In the Sierra 



him, fearing he would catch sight of me 

 and run away. For I had been told that 

 this sort of bear, the cinnamon, always ran 

 from his bad brother man, never showing 

 right unless wounded or in defense of young. 

 He made a telling picture standing alert in 

 the sunny forest garden. How well he 

 played his part, harmonizing in bulk and 

 color and shaggy hair with the trunks of 

 the trees and lush vegetation, as natural a 

 feature as any other in the landscape. After 

 examining at leisure, noting the sharp 

 muzzle thrust inquiringly forward, the long 

 shaggy hair on his broad chest, the stiff 

 erect ears nearly buried in hair, and the 

 slow heavy way he moved his head, I 

 thought I should like to see his gait in run- 

 ning, so I made a sudden rush at him, 

 shouting and swinging my hat to frighten 

 him, expecting to see him make haste to 

 get away. But to my dismay he did not 

 run or show any sign of running. On the 

 contrary, he stood his ground ready to fight 

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