“I only stood up on my hind legs.”
“Of course!” replied Bruin. “So, though I would not have hurt him for the world” (with another glance towards the grandmother), “I thought there would be no harm in frightening him a little. Accordingly, I first made a great noise among the bushes, snapping the twigs and rustling the leaves at a great rate. He stopped eating, and looked and listened, listened and looked; didn’t seem to like it much, I thought. Then, when he was pretty thoroughly roused, I came slowly forward, and planted myself directly in front of the cave.”
“Dear me!” cried the grandmother. “How very dreadful! poor old man!”
“Well now, ma’am!” said Bruin appealingly, “he had no right to steal my honey; now had he? And I didn’t hurt a hair of his head,” he continued. “I only stood up on my hind-legs and waved my fore-paws round and round like a windmill, and roared.”
A general burst of merriment greeted this statement, from all except the grandmother, who shuddered in sympathy with the unfortunate hermit.
“Well?” asked Toto, “and what did he do then?”
“Why,” said Bruin, “he crouched down in a little heap on the ground, and squeezed himself against the wall of the cave, evidently expecting me to rush upon him and tear him to pieces; I sat down in front of him and looked at him for a few minutes; then, when I thought he had had about enough, I walked past him into the cave, and then he ran away. He has never made me another visit.”
“No,” said the squirrel; “he went home to his own cave at the other end of the wood, and built a barricade round it, and didn’t put his nose out of doors for a week after. I have a cousin who lives in that neighborhood, and he told me about it.”