For the Companion.
THE HOSTLER'S STORY.
By J. T. Trowbridge.
What amused us most at the Lake House last summer was the performance ofa bear in the back yard.
He was fastened to a pole by a chain, which gave him a range of a dozenor fifteen feet. It was not very safe for visitors to come within thatcircle, unless they were prepared for rough handling.
He had a way of suddenly catching you to his bosom, and picking yourpockets of peanuts and candy,–if you carried any about you,–in amanner which took your breath away. He stood up to his work on his hindlegs in a quite human fashion, and used paw and tongue with amazingskill and vivacity. He was friendly, and didn't mean any harm, but hewas a rude playfellow.
I shall never forget the ludicrous adventures of a dandified New Yorkerwho came out into the yard to feed bruin on seed-cakes, and did not feedhim fast enough.
He had approached a trifle too near, when all at once the bear whippedan arm about him, took him to his embrace, and "went through" hispockets in a hurry. The terrified face of the struggling and screamingfop, and the good-natured, businesslike expression of the fumbling andmunching beast, offered the funniest sort of contrast.
The one-eyed hostler, who was the bear's especial guardian, loungedleisurely to the spot.
"Keep still, and he won't hurt ye," he said, turning his quid. "That'sone of his tricks. Throw out what you've got, and he'll leave ye."
The dandy made haste to help bruin to the last of the seed-cakes, andescaped without injury, but in a ridiculous plight,–his hat smashed,his necktie and linen rumpled, and his watch dangling; but his frightwas the most laughable part of all.
The one-eyed hostler made a motion to the beast, who immediately climbedthe pole, and looked at us from the cross-piece at the top.
"A bear," said the one-eyed hostler, turning his quid again, "is thebest-hearted, knowin'est critter that goes on all-fours. I'm speakin' ofour native black bear, you understand. The brown bear aint half sorespectable, and the grizzly is one of the ugliest brutes in creation.Come down here, Pomp!"
Pomp slipped down the pole and advanced towards the one-eyed hostler,walking on his hind legs and rattling his chain.
"Playful as a kitten!" said the one-eyed hostler, fondly. "I'll showye."
He took a wooden bar from a clothes-horse near by, and made a lunge withit at Pomp's breast.
No pugilist or fencing-master could have parried a blow more neatly.Then the one-eyed hostler began to thrust and strike with the bar as ifin downright earnest.
"Rather savage play," I remarked. And a friend by my side, who nevermisses a chance to make a pun, added,—
"Yes, a decided act of bar-bear-ity."
"Oh, he likes it!" said the one-eyed hostler. "Ye can't hit him."
And indeed it was