“Thou sayest:  I!  Who?  How?  And where?”—­
Well, to be plain, good Sirs—­I am the bear;

  In a net-apron, caught, alas!

Chain’d by a silk-thread at her feet.

But how this wonder came to pass
I’ll tell some day, if ye are curious;
Just now, my temper’s much too furious.

Ah, when I’m in the corner plac’d,

And hear afar the creatures snapping,

And see the flipping and the flapping,

  I turn around

  With growling sound,

And backward run a step in haste,

  And look around

  With growling sound.

Then run again a step in haste,
And to my former post go round.

But suddenly my anger grows,
A mighty spirit fills my nose,
My inward feelings all revolt. 
A creature such as thou! a dolt! 
Pipi, a squirrel able nuts to crack! 
I bristle up my shaggy back
Unused a slave to be. 
I’m laughed at by each trim and upstart tree
To scorn.  The bowling-green I fly,

With neatly-mown and well-kept grass: 

The box makes faces as I pass,—­
Into the darkest thicket hasten I,
Hoping to ’scape from the ring,
Over the palings to spring! 
Vainly I leap and climb;

I feel a leaden spell.

That pinions me as well,
And when I’m fully wearied out in time,
I lay me down beside some mock-cascade,

And roll myself half dead, and foam, and cry,

And, ah! no Oreads hear my sigh,
Excepting those of china made!

But, ah, with sudden power

In all my members blissful feelings reign! 
’Tis she who singeth yonder in her bower!

I hear that darling, darling voice again. 
The air is warm, and teems with fragrance clear,
Sings she perchance for me alone to hear?

I haste, and trample down the shrubs amain;
The trees make way, the bushes all retreat,
And so—­the beast is lying at her feet.

She looks at him:  “The monster’s droll enough!

He’s, for a bear, too mild,

Yet, for a dog, too wild,
So shaggy, clumsy, rough!”
Upon his back she gently strokes her foot;

He thinks himself in Paradise. 
What feelings through his seven senses shoot!

But she looks on with careless eyes. 
I lick her soles, and kiss her shoes,

As gently as a bear well may;
Softly I rise, and with a clever ruse

Leap on her knee.—­On a propitious day
She suffers it; my ears then tickles she,

And hits me a hard blow in wanton play;
I growl with new-born ecstasy;
Then speaks she in a sweet vain jest, I wot
“Allons lout doux! eh! la menotte! 
Et faites serviteur
Comme un joli seigneur.” 
Thus she proceeds with sport and glee;

Hope fills the oft-deluded beast;
Yet if one moment he would lazy be,

Her fondness all at once hath ceas’d.