He sat up to begin his story, pressing tobacco into his pipe. "Oh,
it's not so much of a story, Sylvie. It was last spring when the river
was high and I'd been out with my traps. I was coming home along the
river edge, pretty tired, a big load on my back. I came around a bend
of the river, and not far below me a little black bear, round as a
barrel, was trying to scramble over the flood on a very shaky log.
The mother was on the other side, but I didn't know that then. Well,
there's nothing in God's world, Sylvie, so beguiling as a baby bear.
This little fellow was scared by what he was doing, but he was bound
he'd get across the river. He'd make a few steps; then he'd back up
and half rise on his hind legs. I watched him a long time. Then he
made up his mind he'd better make a dash for it. He began scrambling
like a frantic kitten, and it was just in the most ticklish spot that
he heard me and jumped and went rolling off into the river. I tell
you, my heart came right up into my mouth."
"Oh, _was_ he drowned?" wailed Sylvie.
Hugh rose and stood with his back to the fire, dominating the room
even more convincingly, with his vivid ugliness. Sylvie's face turned
up to him like a white flower to the sun it lives by, without seeing.
Pages:
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92