Bear Brownie: The Life of a BearRobinson, Harry Perry
General
Bear Brownie: The Life of a Bear
Robinson, Harry Perry
Bears -- Fiction
It was in the evening, after our dip in the river, when twilight was
shading into night, that we used to visit the patch. It was a great open
space in a bend of the river, half a mile long and nearly as wide,
without a tree on it, and nothing but just the blueberry bushes growing
close together all over it, reaching about up to one's chest as one
walked through, and every bush loaded with berries. Not only we, but
every bear in the neighborhood, used to go there each evening--the two
other families of whom I have spoken, and also two other single
he-bears who had no families. One of these was the only animal in the
neighborhood--except the porcupines, which every bear hates--whom I
disliked and feared. He was a bad-tempered beast, bigger than father,
with whom at our first meeting he wanted to pick a quarrel, while making
friends with mother. She, however, would not have anything to say to
him. When he was getting ready to fight my father--walking sideways at
him and snarling, while my father, I am bound to confess, backed
away--mother did not say a word, but went straight at him as she had
rushed at the puma that day when she saved my life. Then father jumped
at him also, and between them they bundled him along till he fairly took
to his heels and ran. But whenever we met him after that--and we saw him
every evening at the patch--he snarled viciously at us, and I, at least,
was careful to keep father and mother between him and me. If he had
caught any one of us alone, I believe he would have killed us; so we
took care that he never should.
I can see the berry-patch now, lying white and shining in the moonlight,
with here and there round the edges, and even sometimes pretty well out
into the middle, if the night was not too light, the black spots showing
where the bears were feeding. We enjoyed our feasts in silence, and
beyond an occasional snapping of a twig, or the cry of some animal from
the forest, or the screech of a passing owl, there was not a sound but
that of our own eating. One night, however, there came an interruption.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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