of the town thirsted for
excitement, there would arise a cry of "Hey, Jim! bin down ter pet cher
bear?" and then . . .

When the train departed, and the crowd had disappeared, I went down and
looked at Thumper. He seemed unchanged. I offered him a cracker; he
stretched out the back of his paw, having learned that people shrank
from the sight of his five-inch claws, in acceptance. This gobbled, he
eyed me, as he leaned back against his pole, like an absurd fat man.
Humour shone on the outside of him, but I fancied that, deep in his
eyes, I could see a dull red glow, Indian style. "Now," said I to
myself, "from the pangs of Jim I shall extract a moral lesson.
Whenever I feel like showing off at somebody's expense, let me use
caution not to select a grizzly bear."

What Thumper thought no man can tell.

In the Absence of Rules

We had a pig when we was down on the little Chantay Seeche. The Doctor
begged him off a rancher, to eat up the scraps around camp. A neat
person was the Doctor and a durned good cook.

We called him the Doctor because he wore specs--that's as good a claim
as many has to the title. His idee was that when the pig got fat he
would sell him for lots of money, but long before Foxey Bill (which was
piggy) had reached the market stage money couldn't buy him. He was a
great pig. My notion of hogs, previous to my acquaintance with him,
was that they were dirty, stupid critters, without any respectable
feelings. Perhaps it's because animals get man-like, when you
associate with 'em a great deal, or perhaps Foxey Bill was an unusual
proposition; but, anyhow, he was the funniest, smartest brute I ever
see, and we thought a slew of him.

Clean was no name for his personal appearance. Every Sunday the Doctor
took a scrub-brush and piggy down to the creek and combined 'em with
the kind assistance of a cake of soap. Then Foxey just shone white as
ivory, and he'd trot around in front of us, gruntin' to attract our
attention, till everybody'd said, "What a beautiful, clean pig--ain't
he just right?" Then he'd grunt his thanks to the company and retire
behind the shack for a nap. We used to fair kill ourselves laughing at
that darned pig. He had the most wheedlin' squeal, so soft and
pleadin'; and he'd look up at you with them skim-milk eyes of his so
pitiful, when he wanted a chunk of sugar, that you couldn't refuse him.

[Illustration: "Clean was no name for his personal appearance."]