could smell the man coming nearer and nearer, and began to be terribly
frightened. Timid and nervous to a wonderful degree, and of a
cautious, suspicious nature, Chaffer's excitement grew intense, and
his small, pointed ears quivered painfully. On he went, never stopping
to glance round for a single instant, for it was not necessary; he
knew only too well what was behind him, and his one object was to get
away.
At this moment, however, there was another whistle from the sentinel
of the herd, much fainter this time because farther off, but
containing the information that there was danger at the top of the
mountains as well as at the base. Chaffer hesitated a moment, but he
decided to go on now, whatever came; he was far more at home on these
sharp crags and dangerous heights than he was on smooth, even ground,
and he could go where it was quite impossible for a man to follow.
So he gave a few more leaps, a few more bounds, although the scent of
the man now was so strong as to bewilder him, and then landed on a
tiny ledge face to face with a hunter!
It would have been hard to say which was the most surprised--the
hunter or Chaffer. As a matter of fact, the hunter had been carefully
watching another chamois a little lower down--a young male who had
been turned out of the herd with Chaffer--and had no idea a second
chamois was so close to him until Chaffer alighted on the ledge of
rock at his very feet. The two looked at one another for an instant in
deathlike silence, their eyes wide open with surprise and fright; for,
had the chamois only known it, he could, with one touch of his horns,
have sent the hunter whirling through space and onto the rocks
beneath, where he would have been dashed to pieces.
Then, with a wild leap, Chaffer sprang--sprang down the precipitous
chasm which yawned beneath them, a distance of nearly thirty feet. As
he went down, with his graceful body hanging in the air, and his
handsome head, with its curved horns, thrown back, he turned himself
diagonally, striking his feet sharply every now and then against the
face of the rock in his descent, and alighted at the foot in perfect
safety.
Meanwhile, the hunter, although he was a hardy Swiss mountaineer, was
so frightened at his narrow escape that he gave up the chase for that
day and went home, followed by the other hunters. They had been out on
this expedition four days already, and had faced great dangers without
getting a single chamois. They were brave and patient men, and as they
earned their living by chamois hunting--one of the most dangerous and
precarious ways of earning a living--had been ready and prepared for a
certain amount of risk. But four days in the mountains, with nothing
but dried meat for food, added to the intense cold and exposure, not
to speak of risking their lives several times a day, was about as much
as any man could stand, so, when Chaffer and his companions got away,
the hunters decided to go home and hunt them another time.
But the chamois were also frightened, and more nervous and timid than
usual for some time after this, and kept a sharp lookout themselves,
not trusting so much to the sentinel, for they considered he had not
given them warning enough the last time.
Chaffer had been so thoroughly scared that he kept himself hidden in
chasms and crevices for days, only coming out every now and then to
feed and to give a hurried glance round. Food was getting scarce now,
too, and he would very soon have to go without the fresh grass and
herbage which grew on the mountains, and make the buds of the pine,
fir and juniper trees do instead. But he could treat himself to an
occasional bit of salt from the sandstone rocks which are to be found
in the Alps, and of this he was extremely fond; it also helped to keep
him in good health.
It was a hard winter that year, and when the snow lay thick and white
not only on the mountains, but in the valleys, Chaffer had as much as
he could do to find enough to eat. Occasionally he would be able to
scrape away the snow, and get tiny bits of grass and other green
stuff, but it was not enough to keep him alive, and he was obliged to
content himself with the buds of trees and any little bit of
vegetation he could find.
He did not mind the cold in the least, for he often stayed on the
snow-clad heights in summer from preference; but when this winter had
really set in, with its exceptional severity, Chaffer betook himself
to the wooded land which lay just below the glaciers, and roamed about
there until spring once more appeared. But he did not care for wooded
districts; he preferred peaks and ravines which had a northern aspect.
So, as soon as he possibly could, he left the low lands and once more
climbed his beloved mountains.
The cold was still intense, but underneath his ordinary covering of
hair Chaffer had another coat of short, thick, greyish wool, and this
protected him, and kept him nice and warm. His outer coat had changed
during the winter from a golden brown to a dark chestnut, and, as the
spring advanced, it changed again to a pretty, light color, which was
almost grey.
Chaffer never forgot the first spring day after that awful winter,
when the snow, having melted from some of the mountain ranges,
disclosed fresh young grass and tender herbage. How delicious it was,
and how Chaffer enjoyed it! He had grown quite thin and gaunt, his
finely formed muscular neck was lean and scraggy, and his limbs felt
weak.
But a week or two of good feeding, with an occasional bit of salt,
soon put him right, and by the time summer arrived Chaffer had not
only regained the strength he had lost in the winter, but had
developed more power and growth in many ways. He had rejoined the
herd, for the old chamois had left it by this time, and Chaffer and
some other young males had determined that, come what might, they
would allow no old chamois to turn them out again.
It was a beautiful summer, and the herd, which numbered about twenty,
had a fine time. They sported and leaped from crag to crag--climbed up
to the highest and most inaccessible peaks, where they would stand
sniffing the clear air, and look out with their beautiful eyes over
the picturesque landscape which lay like a vast panorama before them--
glide down the chasms and precipices, and take leaps and bounds which
would have made almost any animal but a chamois giddy.
And, during that summer, Chaffer grew fat and sleek and handsomer than
ever, and by the time October came again was the largest animal in the
herd. Only the year before he had been wretched and miserable and very
lonely; now he was settled and contented and very happy, for, not only
had he refused to allow the old chamois to enter the herd again, but
he had chosen a pretty and graceful little wife, and was just as proud
of her as he could be.
She was a beautiful creature, and her dark, liquid eyes looked timidly
and pathetically out from beneath her nicely developed horns--for both
male and female chamois have these appendages--while every movement of
her delicately formed body was full of grace. It was no wonder Chaffer
was proud of her, and when she presented him later on with a fine
little kid, he was prouder than ever.
The baby chamois was a pretty little creature, and quick and active to
a remarkable degree. But she had also inherited her parents'
sensitiveness and timidity, and never left her mother's side; where
the mother chamois went, there the little one followed closely, and
when a chasm or ravine was too wide to cross with a leap of her small
body, the mother made a bridge of her own body by throwing herself
across, with feet planted firmly on either side of the chasm, and on
it the little one sprang lightly and gracefully over in safety.
Chaffer was not always with them; he had a good many other things to
attend to, but he kept careful and watchful guard over them, and his
keen senses of sight and hearing were always on the alert for danger.
One fine day in the following spring, when the kid was growing big and
strong, the herd had collected on a favorite feeding-ground, and was
browsing in calm enjoyment. Suddenly the sentinel lifted his head,
and, stamping his fore feet on the ground, gave the whistle of
warning.
The chamois were on the alert in an instant, and, scenting danger to
windward, flew wildly in the opposite direction. As a rule, they were
able to escape, but this time they had been trapped, for the same
hunters, who had tried in vain so many times to catch them, had formed
a circle round them now, and had narrowed it until they were close to
their prey.
Chaffer leaped and bounded, followed by his wife and little one, and
was one of the very first to leave the feeding-ground behind; but he
was also the first to meet the hunters face to face--not at such close
quarters as at that memorable time when he had sprang on the same
ledge with the hunter, but just close enough for those hunters to take
a good, steady aim at him.
There was a loud report--another--and another, and Chaffer, stunned
and bewildered, found himself lying at full length on the ground,
while a horrible pain in his body made him feel sick and faint. In
vain he lifted his head, and tried to raise himself; his head sank
slowly down again on the soft grass, and his body would not move. He
kept his eyes fixed on the hunters, who crowded round eagerly, but a
misty veil floated in front of them, and everything looked blurred and
dim. He made one more brave effort, and, with a spasmodic jerk, half
lifted his body; but the exertion made the stream of blood, which was
oozing out of his side, spurt out in quick, sharp rushes, and with a
pathetic sigh and a convulsive movement of the beautiful form, which
had been so full of life and activity only a few short minutes before,
Chaffer let his handsome head fall back for the last time, and died.
The hunters, seeing he was dead, directed their attention to the
mother chamois and her little one. The little chamois was on the
ground, quite dead, and the mother was standing over her beloved one,
her feet on either side of the poor little carcass, dyed a deep red
with the blood of her offspring. During Chaffer's life, his wife had
left it to him to defend her, but, deprived of his help, and bereft of
her little one, she stood at bay--no longer the gentle, timid chamois,
but an indignant, furious animal, ready to defend her kid with her
life.
Not being sure whether the baby chamois was dead or not, the hunters
tried to make the mother leave the small body, but in vain. Not only
did she stamp her feet in defiance, but butted at them with her horns
in a savage manner that surprised them. At last there was nothing to
do but to shoot her, for they could not waste time, and the skin of a
very young chamois was exceedingly valuable.
[Illustration: "CHAFFER WAS THE FIRST TO MEET THE HUNTERS FACE TO
FACE."]
So, as she stood there, reckless and daring, and absolutely fearless
through her motherhood, there was a quick flash, another report, and
the mother chamois, the pretty wife of Chaffer, of whom he had been so
proud, dropped over the body of her baby and mingled her blood with
his. She died quicker than Chaffer, and she did not look at her
murderers as he had done, but kept her eyes fixed on her little one,
and her last movement was made towards it.
So Chaffer, his wife and little one all died on the same day, and in
the same manner, and even the hunters, rough and hardy mountaineers as
they were, had an uncomfortable feeling whenever they thought of the
brave death of the mother, and her pathetic defense of her little one.
But they were hunters, and it was their living, and so in due course
of time Chaffer's fine pair of horns were sold, the skin of his wife
was turned into soft, yellow leather, and the skin of his little one
was made into gloves.
JINKS, THE JACKAL
Jinks lay at his master's feet, his forepaws stretched out in front of
him, and his sharp-pointed, black nose nestling comfortably on them.
To all appearance he was asleep; but every now and then his sharp,
bright eyes would open, and glance swiftly round in all directions, so
swiftly that it was hard to realize he had opened them at all.
It was an exceptionally hot morning, even for India, and Jinks' master
stopped reading, to sigh with the heat and wipe his streaming face.
Jinks was only too glad of an interruption; he had been still quite
long enough, and, in his restless, fidgety way, wanted to be doing
something. So, as his master yawned, sighed and fluttered his silk
handkerchief, Jinks rose up, stretched himself luxuriously, and,
following his master's example, yawned too.
He was a fine-looking animal as he stood up and wagged his bushy, fox-
like tail, and his master was struck, for the first time, with his
handsome appearance and size. For he had known Jinks from a tiny baby,
having carried him home in his arms after he had found him with his
dead mother, and fed him warm bread and milk, getting in return many a
nasty bite from the vixenish little animal, who had all the
viciousness of his race.
But, in due course of time, what with repeated kindnesses and tender
care, Jinks had grown not only tame, but quite gentle, and was now
extremely fond of his master, and never happy unless with him. His
master returned his affection warmly, and the two were close
companions; went out for long walks together, when it was not too hot;
had their meals together, and would have shared the same room in the
bungalow, had it not been that Jinks had a most unpleasant smell at
times, which civilization could not dispel, and which made it quite
impossible for him to be kept indoors at night. Indeed, there were
times when this unpleasant odor was so manifest in the daytime, that
Jinks was sent to his kennel in disgrace.
He always felt the disgrace keenly, and, although he invariably went
at once when he was told, he did so under protest, with his bushy tail
and dog-like head held down in a shamefaced manner, and a peculiar
gleam in his eyes which spoke not only of shame, but of anger, only
kept under through force of discipline. For his master, understanding
his nature, had never allowed Jinks for one moment to get the better
of him or disobey him in the smallest thing, and Jinks knew too well
how a certain small dog-whip felt to wish for any more of it. He had
been a pup up to this time, and just as full of wickedness and
mischief as he could be.
The occupants of the bungalow had gone through the same experiences--
somewhat worse, perhaps--as most people have who bring up a puppy by
hand, and had not only found all kinds of small garments strewed about
indiscriminately, dragged out and pulled to pieces, but had at times
lost articles altogether. Occasionally, a few particles would be found
in Jinks' kennel, but Jinks never appeared to know anything about
them, and, in answer to their accusations and scoldings, only put on a
quizzical, enquiring air, as though he really had not the least idea
what they were talking about. Even when caught in the very act, he
would pretend not to know what was meant; but when the dog-whip came
across his back he would give such an appalling howl that his
chastisers would stop for very terror, lest he should wake up the rest
of his kind in the neighborhood.
Jinks did not know there were any of his own kind in the neighborhood.
As a matter of fact, he had never thought about himself at all, but,
having all he wanted in the shape of food and sport, had made himself
quite content and even happy. As he grew from babyhood he got more
mischievious still, and gave no end of trouble by eating and
destroying nearly all the grapes on the vines, and fruit on the trees
and bushes.
Then, one night he had a beautiful time. His master had tied him to
his kennel, as usual, and left him for the night, and Jinks was just
settling down to sleep, when he suddenly heard a rustling overhead in
the tall bushes. The rustling was caused by a silly chicken, who, in
some way or other, had lost its way, and was now so extremely unwise
as to go to roost over the head of a young jackal.
Jinks had never tasted chicken, great care having been taken about
this for many reasons; but, somehow, as soon as he found out what was
roosting just above him, he had an irresistible desire to get that
chicken and see how he tasted. Unfortunately, he was tied up, and his
master never allowed him a long rope; but Jinks, having once made up
his mind, was not going to allow a rope to stop him.
He therefore set to work in the most determined manner to break it,
stretching himself away from his kennel with all his might, but so
noiselessly--for he had all the cunning of his kind--that even the
chicken, who was uneasy and restless, heard not a sound. But, strain
and tug as he would, Jinks could not break the rope, for it was a
strong one, and, although he possessed good muscles and sinews, and
pressed every nerve into service, there was only a funny little squeak
caused by the strands of the rope rubbing together, and there it
ended.
Jinks sat down for a few moments on his haunches to think it over. He
had no intention of giving up, and, although he had not the slightest
idea of the flavor of chicken, he felt that the time had come when he
must have it, come what might. So he set his clever brain to work,
while his keen, crafty eyes glanced in all directions, but never lost
sight of the chicken for a single instant.
He had lost his domesticated look for the time being; and as he sat
there, with his bright eyes gleaming, his rough tongue hanging out of
his open mouth, and an expectant look on his furry, oval face, he
looked just what he was--a strong and healthy young jackal.
Suddenly he thought of something, and without an instant's hesitation
lay down to carry out his idea. Taking the rope in his strong white
teeth, he gradually, in a silent, stealthy manner, began to gnaw the
strands one by one. Now and then he would stop just for a moment to
moisten his lips and to make sure that the chicken was still there;
then he would continue the gnawing as before. When he got to the last
strand, what his strong, powerful teeth had nearly accomplished, his
rough, coarse tongue finished, for it was covered with thorn-like
protuberances capable of scraping the flesh off an ox.
There was a little snap, and Jinks was free. He had never wished to be
free before, but the chicken had given him his wish for freedom, and
he meant to have the chicken. With one swift spring he caught the
bird, and in another moment his teeth were buried in its breast and
back, and the unfortunate straggler from the home roost was giving his
last cry, choked in its infancy by another grip from Jinks' mouth.
Jinks took the dainty morsel inside his kennel; for, now he had caught
the chicken, he had a guilty feeling, and, moreover, he wanted to
enjoy it in peace and privacy. And, oh, how he did enjoy it! Never in
all his life had he tasted anything so delicious--it was so young, and
juicy, and tender, and the flavor of it! He was obliged to stop every
now and then to lick his lips and relish it to the utmost, for he
would not have missed an atom of the pleasure for the world.
He ate the whole thing--flesh and bones and even the entrails: he also
ate a few feathers, which he did not particularly care about; but it
was impossible to get the delicious food without, and so he did not
care much. By the time he had finished, the only remains of the
chicken were the feathers, which floated about as though seeking for
their lost home.
By morning Jinks had removed every trace of his night's doings but the
broken rope and the feathers. He had licked every tiny spot of blood
off his mouth and coat, but he could not tie himself up again, and he
could not get rid of the feathers, although he had made several clever
attempts. He had tried to catch them with his mouth and paws, but they
had evaded him in the most wonderful manner, and had maddened him at
times by floating round him, and even alighting on his very nose, as
if to taunt him. In vain he slapped his nose sharply with his paw each
time he felt that nasty, irritating, tickling sensation. He always
gave his nose a hard knock, while the feathers went floating gaily off
as before. He gave it up at last, and lay down in his kennel with a
meek expression on his face, but a guilty look in his eyes.
It was the custom for one of the servants to untie Jinks in the
morning, so that he could go at once to his master. Occasionally his
master would come and set him loose himself, and take him for a
morning walk before it got too hot, so that whoever found Jinks had
been untied naturally concluded the other had done it.
So it was on this particular morning. Jinks, after lying in his kennel
for some time with his meek expression, suddenly remembered this, and
so resolved to go into the house as though he had just been untied. He
had cunning enough, however, to wait until he heard the servants
moving about, and then he got up slowly, and, with his usual bright,
wide-awake air, made his way into the house and to his master.
And this was the very morning when Jinks had been lying at his
master's feet, and, as he rose up, that his master noticed what a
handsome animal he had grown, and how big he was getting. There was no
doubt he was a fine animal. He was nearly full-grown now, and stood
about fifteen inches high at the shoulders, and measured nearly two
feet from the tip of his nose to the beginning of his bushy tail. He
had a handsome head, good, muscular limbs, and a beautiful coat of
greyish-yellow color, rather dark on the back and head, but much
lighter and softer underneath the body and on the insides of the legs.
His bright, full eyes changed color repeatedly, but, to a close
observer, one dominant expression was always in them--an expression of
the deepest craft and cunning.
As he stood there, looking at his master with a subdued, enquiring
kind of manner, the latter realized that he was almost a full-grown
jackal, and began to wonder whether, after all his domestic training
and surroundings, he would ever show the characteristic traits of his
kind. Up to now he had been gentleness itself, and was as meek and
obedient as any domesticated dog, but he had wild and savage blood in
him, and there was a peculiar gleam in his eyes at that moment that
his master could not quite understand.
The truth was, Jinks was growing uneasy and uncomfortable under his
master's close scrutiny, and began to wonder, after all, whether he
did not know all about that chicken. He had never looked at him in
this way before, and it both annoyed and irritated him to a frightful
degree, and he grew restless, and finally turned his head so that he
could not see the steady, embarrassing eyes of his master.
But, as he turned his head, his master caught sight of one tiny spot
of blood on his neck which Jinks had evidently overlooked. He said
nothing for a moment, and then called Jinks to him in a kindly,
caressing manner.
Jinks hesitated. He had grown suspicious, and he did not like his
master's manner; in addition to which, he could not forget that he was
guilty about the chicken; so, when his master reached forward to pat
him, Jinks, thinking he was going to slap him, suddenly turned round
and bit him sharply through the hand. It was the very same hand that
had fed him from a baby, and cared for and tended him all through his
babyhood and young days, and up to this time had protected him from
all harm and danger.
But that was nothing to Jinks now. He scented danger, and the
treacherous meanness of his nature came suddenly to the fore. He
forgot the care and kindness of his master; forgot everything but the
fact that those eyes were still looking at him, and that they made him
feel restless, irritable and wild. He had had this wild feeling for
some time now, but he had been keeping it in restraint, fearing that
dog-whip and dreading the anger of his master; but now, for some
reason or other, he did not care what his master thought of him, and,
as he snapped fiercely at his master's hand, he growled and snarled as
savagely as any wild jackal.
Without a moment's hesitation, his master, with his free hand, caught
Jinks by the throat and called for help. Luckily, two servants were
close by, and came immediately, and Jinks' master gave orders to fetch
a gun and shoot him at once.