A Bear Story (Continued from page 11) Richard had disappeared again in his sleeping bag; and Jackson was going to scare the bear with fire. Scaring the bear with fire seemed far the most sensible thing to do; thus we pulled Richard from his sleeping bag, grabbed a few pine boughs from under our own bags, wrapped a good sized piece of Jackson's homemade, linseed oil-soaked sleeping bag covering around the ends of the boughs, lit the torch, all let out a loud scream, opened the entrance of the tent, and slowly held the torch outside the entrance. When we eventually took a peek outside, the bear was nowhere visible. But for the rest of the night we didn't want to take any chance; we decided to rekindle the coals in our camp-fire. The only difficulty was that we didn't have any more wood. Knowing that it would be a difficult task to persuade Jackson or Richard to go into the dark forest just outside the camp and that I would be the last one to go, I suggested that we use one of the picnic tables for firewood. "What!" exclaimed Jackson. "Burn those perfectly good picnic tables? Why that's vandalism and I won't concede to it." "Yes," agreed Richard, "that's vandalism." Just then we heard a loud crash outside our camp. "It's the bear!" quavered Jackson and hurriedly began to hew into the nearest table with his small ax. After we finished one table and rekindled the camp-fire, we nervously climbed into our sleeping bags and more or less rested until morning without any interference from our friend. As we were leaving the next morning, we met a forest ranger whom we told about the bear. "Bear," he said. "Huh, there aren't any bears up here in this country." Later an incensed article on vandalism appeared in the city daily, with the ranger as the source. Some despicable characters had violated the out-of-doors by burning picnic tables. Frankly, I could hardly bear it. Barroom Essay (Continued from page 16) the Burley-Q. That was the first burlesque show either of us had ever seen; we were really wet-bottom sailors. There was one gal in the chorus line who really looked like a queen up there on the stage. Eddie used to pick her out as soon as we went in and never take his eyes off her. She was pretty, tall and slim, and had jet-black hair and her skin looked from where we sat, as smooth as a wet rubber glove. Boy, the kid really got hot for her. Then one day while we were waiting in the line outside, she walked past. From close-up she was a pig. Her hair looked like a dried-out swab, and her skin looked like desert sand. Eddie said that would maybe make a swell plot for his story, except that it wasn't really a plot because there wasn't any conflict. Well, I guess I better be shovin' off. It's gettin' late and I gotta go to work tomorrow. You know how it is. And I thought I was tied down in the navy. I didn't know when I was well off. I'd of been happy now if I'd stayed single and a sailor. No, don't order me another'n. See you tomorrow, Mac. What's that? Did Eddie ever write his story? Naw, I asked him about that yesterday. He says he's never found a good plot yet. Grutn and Groan (Continued from page 20) Scoutism. Nothing hair pulling, ear-tugging, or low punches was beneath his dignity and in spite of the efforts of the referee to keep the contest on a higher plane, the audience was soon incensed at the Chief and his dubious tactics. Mr. Bowman grittd his teeth and accepted his fate in a manly way without once resorting to even a low kick to avenge himself. The audience screamed imprecations at the Wolf but callous creatures scattered from the ringside each time their champion was ejected from the squared circle, not wishing to cushion his fall. Chief Little Wolf reduced Eugene Bowman to a pitiful spectacle of jellified humanity in only half the time limit. He made magnificent grimaces with a face that had been constructed with the dirty look as a pattern. He grunted great animal grunts which almost obscured the moaning and groaning of poor Bowman. He threw back the curses of the audience and spat on the canvas; he occasionally turned his attention to the referee and soundly pummelled him; and at other times he was naughty and choked Mr. Bowman with the ring ropes. At length the Chief secured a hold, his specialty, known as the "Indian Death Lock." This grip is reputed to be unbreakable, and, after a few minutes of enduring the pressure applied by Little Wolf, Bowman acknowledged his defeat by a gnashing of beautiful teeth and a really soul-tearing groan. The Chief, however, was by this time completely berserk and continued to mangle his adversary, ignoring the appeals of the referee to "break clean!" At this point I had the feeling that "clean" wasn't in the Chief's vocabulary. One of the ring officials aided the referee in prying the luckless Bowman from the clutches of Chief Little Wolf, who retired to his corner wearing an exceedingly expressive sneer. Bowman sprawled supine on the canvas, moaning like a wounded dinosaur, obviously in a critical condition. Suddenly a startling change came over the Chief. Evidently the sight of so much agony touched a tender chord in his nature and he was swept by repentance. A glow of gentle compassion shone in his face and he hastened to assist his victim to his feet. The referee took one of Bowman's arms, the Chief soothingly grasped the other, and between them they raised the fallen gladiator to his none-too-steady feet. In spite of his uncivilized brutality, the gestation of a deep admiration for the Chief was within me. I at last had seen in Little Wolf one of nature's noblemen; a raw individual, but one who put expression in his art. This admiration almost died a-borning when I witnessed this apparent vacillation of character, this show of weakness on the part of the Wolf. However, his next action renewed my faith. With a great show of sympathy he dusted Mr. Bowman off, gave him a friendly pat on the back, and then measured him (and the referee) on the floor with a terrific, blow to the chin. Leaving the two of them hors-de-combat, the Chief kicked a popcorn box from the ring in a final gesture of contempt, and strode to the dressing room. I intend to return to the wrestling matches. I'm waiting for them to match my idol, Chief Little Wolf, again. Then I shall pay sixty cents to see the lamb led to the slaughter. But I'm going to be mighty disillusioned if the Chief plays the part of the hero next time. That would be like casting Humphrey Bogart as Uncle Remus. Page twenty-four By JACOBS THE COLLEGE BOOK STORE SUPPORTS STUDENT ACTIVITIES