“Old White Deer, that Indian chief that came into camp one day to confab with me, says his grandfather could remember very well the days when the bears in these parts had beautiful, long, bushy tails.” declared the Old Guide thoughtfully. He was seated comfortably on the ground, his back against a tree trunk, cleaning his gun.
“I certainly never heard about any bears that had long, beautiful, bushy tails,” declared Sonny, who was stretched out full length at the feet of Snowshoe Bill, the Old Guide.
“Oh, I’d heard tell of it,” declared the Old Guide, in an off-hand sort of manner, “but I never got the straight of it before.”
“Well, what is the straight of it? ” asked Sonny, swallowing the hook.
“The bears wore their tails clean off, that’s what they did,” related Snowshoe Bill, “One nice sunny afternoon after a heavy shower, a bunch of young bears were going up a steep, muddy hill hereabouts when one of them happened to slip. He lost his balance altogether, and away he slid down the hill, plumb to the bottom.”
“Well, sir, that bear had never had such fun in his life. While his friends were feeling sorry for him, he climbed back up that hill, sat down, took hold of his hind feet and slid down again.”
“The others thought he was crazy, but one of the bravest ones decided he’d try the trick, too, and away he went down the hill after his friend.”
“The rest of the young bears saw that they must be missing some sport, so they joined in, and pretty soon the whole bunch was sliding down the hill, again and again.”
“They kept on until they wore their tails clear off, and ever since then there haven’t been any bears with tails.”
