bear, the Grizzly bear of America the Thibetan sun bear, the Polar
bear of the Arctic regions, the Aswail hear of India, the Bruany bear
(also of India), the Sloth bear, the White bear, and the Brown bears
who lived in Asia.
The bear family was so varied, and so enormously large, Brunie
explained to them, that she did not even know one-quarter of her own
brown bears who lived in Northern Europe.
She told them, too--for she was a very intelligent mother-bear--that
in whatever country bears lived they were peculiarly adapted to it.
The Polar bear, for instance, had nice thick fur all over the bottoms
of his feet; this protected him from the intense cold of the ice, and
also prevented him from slipping. Then the bears who lived in hot
countries did not have such thick coats as those who lived where it
was cold.
"But," said Brunie, in conclusion, "all bears are very much alike, and
have much the same habits; all can climb, dig and swim, and all are
very, very fond of honey."
And the little bears listened to it all, and thought what a nice
little mother-bear Brunie was, and what an extremely important family
they belonged to.
But, as the months went on, Brunie began to get very thin and very
touchy and irritable, and by the time June came she was so cross and
savage that even her little ones were sometimes afraid of her.
Curiously enough, all the other bears were just as cross and savage as
Brunie; perhaps it was that they were all so dreadfully thin. But,
whatever the reason, they snarled and growled, quarreled and fought
until sometimes the little bears wondered what on earth was the
matter.
The male bears seemed to be particularly savage, and even the hunters
--those men who never seemed to be afraid of anything: not even a bear
--were very careful to keep at a safe distance, and never attempted to
molest them in any way.
All through that month of June the amiable affectionate nature of the
bears seemed to have departed, and left in its place a vindictive,
irritable and savage one--savage to their companions and to everything
but the little cubs, and these the mother-bears never forsook. They
took the same care of them as formerly, and fed and cared for them in
spite of their irritable, bad-tempered mood. And woe betide anything,
whether man or beast, who attempted to touch their little ones.
Brunie herself had a terrible time one day, when a band of hunters,
seeing a mother-bear and her cubs alone, tried to capture them.
Furious with rage, Brunie rose up, and in her stiff, ungainly way went
to meet them. Each of the hunters held a hatchet in his hands ready to
strike at her, but Brunie cared not for hatchets, or anything else,
where her little ones were concerned, and, going straight up to one of
the hunters, she reared up on her hind feet, and with a terrific blow
with one of her fore paws, which she aimed direct at the hunter's
head, she killed him on the spot.
Not hesitating a moment, she did the same with two other hunters,
always aiming her blows at the head. And here she proved the truth of
an old Scandinavian proverb, which says that, "a bear has the strength
of ten men and the sense of twelve." Brunie knew perfectly well that
the quickest way to kill a man was to aim all the blows at his head,
and this she did with fearful effect.
But when she was finishing the fourth, another hunter ran up and
struck her a fearful blow with his hatchet, which cut deeply into her
hind leg, severing some of the tendons, and causing the blood to gush
forth and dye the spot a deep, dark red.
At the same moment that he dealt Brunie the blow, the hunter, with a
deft movement, captured one of her cubs, and while Brunie's attention
was taken up with the two remaining hunters her little one was carried
off.
[Illustration: "FURIOUS WITH RAGE, BRUNIE ROSE UP AND WENT TO MEET
THEM"]
But the pain of her wound and the loss of her cub made Brunie so
wildly fierce and savage that the two hunters, remembering the fate of
their comrades, came to the conclusion that "discretion was the better
part of valor," and with much difficulty managed to get away.
Poor Brunie was, by this time, weak from loss of blood, and sat down,
doing her best to lick her wound and comfort her remaining cubs. The
little ones in their turn did their best for her, helping her to lick
the sore place, and every now and then sucking it with their little
lips.
This adventure upset poor Brunie for several days, and the loss of
blood made her more weak, irritable and savage than ever.
But she had not forgotten the hunter that struck her with his hatchet,
or the loss of her little one, and so, one warm moonlight night, when
she was feeling better, and her three remaining cubs were in a sound
sleep, she betook herself quietly through the forest, and at last came
near the very place where that particular hunter lived.
There was but one field that separated her from the hunter's house,
and that was occupied by big, horned cattle, and these cattle, not
liking the look of Brunie in the moonlight, and not having sense
enough to keep quiet and not molest her, commenced at once to bellow
and charge at her as soon as she entered the field.
Brunie had never, like some bears, gone in for cattle killing, but had
always kept to a vegetable diet; and she was not at all anxious--
particularly at this moment--to have anything to do with cattle. So,
with a few growls and a hoarse kind of a grumbling sound, she took no
notice of them, but swung herself heavily along towards the farmyard.
The cattle, unfortunately, had not sense enough to let well enough
alone and allow her to go quietly on her way, but kept on bellowing,
prancing about and charging until Brunie lost her temper.
What! She could not even cross a field without these stupid cattle
bothering and worrying her to death, when her little one was a few
yards off, and already calling for her! It was too much. So, with a
growl of rage, which was more like a hoarse bellow, Brunie made for
them, and very soon killed two or three. So excited did she become at
last, that for the moment she even forgot her beloved little one, and
set herself to work all the destruction she possibly could, out of
pure revenge.
But the bellowing and lowing of the cattle, and the growling and
grumbling of the bear, had awakened the hunter, and, while Brunie was
killing off his cattle, he called up his farm hands, and was already
on the spot with guns, and quite close to her before she had any idea
of it.
Hiding themselves under the shade of some bushes, the hunter and his
men waited until a fine young heifer galloped madly by them followed
by Brunie, and then fired. No less than five of the shots took effect,
and poor Brunie's life-blood began to gush out.
But, recalled to herself and her mission by her danger, she bethought
herself of her little one, and, never stopping to even look at her
enemies, made straight for the farmyard, where her beloved one was
calling her, leaving a trail of blood as she went.
Had her cub not been there, she would have faced the hunter and his
men, and probably have dispatched them in a few minutes; as it was,
having forgotten the cattle, her mother-love returned, and she
determined to get her cub if she died for it.
But, curiously enough, the little bear seemed to be fully aware of his
mother's presence, and, as she came closer, his excitement grew
intense, and, calling forth all his strength, by one desperate push he
broke open the door of his shed and trotted forth to meet his dying
mother.
Poor Brunie sank down just as he came up to her, and licked and
caressed him in a most touching fashion, while the little cub,
overwhelmed with joy--and yet uneasy and worried at his mother's
condition--gave alternate little sounds of pleasure and fright and
distress.
Brunie's joy was complete at having her cub restored to her, but her
head was swimming and her eyes growing dim, and she groped in vain
through the gathering darkness to catch a glimpse of her little one.
She was lying at full length, with one huge paw stretched out towards
the cub in a peculiarly pathetic manner, and panting her life out when
the hunter and his men came up.
A few more pants, a struggle, and, with a deep gasp, Brunie lay quite,
quite still, while the little cub jumped about, restless and ill at
ease, and giving little, beseeching cries of distress.
First making sure, as he thought, that the bear was dead, the hunter
attempted, with the help of his men, to once more capture the cub. But
Brunie had--as all bears have--extreme tenacity of life, and she
seemed to have compressed all her energy into her last moment of
existence; for she was not yet dead, as the hunter supposed, and, just
as he laid hands on the cub, with a great effort she raised herself
up, struck him a terrible blow on his head, which killed him
instantly, and then sank back and died.
And this was the end of Brunie. Had she lived she would probably, as
all mother-bears do, have taken great care of her children all the
summer, but in the winter she would have left them, for she would
probably have had another family, which would have taken up all her
time and attention.
As it was, the little cubs had to do the best they could, and soon
learned to shift for themselves.
The little captured one--after he had got over the death of his
mother--grew quite tame, and was taught many tricks. He was always
well treated and well fed, and he grew extremely fond of his master;
and there he may be seen to this day, walking and running about that
Scandinavian farm, scaring the other animals, thinking a great deal of
himself, but always looking just what he is--a brown bear.
MONA, THE MONKEY
A Senegal forest in Western Africa is an ideal home for a monkey--a
perfect paradise, in fact.
The trees, with their delightful branches, which seem to be just made
for monkeys to sit on; the nice, bushy leaves, which form such cosy
hiding-places, and the delicious nuts, berries and various kinds of
fruit, all combine to make monkey life extremely happy.
In this delightful place, one fine, warm evening, Mona was born.
His mother had prepared her nursery some time before; she had built a
nice little hut, where it was warm and dry, under the outgrowing
boughs of a tree; had carpeted it with thick, dry leaves and grass,
twined and interlaced twigs and branches overhead to keep out the
fierce rays of the midday sun and the occasional heavy showers, and
had, in fact, made it just as cosy as it was possible for a monkey
nursery to be.
So, in one way, Mona's birth took place under good auspices, and he,
being her first-born, more than came up to his mother's expectations.
In her eyes he was the finest, the strongest and the most beautiful
monkey that had ever existed, and although he whimpered all through
that night, and squirmed and wrinkled up his already wrinkled little
face into the most hideous contortions and grimaces, he was,
notwithstanding, an ideal and lovely baby.
His mother forgot all her anxieties and troubles respecting him, and
gathered him to her motherly breast with a little guttural cry of joy.
Unlike most of her tribe, Monica, Mona's mother, was somewhat
reserved, and had not, as is usually the case with matronly monkeys,
chattered and gossiped about her private affairs. And, as she clasped
her little son to her, with her mother's heart swelling with love and
pride, she thought, with pleasurable anticipation, of the surprise and
gossip there would be in the morning when the wonderful event became
known.
But Monica understood little of her own species if she thought this
great secret was to be kept until the morning; for several neighbors
heard that little whimpering cry, and pricked up their sharp little
ears, while their little eyes glinted about, and in a very short time
their active bodies scrambled down from their various night abodes,
and peeped, with true monkey curiosity, into Monica's hut.
Instantly there was the very greatest excitement. Most of the
newcomers were mothers themselves, and therefore understood all about
it, and the way in which a baby monkey should be treated from the very
first. One and all began telling Monica what to do, giving her good
advice, and many scoldings for not letting them into the secret.
But Monica took very little notice; she hugged her baby all the
closer, and her bright little eyes glanced quickly and furtively round
at the newcomers, only she felt prouder than ever.
She was induced, after much persuasion, to allow the baby to be
inspected, which the newcomers did thoroughly. Not an eye, a limb, a
finger-nail, or even a hair, escaped their attention, but were
examined and criticized with the utmost gravity.
One old mother monkey, who had a large family herself, regarded the
baby gravely, and her worried, careworn old face looked a little more
worried and a little more careworn, if possible, while criticizing
him.
"Isn't he lovely?" Monica whispered proudly.
"Not a bad baby," the old mother monkey said, gravely, "but delicate,
Monica, delicate--and born under an unlucky star."
The young mother started, and grasped her baby as though it were going
to be torn from her.
"He will never have any luck," the mother monkey went on, gravely;
"but he will never come to very much harm.
"He will never have any luck, but he will never come to very much
harm." This significant sentence Monica repeated to herself, over and
over again, all through that night, never losing the dread which this
ominous saying had implanted in her heart. The dreadful words seemed
to be ringing in her ears all the time the chattering of the neighbors
was going on, and when they had left her, and had gone back to their
respective homes, full of the new event, she listened to their
chattering dying away in the distance, and then suddenly a few hot
tears fell on the baby's head. And these few tears were Mona's
christening.
The next day, however, Monica began to think she had been very foolish
in paying any attention to what the old mother monkey had said. The
joy of motherhood, and the proud possession of a baby monkey of her
own, eclipsed everything else, even the ominous warning. She was so
busy, too, with the cares and duties of motherhood; there was so much
to be seen and attended to, and the new baby required so much
attention.
Monica was very, very proud of him, but as the days grew into weeks
she began to wish that Mona, as she had called him, and which was a
family name, would not whimper quite so much; it made her nervous
sometimes, and irritated her, and once she had even gone so far as to
give him a smart slap in reprimand. She began to realize, too, as time
went on, that there was something in what the mother monkey had said:
Mona was decidedly delicate and undoubtedly unlucky.
When he was about a week old, his mother left him for a somewhat
longer time than usual to get a little fresh fruit for herself. Before
leaving Mona, however, she had given him his breakfast of nice, warm
milk, and covered him over with dry leaves and grass. Not that it was
cold, but by covering him up she guarded against danger. His funny
little, brown head and face were so much the color and so like the dry
leaves and grass he was lying in that it would have been very
difficult for anyone but a mother monkey to know that there was
anything there at all.
Monica waited until she was quite sure that he was asleep, and then
stole away.
But, for some reason or other, Mona was not particularly sleepy that
morning, and after a short nap opened his bright little eyes and
glanced quickly round. His mother was not to be seen, but he did not
mind that very much; he was not hungry and he was very comfortable; so
he just lay where he was, and amused himself by picking to pieces some
of the long grass and ferns which formed his bed with his nimble
little fingers. At the same time he pricked up his sharp little ears
so he would be able to hear his mother a long way off.
There was a little rustle, presently, and for a moment Mona thought
his mother was returning, but yet it did not sound quite like her. It
was a peculiar rustling of leaves and grass, which kept on softly and
continuously. His mother rustled the grass and leaves, it is true, but
she always made sharp little pats and thumps as she came along. There
were no pats and thumps now, only one long, soft, continued rustle.
Mona had no fear, simply from the fact that as yet he knew nothing to
be afraid of. And so, as the rustling went on, he poked up his small
head sharply, and peered curiously around. There was nothing to be
seen, however, and from the moment he made the movement the rustling
had ceased.
What could it be? he wondered. He was a born monkey, and he had as
much curiosity as any other member of his tribe, and, baby as he was,
he determined to find out; so, keeping perfectly still, he waited
until the rustling began again.
This time it was much nearer, and in some vague, incomprehensible way
Mona felt horribly frightened, at what he could not think or imagine;
but he had a curious, uncanny feeling, and he shivered all over, while
from some reason or other he was unable to move anything but his quick
little eyes, which darted hither and thither, up and down, although
his small head was as motionless as a statue.
Suddenly, however, his quick little eyes stopped darting hither and
thither, for in one corner of the hut a something, which was lying
coiled up there, drew his eyes in spite of himself, and, do what he
would, he could not turn them back again.
The Something was a long, long, thick coil, with a curious flat head,
horrible eyes, and a frightful thing, in the shape of a two-pronged
fork, which darted in and out of his wide mouth so quickly that it was
difficult to tell when it was in and when it was out.
The horrible thing began to wave its head to and fro with a weird,
graceful movement, and, as it waved, so Mona's eyes followed it--to
and fro, to and fro--followed it because he could not help himself.
He was so young that as yet he could only crawl feebly round the hut,
but at this moment he felt bound to go towards this horrible thing,
although he was frightened, and although he did his very best to keep
back.
Trembling all over, and too terrified to utter one little cry for his
mother, Mona found himself at last outside his bed, getting nearer and
nearer to that horrible thing in the corner. His poor, little head
began to feel sick and dizzy; his poor little limbs were shaking so
that he could scarcely move, and yet he was going on and on, closer
and closer, and not once since he encountered the gaze of those
terrible eyes had he been able to move his own.
At this moment he became so frightfully sick and giddy, while his eyes
were getting so strained that they ached painfully, that he began to
forget where he was. He seemed to be going off in some dreadful dream
from which he had no power to rouse himself; and there was a curious
hissing going on, which seemed to have a dreadful menace in it.
Just as he was going off in this dream, however, he heard faintly in
the distance his mother's voice. He did his best to call to her, to
cry out, but he was going deeper and deeper into the dream, and in a
very few seconds knew nothing more.
When Mona woke up it was to find his little mother's arms round him;
his little mother raining tears of joy and thankfulness upon his face,
and a number of sympathizing neighbors chattering at the very top of
their voices.
Mona, it seemed, had had a terrible adventure. Such a narrow escape,
in fact, that it was a great wonder he was still alive. For the
horrible thing in the corner turned out to be a dreadful snake.
"One of our greatest enemies," his mother told him, her motherly eyes
still full of tears. "Monkeys have such a lot of enemies, Mona," she
said, gently. "There are snakes, and leopards, and parrots and--"
"Tut, tut!" the old mother-monkey interrupted, sharply. "What is the
good of telling the child all that? He will get to know fast enough."
"But if he had known," Monica said, gently, caressing her little one
with a tender air, and feeling thankful--oh, so thankful!--that she
had arrived just in time to call off the snake's attention. "If he had
known, he might have--"
"Well, what could he have done?" the old mother monkey said, sharply.
"You know what snakes are."
All the monkeys gathered together, shivered, and glanced round
uneasily.
"You know what snakes are; what can you do when you are brought face
to face with them like that, and both in a hut?"
Monica nodded gravely, and felt more thankful than ever that her baby
had been spared to her.
"I told you he was unlucky," the old mother monkey said, gravely, "but
I also told you that he would never come to much harm."
And so it proved. For Mona, as life went on, was always unlucky, but
he never came to much harm, although he had some exciting adventures.
As he grew up he became stronger, but always remained a quiet monkey,
inclined to whimper.
Quiet monkeys, when inclined to whimper, always have a bad time. Their
fellow-monkeys have no patience with their delicacy or whimpering, and
do their very best to impress this upon their fellow-creatures as much
as possible, in a practical manner. Slaps, sharp tweaks of the tail,
and continual teazing, are considered good for both these complaints,
and of these little Mona got the full benefit. Altogether, he had an
extremely hard time of it.
To begin with, none of the other monkeys seemed to care to associate
with him. They never gambolled about and let him join; never asked or
even attempted to attend to his toilet for him; and the only part of
his person which appeared to form any attraction was his tail, which,
he being a Mona monkey, was an extremely long one.
There were times when Mona wished he had no tail; it was impossible to
keep it still; he was busy all day long whisking it about out of the
way of mischievous fingers.
Unlike all the other monkeys, who sat about in groups, chattering,
screaming, laughing and scolding, as they felt inclined, Mona
generally sat quite alone, with his pathetic little face looking very
miserable, and his sad eyes following the many groups of monkeys from
place to place.
Mona was a great admirer of the beautiful, and the Vervet monkeys were
his chief admiration. Now, these little Vervet monkeys think a great
deal of themselves, and consider, in their own way, that they are the
masters of the Senegal woods; they are deeply insulted and fiercely
angry should a stranger intrude into their domain, and make no
scruples about showing what they feel.
They sit about on the branches in immense troops, and are so
wonderfully quick and active that at times it is almost impossible to
follow their movements.
Very knowing, and cautious, too, are the little Vervets; a stranger
may be sitting underneath the very tree on which they are crowding,
and not have the faintest idea that there is a monkey near him; should
he suddenly look up, however, he would see some hundreds of little
heads peeping through the branches, and hundreds of sharp little eyes
watching his every movement. Should they wish to attract the
stranger's attention, they will drop a stick so cleverly, and with
such precision, that it often hits his nose.
Many a morning Mona passed watching the gambols and the amusing tricks
of the little Vervets; but they never invited him to come and play
with them or to take any part in their games. For one thing, he was a
Mona monkey, and the families or tribes in the Senegal forest are very
particular about keeping together.
There was one monkey, of another family, that Mona took great interest
in, and this was a little white-nosed lady-monkey.
This white-nosed monkey was a curious little creature; she had a big,
white spot on her nose, like all her family, and a little fringe of
white hair all around her face, which looked as though she had put her
collar round her face instead of her neck, and gave her a somewhat
ludicrous air.
But not in Mona's eyes. In Mona's eyes she was absolutely beautiful,
and her long tail--nearly black at the top and dwindling to a peculiar
greyish hue at the bottom--was another source of admiration to him.