How Animals Talk 



blush of crimson in midsummer, and which became 

 in autumn like a gorgeous bed of Dutch tulips, 

 only more wondrously colored. Then I would 

 look into the doorway under the larches, where 

 my bear had disappeared. I always picked that 

 out from a hundred similar doorways to watch or 

 question it a moment, as if at any time the green 

 curtain might open to let the bear out. For a 

 curious thing about all woodsmen is this: if they 

 see a buck or a bear or even a fox enter a certain 

 place, they must forever afterward stop to have 

 another expectant look at it. 



From the bear's doorway my thoughts turned 

 naturally to a little bogan of my pond, which 

 was different from all the other bogans, because 

 once a family of minks darted out of it and came 

 dodging along the shore in my direction. Luckily 

 I was close to the water at that moment. While 

 the minks were out of sight under some bushes, 

 I swung my feet over the bank and sat down in 

 their path to wait for them. 



In advance came the mother, looking rusty in 

 her sunburnt summer coat, and she was evidently 

 in a great hurry about something. The little ones, 

 trailing out behind, were hard put to it to keep 

 up the pace. She was fairly under me before she 

 noticed a new scent in the air, which made her 

 halt to look about for the meaning of it. Her neck 



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