wood, climbing great ridges and mighty boulders. He would find himself hunting the bee for its honey, shaking the bushes for their berries, and eating the tender shoots of moss from the rocks in the valley.

Then he would awake, sniff the air, utter that yawning half-roar, half-whine, and resume his shambling walk around and around and around.

The summer ripened. The wood and streams called even to the men-bears, who ignored Timothy's greater yearnings. Sometimes hunters, coming and going across the Indian Carry, would stop and study the bear. Most of them spoke to Timothy, but their notice was patronizing, like that of a king for a jester. Some preferred to poke fun and sticks at the captive. Timothy paid no attention, save when any one approached too near that circle. Then a snarl warned the playful that the little world within that round path was Timothy's, and he would at least guard against man's trespass there.

One day a party of gentlemen from the city came along. They were amateur hunters on an outing. They laughed and joked about Timothy. One of the party, who had been thoughtfully studying the bear, suddenly said:

"Do you know, I think that is a downright shame."

The others laughed.

"Why don't you go in and hug the bear, Jack?" was suggested.

"I would," said Jack, "if I thought he would understand."

"He'd tear you to bits!"

"Of course he would," said Jack, "and I should n't blame him in the least!"

The hunting season was now at its height. Timothy would sometimes stop in his pacing as a gunshot echoed among the wooded valleys. And ever he would snarl at the sound, as his mother had done at the clang of the anvil by the river bend.

Day after day the hunters brought in trophies of the chase, sometimes a bear, but most often deer. And while the game hung in the barn of the hunter's house, Timothy's conduct would attract fearful attention. He ambled at a half-run around his circular track, his jaws dripping and fierce sounds coming from his deep throat.

"What are you going to do with that bear when the snow flies?" a neighbor asked Jim Dickert. "You can't leave him out to freeze to death."

"I dunno," said the hunter, who had been thinking over the same problem. “Yet I don't see how we 're to get him into the barn. Not a soul can go near him."

"Guess you'd better shoot him.”

Jim Dickert said nothing. Rough man as he was, he somehow felt that it was hardly fair to shoot Timothy for what was not Timothy's fault. But what was he to do with this bear that had grown beyond handling? If they got Timothy into the barn, it would be a perilous success, for in the spring it would be humanely necessary to bring him out again. Jim Dickert had not forgotten that last "taking out," and Timothy had been a lamb then compared with the savage beast that he now was.

"We'll see," said the hunter, uneasily.

Two weeks later, just at the close of the hunting season, the matter came to a head.

Of all the human beings that Timothy detested, the blacksmith's boy came first. This boy -his name was Bert-hated the bear because it had added to the importance of Cliff Dickert. He had taken out his vengeance on Timothy, and the boys had fought over the matter on several occasions. Once friends, they were now unspeaking enemies.

None knew so well as Timothy how cruelly the blacksmith's boy had teased him. The memory of a stone that had struck him on his one tender spot, the snout, rankled in Timothy's sense-memory.

Oddly enough, he never snarled when his worst enemy approached, but plodded around his circle with apparent unconcern. The bear's little eyes, however, were ever alert.

Bert's habit was to get as close to the circular track as possible, and, as the bear went by, make a pass at Timothy with his hand. Timothy, of course, had not another inch of chain to spare, so he just had to suffer this baiting. The blacksmith's boy would keep up this cruel game until he grew tired of Timothy's apparent unconcern. There was no fun when the bear refused to snarl. He became bolder, actually slapping the bear as it passed, and then leaping quickly backward. His boldness was his undoing. As he leaned over a bent knee in order to be ready for the bear, his foot suddenly slipped inward and under him. He threw forward an arm to save himself, and that arm fell on Timothy's beaten path.

The arm was instantly withdrawn, but not before Timothy, with a roar of triumph and rage, had struck it with distended claws.

Next moment the boy was running toward the blacksmith's, holding his left arm tightly, and shrieking. Five minutes later, Jim Dickert saw the blacksmith coming down the road at a furious pace. He had a gun under his arm.

"Look here, you, Jim Dickert," said the smith, white with rage, "are you going to shoot that b'ar right now, or will I?"

Then he told how his boy had come home with his sleeve torn and his arm badly clawed.

"Serves him right for teasing the poor brute!" said Jim, who might have accused himself of

worse.

"But keep cool," he added; "I reckon we 'll have to kill old Timothy. I was hoping maybe we would n't have to, but-suppose we do it in the morning. Maybe the boys would like to see it. Anyway, I'd much rather you did the shooting, Smithy. I-I-somehow-"

"I'll do it, quick enough!" said the blacksmith. So Timothy was doomed. He was to be shot next morning at nine o'clock. Jim Dickert was satisfied that it was the only way; yet somewhere inside the man's slow brain there was a sense of something wrong-something unfair about the whole matter.

When the news was broken to Cliff, the boy wept bitterly. Then the little man in him arose in protest.

"Nobody's going to shoot Timothy!" he cried through his tears. "Timothy 's my bear. Did n't I find him? Wish now I had n't-the poor, little, toddling thing." Again he burst into tears; but presently his temper rose again.

"Did n't he get away this spring, and was n't it I brought him back? He'd have chawed up anybody else. Ain't he my bear, then? Wish-I'd -let him-go," he sobbed. “But, Dad, you won't let them shoot Timothy! Take the hook off his collar and let him go." The boy was pleading earnestly for the life of his savage friend.

"Cliff," said his father, uncomfortably, "I 'd do it if it could be done. But there ain't a man as can go near that b'ar. He'd be tore to bits. It's the only way, Cliff."

"I'll take the hook off!" cried Cliff. "I ain't afraid of Timothy."

"I know you ain't, boy," said the father, with a touch of pride and affection; "but I 'd rather lose Tim than lose you. I won't allow you to risk it; so there's no more to be said. Go away for a walk in the morning. It'll be all over when you come back."

Cliff said no more. All evening he was very silent, and he went to bed early. Later, the lights went out in Jim Dickert's house.

Outside, the bear continued its restless tread around the circle, the long chain taut between it and the iron stake. The big yellow moon that had frightened the woolly cub of a year before arose in exactly the same place. But Timothy paid no attention. He had ceased to wonder at anything, except as all things in his world spelled an eternal "why?"

Presently a slight figure stole from the kitchen door and came near the bear's circle. "Timothy!" came a whisper. The bear snarled and kept on. "Timmie!" came the whisper again.

The bear stopped on the farther side from Cliff. Timothy was puzzled in a dull way. Nobody had ever whispered to him before. It was a new sound, and there was some association about the "Timmie."

Cliff stepped into the dangerous circle. The bear snarled.

"Timmie," the boy repeated, softly.

The bear slowly left the track and cut straight across the circle toward Cliff. The boy's heart beat fast and thickly, but he stood his ground, speaking softly to the great, shaggy animal.

"Oomph!" said Timothy, as Cliff's hand fell upon his head and stroked it gently.

"Guess they ain't going to get a chance to shoot you, Timmie," whispered the boy, while with a deft hand he slipped the swivel-hook from the collar.

"Go now, Timmie," was Cliff's parting advice, and he sped back to his deserted bed.

VII

IN the morning, Cliff's surprise was no less than his father's, but for a very different reason.

The hunter at once discovered that the bear was loose, but the more astonishing thing was that Timothy was still shuffling around his circular track!

The collar was on him, but he was apparently quite unaware that the chain was lying loose near the stake and he was free to go wherever he chose.

Jim Dickert knew at once that this was Cliff's work. The hunter's face softened, then hardened. He wished now most heartily that Timothy had seized his opportunity, but habit had become too strongly ingrained in the bear's mind.

Now action had to be taken quickly. It was still early. No one was in sight. The moment a man appeared, however, Timothy would press upon his chain and find no resistance. The sight of an enemy would arouse his savagery, and he would attack at once.

For a moment, Jim Dickert was of a mind to call the boy and have him drive the bear from the circle. This might break the spell, for apparently Timothy had never thought to cross the circle after Cliff released him. He evidently thought that he could not cross it. But the hunter shivered to think of the risk the boy had taken in the night. He could not allow him to repeat it.

Telling his wife what had happened and bidding her allow no one to leave the house, the hunter stole out by a back door, made a detour, and reached the blacksmith's.

When Jim Dickert told him that the bear was loose, the smith turned white, but he regained some assurance from the peculiarity of the situation. A man who was coming down the road to witness the shooting was stopped and sent on a roundabout way that would bring him out on the road below Dickert's. His instructions were to stop all would-be onlookers, explain what had happened, and not allow them to advance until the blacksmith's party appeared coming down the road.

This resulted in keeping Timothy still on his aimless plodding around the circle.

In a little while the two parties saw one another coming toward the main point. They approached very cautiously, pausing about one hundred yards from the bear.

Then the blacksmith strolled casually along the open space of road between the two groups, his rifle in the hollow of his left arm.

Opposite the bear he paused and took deliberate aim. Timothy, perhaps suspicious of the pecu

liar conduct of the men-bears, stopped and faced the enemy.

He pressed forward, as was his habit, and found that he was free!

At the realization, a roar came from his suddenly opened jaws. He rose to his full height and left the circle, advancing upon the blacksmith.

He

The man fired. Perhaps the sight of that hairy vengeance unnerved him momentarily. missed. When the smoke cleared, Timothy was almost down upon him.

That was too much for the blacksmith. With a yell he dropped his rifle and bolted. Those who had come to see Timothy killed bolted, too. At the same time, a shrill boy-voice cried from a window of the house:

"Run, Timothy!-Run!"

Timothy ran-over the road, across the field, into the forest. There he paused, raised his snout, and sniffed the cool, woodsy air. Ah! it was good to be alive-and free!

The great silent forest, the tangled ravines, the rock caves, the berry brakes, and the tender mossy places were all his to enjoy at last.