AT GORDON'S CAMP 25 



and, when occasion requires, climb a tree to a place 

 of safety. Very few woodsmen or hunters are aware 

 of these facts. The cubs that they see in May or 

 June they will tell you are only three or four weeks 

 old. Months, they should say. 



When the meat had been prepared and the skin 

 rolled into a bundle, the cub was slipped into the 

 big pocket of the cook's overcoat and taken to the 

 camp. The children laughed with glee, marveling 

 at the wee small creature, and the lumbermen, 

 coming in from felling the trees, gazed at it curi- 

 ously and touched it tenderly with their rough 

 hands. But what could be done with it? How 

 could it be fed ? Milk seemed to be the only proper 

 thing to give it, since it was quite evident that the 

 little animal had not yet been weaned ; but where 

 could they get any milk ? They had no cow, nor 

 did they have any canned milk, for that was in the 

 days before condensed and evaporated milk had 

 become part of the food-supply of every backwoods 

 camp. 



No one was able to suggest a plan for saving the 

 life of the tiny orphan and, as the hours passed, 

 death by starvation seemed to be its inevitable 

 end. But the cub himself, having something to say 

 on the matter, let his voice be heard in an unmis- 

 takable and universal language. He cried, and the 

 meaning of his cry was: "Take me back to my 



