Free The Hockey Sweater and Other Stories by Roch Carrier

the village, accustomed to recalcitrant bulls and horses, were leading it with strong authority; they had passed ropes around its neck and paws so the furious animal had to obey. Monsieur Rancourt was speaking French and English all at once.
    When he saw his bear, Dr. Schultz let out a cry that Monsieur Rancourt didn’t translate. The men’s hands dropped the ropes: the bear was free. He didn’t notice immediately. We heard his harsh breathing, and his master’s too. The hour had come: we were going to see the greatest circus attraction in the Americas, we were going to see with our own eyes the famous Dr. Schultz, our friend, wrestle a giant black bear.
    No longer feeling the ropes burning its neck, no longer submitting to the strength of the men who were tearing it apart, the bear stood up, spread its arms and shot forward with a roar. The bear struck Dr. Schultz like a mountain that might have rolled onto him. The bear and our friend tumbled off the stage. There was a ripple of applause; all the men together would never have succeeded in mustering half the daring of Dr. Schultz. The bear got up again, trampled on the great tamer of wild beasts and dived into the canvas enclosure, tearing it with one swipe of its claws before disappearing.
    Dr. Schultz had lost his jacket and trousers. His body was streaked with red scratches. He was weeping.
    â€˜If I understand right’, said Monsieur Rancourt, ‘he’s telling us that the bear wasn’t
his
bear…’
    â€˜It isn’t
his
bear…’
    The men shook and spluttered with laughter as they did at the general store when one of them told a funny story.
    The men laughed so hard that Monsieur Rancourt could no longer hear Dr. Schultz’s moans as he lay bleeding on the platform. The undertaker apologized for the misunderstanding.
    â€˜That bear was a bear that talked English, though, because I didn’t understand a single word he said.’

Industry in Our Village

    O NE DAY , on the train that joined my village to Quebec City, a man in farmer’s clothes was sitting across from a very dapper-looking man who smelled of money. Both men were smoking: one his thick pipe, the other a long cigar. The route was long and tortuous. After a few minutes in the smoke, the man from my village ventured to say to the man with the jewels:
    â€˜You must come from the big city, Monsieur.’
    â€˜Yes’, said the other man curtly, ‘but not you!’
    â€˜Me, I come from Sainte-Justine.’
    â€˜Ah! I don’t know that place,’ said the shining man. ‘You must admit, it’s not as well known as Montreal.’ And he added, ‘There must be more cows than people in your population!’
    The man from my village felt these words like a slap. He was silent as he smoked his pipe and prepared his revenge. When he was ready he emerged from his silence and his smoke, saying:
    â€˜Yup, it’s a little village, but Sainte-Justine’s pretty famous because of the factory’.
    The man from my village began to smoke his pipe again; the trap had been set.
    â€˜What kind of factory?’ the city man inquired at last.
    â€˜A shirt factory’, said the man from my village.
    â€˜It can’t be very big.’
    â€˜Maybe it ain’t as big as some’, said the man from my village, ‘but every day this train, this train right here, has to bring us buttons.’
    The man from the city, not understanding, deigned to smile.
    â€˜You can count’, said the man from my village, clutching his pipe; ‘this here train’s got fifteen cars; there’s one for people like you and me and the other fourteen, they’re for the buttons for our shirt factory. And the same train comes back every day.’
    Hearing this story or telling it consoled the people from my village somewhat for having to live in an area that had more spruce trees than smokestacks. One day a villager came