“Is that what you’re working on?”
“Yeah. This makes the second time he’s ripped the top off my house. Got to fix it or I’ll freeze to death. I’m so discouraged. I may have to go back home. I can just hear my dad now. ‘What are you doing back home? Didn’t I teach you to take care of yourself?’ ”
“I’ll bet Dudley will be happy to see you.”
“You must be talking about another Dudley.” Chippy sighed, shaking his head. “My dad doesn’t want any of us to come back after we have left the pond. He says that it means he didn’t do a good job, if we can’t take care of ourselves. For Dudley, it would be another mouth to feed. There are two sets of babies still living there now. I’ve got to figure this out on my own. If he comes back again . . . Oh, my!” The beaver scampered out into the snow and picked up another stick.
“You keep talking about he. Who’s he?”
Chippy put the limb on his lodge and went after another.
“He is Burly.”
“What’s a Burly?”
“It’s not a what, it’s a who. Burly is his name. He’s a grizzly bear. One big, mean, nasty old grizzly bear.”
“Do you know why he keeps tearing up your home?” I asked.
“Well . . . you see . . . it was just sort of a little misunderstanding. That bear has no sense of humor.” Chippy started arranging the branches on top of the mound. He stood back, studied them a moment, and tapped them into place.
“What kind of misunderstanding? Maybe you can talk to him and get things straightened out.” I watched as he paced back and forth, picking up twigs to bring back to the pile.
“What are you, some kind of psychologist?” he said when he got the last twig to the lodge. “That bear won’t listen to anything. I tried to apologize. He just won’t listen. I said that I was sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry! He won’t slow down long enough to hear a single thing I have to say.”
“What did you do that you tried to apologize for?” (Maybe this was more complicated than I first thought.)
“Well . . . I was just starting out. I hadn’t cut down very many trees. I did really fine when I was working with my dad. But . . . ah . . . when I tried on my own . . . ya’ see, I did okay with little trees.” Chippy started pacing back and forth on top of the lodge. He paced faster and faster.
“You did fine with little trees. So?” I coaxed.
“So . . .” The beaver sighed and stopped his pacing for an instant. “It shouldn’t have made him that mad. He wasn’t really hurt or anything.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Okay, but don’t tell my dad. I don’t think he would be very happy to know that a grizzly bear is chasing his son.” Chippy plopped down on the lodge.
“I won’t tell anybody. Well, maybe my mother, but she won’t tell your dad, either.”
“Okay, it’s like this. I had just moved away from home. Found this neat valley, here with a great stream. Perfect place to build my dam. I was working on a good-size tree . . . big tree . . . I couldn’t see around it. How was I supposed to know he was waddling by. It really wasn’t my fault. I mean . . . any other bear would have had sense enough to move. Not Burly. Whaaap! It sort of fell on him. Didn’t hurt him. Sure did make him mad, though. He charged after me. I ran! Just barely made it into the water where I was safe. We can move flat out in the water. No way a bear can get around fast enough to catch us, once we’re in a pond. But he splashed in and tore up everything I’d done. Now and then I’d pop my head above the surface and tell him that I was sorry. Didn’t make a bit of difference—not to Burly.”
“When did you see him last?” Mother asked as she walked up to us.
“He tore the top off my lodge this morning. I’d move—you know, to a new valley—but it’s winter. All the ponds are frozen. I have never known anybody to hold a grudge like this. Besides, I thought bears were sleeping this time of the year. Aren’t they supposed to hibernate for the winter?” Chippy looked straight at us.
“You did say his name was Burly?”
He clicked his buckteeth and nodded. Mother rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“I’ve never met him, but I have heard about him.” Mother stood next to me at the edge of the pond. “Story goes that people built the ski resort right on top of his den. With all the racket going on, he developed insomnia. Been a terrible grouch ever since.”
Chippy and I looked at Mother, then at each other, then back at Mother.
“What’s insomnia?” we asked at the same time. Then we glanced at each other and giggled.
“He can’t sleep,” Mother answered. “You’re right, Chippy—bears are supposed to hibernate this time of year. They curl up and sleep all winter long. Burly can’t get to sleep. That’s probably what makes him so cranky.”
“I’m so depressed. I should have had my home built a long time ago. It’s gonna be spring, and I will still be packing mud. Florence is getting fed up, too. She’ll probably leave me.”
“Who’s Florence?” I asked.
Chippy pointed toward the lodge with his buck-teeth.
“Florence is my wife.”
“Why isn’t she helping you fix your lodge?”
“She says that she’s not the one who hit Burly with the tree. I did.” Chippy sighed. “Besides, she’s in what’s left of the lodge—pouting.”
His head drooped. “If only I’d watched when I chewed that tree down . . .”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Mother soothed. She leaned forward and gave him a gentle nudge with her long, beautiful nose. “From what I’ve heard about him, Old Burly is mad at everything. You could have dropped a leaf on him and he would have been mad. He could be upset because it is snowing. Nasty tempered as he is, he’ll find someone else to be mad at before too long. He’ll forget all about you and leave you alone.”
“If I live that long,” he sighed.
“Cheer up, Chippy,” Mother said. “Just hang in there. He has to go to sleep sometime. Maybe he’ll find a new den. When he wakes up, he’ll be in a better mood.”
The beaver started to work on his lodge once more as Mother and I moved back toward the trees. Behind us, I could hear him mumbling: “Just my luck—drop a tree on an insomniac grizzly bear. How depressing . . .”
“I feel sorry for him,” I whispered to Mother.
“Me, too.” She nodded. “He is very depressed.” I guess she noticed when I frowned and tilted my head to one side that I didn’t understand. “Depressed means that he’s sad. Unhappy,” she explained.
I followed close at Mother’s heels. We strolled back down the valley. My tummy growled. “Are we going to share some of the hay with Raney and Sweet Pea now? Is that where we’re going?”
“No, dear.” Mother shook her head. “We need to be alert with Burly around. Bears don’t like people. Moose don’t like them, either, but we should be safer down closer to the cabins. Only, not that close.”
“But, Mother. I’m so hungry and . . .”
Mother nestled next to me in the pile of brush where we spent last night. I fell asleep listening to my tummy growl.
Chapter 8
Wiggling and twisting most of the night, I just couldn’t get settled. My tummy rattled and growled. I tried to stay as quiet and still as I could, hoping that would help me go back to sleep. When the sky finally started to turn pink I pulled myself up and shook off the night.
Looking back to make sure Mother was still asleep, I started for the barn. Maybe there was a little bit of hay.
There were no people near the cabin. There were no cars, snowblowers, or big yellow buses rumbling around. Quietly and quickly I trotted into the clearing, crossed the road, and stopped near the fence where Raney and Sweet Pea lived. At first I didn’t see them. When I walked a little farther, I spotted them standing under a small shed with their backs to me. Just like Raney had promised, there was still hay piled near the fence.
I slipped closer. The yummy green stuff was just out of my re
ach. Dropping to my knees, I stuck my head between the logs and stretched my neck as far as I could. My lips quivered as I took the sweet hay into my mouth. I nibbled and crunched the wonderful-tasting food. Pulling my head back, I got to my feet. Mother should be awake by now. Raney and Sweet Pea didn’t mind sharing their hay. Mother needed to eat and this hay was so good and . . .
Suddenly the fur on the back of my neck felt prickly, as if something was watching me. It was the same feeling I had when Roscoe was hunting me. But Mother said Roscoe wouldn’t bother us here. She said we were safe from him. Then I remembered Chippy and Mother talking about Burly. What if he was watching me? Mother said that moose don’t like bears. Moving nothing but my eyes, I stood perfectly still and looked around.
The girl leaned against the logs at the edge of the cabin. She didn’t move.
I stared at her. She stared at me.
There was something familiar and safe about her. I could feel no sense of danger as I watched her eyes. We stood for a long long time. Finally I turned and started away from the pen where Raney and Sweet Pea lived. The little girl didn’t chase me. She just stood and watched.
Mother was munching some dry grass when I got back to the aspens where our bed was. She lifted her head and perked her ears when she saw me trotting toward her.
“Bub, where have you been?”
I ducked my head.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I was really hungry, so I went to get some of the hay that Raney and Sweet Pea left. The little people girl saw me. I should have been more watchful. If I hadn’t gotten caught, there would be some hay left for you, too. Now the people won’t leave extra hay. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.”
Mother gave a little snort. “Don’t worry about it, Bub. We don’t need the people food. We are going to visit a new valley today. Be sure that you keep me in view all the time. With Burly around I don’t want you very far away. You are getting big and strong, but we need to save our strength for finding food rather than fighting off a grumpy old bear.”
“I’ll stay close.”
We moved slowly up the valley, stopping now and then to forage. There wasn’t much food to find beneath the snow. The sun was high overhead as we started climbing a long slope toward another peak. Just as I was pulling myself up the last ridge, Mother stopped in front of me. I eased beside her so I could see why she stopped.
“Wait, Bub! There are people here.” Mother looked long and hard at the snow in front of us.
Staring, I tried to see what Mother was talking about. When I finally spotted the people, my ears shot straight and my eyes popped wide. These people were way up on the mountain slope to our left. At first they were not much more than tiny dots. But as they zoomed toward us, they got bigger and bigger.
Mother had shown me the cars that people moved in. They went really fast! These people didn’t have cars around them. Still . . . I couldn’t believe how quickly they streaked down the snow toward us.
“What is it, Mother? How do they move so fast?”
“The people animals call it skiing. There are smooth pieces of trees attached to their feet. The wood helps them slide on the snow. They do this for fun. See, down near the bottom of the hill.” She twitched her ear to the right. “When they get there, they slow down. They even stop and take the wood off.” She leaned to the side and bumped me with her nose. “Up here we have to be very careful, though. Some of the people are wild and dangerous. They’re crazy and go so fast they can’t stop.”
I watched as the people appeared from the trees and moved down the slope.
They whizzed this way and that. Their voices filled the air with happy sounds and laughter as they called back and forth. Powder poofed from beneath them if they turned sharply. When they zoomed past, right in front of where Mother and I hid, my eyes blinked and almost crossed inside my head.
I couldn’t believe it. People only have two legs. Moose have four. But even with four legs, I could never move that fast.
Cautiously I stepped away from the trees. Maybe if I could see up the hill, I could get a better look at the skiers and . . .
Whoosh!
Something zoomed right in front of me.
Swisssh!
Another something zipped right behind my heels. Whatever it was, it went so fast I didn’t have time to see anything but a blur. I yanked my neck around to see what and where it went. Two skiers left strange tracks behind them as they sped down the hill. One turned to look back at me.
“Did you see the moose?” he screamed.
When the other one turned to look back, they crashed into each other. All at once there was a big explosion of snow. Then I could see pieces of wood and legs and arms and everything. It was a big ball all tangled up and rolling around in the snow in one big floppy, churning pile, and . . .
“Bub! Get over here right now!” Mother snorted. “You’re going to get run over if you stay out there on the slope. Let’s go back to our valley.”
Mother didn’t have to tell me twice. The people noises—their laughter and giggles and yells—made the skiing stuff sound like fun. Even so, it was weird. I was ready to go.
The sun was already hiding behind the mountain when we finally got back to our valley. Mother sniffed and snorted as we neared the pile of brush where we slept. She held her big head high and looked all around.
There, near the edge of the trees, were two big piles of hay. Mother and I stood perfectly still, for a long, long, long-long time. Finally certain that there were no people around, we moved to the soft green hay and sniffed. It smelled so delicious. My lips quivered as I reached for a bite.
Mother stood watch while I ate. When I finished, I stood watch while she filled up on the luscious, wonderful green hay.
That night, for the first time since the heavy snows started, I didn’t hear my tummy growl when I fell asleep.
• • •
When I awoke the next morning, I listened for the grumbly sounds from inside. I couldn’t hear them. I felt full and comfortable. Closing my eyes, I could almost taste the sweet, delicious hay that we ate last night. Mother’s tummy didn’t growl, either. She got up and stretched.
“Come on, Bub. Time to get up and hunt for our breakfast.”
I stood beside her, yawned, and tried to shake the sleep off. All at once my eyes flashed wide.
“Look, Mother. Over there where the hay was yesterday. There’s more. It came back!”
Mother made me wait at her side, until we saw the yellow bus rumble down the road. As soon as the little people got inside the thing and left, Mother and I eased out from the trees and went to eat the wonderful hay.
The next morning, it was the same thing, and the next and the next.
Then—one morning—the big yellow bus didn’t come. Mother and I waited and waited. The sun was high above the mountain peak when we finally spotted the two short people waddling toward us from the barn. Carrying two piles of the fresh green stuff, they dropped it in the snow. The little girl waved at me. They stood there a moment, then trudged back toward the house. The next day, the little boy and the little girl came again. But the third morning, when we woke up, the hay was there waiting for us. The big yellow bus came, too.
Over the next few weeks we learned that the big yellow bus came at the same time, day after day. But then for two days it didn’t come . . . but then it did. It was confusing, but we finally learned the pattern.
On the two days that the bus didn’t come, the little people waited until late in the morning before they brought the food for us. Mother, always more alert and watchful than I, told me that the man people was the one who usually brought the hay. She said he woke much earlier than the little people, and that’s why the hay was always waiting when I got up.
I learned a lot about the people animals during those weeks. I learned that the little girl was named Jane. She always called the little boy Jussy. But when the mother people called them to come inside, she called him Justin. Mother always called me Bub, a
nd I was curious why the boy people had two names. I learned that on their front legs they didn’t have hooves—they had what Mother called hands. They could pick things up and hold them. They could make little balls out of the snow and throw them at each other. They could even pick their noses with them, if they wanted to.
I also learned that Jane and Jussy were not as round and plump as I thought.
One day the sun was very bright. The air warmed so much that drops of water began to fall from the clumps of snow that made the pine boughs droop. Jane and Jussy waddled from the house and began playing in the snow. They made a round ball with their hands, then they dropped it and pushed it along. The ball grew and grew. Before long the little white ball was the size of a big rock. Panting and wiping their faces, they stopped.
My eyes flashed wide when Jane and Jussy took their fur off and dropped it. I eased closer to the edge of the trees so I could see. I lost some fur, one time, when I brushed against a jagged tree limb. It hurt. Jane and Jussy didn’t even seem to notice. They strained and grunted as they tumbled the ball of snow. Now it was as big as a boulder. Again they stopped and took off more of their fur. When the ball was so big they couldn’t move it, they rolled another ball. Smaller than the first one, they lifted it and put it on top. Then they rolled a third and heaved it up.
The mother people—I guess her name was Mama because that was what both of them called her—yelled for them to come inside. They picked their fur up off the ground and disappeared into the log building.
Once they were gone, Mother and I felt it was safe to eat. We just finished when Jane and Jussy scampered back outside. Quickly Mother and I galloped to the safety of the trees. Again, the two little people were covered with fur—all round and roly-poly. That afternoon, when we came back from foraging on the mountainside, the pile of snow looked like a people. Well, it sort of looked like a people. It had sticks for arms and a long orange, pointy nose. Its two eyes were made of something black, and something bright and fluttery was wrapped around its neck. It was weird.
Bub, Snow, and the Burly Bear Scare Page 4
