Bear nearer; and now he has Bayard in his claws. Tight,—tighter, the bear hugs him,—Oh, dear!
Bayard can't get away! Can't breathe! Almost dead! Oh! Oh! Help! Help!
"Bayard!" "Bayard!"
What was that?
Bayard starts up; rubs his eyes, yawns; stretches; yawns again.
What! Has he been asleep? Yes, for there he is, safe and sound, his gun on the grass, no bear in sight; and his mother is calling him to dinner.
And that is how Bayard shot the bear!
Indeed, he couldn't have shot it otherwise with his gun, for, don't you see, it was only a toy gun which Cousin Guy had given him as a birthday present.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.