AT GORDON’S CAMP Ms 
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 
