But we will have a little talk about Halifax and surroundings when you have heard about the bear.
Well, in the first place I did not, of course, see the bear in the city, but in a place called Sackville—a section of country about five miles long, and extending over hill and dale and valley; through woods and across streams. My host owned a beautiful farm—picturesquely beautiful only, not with a money-making beauty—situated upon the slope of a hill, where one could stand and look upon the most tender of melting sunsets, away off toward the broad old ocean.
One morning as we were all gathered upon the front stoop, grandpa, mamma, baby, kitten and all, we looked down the valley and saw coming up the hill, led by two men, an immense yellow bear. One of the farm hands was sent to call the men and the bear up to the house. The men, who were Swiss, were glad enough to come, as they were taking bruin through the country to show off his tricks and make thereby a little money.
The children were somewhat afraid at first, but soon felt quite safe when they saw he was firmly secured by a rope. Old bruin's keeper first gave him a drink of water, then poured a pailful over him, which he seemed to enjoy very much, as the day was a warm one. One of the men said something in Swiss, at which the bear gave a roar-like grunt and commenced to dance. Around and around the great lumbering fellow went on his two hind legs, holding his fore paws in the air. It was not what one would call a very "airy waltz," however. Again the keeper spoke, and immediately bruin threw himself upon the ground and turned somersaults, making us all laugh heartily. He then told him to shake hands (but all in Swiss), and it was too funny to see the great awkward animal waddle up on his hind legs and extend first one paw and then the other. But what interested us all most, both big and little, was to hear the man say, "Kisse me," and then to watch the bear throw out his long tongue and lick his keeper's face.
We then gave the bear some milk to drink, when suddenly he gave a bound forward toward the baby. But he was securely tied, as we well knew. The milk roused all the beast's savage instincts, one of the men said.
But what will interest you most of all will be the fact that on the farm (which consisted of five hundred acres, nearly all woodland) there were seen almost every morning the footprints of a real savage bear. The sheep were fast disappearing, and the farmers about were not a little worried. One day I went for a walk into these same woods, and such woods! you Western boys and girls could not possibly imagine them—the old moss-covered logs, and immense trees cut down years ago and left to lie there until all overgrown with mosses and lichens. I never before experienced such a feeling of solitude as in that walk of over a mile in length through those deep dark woods, where sometimes we had literally to cut our way through with our little hatchets (we always carried them with us when in the forest).
As I sauntered on, those lines of Longfellow's in Evangeline, came unconsciously to my mind, so exactly did they describe the place:
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic.
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
Nova Scotia is, as you all know the Acadian country of which our own fireside poet writes so beautifully. It was but a few miles from where I was visiting that the scene of Evangeline, that exquisitely tender romance which so thrills the hearts of both old and young, was laid. As I drove through the country, coming ever and anon unexpectedly upon one of the many beautiful lakes from half a mile to two miles in length, in fancy I pictured the fair Evangeline and her guide, the good Father Felician, skirting these lakes in a light canoe as they traversed the whole and through in the sad and fruitless search for the lost lover Gabriel.
No wonder the soul of the poet was filled with such strange, mystic beauty which thus found expression in rhythm and song, for Acadia has an enchantment all its own and can best be interpreted by the diviner thought of the poet.