Iron
covered the men-of-war that he had seen in the harbor, the locomotives
steamed through the country on iron rails. The needle that had
stitched the boy's coat was made of iron, the shears that clipped the
sheep, and the kettle that cooked the food. The rifle which drove away
wild beasts was made of iron. Father Bear was perfectly right. He knew
that the coming of iron to the forest had given the human kind their
mastery over the beasts.
"Will you or won't you?" demanded Father Bear.
The boy shrank back. He swept his hand across his forehead. He could
see no way of escape, but this much he knew, he did not wish to do any
harm to the iron which was useful to so many people in the land.
"I won't!" he said.
Father Bear squeezed him a little harder but said nothing.
"You'll not get me to destroy the ironworks," defied the boy. "The
iron is so great a blessing that it will never do to harm it."
"Then of course you don't expect to be allowed to live very long,"
said the bear.
"No, I don't expect it," replied the boy, looking the bear straight in
the eye.
Father Bear gripped him still harder. It hurt so that the boy could
not keep the tears back, but he did not cry out or say a word.
"Very well, then," said Father Bear, raising his paw very slowly,
hoping that the boy would give in at the last moment.
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