were. Pedro usually
pillowed his head upon Black Bruin and so the bear had to lie very
still and not disturb his master, for he got a pounding if he did.
Out here in the open all the night sounds came to them with startling
distinctness;--the cry of the nighthawk and the chirping of a cricket,
the peeping of hylas and the croaking of frogs and the wild, tremulous,
mournful cry of the screech-owl.
The night winds blew upon their faces and the fragrance of the
dew-laden flowers was in their nostrils. Theirs was not a cramped,
stifling existence, but a full free life, and the sense of living,
breathing, growing things was everywhere, and it made them glad.
The tan of wind and sun was upon Pedro's skin, making it even more
swarthy.
In the morning, when the first faint gray streak lit the east, and
robins and thrushes began to sing, they were up and ready for the day's
work. Their toilet was very simple,--merely a wash and a drink of
water from some neighboring brook, then they were ready for the road.
This was just the hour to find all the thrifty farmers' families at
breakfast and it was much easier to get something for themselves when
the table was spread for others. So Black Bruin danced and went
through all his tricks, to the great delight of the children, that both
he and Pedro might share the farmer's hospitality later.
When they were unlucky and had to go without breakfast, Pedro blamed
his shaggy companion and swore at him in broken English, or showered
blows upon him with the stout stick which he always carried.
Black Bruin soon learned to expect the blows and to cower from them and
sometimes even whimper, when his master was unusually harsh; but in his
heart, which was that of a wild beast, he was storing up wrath.
But there was something about the Italian that held him at bay as
though with chains of steel. When Pedro's small glittering eyes were
upon him, his own eyes fell. A kick would send him groveling to earth.
In some unexplainable way he felt that this cruel creature was his
master. He was subdued and held by a terrible grip.
To the bear the man was always a mystery. There was something fearful
about him that he could not fathom and his source of strength the poor
beast could not understand.
There was also an evil-smelling dark bottle in the Italian's inside
coat-pocket, which was an enigma. It was not ginger pop or beer, or
any kind of soda water; Black Bruin knew all of these drinks himself,
and this drink was like none of them.
One day Pedro had fallen into a strange deep sleep and the bottle had
slipped from his pocket. The bear had at once noticed it, picked it up
and pulled out the cork, just as he would have done with a ginger pop
bottle, and had taken a small swallow. But the strange stuff had
burned his tongue and choked him. So he spat it out and broke the
bottle with a single blow of his powerful paw. He finally licked up
considerable of the whisky, as it was a hot day and he was thirsty. It
had made him sleepy, so man and beast had lain down together in a
drunken stupor.
After this day Black Bruin hated the bottle, out of which Pedro drank
so frequently. They were also unlucky in getting meals when his master
did this, for the simple country folk did not like to lodge or feed
them when the dark, sinister-looking man was half drunk. So in many
ways the bottle brought them ill-luck.
When Black Bruin and his companion began their wanderings from town to
town, it was early spring-time. The buds were just beginning to redden
upon the sugar-maple and the grass along sunny southern slopes, was
putting on its first faint touch of green. The days were warm and
sunny, promising buds and blossoms, but the nights were still clear and
cold.
At first they had to lie close together at night for warmth, or rather
the man had to cuddle down close to his shaggy warm companion; but
spring soon passed and summer came and the two wanderers reveled in the
lavish beauty and richness of nature.
In many of the pastures blueberries grew in profusion and Black Bruin
needed no teaching to get his share of the palatable fruit. Along all
the country roads, growing upon the stone walls and fences, were
delicious red raspberries, which are much finer flavored than the
cultivated kinds. Later on, when August laid her golden treasures in
the lap of Mother Earth, the blackberries ripened in wild profusion.
First in the open pasture came the low bushberries, and then the high
bushberries along the edge of the forest.
Last of all came autumn with its treasures of harvest, fruits, nuts,
melons and grains.
Wild grapes they found in abundance and all the nut-bearing trees
rattled down their treasures for them. The melon-patch, the pound
sweeting tree, the peach-orchard and the turnip-field all paid toll to
the vagabonds. So, in spite of harsh treatment and hard work, Black
Bruin laid on his usual layers of fat, against the long sleep of the
coming winter.
What wonderful days these were when they wandered lazily from village
to village, through long stretches of flaming red and golden forest,
where the roadway was spread with a most gorgeous leaf-carpet.
They heard the jay squalling in the corn-field, and the crows gathering
in the clan for their annual caucus. The squirrels chattered in the
trees above them, but their old friends, the song-birds, had nearly all
flown away to the South to escape the oncoming winter.
When Jack Frost and the merry north winds had robbed the trees of the
last of their foliage and they stood out grim and gaunt against the
bleak November sky; when the last purple asters and the hardiest bright
goldenrod had faded, Black Bruin felt the old winter drowsiness slowly
stealing upon him.
At last the first snow-storm came and that settled it in both the minds
of Pedro and the bear. So the Italian led his companion far up into a
wilderness region, and after searching about for half a day among the
ledges found a natural cave which was about the size of a small room,
and here left Black Bruin to sleep away the winter months.
He stayed in the region just long enough to make sure that the winter
drowsiness had clutched him and also took the precaution to roll
against the entrance of the cave, a large stone, which he had to move
with a lever, that he might be sure of finding his partner in
Vagabondia when he returned for him in the early spring. Pedro would
take the precaution to come back a few days before the bear would
naturally awaken.
A day or two after Black Bruin was left alone in his cavern a heavy
storm set in, and before it ceased, a foot of snow had fallen.
It was now so deep that the passer-by would never have guessed that a
bear was soundly sleeping a few feet back of the boulder which Pedro
had placed at the entrance of the cave. This now merely looked like a
white snowdrift that some freak of the wind had piled upon the
mountainside.
In the dark and the silence of his underground room Black Bruin slept
through the winter blizzards and cold as well as he would have done in
warmer and more comfortable quarters. No sound broke the silence of
his cave save his own deep breathing. If the sun shone, or the winds
howled, or the storms beat, he knew it not.
Perhaps in dreamland he still wandered up and down the country picking
blueberries or poking under the dead leaves for nuts, and always and
forever doing tricks until his legs and back ached.
As for Pedro, he had no idea of hibernating, so he went away to a
distant city and worked for a fellow countryman in a fruit store.
But work was not to his liking and he longed for spring to come that he
and his companion might again be upon the road living the old free life.