I am the biggest of the elephants--the one that keeps on nodding its
head. Why I do that I’ll tell you later. The habit began some years
ago. You see, I am getting on. I have been here ever since 1876, and
that’s a long time. I was thinking the other day of all the things that
have happened since I moved to Regent’s Park from Ceylon, and really it
is wonderful. For I hear what’s going on. In between remarks about how
big I am, and how restless I am, and what a wicked little eye I’ve got,
the people say all kinds of things about the events of the day. Last
Sunday I heard all about the Suffragettes, for instance. There wasn’t
much talk about Suffragettes in 1876.
I read what’s going on too. Now and then some one drops a paper or
I borrow the keeper’s. It took me a long time to learn to read,
but I know now. I began with the notices about pickpockets, which
are everywhere in these Gardens. That’s an old thing, isn’t it? We
four-footed creatures, whom you all come to stare at and patronize,
at any rate have no pockets to pick, and therefore are spared one
of your weaknesses. (Except of course the kangaroo.) I mastered the
pickpocket notice first, and then I learned the meaning of the one
about smoking in my house. And so by degrees I knew it all, and it’s
now quite simple. I can read anything. I wish the people who came here
could read as well. It says as plain as can be on my little door-plate
thing, in front of the railings, that I am--that I am a lady--but
how many visitors do you suppose refer to me as “she” or “her”? Not
more than three out of the hundred. I count sometimes, just for fun.
That’s really why I nod: I’m counting. “Isn’t _he_ enormous?” they say.
“Look at _his_ funny little eye?” “Would you like to give _him_ a bun,
dearie?” and so on. And all the time, if only education were properly
managed in this country, they could read my sex. It’s on the board all
right.
I have been here longer than any one except the hippopotamus, which
was born here in 1872. But to be born here is dull. I had six years of
Ceylon first; I am a traveller. Supposing that I got away I should know
what to do; but that old hippo wouldn’t. Homekeeping hippos have ever
homely wits, as the proverb has it.
Do you know that in 1876 Winston was only two years old? Think of it.
He used to be brought to see me when he was a tiny toddle with quite a
small head. I’ve given him many a ride on my back. I often wonder what
is the future of the children who put buns in my trunk and ride on my
back, but this is the only one I can remember who got into office so
young.
It’s an old place, the Zoo. Such queer creatures come and look at
me,--lean, eager naturalists, lovers, uncles with small nephews, funny
men trying to think of jokes about me. I like the Bank Holidays the
best. There’s some pleasure in astonishing simple people; and I like
Sundays the least because the clever ones come then. Schoolmasters
are the worst, because they lecture on me. My keeper hates them too,
because they ask such lots of questions and never give any tips.
There’s a fearful desire to know how heavy I am. What does that
matter? “My word, I wouldn’t like him (_him_, of course) to tread on
my favourite corn!”--I wonder how often I’ve heard that joke. The
English make all their jokes again. They say things, too, about my
trunk--packing it up and so on--till I could die of sheer _ennui_.