EXT. THE WEB PAGE FOR ANIMAL STORIES/TALES
HONEST JOHN enters the web page that contains stories on animals, both from newspaper articles, and also from books. He is thinks that this might be fun, to read stories or tales on animals. Honest John hopes to learn many interesting things here on animals. What he sees here is a description on the content of this web page and some suggestions on how is should be used. Additionally he notices few links that lead him to certain animal stories. The most exciting thing is that he discovers a story on himself. A tale from the year 1930 to 1934. He decides to stay and read at least that tale.

INT. LINKS TO STORIES ON ANIMALS
"The Humor of Animals" (Clickable to story)

"Furious Flood Floats Black Cat on Barrel" (Clickable to story)

"Unusual Experience of Asheville Bird" (Clickable to story)

"Honest John Kong of the Rogue Bears" (Clickable to story)

NEW WEB PAGE

EXT. FIRST STORY
This web site contains a story from a newspaper article. This story is about the humor of animals and the highlighted words get you more involved with the story. By clicking on the highlighted spots you get in depth information on the story, hear a noise, see a picture, or see a movie. ENJOY!

INT. HUMOR OF ANIMALS
"The Humor of Animals
Do animals enjoy jokes? Certainly, some jokes. Can a horse laugh? Yes; so can the hyena. Every dog except the mad dog and the canine with the tin cap attachment possesses a keen sense of humor. The innocent parrot who grips you lovingly by the nose or whiskers will laugh at the top of his lungs for the next half hour. He will hang head downward from his parch, writhing with ill concealed mirth, in the most fantastio attitudes.

There was a public cat - a very important sort of a cat, a cat without any owner - no anxious claimant always bothering about her whereabouts. She lived a quiet life in a suburban town and was filled from head to tail with grim, sarcastic humor - humor of the good old kind, all wool and a yard wide, warranted not to bag at the knees or rub the varnish. She had frequently been chased all over town in a rude, uncouth and alarming manner by a local crosseyed dog - a common, ugly, snappish, snarly little cur of the color of a diseased melon. One day the cur was chained in the yard of his master's abode. On this particular day the cat - the persecuted cat - came along and sat upon the ground just out of the reach of Mr. Doggie, with a smile and a grin upon her face, a grin so humorous that every whisker on pussy's face seemed to dance with joy. She was determined to get even with the dog, if possible. Not content with this manner of procedure the cat went in search of a large and tempting bone, an old bone that was frayed at the edges and had flies on it, but just such a bone as an ugly cur would select from an entire graveyard of choice bones. This bone the cat deposited within two inches of the dog and then leaped hilarieusly up and down, balancing herself alternately upon her hind feet and then on her front legs, making faces like a circus clown and nearly driving the poor dog frantic with rage. There is no doubt in the world but that the cat was playing a practical joke on the ugly little cur that had caused her so much trouble. That pussy enjoyed her joke with the bone goes without saying, - New )rk Mercury.

NEW WEB PAGE

EXT. SECOND STORY
This web site contains a story from a newspaper article. This story is about a black cat floating on a barrel, and the highlighted words get you more involved with the story. By clicking on the highlighted spots you get in depth information on the story, hear a noise, see a picture, or see a movie. ENJOY!

INT.BLACK CAT
"Furious Flood Floats Black Cat on Barrel
What finally became of that black cat on a barrel floating down the river Sunday afternoon?

He was plainly seen by thousands, and they all will agree that he was black. It was also the universal consensus of opinion of the spectators that the black cat on a barrel was going to need each and every one of his nine lives before he finished his little excursion down the French Broad river.

Not that he lacked self-poise, as, as the saying goes. For he had plenty of that and other things, including an abiding faith in his good fortune. For he seemed to be troubled not one bit by that roaring torrent around him, and when first seen was calmly combing his whiskers.

To an ancient colored man on the bridge that settled the whole matter right then and there. He said it was bad luck to see a black cat anyhow, but to see a black cat combing his whiskers was too much, and as for him, he was going home right then. Dinner was waiting anyhow, and his wife was expecting him. He'd had bad luck, he explained, and didn't need any more right then.

At first the barrel floated along serenely on the swift current, and the cat seemed at ease. As the barrel approached closer and closer to the bridge, striking treacherous eddies and cross currents, the barrel commenced to revolve. Naturally the cat revolved with the barrel. The faster the barrel revolved, the faster the cat revolved. Finally, to the close and interested watchers on the bridge there ceased to be a black cat or a barrel. That is, speaking scientifically, the black cat and the barrel seemed to lose their separate identities and to become merged into a homogenous whole.

In other words, then , and to speak more plainly, in place of the black cat and the barrel there seemed to be only a streak or circle of black with a yowl in the centre. The yowl was the black cat's protest, and it was plainly visible. He had lost his self-poise for the moment and was uttering a vigorous protest against things as they are - or were.

That was the last seen of the black cat, or rather the black circle, and his ultimate fate is a mystery. However, it is believed that he survived the disaster, and is probably combing his whiskers with his usual self-poise in front of that ancient colored man's home, somewhere in Asheville.

NEW WEB PAGE

EXT. THIRD STORY
This web site contains a story from a newspaper article. This story is about the experience of the Asheville bird, and the highlighted words get you more involved with the story. By clicking on the highlighted spots you get in depth information on the story, hear a noise, see a picture, or see a movie. ENJOY!

INT. ASHEVILLE BIRD
"Unusual Experience of Asheville Bird
The new Zeppelin ballons are popular with the children of the city. But they are not so popular with the roosters of the city. Or at least not with one rooster, whose present exact location and abiding place is quite unknown to the owner of the bird.

The miniature airships may be seen in the hands of nearly every youngster with sufficient financial ability to raise five cents. Yesterday two Montford avenue future aviators becoming somewhat tired of the conventional mode of entertainment furnished by the Zeppelins, looked around for new sources of amusement. In doing so, their eyes casually fell upon the big Rhode Island red rooster owned by a neighbor. They saw the rooster before he saw them - that's what brought about the tragedy and that's why there's a bunch of brilliant feathers floating around somewhere in the ambient atmosphere which is one of the most marked characteristics of this resort.

A few crumbs of bread and the rooster was their's. In a minute or two the Zeppelins were attached to the unsuspecting bird. Then the youngsters let go and the balloons did the rest.

The bird was lifted gently off his feet. He was surprised and expressed his amazement audibly. He fluttered into the street, ever and anon, as the poets say, was lifted from terra firma and sailed a foot or so in the air. Then, he headed in another direction, but a new current air swept him against the boughs of a tree, dragged him close to the telephone lines, and gently dropped him once more to solid earth.

The rooster was astonished. He was amazed, and was quite at a loss to express his feelings. The boys had no difficulty in expressing their's however. It was plainly evident, from the rooster's action, that he did not have a full and comprehensive grasp of the entire situation. He was nervous and irritable. The war in Europe made no difference whatever to him, and he didn't care if the allies never got there. All he wanted to do was to get there himself, and his confidence in human nature was utterly destroyed.

He attempted to make for his own home, where his wives were already wondering at his absence and thinking unjust and nasty things about him. He evidently thought that what they might say to him wouldn't make the slightest difference. All he wanted was to hear them say, and he didn't care how many times they repeated it, either. He made a gallant effort to head himself that way, and the breeze sided him a part of the way. It was estimated afterwards that he made at least forty feet at each jump - with the aid of the breeze. Then, suddenly he struck a new current of air. It gently but persistently wafted him into the atmosphere, and then kept on. With frightened squawks and far-stretched wings he rose higher and higher. Above the tree tops, above the telegraph poles and above the highest office building in Asheville he soared - a strange, not to say an unusual sight. Higher and higher he was swept towards the summit of Mount Mitchell, which is said to be the highest peak on the roof of eastern America, and unless the winds and fate have been kind to him and have landed him in some farmer's barnyard, that's where he is today.

And the reason why two Asheville boys are minus their toy Zeppelins, and also is the reason why there's one less Rhode Island red rooster in the city limits of this mountain metropolis.

NEW WEB PAGE

EXT. FOURTH STORY
This web site contains a tale from the book: "Belled - Buzzards Hucksters & Grieving - Specters. Appalachian Tales: Strange, True, & Legendary" and it is by Gary Carden and Nina Anderson. This tale is about my main web site character Honest John. The highlighted words in the story can get you involved with the story, and all you have to do is click on the highlighted words and that will get you some in depth information on the story, you can hear a noise, see a picture, or see a movie. ENJOY!

INT. HONEST JOHN
"Honest John King of the Rogue Bears
One-hundred years ago, bears and bear hunters often acquired celebrity status. Mountaineers such as Quill Rose, "Big Tom" Wilson and "Uncle Fed" Medford were celebrated for their kills, frequently claiming records in the hundreds. As a matter of integrity, the hunters made a distinction between the bears that they had killed single-handed, and the kills in which they had merely participated.

In all instances, since the ferocity and stature of the animal enhanced the hunter's reputation, everyone had a yarn about a legendary bruin who was uncommonly intelligent, huge...and maimed. Names such as "Reelfoot," "Fiddlefoot" or "One-eared Joe" are examples of legendary bears who had either been caught in a trap, escaped and were henceforth indentified by a mangled footprint or a missing eye or ear which had been lost in hand-to-paw combat with an erstwhile hunter, usually the one who will one day bring the bear's reign of terror to an end. Invariably, the bears live to be old warriors, and it is not uncommon to read accounts of marauding bears who are fifty or sixty years old. However, we still do not have a celebrity bear unless he has a reputation for being a flesh-eater. Unlike his brothers and sisters who are vegetarians except for an occasional fish or injured raccoon, the rogue bear has tasted flesh, usually pork, and liked it so much he decides to make it his primary food.

Now, we need only add a touch of the supernatural (The bear knows who is huntin' him `n how many."); a bit of notoriety ("He's been terrorizing this section for fifteen years!"); and a vendetta ("Me `n him, we got a score to settle!). In effect, the bear acquires the qualities of a murderous bandit. A posse is sent out to bring him to justice and the hunt acquires dramatic trappings. "This is a duel to the death!" says the hunter. "I respect old Fiddlefoot `cause he is brave, but he has gone too fer. He's got to pay!"

Time after time, the old bear turned in some mountain vale or atop a rocky crest and fought his last fight. Accounts of the final battle are replete with the death of faithful hounds ("He broke Old Bob's back `n throwed him in the river. Thet's when I said `Today ye die!"). The triumphant return of the "posse" with the dead bear was usually anti-climatic. Somehow, the mangled corpse, bear or man, of a deadly killer never seems to inspire either respect or fear. (Don't look so tough now, does he?")

By the 1930's, notorious killer bears were definitely on the decline. Ironically, that seems to be the very reason an occasional report of a slaughtered hog would be carried in regional newspapers and gun-wielding mountain men would unleash the dogs and rush into the diminishing wilderness eager for one more encounter with a rogue bear.

During the winter of 1934, reports began to circulate that "Honest John" was terrorizing the counties of Jackson and Haywood in western North Carolina. How did he get his name? "Well, he ain't like other maverick bears, " said a native of the Caney Fork community. "When he visits your pig lot, he don't kill every pig. He just picks one up and runs back up the mountain with it under his arm." To many newspapers in the region, this sounded like a prelude to a duel that pitted keen-eyed mountain men against a brutal, pork-loving beast.

City journalists began to appear.

"Have you ever heard of Honest John?"

"You mean that hog-killer? Shore have. He's been killing hogs `round here for over twenty years."

"How old is he?"

"Well, you have to ask Wilburn Parker about that. He is King of the Bear Hunters in these parts. I think he knows more `bout that bear than anybody."

The journalists found Parker on his Caney Fork farm. The newspapermen watched Wilburn feed his Plott hounds.

"Sir, how many bears have you killed?"

"Fifty-four. Thet's me, by myself. Now, I participated with others in one-hundred and sixteen. I aim to get a even hundred `fore I quit. Jest me by myself."

"Tell me about Honest John."

"I know him. He knows me, too."

"How old would you say he is?"

"Between fifty and sixty. Thet's pretty old fer a bear. Most of'em stop a bullet by the time they are three or four."

"How do you account for him being so old?"

"He's smart. Runs circles `round most dogs. If things git hot, he cuts out for Haywood County. Crosses the Balsams. Hides in the laurel hells and rhododendron thickets over in the Plott Balsams."

"How do you know the difference between a hog killed by Honest John and some other bear? Maybe you are giving him credit for what a lot of bears are doing."

"Nope. He allus leaves his track like he was proud of what he done. Part of his left forepaw is missing. Thet happened near twenty years ago, when he got in one of my traps. Thet bear jest took thet trap and frailed it aginst a big rock `till it come off. We tracked `em by the blood a good ways, but he got away. Went back to Haywood County.

"Nother thang. Thet track is the biggest I ever saw. Looks like it was left by one of them prehistoric monsters. You can put a ordinary hat over is `n it won't cover it from heel to toe. " Parker hesitated, then he said, "Them hogs he kills are mostly razorback in these parts is jest `bout as dangerous as a bear. Hit ain't lak a tame hog out in the lot. `Course, mountain folks, they claim they own herds of razorbacks jest lak they was in the lot. Honest John jest comes to the pig lot when he can't find a razorback."

The journalists were impressed. They scribbled for a while, and then one asked, "How come you never killed him?"

"I tried a time or two. Couldn't git close enough. Seen him lots of times jest `fore he disappeared down the backside of a ridge half a mile away. He'd allus stand up on his hing legs and look back at me. He's over six feet tall and weighs in the neighborhood of seven-hundred pounds. Tell ye the truth, I kinda like him. But lately, he's been getting out of hand. Killed lots of hogs the last two years. Guess I'm gonna have to put a stop to it." Parker sounded reluctant.

"Mr. Parker, do you mind if I say you have "eyes of steel?" Parker stared at the reporter.

"It's just a descriptive phrase, sir. I would like to say that you are pursuing Honest John with cold determination and that when you stare towards the snow-covered Balsams where the fiendish killer lives, your eyes had the chilly glint of blue steel."

Parker smiled like a man who had heard a child say something comical. "Whatever gives you pleasure," he said.

"When are you going after him?"

"Well, the bear-hunting season don't close `til January 16th. I've got plenty of time."

Several days later, heavy snows blanketed the Balsams. An accumulation of two feet quickly turned into four-foot drifts in the wind-swept hollows of Caney Fork. Temperatures dropped, and the wind hooted and wailed in the high reaches of Plott Mountain. "Not a fit night for man or beast," said the old-timers. They were wrong.

On successive nights the squeals of doomed pigs woke families in Cane Fork and Tuckaseegee. Men struggled through the wind and dark to find themselves bereft of a sow or boar, always the biggest of the brood. Each time, the trampled snow in the pig lot was branded by the huge distinctive footprint. Honest John was back.

The reporter from the Asheville Citizen found Parker with a dozen hunters who sat quietly as the King of the Bear Hunters responded to questions.

"Why haven't you gone after him?"

"A man would be a fool to go out in thet wind and snow. Dogs can't travel through four-foot drifts. Honest John knows thet. We'll wait `til it thaws. We've done decided thet the only way to git him is to "slow track" him."

"Slow track?" The reporter's pencil was poised.

"The reason nobody ever catches him is they charge off at a run atter him, and by the time they catch up, the dogs are all wore out, no fight in them. Ole John, he jest slaps them down and goes on `bout his business. We aim to take our time, `n if we see him, we ain't gonna lose our heads. Jest take it easy, so if we ever do catch up with him, we'll all be rested and ready fer a fight. I jest need one shot."

"So, is that a fool-proof plan?"

"No, it ain't. If ole John figures out what we're doing, hit ain't worth doodly-squat."

Three days later, Parker, his cohorts and a dozen of dogs set out to bring Honest John to justice. He had declared the killer bear Public Enemy No.1 and had vowed to bring him in. For several days and nights, the residents of Caney Fork and Tuckasegee heard the baying of hounds in the far reaches of the Balsams.

When Parker came out of the woods several days later, the Citizen reporter was waiting. He looked for the trophy, the slaughtered bruin lashed to a hickory pole, his hide torn by the dogs.

No bear. Men and dogs seemed subdued. Parker's posse quietly dispersed towards home, leaving Wilburn to deal with the disappointed journalist.

"Did you see him?"

"Once." Wilburn was tired. He stared at the fog-wrapped Balsams. "We was climbing towards the Haywood County line when we seen him. He was on a bluff'cross this ravine. He was `bout fifty yards away, but it might as well a-been a mile or two. Dogs went crazy `cause they cou'nt git near him. He stood up like he allus did, reared up `n looked at us." Wilburn shook his head. "Thet bear was old. Ears all tore up `n ragged, hide turning gray. He looked at us fer a good while `n we looked at him. Then, he was gone."

"Did you shoot at him? Seems he was close enough."

Parker shook his head. "How old ye think I am?" he said.

The reporter, confused by the change of subject, looked at Parker. "I believe ye said in your paper thet `the white hair on my head testified to the passage of sixty winters.' Well, thet bear has been around about the same amount of time, `n we're both beginning to feel our age."

The reporter was astonished. "Are you saying you let him go?"

"I didn't say that. Said we was both tired."

"Are you going back?"

Parker shook his head. "I'll go bear hunting again, but it won't be fer Honest John. I hear there's a bunch of hunters over in Haywood thet are going atter him."

"What am I supposed to put in the paper? I mean, after the big build-up, we don't have an ending, or at least not the ending that the readers expect."

Parker thought a minute. "Why don't you say he got away. Why don't ye say that tonight he is asleep in a cave somewhere atop the Plott Balsams surrounded by laurel hells...which is what I'd like to do, sleep." Parker turned towards his home. He seemed to hesitate for a moment and then turned to the reported.

"How did it go again, what ye put in the paper `bout my eyes...'the cold glint of blue steel'?"

"I said that when you looked toward the Balsams, your eyes had `the chilly glint of blue steel.'"

"That's it!" Wilburn nodded and smiled. He turned away, chuckling and the reporter heard him repeating the phrase, "the chilly glint of blue steel" as he walked away.

Several weeks later, John Holzworth arrived. When word spread that Mr. Holzworth, accompanied by a one-hundred-thirty-pound Great Dane named Ajax, was interviewing anyone who had ever seen Honest John, the newspapers talked to him. The visitor was the Chairman of the Alaska Bear Committee and the New York Zoological Society. He was also a noted author and authority on the behavior of bears.

"Why are you interested in Honest John?"

"Well, he is a famous bear. His reputation has spread to New York and Alaska, and based on my interviews thus far, he has remarkable survival instincts."

"Do you intend to hunt him down?"

"Holzworth was amused. "Heavens, no! I would no more harm Honest John than I would Ajax here." Holzworth gave his dog an affectionate pat. "But I would like to take his picture."

Several weeks later, Holzworth appeared again. He announced that Honest John would be a chapter in a book he was writing, and he was eager to talk to hunters who had seen the giant bear. He interviewed hunters in Haywood County, journeyed to Sunburst where the bear had been repeatedly sighted, and was finally told about Wilburn Parker.

"Where is he?" asked Holzworth.

A resident of Sunburst pointed vaguely toward the Balsams.

"He lives the back side of beyond, " he said. "Go down to the forks of the Pigeon `n go up thet little holler to the left." Parker and his wife greeted Holzworth with mountain hospitality, and the weathered hunter talked about the Terror of the Balsams.

"Will you be going after him again?" asked Holzworth.

"Maybe, maybe not. Seems like half the hunters in the mountains are going atter 'em."

And so they did. After a half-dozen trips, a Jackson County hunting club wrote the state game commisioner for permission to hunt Honest John out of season. They argued that he had become a significant threat and should be killed. The answer was not what they expected. John D. Chalk, North Carolina's game commisioner, warned all hunters in the Great Smoky Mountains Park area that the bear known as Honest John was an inhabitant of the Park and thereby subject to the Park's protection. Sportsmen in Haywood County wrote Chalk, applauding his action. Most letters noted that the old bear was not the notorious killer he had been made out to be; in fact he was highly respected in Haywood County.

And so, the posses halted. As the winter dragged on, and no further reports of Honest John appeared, one editor of a local paper, noted for his wit, observed that perhaps Honest John had eaten so much raw pork he had succumbed to trichinosis.

Reports of raids by Honest John continued until 1942. He was "killed" a dozen times, but invariably the dead bear lacked Hones John's distinguishing characteristics. However, a giant bear killed near Cullowhee in the winter of 1942 was widely reported to be the ancient bruin. "Shore was a big `n," said the man who killed him, "but I jest don't know." The old bear was never reported again. Was he dead? Perhaps.

Or perhaps, for many years, as Parker said, he slept the winters away, and finally changed his diet to berries, honey and mast, slept in the sun and died of old age. Perhaps his skull lies moldering in a rhododendron thicket somewhere in the Balsams - all that remains of the rogue bear that got away.

G.C."

Animals in NC History