Eu e meu amigo urso

Todo mundo teve (porque se ainda tem é porque merece) um amigo urso. Aquele amigo fofinho, aconchegante que nos abre os braços quando precisamos, mas que depois nos crava as unhas nas costas e nos arranca a cabeça; ou aquele que simplesmente nos puxa o tapete ou nos põe em maus lençóis por pura burrice, ingenuidade, imprudência ou incapacidade de guardar um segredo. Os meus abaixo são inofensivos e não menos fofos, apesar do tamanho.

E qual a origem do termo "amigo urso"? Dizem que vem de uma fábula de La Fontaine. Abaixo, uma versão em prosa, em português, e uma versão em poesia, em inglês:

O solitário e o seu urso.

Um homem que no lidar da vida muito tinha que se queixar dos outros homens, reconhecendo os falsos, egoístas, mal agradecidos, tornou-se misantropo e, renunciando à sociedade, fora embrenhar-se em um ermo. Aí vivia solitário, tendo por companheiro um urso que domesticara. No urso, havia concentrado todas as suas afeições e cumpre confessar que lhe eram retribuídas. Quem os visse brincar juntos diria que era uma parelha de ursos. Um dia de verão, o solitário vencido pelo calor e pelo aborrecimento, adormeceu; o urso pôs-se a vigiar que nada viesse incomodar o seu amigo, que nada o acordasse. Uma mosca foi pousar nos beiços do homem, o urso procurou enxotá-la; como porém nada conseguisse por bons modos, pois a mosca ia-se e logo voltava, agarrou o bruto em uma pedra e atirou-lha quando estava pousada na cabeça do seu amigo. Matou-a, mas também o pobre misantropo foi-se desta para melhor, sem que lhe valesse o pranto do urso, arrependido da sua imprudência.
MORAL DA ESTÓRIA: Nada mais perigoso que um amigo imprudente; antes mil vezes um discreto inimigo.

The Bear and the Amateur Gardener

A certain mountain bear, unlicked and rude,
By fate confined within a lonely wood,
A new Bellerophon, whose life,
Knew neither comrade, friend, nor wife,
Became insane; for reason, as we term it,
Dwells never long with any hermit.
It's good to mix in good society,
Obeying rules of due propriety;
And better yet to be alone;
But both are ills when overdone.*
No animal had business where
All grimly dwelt our hermit bear;
Hence, bearish as he was, he grew
Heart-sick, and longed for something new.
While he to sadness was addicted,
An aged man, not far from there,
Was by the same disease afflicted.
A garden was his favourite care,—
Sweet Flora's priesthood, light and fair,
And eke Pomona's—ripe and red
The presents that her fingers shed.
These two employments, true, are sweet
When made so by some friend discreet.
The gardens, gaily as they look,
Talk not, (except in this my book;)
So, tiring of the deaf and dumb,
Our man one morning left his home
Some company to seek,
That had the power to speak.—
The bear, with thoughts the same,
Down from his mountain came;
And in a solitary place,
They met each other, face to face.
It would have made the boldest tremble;
What did our man? To play the Gascon
The safest seemed. He put the mask on,
His fear contriving to dissemble.
The bear, unused to compliment,
Growled bluntly, but with good intent,
"Come home with me." The man replied:
"Sir Bear, my lodgings, nearer by,
In yonder garden you may spy,
Where, if you'll honour me the while,
We'll break our fast in rural style.
I have fruits and milk,—unworthy fare,
It may be, for a wealthy bear;
But then I offer what I have."
The bear accepts, with visage grave,
But not unpleased; and on their way,
They grow familiar, friendly, gay.
Arrived, you see them, side by side,
As if their friendship had been tried.
To a companion so absurd,
Blank solitude were well preferred,
Yet, as the bear scarce spoke a word,
The man was left quite at his leisure
To trim his garden at his pleasure.
Sir Bruin hunted—always brought
His friend whatever game he caught;
But chiefly aimed at driving flies—
Those hold and shameless parasites,
That vex us with their ceaseless bites—
From off our gardener's face and eyes.
One day, while, stretched on the ground
The old man lay, in sleep profound,
A fly that buzz'd around his nose,—
And bit it sometimes, I suppose,—
Put Bruin sadly to his trumps.
At last, determined, up he jumps;
"I'll stop your noisy buzzing now,"
Says he; "I know precisely how."
No sooner said than done.
He seized a paving-stone;
And by his modus operandi
Did both the fly and man die. A foolish friend may cause more woe
Than could, indeed, the wisest foe.

* Gostei dessa parte