Beside the old she-bear lay a little suckling cub. The mother dying
before his very eyes, Juon had compassion on the desolate cub, took it
under his protection, and carried it to a milch-goat, who suckled it.
The little wild beast thrived upon the milk of the tame animal and,
softened by human fellowship, grew up much attached to its master.
Bears, I may tell your ladyship, are not bloodthirsty by nature.
Henceforth the bear went forth with the herdsman and the herds, helped
to drive the goats together of an evening, and enlivened the long
dreary days by turning somersaults--an art at which bears excel. At
night it slept by Juon's side and made itself cosey by burying its snout
in his bosom. When meal-time came, the bear sat down beside Juon, for he
knew that every second slice of cheese would be his. He also fetched
fire-wood to put under the pot in which the maize-pottage was boiling.
Then, too, he explored the woods in search of wild honey and brought
back his booty to share it with Juon. When it was very hot he carried
his pelisse after him, a pelt more or less made very little difference
to him. Juon had nobody to speak to but the bear, and if a man speaks
quite seriously to the beasts they get to understand him at last.
Moreover, in moments of ill temper the bear had learnt to recognize that
Juon's fists were no less vigorous than his own paws, so that he had no
temptation to be ungrateful.
Pages:
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158