THE BOY AND THE BEAR.
A Ballad of Bulgaria.
It was the little Bulgar boy, and oh! it was the Bear,
Whose affectionate relations were remarkable as rare;
For the Bulgar boy of Bruin was the glory and the joy,
And if anyone loved Bruin, 'twas that little Bulgar boy.
It was very very touching, for your Bear, however good,
Has seldom any liking for your boy—except as food;
And your boy—or man—from feelings that humanity may blame,
Has commonly no yearning for your Bear—unless as game.
But this Bear—on his own showing—was a Bear of simple worth,
He was not a western "Grizzly," but a Bruin from the North,
Which we know is "true and tender," or at least so poets swear,
And these Northern traits—who doubts it?—are conspicuous in the Bear.
Had he not that boy befriended in the kindest sort of style,
In a fashion full of valour, as 'twas destitute of guile,
When a Bubblyjock gigantic from the Bosphorus who hailed,
Had assaulted that small Bulgar boy, and—thanks to Bruin—failed?
And all that Bear expected in return for what he'd done,
(And who of such a sentiment will venture to make fun?)
Was the gratitude, and confidence, and love, and—well subjection,
Of the boy whom he had taken 'neath his paws—I mean protection.
But alas for human nature, which is radically bad!
(And conservatively sinful) this same little Bulgar lad,
When he found himself in safety from that Stamboul Bubblyjock,
Took and acted in a manner that humanity must shock,
For says he, "Oh, thank you, Bruin dear,—and now I'll go and play,
And I'll just select the game myself, and work it my own way.
You were quite disinterested, for you said so your own self,
And I'm sure you don't want power, and of course you can't seek pelf,
At your little friend's expense, Bear. No, I thank you very much,
You have made a free boy of me—and I mean to act as such."
So he ups and makes selection, this ungratefullest of boys,
Of his soldiers, and his swords and guns, and crowns, and other toys;
And when Bruin put his paw down in expostulation vain,
The Bulgar boy suggested he should—take it up again.
You may easily imagine gentle Bruin's sore disgust,
At this sad reciprocation of his fondness and his trust.
Says he, "This little rascal is just rushing on his ruin,
For his only place of safety is the guardian arms of Bruin."
And sundry other animals, and birds, and things, agreed with him,
And cried, "The boy is mad, Bear; we must preach to him, and plead with him.
Ay, even if 'tis needful, though against our natures mild,
We must—well, we mustn't spare the rod, and spoil the—Bulgar—child."
There were several Eagles thought this way; the Lion didn't quite,
But he had a sort of feeling that this fight was not his fight;
And the Bubblyjock at Stamboul was found acting with the Bear,
From rather mingled motives, which that fowl did not declare.
Well, the Bulgar boy persisting still in making his own game,
The Bear assumes a sternness it is difficult to blame,
From the Bruin point of view, at least, for strength must be put forth
Now and then, e'en by a (so-called) Divine Figure from the North.
And so Bruin rears his carcase, and his sanctimonious "mug,"
Takes a menacing expression, "Come," he cries, "into my hug,
And be happy, naughty Bulgar boy; what can you have to fear?"
And the rest of the Menagerie of Europe say, "Hear! hear!"
But like another "little boy," of whom you may have heard,
With a cabalistic action as discourteous as absurd,
(The Bulgar boy maintains it means no more than prudent doubt)
He "puts his thumb unto his nose, and spreads his fingers out."
Now whether Bear will bear it, after all his love and care,
Or whether that small Bulgar boy will cave in to the Bear,
And how those Birds, the Eagles and the Bubblyjock, will turn,
Are questions none can answer now; but he who lives will learn.
