When I Got Up To See What Had
Happened, The Robin Was Scattered About Under The Tree In More Than A
Thousand Pieces, No One Of Which Was Big Enough To Enable A
Naturalist To Decide From It To What Species It Belonged.
This
disgusted me with the life of a sportsman.
I mention the incident to
show that, although I went blackberrying armed, there was not much
inequality between me and the bear.
In this blackberry-patch bears had been seen. The summer before, our
colored cook, accompanied by a little girl of the vicinage, was
picking berries there one day, when a bear came out of the woods, and
walked towards them. The girl took to her heels, and escaped. Aunt
Chloe was paralyzed with terror. Instead of attempting to run, she
sat down on the ground where she was standing, and began to weep and
scream, giving herself up for lost. The bear was bewildered by this
conduct. He approached and looked at her; he walked around and
surveyed her. Probably he had never seen a colored person before,
and did not know whether she would agree with him: at any rate, after
watching her a few moments, he turned about, and went into the
forest. This is an authentic instance of the delicate consideration
of a bear, and is much more remarkable than the forbearance towards
the African slave of the well-known lion, because the bear had no
thorn in his foot.
When I had climbed the hill, - I set up my rifle against a tree, and
began picking berries, lured on from bush to bush by the black gleam
of fruit (that always promises more in the distance than it realizes
when you reach it); penetrating farther and farther, through
leaf-shaded cow-paths flecked with sunlight, into clearing after
clearing.
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