n as fast as she could, back
home. But she remembered how sick her father was, and how much he
needed the medicine; and then besides, she used to say, all of a
sudden it made her angry, all over, to have that great stupid animal
get in her way. She always said that nothing 'got her mad up' like
feeling afraid. So what do you suppose she did?"

Arnold could only shake his head silently in an ecstasy of impatience
for the story to continue. Judith and Sylvia smiled at each other with
the insufferable complacence of auditors who know the end by heart.

"She just pointed her finger at the bear, and she said in a loud,
harsh voice: 'Shame! Shame! Shame on you! For sha-a-ame!' She'd taught
district school, you know, and had had lots of practice saying that
to children who had been bad. The bear looked up at her hard for
a minute, then dropped his head and began to walk slowly away.
Grandmother always said, 'The great lummox lumbered off into the
bushes like a gawk of a boy who's been caught in mischief,' She waited
just a minute and then ran like lightning along the path through the
woods to the neighbors and got the medicine."

The story was evidently over, the last tomato was peeled. Mrs.
Marshall rose, wiping her stained and dripping hands on her apron,
and went to the stove. Arnold started as if coming out of a dream
and looked about him with wondering eyes. "Well,
what-d'you-think-o'-_that?_" he commented, all in one breath. "Say,
Mother," he went on, looking up at her with trusting eyes, searching
the quiet face, "what do you suppose _made_ the bear go away? You
wouldn't think a little thing like that would scare a _bear_!"

Mrs. Marshall began dipping the hot, stewed tomatoes into the glass
jars ready in a big pan of boiling water on the back of the stove. The
steam rose up, like a cloud, into her face, which began to turn red
and to glisten with perspiration. "Oh, I don't suppose it really
frightened the bear," she said moderately, refraining from the
dramatic note of completeness which her husband, in spite of himself,
gave to everything he touched, and adding instead the pungent, homely
savor of reality, which none relished more than Sylvia and her father,
incapable themselves of achieving it. "'Most likely the bear would
have gone away of his own accord anyhow. They don't attack people
unless they're stirred up." Arnold bit deeply into the solidity of
this unexaggerated presentation, and was silent for a moment