enough salmon to satisfy him for a long time. He began to think with
pleasure of the life that awaited him among his own people, and of the
joys of basking at ease without fear of disturbance. In the estuary he
had been bound to observe the greatest care, and now he was not feeling
quite well, the season of change was upon him. So he went down again to
the open water, and turned his head to the north, covering the road home
in comparatively short time, and arriving to find that the female seals
were silvered, and that the males were beginning to change colour. He
told all his experiences to the Herring-gull, but said nothing about
them to his brethren. Instinct told him that if the salmon ground should
be invaded by the seals, man the enemy, who owned the nets, would resent
the invasion after his own brutal fashion. Strange though it may appear,
he knew himself for a poacher.
This summer did not differ from the last. Perhaps the Seal climbed
higher rocks than he had cared to face in the previous year, and perhaps
he was more nervous if alarmed, and more careless when undisturbed.
There were some rocks that the high tide covered and the low tide left
bare, and he took a particular pleasure in seeking one of these at the
ebb and sleeping on the top until the flood lifted him off into the
water--sometimes to finish his sleep there.
Though his colour changes were well defined now, he took no part in the
September fighting, he was not yet sufficiently matured to seek a mate.
His sex was fairly clear by now, particularly when he was with a female
of his own age, for then his jaws and teeth were larger and stronger
than hers would be, and his head was rather bigger. In disposition he
was kind and gentle, and would play for hours with his half-sister, a
baby girl seal born to his mother about the time when he sought the
salmon. He taught her many of his cleverest tricks, and sometimes went
with her, in pursuit of fish, to places she could not have visited
alone. So she saw nothing of the savage September fights in which many
male seals were quite badly torn.
Another winter passed uneventfully, another spring saw considerable
increase in the seal colony, and following it a partial migration in
search of fresh feeding grounds. The gulls and sea swallows told the
seals they liked best the very quiet and well-stocked corners of the
coast; they had the best opportunities of finding out where safety and
plenty were associated.
The Young Seal took his half-sister down the coast to the river estuary,
and they stayed from time to time upon the top of a high rock that was
well out of the reach of man. But some of the salmon that came to the
nets were very badly mauled, and the men in charge began to keep a sharp
look-out. At first they were uncertain whether otters or seals were in
the estuary, then a field-glass revealed the presence of the real enemy,
and a Norwegian who was among the workers at the nets offered to mend
matters in a certain brutal fashion practised in his own land. He rowed
out to the rock when the seals were not at home, and fixed eight or ten
barbed hooks round the base on a stout rope. Then, on the following
morning, when the seals were at rest upon the rock, the boat appeared
suddenly, and they slid off into the water.
As good luck, or their light weight, would have it, little harm was
done. The Elder Seal was badly scratched, and his young companion had a
torn flipper; but the injury was only bad enough to keep them from the
rock and send them farther down stream to the mouth of the estuary,
where they soon found the salmon too quick for them, and made up their
minds to return.
When September came, the Young Seal showed fight, and actually
endeavoured to enter into competition with one of his elders for the
possession of a lady seal who was at least two years his senior. The
contest was a brief one. A few leaps out of the water, one or two
valiant attempts to bite, and the smaller combatant received a terrible
scratch that put the fear of death into him, and cost quite a lot of his
young hot blood.
He sought the refuge of a lonely crag, and felt exceedingly sorry for
himself. There his faithful half-sister found him, and stretched herself
by his side and kissed him affectionately, while the Herring-gull came
and talked wisely to him, and between the efforts of his two friends and
well-wishers he was induced to take a brighter view of life.
"You are much too young to take a wife," explained the Gull cheerfully;
"why, if you succeed in securing one two years from now, you will have
done well."
"I shall never get over this trouble," groaned the Seal, showing the
nasty gash left by his opponent's flipper. "Where I fell back into the
water, it was quite red and horrid."
"Nonsense," said the Herring-gull quite cheerfully; "you'll be quite
right by the time your dark spots have come back. Your enemy did not
want to maul you very severely, or you would have had a very different
tale to tell. He could have ripped you up, or cracked your skull as if
it were no thicker than an egg-shell, had he been in earnest. No seal
should think of fighting for a mate before he is three years old at
least. There isn't a seal of your age that has a wife in any part of the
sea I ever sailed over, and very few would be so foolish as to search
for one!"
This information cheered the Young Seal, but he kept away from his
companions until his wounds were healed, and, returning, found that all
quarrels had been forgotten, and the kindliest feelings ruled. To be
sure, there were occasional fights, but they were quite friendly affairs
like the dances and games of "Follow my leader" in which the community
delighted.
Two years passed uneventfully, the Seal was an adult now nearly six feet
long, victorious in the September fights, and master of many lady-loves.
The Herring-gull was gathered to his forefathers, and it was from a
younger generation that news came to the seal family of certain changes
fraught with grave danger to one and all. The land lying round the
little bay they knew and loved so well had passed from the hands that
held it for so long and was let to a sportsman. Sport! the word had a
strange and terrifying sound in the Seal's ear, he remembered what his
old friend had told him.
He was guardian of a group of seals now, the last to take his place on
rock or shore, the first to rise out of the water and look for danger.
His playing time was over, and responsibility had come with power.
Shots had been heard on several occasions; some young seals that had
ventured on to the sand at full tide, and had forgotten about the ebb,
had never returned.
The Old Seal summoned a family council, and explained matters.
"Farther to the north," he said, "there are some islands that the
Herring-gull knew. There the guns are never heard. Shall we leave our
home?"
The answer to this question is plain to all visitors to the coast
to-day. Sea-birds scream and play and flutter their wings over the
rocks, the summer waters are bright and clear and tempting to the
swimmer, but the seals have gone for good and aye.
THE GIRAFFE
Picture to yourself a wide expanse of open land covered with flowers and
grasses that spring two or three feet high in the track of the rains.
To the far west stretches a high mountain range, whose topmost peaks are
ever clad in snow; to the east a river bed filled with a raging torrent
at one season, and dry at another; to the south an acacia wood; to the
north the open land, trackless and desert as the sea.
In this land, from which the sun never takes its departure for more than
a few days at a time, Maami the giraffe was born, a quaint and curious
little creature, whose proportions even in those early days were almost
grotesque. In the secluded spot that was his earliest home the growth
was thick and luxuriant and, while one who surveyed it with a
field-glass from a distant hill might have thought the grasses were
comparatively short, the big antelopes that raced along from time to
time showed no more than the tops of their horns, the lion who pursued
them was unseen. So, too, was the leopard, as he stole along in the
direction of the foot hills of the mountain, hoping to surprise some of
the noisy baboons that lived and clustered there.
From time to time a lion roared close to the young giraffe's home; once,
indeed, when his mother was away, and there were other moments of danger
that Maami never understood. Had he been old enough and big enough to
see and understand what followed the lion's roar, when he was lying in
the soft nest that his mother's body had made for him, his love and
admiration for his parent would have been greater than ever. The Old
Giraffe had been feeding in the acacia grove, and was on her way home
when the lion roared. Hearing the cry, she broke into her fastest
stride; it was not a gallop, it was not a canter, it was not a trot; it
partook of all three, and in the rhythm of the movement there was a
challenge that the lion would not wait to accept.
The great plain was full of antelopes that could be had without
fighting, so he roared an assurance that he meant no harm, and hurried
away to the left, while the eager mother pounded her rapid way to her
calf's side, and then seeing that he was all right, stood up to the last
inch of her height and looked out over the prairie to see where danger
lay. In other animals of Africa it is the sharp hearing, the
extraordinary scent that puzzles the European; the giraffe was content
to rely upon a power of vision second only to the eagle's. Her bright
coat lost its lustre against trees and bushes; she became part of the
landscape by reason of her wonderful gift of protective colouring, and
could scan the country with a certainty that no source of danger would
be overlooked.
Throughout the season of rains mother and son remained in the thicket;
but when the drought came it brought countless cruel insects to prey
upon Maami's tender skin, and for his sake the Mother Giraffe, who was
schooled to endure such trouble, decided to leave their home.
"We will go up into the forest of the high hills," she said, speaking in
the low tones that only the animal world can hear,[2] "for the insects
never climb so far. The evening cold would kill them, so they must stay
on the low hot ground."
Then Maami followed his mother through a dense growth that wrapped and
hid him, over rivers that were dwindling down to the size of
insignificant brooks, over the bare foot hills, where the baboons loved
to play when the nights were long and bright, and up into the high
forest, whose depths knew no light at all.
The silence of the place was awe-inspiring after the comparative gaiety
of life upon the plains. Never a singing bird came to the forest; the
snakes that climbed and clung could hang motionless for hours, and more
than once Maami passed a very old elephant standing up against some tree
trunk as stiffly and silently as though carved in wood by some cunning
sculptor. Happily, there were consolations to make amends for the
darkness and solitude. The ticks and hard-biting insects, that could
thrive so well upon the plains, succumbed to the cold damp air of the
high ground, and within a week Maami and his mother were free from pain
and annoyance. Then, again, food was plentiful for the Mother Giraffe,
and there was plenty of milk for Maami. On the plains the giraffe had
often been driven to the mimosa wood, or even farther afield, in search
of succulent branches and tree tops; here the meals were waiting to be
eaten at every hour of the day. Giraffes have a certain contempt for the
ground; they will not bend their long necks to the earth.
Living, they stand with heads erect; dying, they preserve their stately
carriage until the last. Only when moving rapidly will they bend head
and neck to the body level. Though the plains might have held much
nourishing food the giraffes never condescended to seek it; they looked
to the tree tops for their fare.
Mother and son stayed in the depths of the high forest during the dry
season, and the elder giraffe seldom left her son. He could follow her
when she searched for food, and it was only on the rare occasions when
she needed water that she left him for a time, and went down by night
towards the plains, where a pool well known to her survived the
scorching heat. A few minutes there would suffice the giraffe for some
days; indeed, if she found leaves that retained their moisture at all, a
weekly journey to the pool would suffice for all her wants.
Only when the rains returned the two giraffes made their way hastily to
the scorched plains. There could be no delay, because the dry beds of
the rivers would become impassable when the rain had fallen for a few
days, and many beasts would be cut off from the plains, or compelled to
travel for miles through dangerous country in order to find a ford.
The scorched vegetation made way, as though by magic, for a new, green
carpet, that rose hour by hour; great flocks of birds and beasts
returned from the far corners whither the drought had driven them; and
to the giraffes, so long pent up in the dark forest, the change was a
delightful one. Maami was big enough now to look out over the advancing
greenery, young enough to frisk and play, shaking his neck and whisking
his tail as his mother did, and unfortunate enough to attract the
attention of a jackal who chanced to be prowling about, and at once set
off to the lair of his master the lion, bearing glad tidings of fresh
meat. The lion was hungry, so hungry, indeed, that the jackal would not
approach too close to the lair, preferring to howl without it. As soon
as the lion stirred the jackal slipped away to the side, and followed at
a respectful distance.
At first the lion moved in the direction of another lair, to summon two
of his tribe to join him; but they were feasting on an eland bull many
miles away, and he was forced to proceed alone. He moved stealthily up
wind in the direction of the giraffes' resting-place; but there were
birds on every bush, and they gave the alarm, so that when the huge,
tawny beast was within forty or fifty feet of his goal he saw the Mother
Giraffe watching and waiting for him. He paused, and lashed his flanks
with his tail, uttering a horrible challenge, at which Maami nearly died
of fright; but the Mother Giraffe, in no wise alarmed, whisked her own
tail by way of reply, twisted her long neck in many strange ways,
planted her feet firmly on the ground and waited for the attack. With a
quick succession of leaps the lion hurled himself at his prey, but as he
came full at the giraffe she lashed out with her heavy feet.
The movement was timed to perfection; no eye save the giraffe's could
have calculated the aim to such a nicety, and the lion fell as though
stunned, his lower jaw broken, his hunting ended for all time. Without
waiting to see what had happened, the Mother Giraffe signalled to Maami
to follow her, and they glided away in their own curious fashion until
they were miles from the spot where the great yellow body lay writhing
on the ground, a group of jackals waiting hungrily for the end.
Perhaps the two giraffes were made more careful by this adventure;
certainly Maami never frisked again in the old-time happy fashion; but
it was no more than an incident of daily life, and did not call for any
special remembrance.
The year that followed was uneventful, and when the two giraffes came
again from the forest the Mother Giraffe asked permission to join the
herd from which she had departed when the time came for Maami to be
born. Self-preservation took the mothers away at these most critical
periods of their lives, and they were not permitted to return until
their offspring were old and strong enough to obey the orders of the old
bulls to whom the safety of the herd was entrusted. Experience had shown
that when a calf was too young to follow the lead, mother and child fell
easy victims to pursuit. Alone they might avoid attention, but a herd
was a more or less certain mark for hunters, whether they went on two
feet or four. So a mother looked after herself and child until both were
able to face any emergency, and then they were readmitted to the pack.
Maami was now in his fourth year and well able to look after himself,
cognisant of many, if not all, the dangers that beset giraffes, and the
old bull in charge of the herd gave him welcome in most approved fashion
by bending down certain high branches of edible trees until they were
within the newcomer's reach.
For the Young Giraffe a new life seemed to have opened. He could follow
the herd to feeding places where never a giraffe would have gone alone,
he was entrusted with sentry duty from time to time, he acquired a
measure of confidence, and, above all, he fed entirely upon vegetable
matter. When he claimed his mother's care no longer, he knew that he had
gained independence.
The herd numbered thirty or more, and was led by an old bull giraffe and
two lieutenants, whose skins were darker than those of the old females
or any of the young giraffes. All the males were thicker in the neck
than the females, and heavier in the foot, and they were more nervous
than their companions. Even when the herd rested against the woodland
trees in the extreme heat of the day, or sought for their favourite
branches at feeding time, the old bulls would never cease from scanning
the surrounding country. The leader went a little lame; he, too, had
killed a lion, but not without damage to some leg muscles that made him
move much as a camel moves, the natural ungainliness of a giraffe's
stride being made more than ever apparent by the accident.
In spite of hours of duty, in spite of the feeling that he must obey
orders, Maami was happy enough. He learned to signal the events of hill
and prairie by certain definite movements of head, neck and tail, so
that when he was watching while others fed, his inability to cry aloud
might not lead to trouble.
Nature, in her infinite care for these her most helpless surviving
children, had granted protective colouring and something akin to
telegraphic signalling to the giraffe world, and for two years the old
bull giraffe kept his little company together with no other loss save
that which came when one of the cows retired to some quiet breeding
ground. Three out of four would come back in the course of time bringing
a little one old enough to feed himself and obey orders, the fourth
would not return. She would fall a victim to some enemy, some black
huntsman searching for the giraffe because his hide fetched a big price
in the African market, where it was made into whip-thongs, or she would
fall to a company of lions that could unite against a giraffe, and by
surrounding disable her.
Under the guidance of the old bull giraffe, the herd travelled far
afield, covering a wide expanse of country and gathering much
information about good quiet pools and feeding grounds from many other
tree and grass-feeding animals. Zebras, deer of all kinds, elephants and
even hippopotami were ready to give all the hints that were sought for,
and many a time, in response to warnings that belong to the freemasonry
of the animal world, the bull giraffe led his company away from feeding
grounds that, for all their tempting aspect, held hidden dangers. The
zebras and the deer could hear trouble, elephants could scent it, and
when the wind played havoc with the scent and hearing, the giraffes
could use their eyes in fashion that brought much-needed guidance to
those who had served them at other seasons.
With the exception of the leopards, who worked alone, few animals sought
their food or their safety by themselves. Even the lions united for the
hunt, and man, the destroyer, reaching the confines of the unexplored
lands where wild beasts dwelt, travelled with a company. More than once
Maami saw man in the dim distance, with tents, baggage bearers, and the
impedimenta associated with the pursuit of big game, but more often than
not these destroyers never saw the giraffes at all.
But disaster cannot be avoided for all time, and it was written that
Maami's mother should be the first of the company to pay tribute to man
the implacable. One night, as the herd came from feeding among some
young tree tops, she fell into one of the cunningly contrived pits that
a company of native hunters had set in the path--a trap intended for
even bigger game, but readily discovered by the solitary elephant for
whom it had been set. He had scented it a hundred yards away, and made a
new path into the forest that sheltered him, conquering the pangs of
thirst that had drawn him from his lair. The giraffes having little
scent and paying small attention to the ground beneath their feet, were
not so fortunate; the mother beast fell, and the herd, yielding to brute
instinct, turned in its tracks, and ambled away all night to a distant
place of safety.
Maami understood his loss very vaguely, if at all. With the advancing
years mother and son had forgotten the ties that bound them to one
another in the far-off days of motherly affection and childish need;
and, when morning broke, bringing lingering surcease to the poor
creature's pain, terror and life, there was none of the herd within
sight of the scene of the misfortune. It was one of the chances that
giraffes must take, this deep pit covered lightly with grasses spread
about a slender support of boughs; and the shapeless carcase that the
hunters cast aside when they had stripped off the hide served to give
the carrion a hearty meal. Within twenty-four hours the white bones
alone remained to tell of the graceful and harmless creature that had
haunted wood and plain so long.
* * * * *
Years have passed since Maami's mother met her fate in the hunters' pit,
and, of the giraffe herd that still haunts the plains, seeking the high
woods only in a season of drought, few of the older ones remain. Maami
himself is very near to the leadership; he is second to an old bull some
three years his senior. The leader of the early days lives solitary now,
if he lives at all. When his eyes grew dim and his limbs began to lose
their elasticity, he was compelled to pass his duties and
responsibilities to another and to go his way alone.
To be sure he was no match for young lions or for huntsmen, but there
was no appeal from forest law, which recognises the herd's need for
sound and sure guidance, and since he had left the ranks others had
followed, all to lead solitary lives, happy indeed and fortunate if
inevitable death did not come to them in cruel fashion. Calves new born
when Maami joined the herd are now responsible adults, and the herd
moves with more care than of old time; for, although the lions tend to
decrease, the white hunters have penetrated into the district; and even
the black ivory and hide hunters organised by the big trading companies
are armed with weapons of precision, and have learned to use them with a
measure of accuracy hitherto unknown. In districts known to Maami as
great homes of game in the years when he first joined the herd, you may
travel for miles seeing nothing but a few whitening bones spread out
here and there; and the general trend of wild life is towards the marshy
malarial lands where hunters will not follow willingly.
The giraffe has seen strange sights in these latter days--lions, hyænas,
leopards and jackals coming to the stream to drink with big deer and
giraffes and zebras, and then moving off without as much as a growl
because man the hunter is on the track, and before his advance one and
all must retreat in terror. There are nights that Maami will remember as
long as he lives, when among the beasts that come to the pools his sharp
eyes have counted wounded lions, leopards and elephants. He has seen a
great tawny lion permanently lame, his shoulder inflamed to an
indescribable condition, an old bull elephant staining the pool red, a
leopard drinking with feverish haste and then dropping dead by the side
of the hard-sought water. All these things tell the tale of the
destroyer with an eloquence beyond words, and account for the strange
spirit of fraternity that seizes upon the beasts as they retreat
pell-mell before the irresistible advance of the white man.
Maami is travelling alone now; it is his last journey. The white hunter
has been too much for the herd; he has dropped one and wounded another,
the rest have gone off in their odd swinging style, tails flapping,
necks waving, heads erect.
Terror-stricken and badly hurt, Maami is running alone, he does not
quite know where. He passes over a great expanse of plain, through a
wood strip wherein he has often taken his fill of tender leaves, but,
for once, no thought of food comes to him, he is conscious only of
growing weakness and increasing thirst. It is the pool that he is
running for, and happily it is not far off. He drinks deep of dwindling
waters; the dry season has come upon the land of late--now he is running
quite aimlessly through the scrub and high grasses. He thinks the herd
is before him, always a little out of reach; he makes a special effort
to overtake it and sinks down very slowly, his head still high.