"It is the note of the dingue!" I whispered, "and that explains its
name, handed down from remote ages along with the names of the
behemoth and the coney. It was because of its bell-like cry that it
was named! Darling!" I cried, forgetting our short acquaintance, "we
have made a discovery that the whole world will ring with!"
Hand in hand we tiptoed through the forest to our trap. There was
something in it that took fright at our approach and rushed
panic-stricken round and round the interior of the trap, uttering its
alarm-note, which sounded like the jangling of a whole string of
bells.
I seized the strangely beautiful creature; it neither attempted to
bite nor scratch, but crouched in my arms, trembling and eying me.
Delighted with the lovely, tame animal, we bore it tenderly back to
the camp and placed it on my blanket. Hand in hand we stood before it,
awed by the sight of this beast, so long believed to be extinct.
"It is too good to be true," sighed Dorothy, clasping her white hands
under her chin and gazing at the dingue in rapture.
"Yes," said I, solemnly, "you and I, my child, are face to face with
the fabled dingue--_Dingus solitarius_! Let us continue to gaze at it,
reverently, prayerfully, humbly--"
Dorothy yawned--probably with excitement.
We were still mutely adoring the dingue when Professor Smawl burst
into the tent at a hand-gallop, bawling hoarsely for her kodak and
note-book.
Dorothy seized her triumphantly by the arm and pointed at the dingue,
which appeared to be frightened to death.
"What!" cried Professor Smawl, scornfully; "_that_ a dingue? Rubbish!"
"Madam," I said, firmly, "it is a dingue! It's a monodactyl! See! It
has but a single toe!"
"Bosh!" she retorted; "it's got four!"
"Four!" I repeated, blankly.
"Yes; one on each foot!"
"Of course," I said; "you didn't suppose a monodactyl meant a beast
with one leg and one toe!"
But she laughed hatefully and declared it was a woodchuck.
We squabbled for a while until I saw the significance of her attitude.
The unfortunate woman wished to find a dingue first and be accredited
with the discovery.
I lifted the dingue in both hands and shook the creature gently, until
the chiming ding-dong of its protestations filled our ears like sweet
bells jangled out of tune.
Pale with rage at this final proof of the dingue's identity, she
seized her camera and note-book.
"I haven't any time to waste over that musical woodchuck!" she
shouted, and bounced out of the tent.
"What have you discovered, dear?" cried Dorothy, running after her.
"A mammoth!" bawled Professor Smawl, triumphantly; "and I'm going to
photograph him!"
Neither Dorothy nor I believed her. We watched the flight of the
infatuated woman in silence.
And now, at last, the tragic shadow falls over my paper as I write. I
was never passionately attached to Professor Smawl, yet I would gladly
refrain from chronicling the episode that must follow if, as I have
hitherto attempted, I succeed in sticking to the unornamented truth.
I have said that neither Dorothy nor I believed her. I don't know why,
unless it was that we had not yet made up our minds to believe that
the mammoth still existed on earth. So, when Professor Smawl
disappeared in the forest, scuttling through the underbrush like a
demoralized hen, we viewed her flight with unconcern. There was a
large tree in the neighborhood--a pleasant shelter in case of rain. So
we sat down behind it, although the sun was shining fiercely.
It was one of those peaceful afternoons in the wilderness when the
whole forest dreams, and the shadows are asleep and every little
leaflet takes a nap. Under the still tree-tops the dappled sunlight,
motionless, soaked the sod; the forest-flies no longer whirled in
circles, but sat sunning their wings on slender twig-tips.
The heat was sweet and spicy; the sun drew out the delicate essence
of gum and sap, warming volatile juices until they exhaled through the
aromatic bark.
The sun went down into the wilderness; the forest stirred in its
sleep; a fish splashed in the lake. The spell was broken. Presently
the wind began to rise somewhere far away in the unknown land. I heard
it coming, nearer, nearer--a brisk wind that grew heavier and blew
harder as it neared us--a gale that swept distant branches--a furious
gale that set limbs clashing and cracking, nearer and nearer. Crack!
and the gale grew to a hurricane, trampling trees like dead twigs!
Crack! Crackle! Crash! Crash!
_Was it the wind?_
With the roaring in my ears I sprang up, staring into the forest
vista, and at the same instant, out of the crashing forest, sped
Professor Smawl, skirts tucked up, thin legs flying like
bicycle-spokes. I shouted, but the crashing drowned my voice. Then all
at once the solid earth began to shake, and with the rush and roar of
a tornado a gigantic living thing burst out of the forest before our
eyes--a vast shadowy bulk that rocked and rolled along, mowing down
trees in its course.
Two great crescents of ivory curved from its head; its back swept
through the tossing tree-tops. Once it bellowed like a gun fired from
a high bastion.
The apparition passed with the noise of thunder rolling on towards the
ends of the earth. Crack! crash! went the trees, the tempest swept
away in a rolling volley of reports, distant, more distant, until,
long after the tumult had deadened, then ceased, the stunned forest
echoed with the fall of mangled branches slowly dropping.
That evening an agitated young couple sat close together in the
deserted camp, calling timidly at intervals for Professor Smawl and
William Spike. I say timidly, because it is correct; we did not care
to have a mammoth respond to our calls. The lurking echoes across the
lake answered our cries; the full moon came up over the forest to look
at us. We were not much to look at. Dorothy was moistening my shoulder
with unfeigned tears, and I, afraid to light the fire, sat hunched up
under the common blanket, wildly examining the darkness around us.
Chilled to the spinal marrow, I watched the gray lights whiten in the
east. A single bird awoke in the wilderness. I saw the nearer trees
looming in the mist, and the silver fog rolling on the lake.
All night long the darkness had vibrated with the strange monotone
which I had heard the first night, camping at the gate of the unknown
land. My brain seemed to echo that subtle harmony which rings in the
auricular labyrinth after sound has ceased.
There are ghosts of sound which return to haunt long after sound is
dead. It was these voiceless spectres of a voice long dead that
stirred the transparent silence, intoning toneless tones.