The gazette-times. [volume] (Heppner, Or.) 1912-1925, 1914-10-15
Babes Last Prayer
By P. J. Cooney.

De gettlng cross ana mean.
"Babe meant" protested the lad.
"Why, dad, he's just that gentle he II
do anything I tell HIM. Look here"
"Babe-come. Babe" he called into
the dusk,
Babe, grown larger and heavier now,
eame swinging into the room, his nose
expectantly erect.
"Roll over, Babe-ron over" the
boy commanded
The animal shuffled uncertainty, his
little eyes fixed on the piece of bread
in Georges hand, then he sank to
the floor, and, with grumbled whine,
accomplished the feat.
"Now, III show you his best trick, ;"
announced the boy. "Now, Babe, say
your prayers-say your prayers" He
held out piece Of meat at arm s
length.
The bear rocked back and forth for
a moment, then with an impatient
"whoof" he sat himself erect. His
head sank on his chest and he eov-
cred his eyes with his paws.
"Woof, woof," he grunted.
The father laughed outright.
"Well George, wen see It does
seem q pity. Perhaps we can sell him
to circus. At any rate" he con
cluded, "we IL sleep over it.
That night, long after the lights
in the Clayton home were extinguished
the shadowy silence was disturbed by
the slow pad, pad of footsteps on the
soft grass, as the shambling figure
of Babe shuffled around the corner Of
the building. Nose low, head swing
ing, he wandered to the brow Of the
hill overlooking the railroad track and
the river road.
Across the wide moonht world
breathed a warm wind laden with the
mysterious alluring message Of the
springtime. Babe stood erect, his paws
dropping, his gaze fastened on the
black stretch of piney woods across
the stream, his nostrils quivering to
every vagrant gust. Then he dropped
to all fours, whined pathetieally,
shuffled about restlessly for a moment,
and again rose on his launches.
Above the ceaseless song of the river
came the hoot of an owl and the long
drawn howl Of far-distant wolf.
Babe's throat rumbled low re-
spouse. Something away far off in
the depths Of the dark woods was call
ing-calling to him. 1t was the voice
of the wilderness, the wilderness but
dimly remembered-the racial memory
of wide untrodden spaces, of dark re-
treats, where the shadows and sunspots
played on carpets of crumpled leaves,
where cool streams loitered lazily be-
tween moss-g grown banks and ancient
tree trunks. The wilderness was call
ing its own.
"Woof, woof," he grunted gently
with uplifted nose.
Uncertainty he shambled down the
slope, climbed the fence, swung across
the road and the railway track and
into the pines by the river edge. He
paused for a moment to drink, then
stood staring longingly at the farm
house standing darkly silhouetted
against the starlit sky.
Five minutes later, wet and dripping,
he clambered out of the water ON the
opposite shore, and, striking wood
land path, cantered away. No hest
taton, no uncertainty now as the miles
fell away behind him. But into his
movements had come something of fur
tiveness. The rumble of wagon on a
corduroy road caused him to sink be-,
hind bush and await its passing He
gave clearings and homesteads WIDE
berth and before morning had crept
into cleft of rocks, eighteen miles
distant on the edge of the untrodden
wilderness that swept in pillows of
misty blue away to the Laurentian
Hills.
He awoke with the dawn, ravenously
hungry. Tearing apart rotting log,
he was busy feasting on the white
grubs, when he raised his head and
stood stark still, his body quivering,
every nerve alert.
From the bushes to the right came
mn