in a few moments a racing, panting crowd of a dozen boys and girls
came up in sight, and poured under the arch--sturdy lads, and lasses
in red frocks and checked aprons. And here be it said that a girl--a
certain rosy Nell Ridley--won the sheep-skin by being the first under
the archway. But the others were not far behind, and in another moment
our green arena was swarming with the young folks.
Though a stranger, I soon found myself acquainted and on the best of
terms with everybody. Sheep-skins were now being run by the dozen, the
process being to pour hot sirup upon the cold, hard-pressed snow in
the buckets, where it instantly cooled, becoming tough and of the
color of sheep-skin. And if one has a "sweet tooth," nothing among all
the "sugars" can compare with a maple sheep-skin.
We all had _sweet teeth_ there, and were in the midst of a furious
romp around the kettles in chase of Nell, whom some one had accused of
appropriating "the great one," when somebody suddenly cried,--
"Hark!"
There was an instant hush; when clear on the evening air there came a
wild cry--a long, quavering "Hoo-oo-oo."
"Bear! A bear!" exclaimed several of the boys, to whom bruin's nightly
cries were but familiar sounds. But save that a few of the girls
looked a little startled, no one seemed to be much alarmed. I saw Zeke
looking to the priming of the old gun, though; and for a while we were
pretty whist, listening; but the cry, which had seemed at a
considerable distance, was not repeated. Indeed, in the merriment
which soon succeeded, the most of us had entirely forgotten it, I
think. At least we were all in the midst of another scrimmage over the
"last biscuit," when a loud snort, like that of a startled horse, a
sort of "woof! woof!" accompanied by a great rustling in our evergreen
hedge, startled us; and turning, we saw--I shall never forget the
sight--an enormous black creature coming through our _fence_, with all
the independence of a sole proprietor! Of course, as Zeke afterwards
expressed it, "if _he_ was _coming in_, we wanted to _go out_."
The girls were not of the fainting sort; but they did scream some, and
we all sprang away like cats through the opposite side of the hedge.
The gun had been left standing near the place where the bear had
broken in, and was not to be got at, of course. But, catching out my
pistol, as we scrambled through the hemlock, I discharged it at the
old fellow, hitting him, I guess; for he growled and came straight
after me. 'Twas no time to be loitering. Down the slope we all ran
together, slumping and sprawling full length in the soft snow! Up and
on again, knocking out spiles and kicking over sap-buckets, bumping
and grazing ourselves against the rough bark of the maples; for it was
pitch dark in the woods. But on we went for dear life, expecting every
moment to feel the bear's teeth or claws from behind. At first I had a
sort of impression that we boys should have to wait and put ourselves
between the girls and the bear; but I soon found I had all I could do
to keep up with them. Such girls to run I never saw before! And we
never stopped till, at a distance of a mile below, the forest opened
out into a cleared field.
There we began to discover that the bear was not after us, and
gradually came to a halt. After getting breath, however, we kept
on--at a little slower pace, though--down to the "corners," where,
after seeing the girls to their respective dwellings, guns were
procured, and, rallying out Mr. Bubar and Mr. Murch, senior, with
several other men, we all started back to hunt up the bear. Going
quietly up through the woods, we cautiously approached to a point
where the gap we had made in rushing out of our enclosure enabled us
to see what was going on inside; and there by the firelight we beheld
the bear sitting cosily before the coals, and gazing wistfully into
the boiling kettles. He had probably found them too hot for his use.
Raising their guns, the men all fired together--a murderous volley of
bullets and buckshot. Rearing upon his haunches with a sullen growl,
old bruin glared around a moment, then fell over backwards, and, with
a few dying kicks and groans, was dead. And this was the end of Bruin
and the maple-sugar party.
[Illustration: THE AFRICAN ELEPHANT.]
THE AFRICAN ELEPHANT.
There is not the least difficulty in distinguishing the Asiatic from
the African elephant. The ears of the former are comparatively small,
only reaching a little below the eyes, while the ears of the African
species are of enormous dimensions, actually crossing on the back of
the neck, drooping far below the chin, and extending beyond the
shoulder-blade. Generally, the ears are laid so flatly against the
neck, that they seem almost to form part of the skin of the head and
shoulders; but when the creature is suddenly roused, the ears are
thrown forward, and stand out so boldly, that they look more like
wings than ears. Towards the lower part the ears form themselves into
slight folds, which are not without some degree of elegance.
The end of the trunk also differs from that of the Asiatic species. In
that animal a kind of finger projects from the upper part of the
extremity; but in the African species the end of the trunk is split so
far, that the two lobes act as opposable fingers, and serve to grasp
any object which the animal desires to hold. This structure can easily
be seen by offering the animal a piece of biscuit. The forehead, too,
affords another means of distinction, being convex in the African, and
flat or slightly concave in the Asiatic.
Another very decided difference lies in the teeth. These enormous
engines of mastication are made up of a number of flat plates laid
side by side, and composed of enamel and bone. In the Asiatic species
these plates are nearly oval in form, and may be imitated by taking a
piece of cardboard, rolling it into a tube, and then pressing it until
it is nearly flat. But in the African species these plates are of a
diamond shape, and may be rudely imitated by taking the same
cardboard tube, and squeezing it nearly flat at each end, leaving the
centre to project. In consequence of these distinctions, several
systematic zooelogists have thought that the African elephant ought to
be placed in a separate genus, and have therefore called it _Loxodonta
Africana_, the former of these words signifying "oblique-toothed." I
think, however, that there are no real grounds for such a change, and
that the genus Elephas is amply sufficient for both species.
The enormous ears of the African elephant are not without their use to
the hunter, who finds in them an invaluable aid in repairing damages
to his wagons and guns. Even if a gun-stock be smashed,--an accident
which is of no very unfrequent occurrence in South African hunting,--a
large piece of elephant's ear, put on while fresh and wet, and allowed
to dry in the sun, sets matters right again, and binds the fragments
together as if they were enclosed in iron. Sometimes the ear seems to
be a protection to the animal; for it is so tough and strong, despite
its pliability, that the hunter will occasionally find several bullets
lodged in the ear, which have not been able to penetrate through a
substance at once tough and flexible.
This species is of a thirsty nature, so that wherever elephant paths
are seen, the hunter knows that he is not very far from water of some
kind. And as elephants have a fashion of travelling in Indian file, it
is easy enough to trace their footsteps, and so to find the water. The
animals go to drink in the evening, as do many other wild beasts, and
the quantity which they consume is enormous. They go close to the
water's edge, insert the end of the trunk into the liquid, draw it up
until the two nostril-tubes are full, turn the end of the trunk into
the mouth, and then discharge the contents into the stomach. When
satiated, they amuse themselves for a while by blowing water all over
their bodies, and then retrace their steps to the forest glades whence
they came.
The enormous quantity of water which they carry home within them has a
rather curious effect. At tolerably regular intervals a loud, rumbling
sound is heard, much resembling the "glug-glug" produced by pouring
wine out of a bottle, and lasting a few seconds. Were it not for this
phenomenon, the hunters would meet with far less success than at
present is the case. When hiding from a foe, the elephant can remain
motionless, so that not a cracking stick nor a rustling leaf betrays
its presence. But it cannot prevent this periodical rumbling; and
accordingly, when a hunter is in the bush after elephants, he sits
down every few minutes, and waits, in order to catch the sound which
tells him that elephants are near. Even in the semi-domesticated
specimens at the London Zooelogical Gardens, this sound is easily to be
heard.
The African elephant is more hunted than the Asiatic species, and
affords better sport and greater profit to the hunter. It seems to be
a fiercer, more active, and probably a more cunning animal, and, owing
to the character of the country through which it ranges, it seems to
be of a more nomad disposition. The chase of the African elephant
appears to exercise a kind of fascination over its votaries, like the
chase of the chamois among the Swiss mountaineers; and when a hunter
has fairly settled down to the business, he cannot tear himself away
from it without exercising great self-denial. Perhaps few sports are
encompassed with greater difficulties and dangers, or involve greater
hardships; and yet the wild, free, roving life has such charms, that
even a highly-educated European can scarcely make up his mind to
return to civilization.
In the first place, elephant hunting is not, as are many sports, an
expensive amusement. On the contrary, a hunter who possesses a
sufficiency of skill, courage, and endurance will be able not only to
cover his expenses, but to pay himself handsomely for his trouble.
There is certainly a very large expenditure at the outset; for a
hunter will need two wagons, with a whole drove of oxen, several good
and seasoned horses, a small arsenal of guns, with ammunition to
match, provisions for a lengthened period, and plenty of beads and
other articles which can be bartered for ivory. Moreover, a number of
native servants must be kept, and the amount of meat which they
consume daily is almost appalling.
Then there are always great losses to be counted upon. The cattle get
among the dread Tzetse flies, and die off in a few hours; the horses
catch the "paardsikte" (a kind of murrain), or tumble into pitfalls;
wagons break down, servants run away with guns, native chiefs detain
the wagons for weeks, together with a host of minor drawbacks. Still,
if a man is worthy of the name of hunter, and boldly faces these
difficulties, he will pay himself well, provided that his health holds
out--there are so many valuable articles to be brought from Southern
Africa, such as the horns and furs of animals, the skins of birds,
ostrich feathers, and ivory.
The teeth of the elephant, too, are valuable, and are made into
various articles of use and ornament. A set of knife-handles made of
elephant's tooth is sometimes to be seen, and I have now before me an
excellent specimen of a knife-handle, which shows the alternate rows
of enamel and bone in a very striking manner, and is certainly a much
handsomer article than a handle made of simple ivory.
[Illustration: THE ELEPHANT.]
The elephant is, indeed, one of the most eccentric of animals. There
is no possibility of calculating upon it, and nothing but experience
can serve a hunter when measuring his own intellect against the
elephant's cunning. The scent or sight of a human being at the
distance of a mile will send a herd of powerful male elephants on
their travels, the huge creatures preferring to travel for many miles
rather than meet a man. Yet, when assailed, there is scarcely any
animal which is more to be dreaded. It forgets fear, and, filled with
blind rage, it will chase an armed man in spite of his rifle, and will
continue to charge him until it dies.
It will engage in deadly battle with its own species, or with the
mail-clad rhinoceros, and yet will run away at the barking of a little
dog. There was a curious instance some years ago, when an elephant
that was travelling in America went mad, escaped from its keeper
during the night, and traversed the country for miles, doing great
damage. It broke carts to pieces, killed the horses, and was trying to
force its way into a barn where another horse had taken refuge, when
it was checked by a bull-dog, which flew at the huge animal, bit its
legs, and worried it so thoroughly, that the elephant, mad as it was,
fairly ran away. Indeed, nothing seems to cast this gigantic animal
into such a state of perplexity as the noisy attacks of a little,
cross-tempered, insolent, yapping terrier. The elephant cannot
understand it, and gets into such a state of nervous irritation, that
it never thinks of running away or annihilating its diminutive foe,
but remains near the same spot, making short and ineffectual charges,
until the hunter comes up and deliberately chooses his own position
for attack.
The flesh of the elephant is anything but palatable, and when cut into
strips and dried in the sun, has been aptly compared to leather
straps. A well-known hunter said that the character of elephant's
flesh might easily be imagined by taking the toughest beefsteak ever
cooked, multiplying the toughness by four, and subtracting all the
gravy. The natives, however, are possessed of marvellously strong jaws
and sharp teeth, and to them meat is meat, whether tough or tender.
There are, however, several parts of the elephant which are always
good; and these are the heart, the feet, and the trunk. The heart and
trunk are simply roasted, with the addition of some of the fat from
the interior of the body; but the feet require a more elaborate mode
of cookery.
While some of the men are cutting off the feet, others are employed in
digging a circular hole in the ground some ten feet deep and three
wide, the earth being heaped round the edge. An enormous heap of dry
wood and leaves is then piled over the hole, set on fire, and allowed
to burn itself out. As soon as the last sticks have fallen into the
hole, the men begin to rake out the glowing embers with long poles.
This is a laborious and difficult task, the heat being so great, that
each man can only work for a few consecutive seconds, and then gives
way to a cooler comrade. However, there are plenty of laborers, and
the hole is soon cleared. The elephant's foot is then rolled into the
hole, and covered over with the earth that was heaped round the edge.
Another pile of wood is then raised, and when it has completely burned
out, the foot is supposed to be properly baked. Thus prepared, the
foot is thought to be almost the greatest luxury which South Africa
can afford, the whole interior being dissolved into a soft, gelatinous
substance of a most delicate flavor. There is never any lack of fuel;
for the elephants break down so many branches for food, and in their
passage through the bush, that abundance of dry boughs can always be
picked up within a limited area.
THE SONG OF THE BIRD.
I.
In those unhappy days when revolution prevailed in France, there were
a number of noble families who were reduced to extreme poverty. One of
these was the family of Duke Erlan, who was a noble and
highly-respected man, while his wife was kind and charitable to such
an extent that all the poor people in the surrounding country loved
her with great affection.
They had two children--Carl and Lillie. When a certain revolutionary
outbreak had occurred, the duke removed from the city where he lived
to his chateau, in a retired part of the country, where he was
surrounded by rocks, vineyards, and fields of grain, far removed from
the bustle and turmoil of city life.
The good man regarded himself as very fortunate in being permitted to
live here in quiet with his family, and become the teacher of his
children.
Notwithstanding the great danger prevailing in the country, this was
indeed a happy family.
The duke was a good musician, and he made it an object to teach his
children to play on the piano; and though they were quite young, both
of them knew a number of very beautiful tunes.
On one stormy evening, near the end of winter, all four of them sat
together near their splendid piano. The duke had composed a little
song for his two children. It was such a pleasant, lively melody, that
they had learned it very easily, and each of them could play it. Their
mother, however, did not know it, and the children now thought it a
great thing for them to have the privilege of teaching it to her.
"Carl," said the duke, "you play, and we will sing."
And they sang this song:--
"Take courage, bird;
Our Father says,
In winter's storms
And summer's rays
You have no barns,
You sow no wheat,
But God will give you bread to eat."
While they were singing, they heard some one knock at the door. They
heard the bell ring, and when the door was opened, five soldiers, clad
in uniform, demanded Duke Erlan to deliver himself up. They walked
straight up to him, and told him that he must go immediately to
prison. His wife cast herself at their feet, and begged them to let
him live in peace.
"We cannot help it," said they. "We have our orders, and must obey
them."
Not five minutes elapsed before that good man was taken from the midst
of his happy family, and hurried to prison. The duchess and her son
and daughter were overwhelmed with sorrow. They could not sleep that
night, and the next morning, as they looked out of the window and saw
how the storm had prevailed in the vineyards and on the fields, they
felt that the storm in their own hearts had been far more destructive.
The unhappy duchess now determined to use every means to rescue her
beloved husband. She went to the judges and assured them of her
husband's innocence; but they did not seem to have any more feeling
than so many marble statues. She received, in reply to her entreaties,
this answer:--
"In a few days your husband will be beheaded."
She returned to the castle after three days, and found that it was
occupied by soldiers. The furniture had all been taken away, and the
treasures were missing. She was not permitted even to enter the
castle, and was informed that her children, for whom she was weeping
in great sorrow, were gone--nobody could tell where.
It was late at night, and she did not know where she would sleep.
Going out into the castle-yard, she was met by Richard, an old and
faithful servant, who said,--
"Good mistress, you are in danger every moment of being arrested.
There is no safety for you unless you flee as quickly as possible. I
cannot conceal you, for that would be dangerous for all. I cannot save
your husband, and if you stay here it will be certain death. Your
children are at my house. Come with me. My brother, the old fisherman,
who keeps the ferry at the Rhine, is already informed of the matter. I
will go with you this very night, and he will take you and your
children safely over the river. Run--let us run for life."
The duchess came to the house of good Richard, where she found her
children. But Lillie was quite sick, and lay upon Richard's cot,
suffering from a high fever. She did not even know her mother. How
could that good lady leave her sick child? She did not wish to do it,
but the peasant told her that she could be of no assistance, and that
he would see that she was well provided for.
"Run," said he, "for your life is in danger."
It was a sad moment when Lillie's mother was compelled to leave her
child lying upon that sick bed; but the good woman, before giving her
a parting kiss, knelt at her side, and said,--
"O Lord, I commit this dear child to thee for safe keeping. I believe
thou wilt one day restore her to me."
The duchess was silent for a few moments; then, calmly arising, she
kissed her child, took Carl by the hand, and hastened through the
door towards the distant river.
She finally came to the old ferryman's house, and he gave them a great
deal of welcome, having provided some warm soup and bread to
strengthen them. They were taken over the river, and the two brothers,
Solomon and Richard, returned in the boat.
It was a desolate condition in which the duchess and her child were
placed, and we must follow her in her wanderings. The farther she went
from the river, the safer it would be for her and Carl. She followed
the direction which Richard had given her, until she reached
Switzerland. But her delay there came near costing her her life, for
she learned that a detective officer was in search of them. With all
the haste possible, she got across the Swiss boundary into the Tyrol,
which was Austrian territory. There she was safe. They passed over
high mountains, and through deep valleys, seeking a place where they
could settle. At last they came to a certain valley, which, in quiet
beauty, surpassed anything that they had seen.
"This reminds me more of home," she said, "than any country through
which we have passed. I have got several hundred louis which good
Richard saved when our house was plundered, and we can afford to rent
a little cottage."
The old Tyrolese peasant told her that there was no house for sale in
all the valley. "But," said he, "you can board in my cottage if you
choose."
The price was agreed upon, and the duchess and her son became inmates
of the family. The little room which was to be their home was very
plainly furnished; but simple as it was, the first thing that she did
on entering it was to kneel there with her child, and thank God for a
shelter. She arranged her affairs as well as she could for a
permanent residence with the Tyrolese peasant, and she began to look
upon it as home.
One day she told the peasant that she wished to send her little boy
Carl to school, if there was a good schoolmaster in the neighborhood.
"The pastor in a neighboring village," said the peasant, "will be here
to-day to catechise my child. He teaches school, and I think you can
make an arrangement with him."
That day the gray-haired old pastor came, and an arrangement was made
with him for Carl to go to school to him. Books were provided for him,
and he went to school with the greatest pleasure. He was a rapid
student, and repeated his lessons every evening to his mother.
In the Tyrol a great many canary birds are trained, and are sold to
dealers all through the country. The old Tyrolese peasant with whom
the duchess and Carl were boarding had a young and beautiful bird,
which sang very sweetly. Carl asked his mother to buy this bird,
saying,--
"Mother, this bird is very much like the one that our dear, sweet
Lillie used to have. Buy it for me, so that it may learn how to sing."
The duchess bought the bird, and soon became very much attached to it.
Carl took the greatest pleasure in its training, and in due time,
little Tim--for that was his name--would come to him and peck at his
fingers, and rub his little head on Carl's hand.
Carl was a natural musician, just as his father was, and would
sometimes play on a flute which the old Tyrolese peasant had. Little
Tim would imitate his tunes, and sometimes the concert was well worth
hearing.
The old pastor provided the duchess with news. One day he gave her a
French newspaper, and in the first column which she read there was a
long list of the names of noblemen who had been beheaded. Among them
she read the name of her husband, Henry Erlan. The newspaper fell from
her hands, and she swooned away. A severe illness came on, and it was
a long time doubtful whether she would recover. The old Tyrolese
despaired of her life, and said,--
"The coming autumn may find her no more with us; but who knows what
the good Lord will bring out of all this sorrow?"
II.