Only one other instance of elephant intelligence ever impressed me more
than this awakening in the grasp of Old Romeo. One of the small members
of the drove was trained to walk a rope--or more properly a belt--the
width of his foot. This performance attracted the attention of the baby
elephant, and one day I noticed the little fellow stealthily unhooking
the chain by which he was tethered. Then he boldly attempted to walk
the guard chain which surrounds the drove in every menagerie. The same
baby elephant, one day seeing the men shoveling to throw up a ring
embankment, contrived to get a shovel in his trunk. At once he
attempted to stab the blade into the earth. Failing in this effort to
imitate the men he flew into a passion and threw the tool to the
ground, trampling on it and breaking the handle.
In those first days of my novitiate I found the people almost as
interesting as the elephants--which is saying much from the point of
view of a boy. The crudity of society at that period is vividly
illustrated by an incident which occurred soon after we had crossed
over into Illinois. We were showing at the little town of Oquawka and
"put up" at the only tavern there. The dining-room of this hostelry was
papered with circus bills. Our first meal introduced me to a scene so
outlandish that I shall never forget it. Shortly after we had seated
ourselves at the rough board table, the kitchen door was pushed open by
a tall, lank young countryman of a fierce and forbidding countenance.
He wore a broad-brimmed hat, heavy cowhide boots--in the tops of which
were buried the ends of his trouser legs--and a red flannel shirt. From
his belt protruded a huge bowie knife. In his hand he carried a
sixteen-quart pan heaped with steaming potatoes. As he strode across
the room he shouted: "Who in hell wants pertaters?"