Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team
RATAPLAN,
A ROGUE ELEPHANT
AND OTHER STORIES
By ELLEN VELVIN, F.Z.S.
Author of "Tales Told at the Zoo,"
"Jack's Visit," Etc.
With illustrations
by GUSTAVE VERBEEK
To
GRACE GALLATIN THOMPSON SETON
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED
TO THE AUTHOR, COMING AS A STRANGER TO THIS
COUNTRY, HER HELP, ADVICE AND LOYAL
FRIENDSHIP HAVE BEEN INVALUABLE
PREFACE
If an excuse for this book were needed, the undying interest of young
people in both wild and domesticated animals would afford it. From
time immemorial they have been amused and instructed by stories of
animals, and it is not hard to trace the educational and humane
influence of such tales.
There are heroes and tyrants, cruel and gentle natures in the animal
world, as in our own, and, judged by our standards, their lives are
pastorals or tragedies, even as ours are, while their histories are
often even more interesting than those of men or women. Then, too,
young people should know that these dwellers in forest wilds have, in
part at least, the same aims, hopes and fears as ourselves.
In the preparation of this book the best of authorities have been
consulted, and careful study given to the habits, traits and
characteristics of the animals whose intimate lives are told in these
stories. In addition, I have endeavored to tell young people, as
pleasantly as possible, that they often make grave blunders in caring
for their pets--blunders due to ignorance as to the requirements of
their living toys.
ELLEN VELVIN.
New York City.
CONTENTS
RATAPLAN, ROGUE
GEAN, THE GIRAFFE
KEESA, THE KANGAROO
CARA, THE CAMEL
SICCATEE, THE SQUIRREL
LEO, THE LION
CHAFFER, THE CHAMOIS
JINKS, THE JACKAL
PERO, THE PORCUPINE
TERA, THE TIGRESS
HIPPO, HIPPOPOTAMUS
OSRA, THE OSTRICH
SEELA, THE SEAL
BRUNIE, THE BEAR
MONA, THE MONKEY
BULON, THE BUFFALO
ILLUSTRATIONS
From Drawings by Gustave Verbeek.
"But, oh, what havoc he made"
"Groar joined in with might and main"
"Even his mother looked at him with surprise"
"Sat on one of the boughs and scolded as hard as she could"
"He would take up some small animal and walk coolly off with it"
"Chaffer was the first to meet the hunters face to face"
"Jinks never was so happy as when he was leading his pack"
"Jock had never seen anything like it before"
"Tera sprang at the nearest calf, bringing him to the ground"
"Osra and his wives took up the chickens one by one, and swallowed
them whole"
"Furious with rage, Brunie rose up and went to meet them"
"Mona did his best to attract the parrot's attention"
RATAPLAN, ROGUE
In one of the thick, shady and tangled forests of Ceylon a fine,
fully-grown elephant was one day standing moodily by himself. His huge
form showed high above the tangled brushwood, but his wide, flat feet
and large, pillar-like legs were hidden in the thick undergrowth.
He was not standing still, however--for no elephant has ever been
known to do that yet--his massive, elongated head, with its wide, flat
ears, its long, snake-like, flexible trunk, its magnificent pair of
ivory tusks and its ridiculous, little eyes moved gravely to and fro--
up and down--in a wearied but restless manner.
Every now and then he would lift one of his massive legs and put it
down again, or sway his whole body from side to side, or throw his
trunk up in the air and then wave it round his head and over his back
in all directions.
But, in spite of his moody, wearied air, the elephant's tiny eyes
looked particularly wicked. And wicked they were, and a true index to
the mischief going on in his elephant mind.
He had no herd round him, no brother or sister elephant with whom he
could wave trunks, nod heads, or carry on a conversation in elephant
language; he was alone, and preferred to be alone, for his irritable
nature and morose disposition made it impossible for him to live with
others.
It was not entirely due to himself that he lived alone, for his
character was so bad, alas! that no herd would admit him into its
ranks, no drive would have anything to do with him; for he was
Rataplan, the Rogue, and he was feared, avoided and hated as much as
it is possible for the gentle-natured and good-tempered Indian
elephant to fear and hate anything.
There had been a time--long, long ago--when he had been one of a herd;
but his roguishness had developed early, and after much forbearance
and long-suffering the herd had turned him out; and from that time he
had been a solitary wanderer.
From the first Rataplan pretended that he did not care, and tossed his
trunk disdainfully when driven from the herd. He had felt it,
nevertheless, and it had made him more morose, more irritable, more
mad than ever.
He cared for nothing now: the only thing in which he took a delight
was, destroying as much as possible in mere wantonness, and in working
as much mischief as he could find time to plan and accomplish.
There had been times in the past when, in his better moments, he had
longed to go back to the herd; had longed to be taken into some grand
troop of elephants such as those he watched march through the forests.
He longed to be one of them, and to feel that he was a respectable,
well-conducted elephant.
But his overtures had always been received with disfavor and firm
refusals, and the time had now come when nothing would have induced
him to live with any elephants whatever; he preferred to be alone; and
his evil nature and irritable temper thrived on his solitary life and
mischief-making propensities, and to know that he was feared and
dreaded was a very delight to him.
Out of pure mischief he would, at times, tear madly through the
forest, trumpeting at the very top of his shrill voice, merely to give
the elephants, or any other animals that might be about, a thorough
fright.
Many and many a time had some horrid, insignificant little creatures
who walked about on two legs, and carried things of fire in their
hands, tried their very best to inveigle and entrap him, but in vain.
Once, indeed, he had very nearly fallen into a horrible pit in which,
at the very bottom, in the centre, was a dreadful, long, sharp stake,
which, had he fallen, would have been driven through his thick body by
its own weight, and he would have perished miserably and in agony.
But he had found it out in time--only just in time--for one of his
hind legs had shot out suddenly behind him, and it was only by a
mighty effort of his huge strength that he scrambled up and away from
the source of danger.
But oh, what havoc he made! How he tore up anything and everything
within his reach! Iron fences which those silly, little fire-carriers
had stuck into the ground to protect their crops; silly, little, brick
walls which he knocked over with one push of his huge body; young,
healthy trees which had been planted so carefully a few years back,
and which he pulled up with his long trunk as though they were little
radishes; not to speak of the miles of rice and sugar-cane which he
had trodden down in wanton waste and as a means of venting his temper.
Another time they had tried to drive him into a horrid place called a
_Keddah_, which had been built with stout logs, and had huge
buttresses which even he would have found it difficult to move.
He had been really startled one dark night on seeing huge bunches of
fire coming towards him, and in spite of his daring he began to run in
the opposite direction.
But it takes a rogue to catch a Rogue, and Rataplan was pretty wary.
He had sense enough to know that those silly, little things on two
legs would not take the trouble to run after him with bunches of fire
unless they wanted him to run away somewhere, to some particular
place. And so, after the first few, heavy, swinging steps, the
reflection of the fire behind him showed him the outline of a _keddah_
just in front, and with a shrill roar of rage Rataplan turned suddenly
and fiercely round, dashed headlong through the line of fire, and,
with a mighty trumpeting, disappeared into the forest.
So sudden and unexpected had been his onslaught that he had put out
quite half a dozen of the bunches of fire: he had also put out the
lives of the six, silly, little things who carried them. For a few
swift pressures of his mighty feet had squeezed out their breath and
destroyed their power to invent mischief with which to entrap the
Rogue elephant.
For some time after this Rataplan had been more mad and wicked than
ever. He knew perfectly well that he had killed a few of the fire-
carriers, and he fully intended to kill a few more before he had done
with them. But they were very cunning, these fire-carriers, and,
although he had nearly caught a few of them, once or twice, they had
generally escaped him when quite close by suddenly disappearing, and
this caused Rataplan many serious cogitations and musings.
Wicked and clever as he was, he had only the instincts of his kind.
All his senses were alert, and his eyes looked for enemies in all
directions but one, and that one direction was above. He never looked
up, and it never occurred to his stupid, old head, sharp as he thought
himself, that the little fire-carriers might have climbed up into the
trees above him. When they disappeared from his range of vision he
gave up the chase, although, more often than not, the wicked, little
things were sitting just above his head, where, had he only turned his
trunk upwards, he could have picked them off as though they were
little birds.
But he always did the same thing: he floundered blunderingly on
through the forest, trumpeting, roaring, pulling up and tearing down
everything within his reach, but never having sense enough to look
above him. And so it was that he found it very difficult to get hold
of the fire carriers, and he became madder and more full of rage than
ever.
Even the herds of elephants were now getting afraid of him, although
could they only have made up their gentle, docile minds to attack him
he would have come to his end in no time.
But Indian elephants dislike warfare or disagreements, and often, even
when severely wounded, will turn about and go away, not seeming to
realize that a momentary pressure of one of their huge feet, or one
straight blow with their tusks, would be more than sufficient to
finish their enemies. More often than not the most an Indian elephant
will do to his foe is to kick him from one huge foot to another until
he is either dead or dying.
But from Rataplan, the Rogue, the other elephants preferred to keep
aloof. Only once had a herd attempted to chase him, and this was when
he had actually presumed to pay a little attention to the wife of its
leader.
Then the leader, followed by the remainder of the herd, turned upon
him, and for just once in his life Rataplan was frightened, and simply
turned tail and ran--ran crashing and stumbling through the forest at
a terrific speed, making the air resound with his trumpeting.
Had it not been that the dense forest was suddenly broken by a river,
it would indeed have gone hard with him.
For an instant Rataplan thought he would stop--for, although elephants
are beautiful swimmers, they are not particularly fond of the sport--
but only for a moment; for the herd was close behind him and pressing
him, and the leader could almost reach him with his trunk. Into the
water dashed Rataplan, throwing up a mountain of spray which sprinkled
the whole herd, and for a few moments he was lost to sight.
After the spray cleared away his huge form, with his trunk held high
in the air, could be seen swimming easily and steadily towards the
other side, and after a little conference with the herd the leader
decided to let him go. But, as Rataplan knew only too well, woe betide
him if ever he met that herd again.
And so it was that Rataplan, the Rogue, congratulated himself that so
far he had never been caught, neither had any other elephant been able
to hurt him.
But on this particular day he was very miserable and very lonely, and
he had a restless, uneasy, wild feeling which inclined him to
something daring. He was sick and tired of trying to catch the silly
things that carried fire; he was tired of the forest; he was tired of
himself. He felt more irritable, restless and evil-natured than ever,
and as he stood there, swaying heavily from side to side and waving
his trunk about him, he was a very miserable elephant indeed.
If he had only known it, one of the silly, little things who carried
the fire had been watching him for some time.
Rataplan had been keeping very still for an elephant, but there is a
certain sound which he and all his brethren make, unknown to
themselves, and over which they have no control. This is a curious,
little, bubbling noise which is caused by the water which is stored up
in their insides in case of emergency; and this little bubbling noise
had been heard by the fire-carrier.
He watched the huge beast with interest, and knew by his restless
manner and the wicked look in his small eyes that he was in about as
dangerous a state as it is possible for an elephant to be, and he made
his plans accordingly.
He was very busy for a few minutes with some long, thick ropes, which
had a heavy noose at each end. The ends of these ropes he fastened
carefully to some heavy trees, and then he went quietly away. The
little fire-carrier was a _Mahout_, hunter or rider, who was trained
in the capture of elephants, and he felt sure that if Rataplan would
only stay where he was a short time longer he would be able to catch
him.
So he went away and looked carefully at his _Koomkies_.[Footnote:
Female elephants which are trained for the purpose of catching wild
elephants.--Author.] He had some particularly good ones just then, and
they one and all turned their large, gentle heads towards him and
awaited his pleasure. For they loved the chase, and entered into it
with as much interest as he did himself.
As a rule he sent several _koomkies_ out together, but on this
occasion he decided to send only one.
This was Kinka, a gentle and tractable, little Indian elephant, who
was well versed in the chase, and who was about as pretty and graceful
as it is possible for a _koomkie_ to be.
The _mahout_ talked to her and patted her, and Kinka seemed to quite
understand, nodding her head wisely, and touching his face and
shoulders gently with the tip of her trunk.
When he had finished and began to lead her out she made a quiet,
little trumpeting noise, which signified how delighted she was to go.
The _mahout_ did not trouble himself about Kinka, once he had let her
go. She knew her business and was about as deep and crafty as any
_mahout_ could wish. He selected his strongest little horse and
followed her.
Kinka went quietly and steadily through the forest, making straight
for the place where Rataplan was still standing, moodily moving his
head to and fro.
Once within sight of him she put on a careless, coquettish air, and
began to move carelessly towards him, plucking leaves and grass as
though perfectly oblivious of his presence.
Rataplan suddenly stopped moving his huge head, and his wicked little
eyes were bent on her with scrutiny and interest. He was not, however,
going to be caught so easily. He did not care for society in any shape
or form, not even the society of a _koomkie_, so he took no notice of
her, but, after a few minutes' quiet contemplation, turned his head
the other way.
Kinka, however, was not to be daunted. Still plucking little twigs and
delicate buds and knocking them carefully and fastidiously against her
forelegs in order to shake off any little fragment of dust that might
have stuck there, she made her way steadily towards him, and as
Rataplan, even then, took not the slightest notice she became bolder,
and, trotting quietly up to him, began caressing him with her trunk
and making several other endearing signs which were enough to melt the
heart of any elephant under the sun.
Rataplan's heart was not exactly melted, but he was evidently
interested and touched by the delicate attentions, and he became a
little less morose and a little less moody; he even moved out of the
tangled mass of undergrowth in which he had been standing, and deigned
to talk to her a little bit; and Kinka made herself just as
interesting as she possibly could.
Soon Rataplan began to forget his hatred of company, his dislike of
his fellow-creatures; he began even to forget his evil thoughts and
his mad rage, and he was just beginning to think what a nice, little
elephant Kinka was when he felt, sharp pulls at his feet.
The next instant there was such a sudden pull on all his legs that,
with a huge thud Rataplan found himself lying on the ground. With one
furious cry of rage he did his best to turn, displaying a flexibility
of body and limb which was quite astonishing in so clumsy an animal.
Rolling on the ground and uttering more cries of rage, it suddenly
occurred to him to ask the nice, little elephant to help him. But
alas! the nice, little elephant, Kinka, was nowhere to be seen.
Having done her duty and treacherously inveigled him in to the snare,
with a little, triumphant wave of her trunk and a funny, little,
trumpeting noise she had marched with a sort of "conquering hero" air
back to her stable, there to tell the other _koomkies_ of her prowess
and successful capture.
In vain Rataplan butted the tree nearest to him with all his huge
strength; it never moved, scarcely even shook, and he rolled again on
the ground in despair. He wound his trunk round and round one of the
ropes, doing his best to break and split it, but the rope was good and
strong and only squeaked dismally.
He shrieked and roared, writhed and turned, until the forest re-echoed
with his cries, and the cruel ropes cut into his ankles, making deep,
red wounds which stained the ground all round his feet.
After a time his shrill cries of rage developed into hoarse moans of
humiliation and despair.
All that night and the next Rataplan was left there. The ropes cut
deeper and deeper into his poor, swollen ankles, his body getting
fainter and fainter for want of food. But he was not a Rogue elephant
for nothing, and would not give in.
In vain a whole lot of _koomkies_ were brought out to try and induce
him to follow them into the _keddah_; he was not to be tempted, and
tore and strained at his ropes to such a degree that the _mahout_
feared he would make wounds that could never be healed; so he took
away the _koomkies_ and waited yet another night.
The third night the _koomkies_ were brought out again, this time with
Kinka at their head. But the sight of Kinka nearly drove Rataplan mad;
he strained and tore at the ropes, trumpeting and roaring, until even
the _koomkies_ were frightened. Could he only have got at Kinka, he
would have torn her limb from limb. But although he stretched to his
utmost, and his hind legs went out behind him in the struggle, he
could not get near her.
The _mahout_ was getting troubled, for Rataplan's ankles were now in
such a state as to make him almost valueless, and he knew, even did
the elephant give in now, it would be months before they were healed,
if indeed they ever healed at all.
Yet another long, weary day and night did poor Rataplan lay there,
getting weaker and weaker and suffering untold agonies caused by those
cruel ropes.
He had by this time torn his ankles so fearfully that they were all
ulcerated, and stiff from lying on the ground. To add to his misery,
he had caught violent inflammation in his eyes.
The _mahout_ realized that unless he got him into the _keddah_ soon he
would be of no use at all, and once more did his best with _koomkies_
and dainty bits of food to tempt him to follow into the _keddah_.
But still Rataplan would not give in: his body was weak and getting
visibly thinner, but his spirit was as strong, as wild and as
unbreakable as ever.
There was a consultation among the _mahouts_, and it was decided, as
he was still so savage, there was nothing to be done but to leave him
yet one more day.
But the next day Rataplan presented a piteous sight. His poor ankles
were swollen enormously; his eyes were so inflamed that he was quite
blind, and, to make matters worse, the _mahouts_ saw that he was
suffering now from the Ceylon Murrain.
There was nothing to be done then but kill him.
It had been a wet night which had made his poor, ulcerated ankles as
bad as they could be, and the pain in his eyes was maddening.
Suffering from the murrain, too, it was far too dangerous to take him
among other elephants, and so the end of Rataplan, the Rogue, was
that, in spite of his grand physique, his unbreakable spirit, and his
indomitable patience, he was actually shot by the very things he had
despised all his life--those silly little things that carried guns.
And Kinka, when she knew that he was dead, was not even sorry. She
only gave a triumphant little trumpeting as she thought of the triumph
of her capture.
And so no one grieved for Rataplan, no one cared or thought about him.
But then we must not forget that he was and always had been Rataplan,
the Rogue.
GEAN, THE GIRAFFE
A tall, stately, gentle creature, standing about eighteen feet high.
A pretty, graceful head; large, tender, dark eyes; a beautiful, tawny
coat, covered with rich, dark spots; a long neck; a rather short body,
measuring about seven feet in length; slender, shapely legs,
terminating in feet with divided hoofs; and a long tail, ending in a
wisp of dark-colored hair, which was a splendid thing with which to
whisk off the flies.
This was Gean, the Giraffe, and she belonged to a tribe which boasted
of the fact that they were the tallest of all animals. But they were
not aggressive about it at all, for giraffes are the most modest and
gentle creatures to be found anywhere. They are quiet and inoffensive
in all their ways and movements, shy and timid to a degree, and so
cautious and wary that it is extremely difficult to get near them in
their wild state.
Gean was just as timid and wary as the rest of her tribe; indeed, she
was peculiarly so, for she had been unfortunate enough to lose her
mother when quite young, and, deprived of that mother's care and
protection, she had experienced some very narrow escapes from many
kinds of dangers and difficulties, and these had made her suspicious
of every fresh object she came across. There were times when she was
really too cautious, and would not accept friendly overtures from
strangers of her own kind.
There was another young giraffe about the same age as herself, who had
come to see her several times lately, and, although he was a fine,
handsome animal and stood nearly two feet taller than Gean herself,
she would have nothing to do with him. Not even when he took the
trouble to reach up his long neck[Footnote: although a giraffe's neck
is so long, it has exactly the same number of vertebrae as all other
mammals--seven--but each vertebra is exceptionally long.--_Author_.]
and, stretching his tongue out to its full length--about eighteen or
twenty inches--break off a tender, young branch of the "camel-thorn,"
which is a sort of acacia tree and considered a great dainty by
giraffes, and offer it to her. Gean was very independent, as well as
shy, and much preferred to pick leaves and blades of grass for
herself.
Groar took it all very well; he was disappointed, of course, but he
preferred a young giraffe that was shy, and knew he should value her
all the more if he had a little trouble and difficulty in winning her.
So he waited patiently, hoping that some day he would have an
opportunity of distinguishing himself, and the day arrived much sooner
than he expected.
Gean was pacing slowly up and down the open plain one day, but keeping
pretty close to the low woods--for she avoided the high forest, not
being able to keep as good a lookout there for her two greatest
enemies, men and lions--when she suddenly scented danger. It was a
long way off, it is true, but Gean had a very keen sense of smell. Not
being with any herd at present, Gean was accustomed to look after
herself, and generally managed to keep clear of enemies, although, as
I told you just now, she knew what it was to have very narrow escapes.
She was cautious enough not to stop walking, but kept slowly on,
putting each foot down in a careful, dainty manner, and so softly that
only the very faintest rustle could be heard, this being caused by the
whisking to and fro of her tail, which made a curious little swish-
swish as she moved. She took care, however, to look round in all
directions, and, as her beautiful, round eyes projected in a peculiar
manner, she was able to do this without moving her head at all. The
only direction in which she could not look without turning her head
was directly behind her, but this little difficulty was overcome by
walking in a semi-circle for a few minutes.
Suddenly Gean saw the enemy. It was a full-grown lion, and he was
creeping cautiously out of the underbrush in the wood close by. It was
not often that lions came out by day, but Gean had passed close to
this lion's lair, and the odor of such a dainty morsel as a giraffe
was too much for the lion, who decided to make the most of his
opportunity.
The moment Gean saw him, without moving her graceful, pretty head, she
started off at full speed, and, although such a beautiful, graceful
animal when still, or walking slowly, she certainly was awkward and
ungainly when running. Her gait was clumsy and shambling, and, with
her tail whisking to and fro all the time, she made an odd and
undignified appearance. Her speed, however, made up for her ungainly
movements, and for some time she outdistanced the lion by a long way.
The lion was lazy, as usual, and, thinking he could easily overtake a
giraffe, did not put forth his best speed. Consequently, he made the
fatal mistake of allowing the giraffe a good start, and to his great
surprise found he was losing ground.
But, lazy and indolent as the lion is, he can be energetic enough when
he chooses, and so the King of Beasts gathered himself together, put
forth his great strength and best speed, and very soon it was Gean who
was losing ground, while the lion was gaining steadily.
Quivering with terror, and with her strength failing her, poor Gean
began to feel hopeless. She could see the lion getting closer and
closer, but not a sound did she make, for the giraffe is absolutely
dumb, and makes no noise even when dying. On and on she went, trusting
to her strong limbs, making curious, frog-like leaps and awkward,
jumpy movements, her long neck rocking swiftly up and down as though
pulled by some mechanical contrivance, and her tail swishing faster
than ever.
She knew now she could not keep up much longer, and at last, realizing
she must give up the race, turned suddenly round and faced her enemy,
sending forth such a shower of strong, vigorous kicks that the lion
was not only surprised, but completely bewildered. He hesitated but a
moment, however, and then prepared to spring. Crouching down, with his
huge head close to the ground, he watched his opportunity, for he had
no relish for springing straight at those flourishing heels, and Gean
took very good care to keep her head carefully out of his way,
although she was quite prepared to give him a good blow with a
sidelong swing of her-muscular neck. But she knew perfectly well that
she could not keep this up more than another minute or two, and her
beautiful, brown eyes were distended with fear, and her breath came
thick and fast.
It would indeed have gone hard with her, but at that very moment Groar
appeared on the scene, and, taking in what was happening at a single
glance, he promptly went to the rescue. A shambling and clumsy object
he looked, moving the fore and hind legs of the same side
simultaneously, but in Gean's eyes at that moment he was the most
beautiful thing she had ever seen. She kept up her kicking until Groar
came up to her, and then he joined in with might and main, nourishing
his four feet in the very face of the lion and daring him to do his
worst.
But the lion thought better of it. It was all very well tackling one
giraffe, but to face four such pairs of heels was more than he cared
about, and when Groar took him unawares in the midst of all the
kicking by suddenly striking him a heavy blow with his neck, the King
of Beasts concluded it was not a good time to prove his sovereignty,
and, with a sulky growl, slunk off to his lair.
As soon as the lion turned his back, poor Gean sank down utterly
exhausted, her small head waving wearily to and fro, her long, black
tongue hanging out of her mouth, and her breath coming in short,
painful gasps. Groar comforted her as well as he could, caressing her
tenderly, and every now and then drawing himself up to his full height
on the lookout for danger. He never left her until she was able to
move slowly back to the low woods, and then only to gather for her
some tender shoots of camel-thorn and mimosa, and any young, tender
leaves he could find.
Gean took them all very gently, and seemed humbled and grateful, and
when, a little later on, he suggested that she should let him always
take care of her, she thought it over and finally concluded it would
be a very nice arrangement. And so Groar took her home to his herd and
introduced her to the leader--an old giraffe with a dark chestnut hide
and a longer neck than any of the others--as his wife.
And Gean was very happy, for Groar was a good and kind husband, and
very devoted to her, and she no longer had to be always looking out
for danger, for Groar was always watching, and guarded her with the
greatest care. He took her for long walks through the woods, where
they found nice, fresh food, and saw that she had her share of it, but
they picked and ate only a few leaves or blades of grass at a time,
for it is a provision of Nature that giraffes shall feed in this way,
as their digestion is extremely delicate.
In times of danger they would get close to a tree, lean their bodies
against it, and then, putting their heads and necks under the
branches, would be so completely hidden that sometimes the natives
would mistake the giraffes for trees, and the trees for giraffes. Gean
and Groar were more easily hidden than some of their cousins who lived
in Northern Africa, for, being South Africans themselves, they were of
a much darker color, and therefore not so noticeable.
[Illustration: "GROAR JOINED IN WITH MIGHT AND MAIN."]
It was in this way that they saved themselves one day, when, followed
by hunters. These hunters were mounted on good, fleet horses, and had
traced the pair of giraffes by their _spoor_, or footmarks. These
footmarks were ten or eleven inches in length, pointed at the toe, and
rounded at the heel, so that it was quite easy to find which way the
giraffes had gone.
Accordingly, the hunters followed the spoor, which went across miles
of rough, uneven ground--for giraffes know perfectly well that they
always have the advantage on rough ground, being able to leap over
obstacles without diminishing their speed--and finally led them to a
wood.
Here the hunters paused, and, finding it impossible to ride through
the thick growth, tethered their horses and left them in charge of
some natives, while they, creeping cautiously forward, with guns in
hand, tried to find out in which direction the animals had gone.
But this was a very difficult matter, for there were no footmarks now,
owing to the thick undergrowth, and, moreover, the giraffes were on
guard. For this was their great object in living in low woods; it was
quite easy to see an enemy approaching.
Groar's long neck and small head had appeared at the top of some of
the bushes just before the hunters entered the wood, and he knew
perfectly well what it all meant. With a swift movement he withdrew
his head, and, telling Gean to follow him, he led her to a nice, tall
tree, and when she had settled herself comfortably, with her head
under the branches, betook himself to another tree near by, and hid
his own head in the same manner.
So wonderfully did the giraffes blend with the bark and foliage of the
trees, that, although the hunters passed close by, they were unable to
find them. Little did they think while moving cautiously along that
the very animals they were looking for were silently watching them,
with gentle eyes, from between the branches of trees quite close to
them.
Not a muscle did either Groar or Gean move until they made quite sure
the hunters had gone, and then, Groar declaring it to be quite safe,
they withdrew their heads and necks from the branches, relaxed their
stiffened limbs, and, moving their sloping[Footnote: The slope in a
giraffe's back is caused by its elongated shoulder-blades. The fore
and hind legs are exactly the same length.--_Author_.] backs from the
trees, walked softly and quietly in another direction.
They were both so stiff from standing in the same position for so long
a time that they were obliged to go slowly at first, and it was a very
good thing they did so; for suddenly they came to a deep pit, so
cunningly and cleverly hidden, that it was a great wonder Gean had not
walked straight into it. The pit was nearly ten feet deep, and a hard
bank of earth had been built from one side to the other, about six or
seven feet high. Had Gean fallen into it, her forelegs would have been
on one side of the wall and her hind legs on the other, and she would
have been balanced in such a manner that, in spite of any amount of
kicking and struggling, it would have been quite impossible for her to
obtain a foothold, and she would have been obliged to stay there until
the natives came and killed her.
As it was, she stopped just in time; but two such frights, in one day,
were enough to make any giraffe nervous, and so they both rejoined the
herd, and let the old leader keep guard while they had their evening
meal in peace.
Gean wandered off a little way by herself that night, and, as she
seemed to wish to be alone, Groar did not bother her, but kept a
strict lookout all the time. And in the morning she called him to look
at something, and this something was a soft, helpless, little, baby
giraffe, with delicate limbs and small body, a funny, scraggy, long
neck and small head, with the very same sort of gentle, pathetic eyes
that Gean herself had.
And Groar thought it was the very finest baby he had ever seen, and
was fonder and prouder of Gean than ever. As for Gean, she was
sublimely happy, and was never tired of fondling and caressing her
little one and attending to its many wants.
For it was a delicate baby, and for some time after its birth it
seemed very doubtful whether it would live or not. But Gean tended and
nourished it, kept it nice and warm, and in due course of time it grew
strong and healthy.
And here we must leave Gean. She had a good home, plenty to eat, a
kind husband and pretty little baby, and what more could any giraffe
want?
KEESA, THE KANGAROO
The first thing that Keesa remembered was waking up in a dark, warm
place, and feeling very hungry and a bit chilly.
With a little shiver he feebly gathered himself together and crept
closer to the warm side of his small prison.
There was a curious something inside this warm part of his prison,
which kept up a continuous, methodical beating, sometimes faster and
sometimes slower, but never stopping.
Keesa did not think much about it then. His tiny, flexible, little
mouth was seeking instinctively for something to satisfy his hunger,
and, having found it, he troubled himself no further about the little,
throbbing sound that never stopped. He was too young then to know that
it was the beating of his mother's heart; but as he grew older he
learned to regard it as a very barometer for danger signals. He knew
that whenever it began to beat quicker than usual his mother was
scenting danger; and that when it throbbed very, very quickly the
danger had come, and was causing his mother great anxiety on his
account.
All this he learned as he grew larger, but at this time he was only a
few days' old; a tiny, soft, helpless thing, only about an inch and a
half in length; and all he could do was just stay quietly in his
mother's pouch--where she had carefully put him as soon as he was
born--rest against her heart, and drink as much as he could.
He stayed in this nice, warm place for several months, and his weight
increased so gradually that his mother did not notice it.
After a time, however, he began to find pouch-life rather monotonous,
and so, one day, he poked his funny, little head out of the pouch and
had his first peep at the world.
It seemed to be a very pleasant world, but he had no idea before that
his mother was so big, or that she could hop such tremendous
distances.
When he looked up at her he saw two little paws above him hanging down
in just the position that a dog puts his paws when begging. Above
these little paws he saw a small, graceful head, long and somewhat
oval, with outstanding ears, soft, gentle eyes, and a flexible mouth,
with cleft lips which opened every now and then and showed white but
savage teeth which looked as though they could bite very sharply when
their owner liked.
Having scrutinized his mother from below, Keesa turned his attention
downwards, and then noticed what extremely long hind legs she had, and
that she was sitting on them and her tail in a very comfortable
manner.
Glancing instinctively round, Keesa saw that it was a very pleasant
country, and that there were a good many others like his mother,
sitting or moving softly about with long leaps, one and all keeping a
sharp lookout for danger while munching the tender leaves and grass.
Once having had this peep at the world, Keesa became very interested
in it, and every day poked his little head out of the pouch and
watched his mother's proceedings.
One day, when she let herself drop on her forepaws to nibble the nice,
green grass, Keesa, on peeping out, found his own mouth close to the
ground. Out of mere curiosity he tasted a little bit of the herbage,
sniffing it very carefully, first of all, with his funny little nose,
and behaving, unknown to himself, in the way that all kangaroos behave
when they first begin to eat green food.
Having tasted the grass, Keesa found it extremely good, and the very
next day, when his mother dropped on her forefeet to feed, his head
came out of the pouch and down went his little mouth too.
But this time out went one of his little, short, front paws and rested
on the earth. One quick movement, and, to his astonishment, he found
himself really in the world. Just for a moment he felt so terribly
frightened that he leaped straight back into the pouch again, and his
little heart beat as fast as ever his mother's did in time of danger.
But the next moment curiosity got the better of him, and he was so
proud of himself in being able to move about so nimbly that he was out
of the pouch again, and this time, not feeling half so frightened,
hopped and skipped about until even his mother looked at him with
surprise.
From that time Keesa always jumped out of his mother's pouch and ran
about while she was feeding. He felt perfectly safe now, because at
the least sign of danger all he had to do was to hop back again, pull
down his small head and hide it, and everything was all right.
But as time went on Keesa began to realize that although. Australia is
such a beautiful country the life of a kangaroo is full of danger.
Some peculiar beings called men had found out, it seemed, that the
flesh of the kangaroo was very good eating; and once having realized
this, they had no pity, but, whenever they wanted kangaroo flesh,
hunted the animals and killed as many as they possibly could.
Once Keesa's mother, and a number of other kangaroos, were having a
comfortable feed on the plain, when suddenly numbers of men called
hunters came from all parts and attacked the poor kangaroos with
spears, clubs and horrible fire things.
The poor animals looked wildly around with their pathetic eyes, and
then swiftly and silently--for, like the giraffe, the kangaroo never
makes a sound--tore backwards and forwards, wild and bewildered with
fear, assailed on all sides by sharp arrows and spears, and by heavy
things which struck terrible blows.
[Illustration: "EVEN HIS MOTHER LOOKED AT HIM WITH SURPRISE"]
Only two kangaroos escaped at this dreadful time; they were Keesa's
mother and another kangaroo mother, both of whom had fought fiercely
and desperately for the sake of their little ones.
Away went the two kangaroos at breakneck speed, leaping from twelve to
fifteen feet at a time. But the hunters were prepared for this, and in
a few minutes the kangaroo dogs were after them.
This was a terrible time. The terror and agony of Keesa's mother
communicated itself in some way to him, and he shivered inside his
pouch half dead with fear.
On and on went the kangaroos, and close behind came the dogs. But the
mother kangaroos, when too exhausted to run further, turned, only too
ready to die, if need be, for their young ones.
Keesa's mother was fortunate enough to find a fairly large tree, and
against this she put her back, her little nose and mouth working
wildly and agonizingly, her sharp, little teeth showing fiercely, and
her usually gentle eyes looking fierce and desperate.
Only two dogs had been sent after them: one faced Keesa's mother
somewhat uneasily; the other followed the second kangaroo to the
water's edge, only to be taken in her front paws and held under the
water until he was drowned.[Footnote: A fact, and a common thing among
kangaroos.--Author.]
Keesa's mother, meanwhile, faced her enemy bravely, and for a few
moments the dog could not make up his mind to attack her or not. But
as he wavered the hunters' voices were heard urging him on, and, with
a fierce yelp and a quick leap, he flew at the kangaroo.
But Keesa's mother was prepared, and with a well directed blow from
one of her hind feet her sharp, knife-like claws ripped him up, and
the next moment he was lying on the ground panting his life away. The
mother kangaroo waited no longer. She had done for her enemy, she must
now look out for herself. A few long, swift strides and she caught up
with the other kangaroo, and, having been told that the other dog was
drowned, the two mothers went swiftly on, and on, and on, getting more
and more weary with the weight of their little ones, for they were now
growing very heavy, but never stopping until they reached a place
where they knew they would be safe.
This was only one of the many adventures that Keesa, as a baby, went
through, and he no longer wondered that his mother was always looking
about with frightened eyes, as though dreading some new danger.
Keesa spent very little time in the pouch now, for he was nearly eight
months old. After a while he did not care to stay in it at all, but he
often went to it for a little drink. He was very much surprised one
day, when he went to get that drink, to find another little head in
the pouch, and another tiny, soft body nestled in the very place where
he had so often nestled himself.
Keesa was a handsome kangaroo, somewhat lighter in color than his
mother, swift and agile, healthy and strong, with long, well marked
hind legs, a straight, strong tail, that acted as a sort of stool
whenever he wanted to sit down, and nimble little forepaws on which he
rested occasionally when he wanted to feed; at other times they hung
down as his mother's had done the first time he had made her
acquaintance.
There was one sad day when Keesa and his mother, with some kangaroo
friends with whom they had become acquainted, were chased by men on
horses. But the horses were not particularly good ones, and with their
long, swift leaps the kangaroos got safely away.
All, alas! but Keesa's mother. She, like all of her tribe, was
addicted to a habit of looking backward, still, she would have got
safely away now, if, while running at her swiftest speed, she had not
looked behind her to see how close the hunters were. As it was she
leaped violently against a tree stump and killed herself.
Keesa had been very fond of his mother, and her death was a great
grief to him, but he dared not stay, and so leaped on and on.
Remembering her experience, he never once looked back or stopped until
he had reached a place of safety.
After this Keesa had to shift for himself, but he was now a hardy
animal and got on remarkably well.
His beautiful, light, tawny coat changed, as the cold weather came on,
to a thick and woolly fur, which was very comfortable during the damp,
cold weather. But, when the summer came again, the thick, woolly fur
began to drop off and he resumed his summer coat once more.
By this time Keesa was a fully grown kangaroo, and very handsome. His
coat was a beautiful, tawny brown mingled with grey; the tawny part
predominating on the upper portions of his body, and the grey on the
under part; his clean, well shaped, little forefeet were quite black,
as also was the tip of his tail; and his small, well shaped head, with
its bright eyes and quick, sensitive ears, not to speak of the mobile
little mouth showing its occasional glimpses of white teeth, and his
newly sprouted little whiskers, made him a typical specimen of a well-
grown, well-built, male kangaroo.
He was a regular _Boomer_[Footnote: A _Boomer_ is the only kangaroo
which provides really good sport, and is much sought after and hunted
for this reason. He is a dangerous foe to man and dog, and generally
proves more than a match for them both. A _boomer_ at bay is one of
the most dangerous of animals, for he will not only attack the dogs,
but the very hunter himself; oftentimes nearly cutting him to pieces
with the terrible claws in his hind feet.--Author.] now, and prided
himself on it. He had no fear of man or beast, and, although he had
already afforded good sport in one or two hunts, he always had the
best of it.
At one time he ran for fourteen miles at one stretch, and, although he
hated swimming, on coming to a little stretch of sea, and being
pressed by the hunters, in went Keesa, and, notwithstanding a fresh
breeze, he got safely over, shook himself, and then fell into his long
leaps again as though nothing had happened.
Altogether he covered nearly twenty miles that day, and, as he still
seemed as fresh as ever and the land began to slope down, the hunters
gave up the chase.
Had they been going up hill they might have caught him, for in going
up hill dogs always gain on a kangaroo, and no one knew this better
than Keesa; therefore it was only to be expected that he should
deliberately lead the way to where the land was in his favor.
His leaps down hill were terrific, and the dogs, however much they
tried, could not overtake him; and so Keesa always gained the day, and
although he had many exciting hunts he was never caught.
Strong and healthy and hardy, he lived on, and lived up to his name of
_Boomer_, and is still living in New South Wales to this day, with a
gentle, brown-eyed wife and a little baby kangaroo, who peeps out of
his mother's pouch just as Keesa himself used to do when he was a
baby.
CARA, THE CAMEL
The hot, red sun was sinking behind the hard, straight outline of one
of the sandy deserts of Arabia. The Arabs had pitched their tents,
unloaded and fed their camels, and were now making their evening meal
from dried meat and a preparation of camel's milk, which had been
mixed with meal and then allowed to become sour.
Many of the camels were lying down--not that they were tired, for they
had been taking their journey by easy stages, and among them were
several with baby camels.
Cara was one of the babies, and an extremely ugly baby he was, for a
thin body, long, spidery limbs, homely head and funny little tail gave
him a curious, unfinished look.
Another baby was Camer. But she was as yet only an hour old, while
Cara was a week and a day old, and stood three feet high on his thin
legs. He was a sturdy little fellow in spite of his thinness, and had
already given proof that he inherited the irritable, morose and
grumbling nature of his race to a very marked degree; for from the
first hour of his birth Cara had grumbled. Grumbled when his mother
rested--as her kind master allowed her to do, for a few days after
Cara's birth; grumbled when the Arabs and camels moved on; grumbled
when any one touched him with a pat or caress, and grumbled when let
alone. In fact, the only time when Cara did not grumble was when he
took his meals, and this was simply because his mouth and tongue were
occupied with getting his food.