There was a distinct sound of
breaking branches and crackling underwood.
They could see Paul cautiously rise from his knees to a crouching
attitude. They followed the direction of his gaze, and before them the
monarch of these forests stood in clumsy might. A bear had shambled to
the edge of the clearing and was standing upright, growling and
grumbling to himself, his great paws waving from side to side, his
shaggy head thrust forward with a recurring jerk singularly suggestive
of a dandy with an uncomfortable collar. These bears of Northern Russia
have not the reputation of being very fierce unless they are aroused
from their winter quarters, when their wrath knows no bounds and their
courage recognizes no danger. An angry bear is afraid of no living man
or beast. Moreover, these kings of the Northern forests are huge beasts,
capable of smothering a strong man by falling on him and lying there--a
death which has come to more than one daring hunter. The beast's
favorite method of dealing with his foe is to claw him to death, or else
hug him till his ribs are snapped and crushed into his vitals.
The bear stood poking his head and looking about with little, fiery,
bloodshot eyes for something to destroy. His rage was manifest, and in
his strength he was a grand sight. The majesty of power and a dauntless
courage were his.
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