BILL CROSS AND HIS BEAR. 91 



pace for his ranch below, slow and indo- 

 lent as if on the deck of a ship, my father 

 insisted that he should go on horseback, 

 or at least take a gun. 



"Pooh, pooh! I wouldn't be bothered 

 with a horse or a gun. Say, I'm goin' to 

 bring your boys a pet bear some day." 



And so, cocking his little hat down over 

 his right eye and thrusting his big hands 

 into his deep pockets almost to the elbows, 

 he slowly and lazily whistled himself down 

 the gradual slope of the foothills, waist 

 deep in the waving grass and delicious wild 

 flowers, and soon was lost to sight in the 

 great waving sea. 



Two things may be here written down. 

 He wouldn't ride a horse because he 

 couldn't, and for the same reason he 

 wouldn't use a gun. Again let it be writ- 

 ten down, also, that the reason he was 

 going away that warm autumn afternoon 

 was that there was some work to do. These 

 facts were clear to my kind and indulgent 

 father; but of course we boys never thought 



