HOW BAYARD SHOT THE BEAR.

It was a hot summer day and Bayard was tired of playing horse with Ethel, or of swinging in the hammock; so he thought he would take a stroll in the fields back of the house, and, perhaps, go down as far as the creek. So he took his gun and started off.

Why he took the gun, Bayard himself could hardly have told; yet it was lucky he did take it, as we shall presently see.

The sun's rays were so scorching, and he got so warm walking, that when he arrived at the creek he thought he would lie down and rest. How cool it was under the trees, and how still it seemed! Not a sound was heard save the twittering of the birds, the babbling of the water over the stones, and the sound of the cow-bells in the neighboring pasture.

"LOST."

How Bayard wished he could see something to shoot. To be sure there were the birds; but they looked so happy and sang so sweetly, that it seemed a pity to kill them, and then—they were so common! Anyone could shoot a bird, a squirrel, or a rabbit. Bayard wanted game of a larger kind. He would never waste powder on a bird. No, indeed!

Oh! if he were only in a country where there were plenty of lions and tigers! But then, he wasn't; yet he had heard his father tell about seeing bears in that neighborhood, and might be there was one roaming around even then.

What if one should come out of the woods! Wouldn't he kill it, though! The bear would be dead in less time than it takes to tell it. To doubt that would be rank heresy.

Halloa! What was that! Only a twig snapping. There it is again! Twig snaps some more,—heavy body. Bushes move! See there! See that brown thing! What's that, that gleams so,—eyes?

It—it's—a bear!

Sure enough,—just what Bayard has been wanting to see. Old Bruin comes out from the bushes and sniffs around.

Bayard's heart beats fast, and he trembles; but not from fear. Oh, no! Perish the man who would suggest such a thing.

Bruin sees Bayard and shows his teeth.

Bayard picks up his gun. Bear growls, and stands upon his hind legs.

Bayard raises his gun to his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. Bear comes nearer.

Bayard aims. Bang!

Has he killed it? Smoke clears away. No, the bear is still there; and he is thoroughly angry, too. Perhaps some of the shot has lodged in his side.

Bear utters a loud growl, and springs forward. Bayard now thoroughly frightened; but too much excited to run.

Bang! bang! Another shot.

Bear nearer; and now he has Bayard in his claws. Tight,—tighter, the bear hugs him,—Oh, dear!

Bayard can't get away! Can't breathe! Almost dead! Oh! Oh! Help! Help!

"Bayard!" "Bayard!"

What was that?

Bayard starts up; rubs his eyes, yawns; stretches; yawns again.

What! Has he been asleep? Yes, for there he is, safe and sound, his gun on the grass, no bear in sight; and his mother is calling him to dinner.

And that is how Bayard shot the bear!

Indeed, he couldn't have shot it otherwise with his gun, for, don't you see, it was only a toy gun which Cousin Guy had given him as a birthday present.