"Mother! When is my birthday?" Cuffy asked, a few days after his father had brought home the little pig.  
"Why, your birthday comes on the day the wild geese begin to fly south," Mrs. Bear said.
 
"Is that soon?" Cuffy asked.
 
"Bless you, no! Not for months and months!" his mother said.
 
"And when is Silkie's?" he continued.
 
"The day of the first snow," she told him.
 
Cuffy knew that that was a long way off—not until summer had come and gone.
 
"And Father's?" he once more.
 
Mrs. Bear shook her head.
 
"Your father hasn't many birthdays," she said. "He was born on the day of the great forest fire. It may be a long time before he has another birthday. I hope so, anyhow," she added, "for a great forest fire is a thing."
 
Now you see, having a birthday like that is a good deal like being born on the twenty-ninth of February, when you have a birthday only once in four years. Yes—it's a good deal like that, only worse. For you may have to wait years and years before another great fire comes. You understand, of course, that having no clocks or calendars or anything like that, the wild animals can keep track of birthdays only by remembering things that happen.
 
All this made Cuffy Bear feel very sad. He had been hoping that some member of the family would have a birthday soon, and then perhaps his father would bring home another little pig for another nice . But now he saw that there was no chance of that happening for a long, long time.
 
Cuffy went out of doors then and thought and thought and thought. I'm almost ashamed to have to say it—he was plann............