“I have, indeed, madam, a fine pair of ears, though I know too well that they are rather large as to size,” said the Bear.
“By no means too large, sir,” answered Mrs. Littlepump.
“If the whole world were hunted through and through,” said the Bear, “I’m sure we should never find any other lady so amiable in speaking graciously to one of the humblest of her servants as Lady Littlepump.”
“We shall be proud, sir, to place you in the list of our most particular friends. You are so modest, so polite, so handsome a Bear.”
As Mrs. Littlepump finished this last speech, the Bear looked at her for a moment—then made three great steps backwards, and made a deep bow. His bow was so very low, and he remained so very long with his nose pointing to the floor that all the children were ready to die with laughter. Little Val fell upon the floor trying to keep his laugh in, and there he lay kicking, and Margaret, who had covered her face with her handkerchief, was heard to give a sort of a little scream; and Nancy had run to the sofa, and covered her head with one of the pillows.
At length the Bear raised his head. He looked very pleasant even through all that rough hair. Turning to Dr. Littlepump, he said, “Mr. Dr. Littlepump, the extreme kindness of this reception of one who is a stranger wins me completely. If you permit me, I will tell you the whole story of my life.”
At this speech everybody said, “Do let us hear the Bear’s story!”
It was agreed upon, with many thanks from Dr. and Mrs. Littlepump. They placed a large chair for the Bear in the middle of the room. The Doctor took down Uncle Abraham’s Dutch pipe, filled it with the very best Turkey tobacco and handed it to the Bear. After carefully lighting it and taking a few whiffs, and stopping a little while to think, the Bear told the following story:
“I was born in one of the largest caves in a forest. My father and mother were regarded not only by all other bears, but by every other animal, as persons of some consequence. My father was a person of proud and resentful disposition, though of the greatest courage and honour. But my mother was one in whom all the qualities of the fairer sex were united. I shall never forget the patience, the gentleness, the skill, and the firmness with which she first taught me to walk alone—I mean to walk on all fours, of course; the upright manner of my present walking was learned afterwards. As this infant effort, however, is one of my very earliest recollections, I will give you a little account of it.”
“Oh, do, Mr. Bear,” cried Margaret. And no sooner had she uttered the words, than all the children cried out at the same time, “Oh, please do, sir.”