For the Companion.
THE HOSTLER'S STORY.
By J. T. Trowbridge.
What amused us most at the Lake House last summer was the performance of a bear in the back yard.
He was fastened to a pole by a chain, which gave him a range of a dozen or fifteen feet. It was not very safe for visitors to come within that circle, unless they were prepared for rough handling.
He had a way of suddenly catching you to his bosom, and picking your pockets of peanuts and candy,–if you carried any about you,–in a manner which took your breath away. He stood up to his work on his hind legs in a quite human fashion, and used paw and tongue with amazing skill and vivacity. He was friendly, and didn't mean any harm, but he was a rude playfellow.
I shall never forget the ludicrous adventures of a dandified New Yorker who came out into the yard to feed bruin on seed-cakes, and did not feed him fast enough.
He had approached a trifle too near, when all at once the bear whipped an arm about him, took him to his embrace, and "went through" his pockets in a hurry. The terrified face of the struggling and screaming fop, and the good-natured, businesslike expression of the fumbling and munching beast, offered the funniest sort of contrast.
The one-eyed hostler, who was the bear's especial guardian, lounged leisurely to the spot.