more carnivorous in his habits than other bears; but, like them, he does not object to indulge in vegetable diet, being partial to the bird-cherry, the chokeberry, and various shrubs. He has a sweet tooth and revels in honey.
The instant the grizzly bear beheld Dick Varley standing in his path, he rose on his hind legs and made a loud hissing noise, like a man breathing quick, but much harsher. To this Crusoe replied by a deep growl, and showing his teeth; and Dick cocked both barrels of his rifle.
To say that Dick Varley felt no fear would be simply to make him out that sort of hero which does not exist in nature—namely, a perfect hero. He did feel a sensation as if his bowels had suddenly melted into water. Let not our reader think the worse of Dick for this. There is not a man living who, having met with a huge grizzly bear for the first time in his life in a wild, solitary place, has not experienced some such sensation. There was no cowardice in this. Fear is not cowardice. Acting in a wrong and contemptible manner because of our fear is cowardice.
It is said that Wellington or Napoleon, we forget which, once stood watching the muster of the men who were to form the forlorn-hope in storming a citadel. There were many brave, strong, stalwart men there, in the prime of life, and flushed with the blood of high health and courage. There were also there a few stern-browed men of riper years, who stood perfectly silent, with lips compressed, and as pale as death. “Yonder veterans,” said the general, pointing to these soldiers, “are men whose courage I can depend on; they know what they are going to, the others don’t!” Yes, these young soldiers very probably were brave; the others certainly were.
Dick Varley stood for a few seconds as if thunderstruck, while the bear stood hissing at him. Then the liquefaction of his interior ceased, and he felt a glow of fire gush through his veins. Now Dick knew well enough that to fly from a grizzly bear was the sure and certain way of being torn to pieces, as when taken thus by surprise they almost invariably follow a retreating enemy. He also knew that if he stood where he was, perfectly still, the bear would get uncomfortable under his stare, and would retreat from him. But he neither intended to run away himself nor to allow the bear to do so; he intended to kill it, so he raised his rifle quickly, “drew a bead,” as the hunters express it, on the bear’s heart, and fired.
