“Mother, this is Little Black Bear; I have brought him down to dine with us,” said Shagg.
“Why, isn’t that fine, now,” cried she, coming forward. “Indeed, young sir, you are most welcome. You will find the spring over in the corner, should you care to wash. It won’t take me a minute to put on an extra bowl and then we’ll sit right down.”
As she hustled about, laying another place at the big wooden table that stood in the middle of the cave, Little Black Bear thought he had never met any one with such a white cap and apron. He just positively knew there never were any starched quite as stiff and as straight nor adorned with such beautiful bows. Indeed, he had hard work in trying to tell whether the merry crackling sound that now and then filled the room came from the apron or the fire on the hearth.
“Hurry along with the both of you, now,” called she, as Shagg and Little Black Bear returned from the spring. And soon they were all three at table. Little Black Bear had never before seen such lovely dishes—beautiful iron ones and so delightfully black. Of course there was porridge—three bountiful bowls of it—and a deep dish fairly overflowing with honey. As they ate they talked, the guest telling many stories of the circus and a great deal about Diggeldy Dan, the Pretty Lady, and of Spangleland.
“Now, goodness, do eat your dinner,” Mrs. Shagg kept saying. “Shagg, do help Little Black Bear to some more of the porridge.”
Dinner over with, Shagg and Little Black Bear drew their chairs back from the table so that Mrs. Shagg might clear the dishes, and this gave the visitor more of an opportunity of looking about. Along the sides of the cave were a number of chairs, all with very high backs, and, between these, no less than a dozen quaint chests with corners of brass and handles of iron. On the walls of the cave were many big frames fashioned from bark and each displaying subjects of a most interesting kind. One pictured a wide-waisted hogshead labeled “Molasses”; while another showed a huge honeybee drawn many times larger than bees really are and bearing the title, “The Bears’ Very Best Friend.” In fact, Little Black Bear thought all of the paintings in excellent taste and quite in the style that one might expect to find in the dining room of almost any bruin.
At the back of the cave was a stout wooden door which somehow or other wore a mysterious look. Eyeing it closely, Little Black Bear was just going to ask as to where the door led, when, glancing at Shagg, he saw that the big fellow had gone sound asleep. Next he discovered that Mrs. Shagg had done exactly the same thing in a comfortable rocker that stood near the fire.
“Well, well,” said Little Black Bear to himself, “if that’s to be the way of it, I, too, shall indulge in a nap.”
So, twisting about until he had got himself into a quite snoozy position, he was just on the point of closing his eyes, when there, among the wild roses, appeared a pink-frocked little girl with long yellow curls. Even as he watched, she placed her two hands on the window, and then, softly raising it, stepped into the cave.