THE POOR BEAR GAVE WAY COMPLETELY.
The Bear was already by his side, and a moment later with the cub stepped out into the night. Then Bosephus heard low growls followed by a strange commotion, which he at first took to be the sound of fighting. Suddenly Horatio ran to him in great excitement.
"Bo, Bo!" he exclaimed, "it's my family! and, oh, Bosephus, it's Cub's family, too! We're really brothers, and we didn't know it!" Then he ran back into the dark and presently returned with the cub and the seven other bears, following. The newcomers stared and blinked at the little boy as they entered the lighted cabin and then withdrew to a darker corner, where they sat silently regarding everything that passed, like strangers from the country. The cub sat with them and whispered softly, in the bear tongue, and Horatio now and then went over, too, and no doubt told them marvellous tales of his strange adventures. Late that night all lay down to sleep—the little boy in the arms of his faithful friend.
And so the Bear Colony had begun, even sooner than Bo and Ratio had expected, and they had given up all notion of travelling any further. The lumber camp was deserted for good by the woodcutters, for the largest trees had been cut out and taken away long before. The cabin was headquarters—Bosephus was president, Horatio prime minister, and the cub, because of his adventures and slight educational advancement, was chief assistant. Early spring was upon the land, and the woods were beginning to be sweet with song and blossom. Bosephus was almost afraid at first that, with the native woods and the renewal of home ties, Horatio might return more or less to his savage instincts, but he became gentler and more docile than ever. His place as prime minister and chief instructor made him realize his advancement and the importance of good behavior. He was grave and dignified, and about the fire in the evening, played the violin with an air of skill and superiority that was very impressive. Bosephus at first enjoyed it all immensely. The bears were obedient and submissive, and were gradually learning to understand his language. He had more money than he would ever need and was lord of all he surveyed.
But gradually there came a change. He grew tired of seeing only the black faces and shining eyes of his subjects and of hearing only the singing of bees and birds. At first he did not realize what was the matter. Then it came to him at last that this life of the forest was palling upon him and that, like the cub, he yearned for his own kind—the faces of men.
One morning he divided up the money into two equal parts and slipped out to where Horatio was sunning himself and playing softly before the cabin.
"Horatio," he said, tenderly, "I have divided up the money. Here is your half. You have been the best friend I ever had and it breaks my heart to leave you, but I can't live away from my own race any longer. I am going back to Louisiana, to the planter who told me to come back and he would send me to school and college and make a man of me," and then the little boy suddenly broke down and fell weeping into his companion's arms.
For some moments Horatio could not speak. Then he spoke, sobbing between every word.
"Bo—Bo—you—you're—not—not going to—to leave me! Oh, Bo!" and the poor Bear gave way completely and wept on the little boy's shoulder. They were all alone, as the others had gone out together for a walk. At last Horatio put the boy gently from him and took up his violin. He began to play very softly and sang in a breaking voice:—