He chewed the Ranger’s shoe, one night, just to sample the flavor. He loved potato parings, and raised his voice and sang for the bacon rinds.
Oh, what a voice he had! “Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw!” he would bray till some one came to feed him. “It’s worth while giving him something to eat, just to keep him quiet,” declared the Ranger’s wife.
On the trail young Bucky, like his parents, expressed most of his feelings with his ears. When all was going well, their long ears swayed forward and backward, forward and backward, with each step they took. If something startled them, forward would prick those great, listening ears till their curiosity had been satisfied. But if they got stubborn, back they would lay their ears as flat as they could plaster them.
One night every one was extra tired, and they all forgot and left the flour bag open. It was the night they arrived at the Big Trees, and they were too filled with awe and wonder to think of anything practical. The next morning Fuzzy happened to wake early, and went off on an exploring expedition of his own. That wonderful nose of his had told him that there was a nest of field mice somewhere about there, and he meant to dig them out.
Meantime the family arose, bathed in the river, and started breakfast preparations. While the boy brought in wood for the fire the little girl carried water from the spring, and the Ranger rounded up the stock,—as they say out West when they go to drive back the horses, who often stray in the night,—his wife made ready to bake biscuit.
She looked for the big twenty-five-pound flour sack. It was half empty, and flour was strewn all over the ground!
The two big burros were always hobbled, like the horses, over night, so that they could browse in the little mountain meadows without wandering too far. Young Bucky was left free. Just now he was nowhere in sight.
“Children,” called their mother sharply, “see what that bear of yours has done!” And Fuzzy, returning at that moment, wondered why every one scolded.
When the Ranger came in with the pack train, young Bucky’s muzzle was white with flour and his sides puffed out amazingly. “Here’s the culprit,” he sang out. “Trust a burro for raiding camp every chance he gets. Nothing but a donkey could pull through after a spree like what he’s been on.”
“Then Fuzzy didn’t do a thing,” and the boy flung his arms around the brown cub.