Fuzzy-Wuzz, a little brown bear of the Sierras

The Cinnamon Cub

HAD the man been nearer, mother brown bear would have fought to save her cubs. But there was time for escape. As quick as lightning she turned and went racing back to the den, her cubs following at her heels.

This region, so far up the glacier-polished slopes, was so smooth that a burro could hardly walk across it without slipping. As the man turned to stare at the unaccustomed motion in the landscape, the little family was just disappearing behind the bowlder that camouflaged the entrance to the den. All but Fuzzy-Wuzz! That fat, furry mite slipped on the smooth granite slope, his short hind legs slid out from under him, and before he could get his balance, he was rolling down, down, too surprised even to call for help. Indeed, the breath was all knocked out of him and he couldn’t have squealed had he tried.

The river rolled at the foot of the slope, as green as the woods that bordered it, save where it churned in white foam over the upstanding bowlders. The next thing Fuzzy knew, splash! He was in deep water!

He struck out with all fours, like a pup, trying to run through the water. Of course he swam, as all young animals can when they have to. But the water was icy from the melting snows of the surrounding peaks. Worse, the current here above the falls was so strong that soon it was all he could do to keep his nose above water, to say nothing of paddling back to the bank.

Had he let out a frightened whimper now, his mother, with the two remaining cubs to lead safely into the depths of the cave, would not have heard him. The water whirled the wee brown mite this way and that. Choking and spluttering, he was soon too tired to paddle.

At that climactic moment, something solid went floating by his right fore paw, and with all his feeble might he grabbed for it. It was a branch the Ranger had thrown in after him, and the branch was tied to a rope.

Clinging, chilled and strangled, to the raft so mysteriously flung to him, Fuzzy-Wuzz was towed to shore. Had the little bear been caught at any other time, he would have done effective work with his needle-sharp little teeth. But he was so nearly drowned that he could make no protest when the Ranger rubbed him down and fitted a leash to his neck.

A pan of warm canned milk and water won his trust, though the Ranger had to dip his unaccustomed muzzle into the fluid before he saw that the thing to do was to plant both fore paws firmly in the pan and suck with a noise like a little pig.

The Ranger made him a bed on the top of the pack that the burro carried, and tied him so that he couldn’t get down,--and there he was shortly snoozing, while the June sun dried his fur, and the trail climbed higher and higher. Life had taken a new turn for young Fuzzy-Wuzz.

Every few hours the Ranger stopped to give him a panful of warm milk, and at night, when the mountain air turned chill, he snuggled the little bear under the blankets, though he never took him off the leash.

Finally one day they came to a neat log cabin beside a singing creek, where the pines and cedars made spots of shade on the forest floor. The next thing Fuzzy knew, he was inside the cabin, and two delighted man cubs, a boy and a girl, were dancing around him. This was so alarming that he crept inside the Ranger’s coat, crying, “Mu-uh! Mu-uh!” in a frightened whimper.

The man cubs were told to keep very, very still and watch. Then Fuzzy was set on the floor before his pan of milk, and after a few minutes, when nothing seemed to hurt him, he drank it thirstily.

After that he went on an exploring expedition. He looked exactly like the brown plush Teddy bear, only larger, for Fuzzy was nearly as large as the cat. The children watched with shining eyes as he poked into every corner of the room, now climbing half way up the screen door, now standing on his fat hind legs under a chair, with his fore paws on the rungs.

“Muh! Muh! M-m-mu-uh!” he wailed every now and again. But no great furry mother came, and at last he decided there was nothing in that den to harm him, not even the children.

Soon what fun they had! The children’s mother said he could have bread in his milk, and the children even used to give him bits of the gingerbread that they saved in their pockets. It didn’t take long for the fuzzy mite to learn where that gingerbread came from! He would climb all over them, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing, till he found where it was hidden, then claw till he had found the way into the pocket. These days, he cared more for eating than anything else.

Had Fuzzy been the only pet at the Ranger’s cabin, all might have gone smoothly. But he had one rival in the children’s affections,--and life was not to be all peace and play for the newcomer.

One rainy day that spring, when the wind had blown a limb off the old pine by the corral, leaving the screech owl’s nest exposed to gaze, a wee, soft-feathered fledgling had fallen to the ground and lay there, nearly lifeless from his fall.

The Ranger’s son, a curly-pate of nine, had found this downy bird, and had taken him home to warm and feed him. Thus the owl had become a member of the family circle. Clickety-Clack they named him, from his habit of clicking his bill when angry.

Given full freedom of the cabin, he generally perched by day just over the chamber door, on a pair of antlers that hung there for a hat rack.

But when the dusk began to fall Clickety-Clack would come floating down to the mantel shelf, soundless as a shadow on his soft-feathered gray wings. There he would claw at the toys and bits of sewing, the pipe and match box, everything he found there. He was a solemn-looking bird, with his great round eyes, but he liked to play, for all that. His great delight was to be given a sheet of paper to claw into bits.

He was used to much attention, was Clickety-Clack, riding around on the children’s shoulders and receiving the dainties offered him with a clawed foot that solemnly conveyed the morsel to his mouth.

For a time Fuzzy-Wuzz paid little attention to Clickety-Clack, as the owl generally slept all day and the cub all night. But one evening he made a sad, sad mistake, did the little bear. As the owl floated down to the hearth rug, Fuzzy made a playful pounce for him. He caught the owl between his fore paws. But as he opened his jaws to take a nip at the feathered back, he got an awful surprise.

With the Ranger’s Children

FUZZY-WUZZ made a big mistake when he tried to grab that owl. For no sooner had he got a taste of the feathers than Clickety-Clack was after him with beak and claws. When they finally called it off, the hearth rug bore a souvenir of both fur and feathers.

After that the little bear made many a playful, puppy-like dash at his fellow pet, but if ever he came too near, he got as good as he gave. It was tit for tat between them.

True, there were other ways in which Fuzzy managed to have a good time. For instance, he was always on the look-out for a romp in the children’s bed, if he was the first one up of a morning. The children’s mother objected, until the Ranger suggested a tubbing for the young bear.

This surprising thing,--a tub bath,--happened when Fuzzy-Wuzz had been a member of the Ranger’s family for about a week. No sooner did he find himself in the washtubful of warm, soapy water than he struck out vigorously for shore and scrambled over the edge of the tub. This process was repeated till the Ranger took a hand.

In the end Fuzzy-Wuzz emerged as clean a cub as any one could wish, but he stayed clean just until he was put on his leash and allowed to have a run outside. The California dry season had begun, with its dust, and the roly-poly rascal liked nothing better than to roll on his back.

The great trouble with the Ranger’s backyard, from Fuzzy’s point of view, was that there were no trees to climb. The clothes pole only went so far, and it had no bark and was dreadfully hard to get one’s claws into; but Fuzzy used to scramble up and down that clothes pole for all he was worth, pausing each time at the top to sit looking down at the children.