"NEW BED-FELLOWS"
The days in the new home slipped quietly one after the other without
anything particular happening, till once again Dusty Star found himself
in the neighbourhood of the Tamarack Swamp. He was not thinking of
Goshmeelee; and as the point at which he approached it was a long
distance from the spot where they had met, he had not the least idea
that he was anywhere near her lair. The thing which occupied his mind
was how he could get across the swamp without sticking in the slime. Of
course he could have avoided it altogether by going round; but that
would have meant a long tramp, and he wanted to reach the camp before
the evening fell.
It was just the hour before the coming-on of dusk when the swamp
appeared at its worst for damp, draughtiness and general dismalness. On
the surface of its stagnant pools nothing stirred, but if you waited
long enough, peering close into the black depths, bubbles would rise
slowly, telling you that things lived oozily far down in the fat slime.
And for all it was so terribly still, the air, when you stopped to
consider it, was full of low breathings, tickings, and watery whispers,
that seemed to come from hidden pockets, and tangles in the weeds. Every
tree, branch and stone had its covering of moss, or lichen. The lichen
was grey like very old hair. The moss was green with the greenness of
things that are very damp.
But here and there in this waste of watery bog, there were knolls of
dryness, like islands, where hemlocks or hardwoods lifted their twisted
boughs. And it was possible, if you knew the geography of the place, to
work your way from one island to another without getting bogged in
between. Dusty Star had reached one of these islands, sheltered by two
hemlock trees, when he noticed a deep hollow scooped out between their
roots. He stooped down and saw to his astonishment two baby bears curled
up together and fast asleep. They looked so beautiful with their little
bulgy bodies cuddled close against each other, that he loved them at
first sight. He was so much taken up with admiring them that he did not
notice a large black body moving quietly but surely along a well-worn
trail across the swamp. And it was only when he heard a quick rush and a
snort of rage that he realized his danger.
It was the mother bear!
There was no time to tell her that he was doing no harm to her cubs.
There was no time to escape. Three tremendous leaps, and she was upon
him--almost! Then, in the very last fraction of a second, an
extraordinary thing happened. It was as if the bear's great body almost
twisted itself in the very middle of its spring. Even then, it only
missed Dusty Star's body by an inch.
"Nearly finished you _that_ time!" would have been Goshmeelee's comment,
if she had put her mind into words.
The very instant she landed she knew that Dusty Star had not touched her
cubs. It was because she recognised in a flash that it _was_ Dusty Star
she was attacking, which had made her last fatal spring fall short of
its mark. Even then, it was a moment or two before she fully recovered
from the effect upon her nerves.
"Don't do it again!" she seemed to say, looking at the boy out of her
little glittering eyes.
Dusty Star gave her to understand that far from doing it again, he had
never meant to do it once. Bear babies he regarded as absolutely
untouchable, beautiful and bulgy though they were. Somehow or other,
Goshmeelee believed him. She thrust her great head and shoulders into
the hollow, and began to lick the cubs with her enormous tongue. This
was not so much for cleaning perhaps, as to comfort herself after her
anxiety. The cubs hated being cleaned. One sweep of that great tongue
was warranted to spring-clean a cub down all one side from throat to
tail. And if the cub objected, a huge paw would deftly turn him over and
clean the other side with aggravating thoroughness. It was an added
annoyance to the cubs to be washed so late in the day. What they wanted
at that hour was food, not washing--extra nourishment, not extra tongue.
They squealed and wriggled and gave miniature growls and tried to bite
their mother's paw. Their behavior was very wicked indeed. Goshmeelee,
being used to their wickedness, calmly went on cleaning.
When she had finished, she backed out of the hollow and sat down to look
at Dusty Star; and her look said as plainly as possible, "What are you
going to do?"
[Illustration: HER LOOK SAID AS PLAINLY AS POSSIBLE, "WHAT ARE YOU GOING
TO DO?"]
Dusty Star had not decided upon doing anything, and he let Goshmeelee
understand that his mind was open to any fresh ideas. As Goshmeelee
didn't happen to have any fresh ones at the moment, she hadn't any to
pass on. Dusty Star looked away across the swamp. It was growing dark,
and the black pools were even blacker than before. Unless you knew a
path, it would be impossible to find your way across, now that the dusk
had fallen. Goshmeelee, could have done it, of course, but then she was
at home. Goshmeelee, however, had no intention of doing any such thing.
If persons chose to visit at awkward times, she really couldn't be
expected to see them safely home.
Blackness was in the swamp now: all its pools and bogs and rotting logs
seemed breathing out a damp dusk of their own, heavy with decay.
Dusty Star looked at Goshmeelee and shivered. _She_ looked dark enough
in her black fur, but also warm and _dry_. There was an air of large
comfortableness about Goshmeelee which was very pleasant to contemplate
on a damp night. Dusty Star contemplated, and had an idea. When the bear
turned into her lair, he had made up his mind. He gave her time to
settle herself comfortably, and arrange the cubs to her liking, and then
boldly crept in after her.
To say that Goshmeelee was surprised, is putting it very mildly.
Goshmeelee was thunderstruck. In all her great experience, extending
over many moons, such an utterly amazing happening had never before
taken place. If any other creature--beast, bird or human-being--had
attempted to approach her precious cubs, Goshmeelee would have barely
given it time to wish it had never been born. But when this small Indian
boy fearlessly did the quite impossibly monstrous thing--actually
pushing himself in beside her as if he were another cub--she had every
claw and tooth ready to tear him into little strips, but--she hadn't
_the heart_!
What it was in Dusty Star that made him different from every other
creature she had ever come across, she didn't in the least know. Only
she felt that the difference was there. Also, she felt quite certain,
that, whatever he was, or did, he wouldn't damage the cubs.
It was very cosy in the lair, not to say stuffy. Also, there was very
little room. If you wanted to be thoroughly comfortable, you hadn't to
be backward about pushing. The cubs weren't troubled with a feeling of
backwardness. First one gave a good shove, and then the other. Dusty
Star, nestling close against Goshmeelee's furry side, felt distinctly
jostled.
When the cubs discovered that a third cub had pushed its way into their
proper bed, they grumbled and shoved all the harder. Dusty Star soon
found that there were two sides to his share of the den: one was the
soft one against Goshmeelee: the other was the hard one against a piece
of hemlock root. The more the cubs shoved, the more he felt the root. It
was no good saying "Don't!" The cubs didn't understand "Don't." Even
when their mother growled at them, they kept on pushing and grumbling
and making a fuss, so that _no_ one could be comfortable, or pretend to
go to sleep. Dusty Star made medicine with his voice--much medicine. He
also pushed and shoved. He was not very polite; but then when people are
sleepy they are not always polite, and the cubs really were very
inhospitable. Goshmeelee was at her wits end to know what to do. Short
of cuffing everybody all round, there seemed nothing to be done but
growl. So growl she did, till all her body seemed a big thunder-box,
with a lid that was always on the point of bursting open.
But by degrees the cubs got sleepier and sleepier, and at last forgot to
push. And the rumbling in the thunder-box died away. And Dusty Star,
pressed close against the great old thundermaker, slept his first sleep
among the bears.
When the early morning twilight was stealing into the black places of
the swamp, he crept softly out of the warm furry darkness of the lair,
and picked his way across the bog.
And when he finally reached home, he found that Kiopo had not yet
returned from his night's hunting, and so would not ask him any awkward
questions about his very beary smell. For though you might hide things
from Kiopo's eyes, and ears, it was dreadfully difficult to conceal them
from his nose.