the peeping of hylas and the croaking of frogs and the wild, tremulous,
mournful cry of the screech-owl.

The night winds blew upon their faces and the fragrance of the
dew-laden flowers was in their nostrils. Theirs was not a cramped,
stifling existence, but a full free life, and the sense of living,
breathing, growing things was everywhere, and it made them glad.

The tan of wind and sun was upon Pedro's skin, making it even more
swarthy.

In the morning, when the first faint gray streak lit the east, and
robins and thrushes began to sing, they were up and ready for the day's
work. Their toilet was very simple,--merely a wash and a drink of
water from some neighboring brook, then they were ready for the road.

This was just the hour to find all the thrifty farmers' families at
breakfast and it was much easier to get something for themselves when
the table was spread for others. So Black Bruin danced and went
through all his tricks, to the great delight of the children, that both
he and Pedro might share the farmer's hospitality later.

When they were unlucky and had to go without breakfast, Pedro blamed
his shaggy companion and swore at him in broken English, or showered
blows upon him with the stout stick which he always carried.

Black Bruin soon learned to expect the blows and to cower from them and
sometimes even whimper, when his master was unusually harsh; but in his
heart, which was that of a wild beast, he was storing up wrath.

But there was something about the Italian that held him at bay as
though with chains of steel. When Pedro's small glittering eyes were
upon him, his own eyes fell. A kick would send him groveling to earth.
In some unexplainable way he felt that this cruel creature was his
master. He was subdued and held by a terrible grip.

To the bear the man was always a mystery. There was something fearful
about him that he could not fathom and his source of strength the poor
beast could not understand.

There was also an evil-smelling dark bottle in the Italian's inside
coat-pocket, which was an enigma. It was not ginger pop or beer, or
any kind of soda water; Black Bruin knew all of these drinks himself,
and this drink was like none of them.

One day Pedro had fallen into a strange deep sleep and the bottle had
slipped from his pocket. The bear had at once noticed it, picked it up
and pulled out the cork, just as he would have done with a ginger pop
bottle, and had taken a smal