84 TRUE BEAR STORIES.

the music. Every now and then one of
them would lift up a paw and gently tap
the ground, as if to keep time with the
music. And both my papa and Lyte said
next day that those bears really wanted to
dance.

And that is all there is to say about that,
except that my father was the gentlest gen-
tleman I ever knew and his influence must
have been boundless; for who ever before
heard of any hunter laying down his rifle
with a family of fat black bears holding
the little snow-white cross on their breasts
almost within reach of its muzzle?

The moon came up by and by, and the
chin of the weary fiddler sank lower and
lower, till all was still. The oxen lay down
and ruminated, with their noses nearly
against us. Then the coal-black bears
melted away before the milk-white moon,
and we slept there, with the sweet breath
of the cattle, like incense, upon us.

But how does a bear die? Ah, I had for-
gotten. I must tell you of death, then.