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<h1>THE LIFE STORY OF <br/> <span class="title2">A BLACK BEAR</span></h1>
<p class="title3">BY</p>
<p class="title4">H. PERRY ROBINSON</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>FOREWORD</h2>
<p class="foreword"><span class="smcap">There</span> is always tragedy when man invades the solitudes of the
earth, for his coming never fails to mean the destruction of the
wild things. But, surely, nowhere can the pathos be greater than
when, in the western part of North America, there is a discovery
of new gold-diggings. Then from all points of the compass men
come pouring into the mountains with axe and pick, gold-pan and
rifle, breaking paths through the forest wildernesses, killing and
driving before them the wild animals that have heretofore held
the mountains for their own.</p>
<p class="foreword">Here in these rocky, tree-clad fastnesses the bears have kinged
it for centuries, ruling in right of descent for generation after
generation, holding careless dominion over the coyote and the
beaver, the wapiti, the white-tailed and the mule-eared deer.
Except for the occasional rebellion of a mutinous lieutenant of a
puma, there has been none to dispute their lordship from year to
year and century to century. Each winter they have laid themselves
down (or sat themselves up—for a bear does not lie down
when hibernating) to sleep through the bitter months, in easy
assurance that when they awoke they would find the sceptre still
by their side.</p>
<p class="foreword">But a spring comes when they issue from their winter lairs
and new sounds are borne to them on the keen, resin-scented
mountain air. The hills ring to the chopping of axes; and the
voices of men—a new and terrible sound—reach their ears. The
earth, soft with the melting snows, shows unaccustomed prints of
heavy heels. The coyote and the deer and all the forest folk
have gone; the beaver-dams are broken, and the builders vanished.</p>
<p class="foreword">Dimly wondering at the strangeness of it all, the bears go
forth, blundering and half awake, down the new-made pathways,
not angry, but curious and perplexed, and by the trail-side they
meet man—man with a rifle in his hand. And, still not angry,
still only wondering and fearing nothing—for are they not lords
of all the mountain-sides?—they die.</p>
<p class="signed">H. P. R.</p>
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