it in the park, a field to walk about in, and a keeper to look after
it, and to do a little light gardening besides. This man treated the
elephant (a female) with great kindness, and they soon became the best
of friends. The moment he called out she stopped, and at his bidding
would take a broom in her trunk and sweep the dead leaves off the
grass; after which she would carefully carry after him a large pail of
water for him to re-fill his watering pot--for in those days the
garden-hose was not invented. When the tidying up was all done, the
elephant was given a carrot and some of the water, but very often the
keeper would amuse himself with handing her a soda-water bottle
tightly corked, and telling her to empty it. This she did by placing
the bottle in an inclined position on the ground and holding it at the
proper angle with her foot, while she twisted the cork out with her
trunk. This accomplished, she would empty all the water into her trunk
without spilling a drop, and then hand the bottle back to her keeper.
In India small children are often given into the charge of an
elephant, and it is wonderful to see what care the animals take of
them. One elephant took such a fancy to a small baby, that it used to
stand over its cradle, and drive away the flies that teased it while
it slept. When it grew restless the elephant would rock the cradle, or
gently lift it to the floor and let it crawl about between its legs,
till the child at last declined to take any food unless her friend was
by to see her eat it.
Amazing tales have been told of what elephants can be trained to do,
but none is stranger than a story related by a missionary named
Caunter, about some wild elephants in Ceylon. Some native soldiers who
had been set to guard a large storehouse containing rice, were
suddenly ordered off to put down a rising in a village a little
distance away. Hardly were their backs turned when a wild elephant was
seen advancing to the storehouse, which was situated in a lonely
place, and after walking carefully round it, he returned whence he
came. In a short time he was noticed advancing for the second time,
accompanied by a whole herd of elephants, all marching in an orderly
and military manner.
[Illustration: THE ELEPHANT HELPS THE GARDENER]
Now in order to secure the granary as much as possible, the only
entrance had been made in the roof, and had to be reached by a ladder.
This was soon found out by the elephants, who examined the whole
building attentively, and being baffled in their designs, retired to
consult as to what they should do next. Finally one of the largest
among them began to attack one of the corners with his tusks, and some
of the others followed his example. When the first relay was tired
out, another set took its place, but all their efforts seemed
useless; the building was too strong for them. At length a third
elephant came forward and attacked the place at which the others had
laboured with such ill-success, and, by a prodigious effort, he
managed to loosen one brick. After this it did not take long to dig a
hole big enough to let the whole herd pass through, and soon the two
spectators, hidden in a banyan-tree, saw little companies of three or
four enter the granary and take their fill of rice until they all were
satisfied. The last batch were still eating busily, when a shrill
noise from the sentinel they had set on guard caused them to rush out.
From afar they could perceive the white dress of the soldiers who had
subdued the unruly villagers and were returning to their post, and the
elephants, trunks in air, took refuge in the jungle, and only wagged
their tails mockingly at the bullets sent after them by the
discomfited soldiers.
_THE DOG OF MONTARGIS_
For three days Aubrey de Montdidier had not been seen by his friends
and comrades in arms. On Sunday morning he had attended mass in the
Church of Our Lady, but it was noticed that in the afternoon he was
absent from the great tournament which was held at Saint Katherine's.
This astonished his friend the young Sieur de Narsac, who had
appointed to meet him there, that they might watch together the
encounter between a Burgundian knight and a gentleman from Provence,
both renowned in tilting, who were to meet together for the first time
that day in Paris. It was unlike Aubrey to fail to be present on such
an occasion, and when for three successive days he did not appear at
his accustomed haunts, his friends grew anxious, and began to question
among themselves whether some accident might not have befallen him.
Early on the morning of the fourth day De Narsac was awakened by a
continuous sound, as of something scratching against his door.
Starting up to listen, he heard, in the intervals of the scratching, a
low whine, as of a dog in pain. Thoroughly aroused, he got up and
opened the door. Stretched before it, apparently too weak to stand,
was a great, gaunt greyhound, spent with exhaustion and hunger. His
ribs stood out like the bars of a gridiron beneath his smooth coat;
his tongue hung down between his jaws, parched and stiff; his eyes
were bloodshot, and he trembled in every limb.
[Illustration: DE NARSAC RECOGNISES HIS FRIEND'S DOG]
On seeing De Narsac the poor creature struggled to his feet, feebly
wagged his tail, and thrust his nose into the young man's hands. Then
only did De Narsac recognise in the half-starved skeleton before him
the favourite dog and constant companion of his friend, Aubrey de
Montdidier. It was clear from the poor animal's emaciated appearance
that it was in the last stage of exhaustion. Summoning his servant, De
Narsac ordered food and water to be brought at once, and the dog
devoured the huge meal set before it. From his starved appearance, and
from the voracity with which he devoured the food set before him, it
was evident that he had had nothing to eat for some days. No sooner
was his hunger appeased than he began to move uneasily about the room.
Uttering low howls of distress from time to time, he approached the
door; then, returning to De Narsac's side, he looked up in his face
and gently tugged at his mantle, as if to attract attention. There was
something at once so appealing and peculiar in the dog's behaviour
that De Narsac's curiosity was aroused, and he became convinced that
there was some connection between the dog's starved appearance and
strange manner and the unaccountable disappearance of his master.
Perhaps the dog might supply the clue to Aubrey's place of
concealment. Watching the dog's behaviour closely, De Narsac became
aware that the dumb beast was inviting him to accompany him.
Accordingly he yielded to the dog's apparent wish, and, leaving the
house, followed him out into the streets of Paris.
Looking round from time to time to see that De Narsac was coming after
him, the greyhound pursued its way through the narrow, tortuous
streets of the ancient city, over the Bridge, and out by the Porte
St.-Martin, into the open country outside the gates of the town. Then,
continuing on its track, the dog headed for the Forest of Bondy, a
place of evil fame in those far-off days, as its solitudes were known
to be infested by bands of robbers. Stopping suddenly in a deep and
densely wooded glade of the wood, the dog uttered a succession of low,
angry growls; then, tugging at De Narsac's mantle, it led him to some
freshly turned-up earth, beneath a wide-spreading oak-tree. With a
piteous whine the dog stretched himself on the spot, and could not be
induced by De Narsac to follow him back to Paris, where he straightway
betook himself, as he at once suspected foul play. A few hours later
a party of men, guided to the spot by the young Sieur de Narsac,
removed the earth and dead leaves and ferns from the hole into which
they had been hastily flung, and discovered the murdered body of
Aubrey de Montdidier. Hurriedly a litter was constructed of boughs of
trees, and, followed by the dog, the body was borne into Paris, where
it was soon afterwards buried.
From that hour the greyhound attached himself to the Sieur de Narsac.
It slept in his room, ate from his table, and followed close at his
heels when he went out of doors. One morning, as the two were
threading their way through the crowded Rue St.-Martin, De Narsac was
startled by hearing a low, fierce growl from the greyhound. Looking
down he saw that the creature was shaking in every limb; his smooth
coat was bristling, his tail was straight and stiff, and he was
showing his teeth. In another moment he had made a dart from De
Narsac's side, and had sprung on a young gentleman named Macaire, in
the uniform of the king's bodyguard, who, with several comrades in
arms, was sauntering along on the opposite side of the street. There
was something so sudden in the attack that the Chevalier Macaire was
almost thrown on the ground. With their walking-canes he and his
friends beat off the dog, and on De Narsac coming up, it was called
away, and, still trembling and growling, followed its master down the
street.
A few days later the same thing occurred. De Narsac and the Chevalier
Macaire chanced to encounter each other walking in the royal park. In
a moment the dog had rushed at Macaire, and, with a fierce spring at
his throat, had tried to pull him to the ground. De Narsac and some
officers of the king's bodyguard came to Macaire's assistance, and the
dog was called off. The rumour of this attack reached the ears of the
king, and mixed with the rumour were whisperings of a long-standing
quarrel between Macaire and Aubrey de Montdidier. Might not the dog's
strange and unaccountable hatred for the young officer be a clue to
the mysterious murder of his late master? Determined to sift the
matter to the bottom, the king summoned De Narsac and the dog to his
presence at the Hotel St.-Pol. Following close on his master's heels,
the greyhound entered the audience-room, where the king was seated,
surrounded by his courtiers. As De Narsac bowed low before his
sovereign, a short, fierce bark was heard from the dog, and, before he
could be held back, he had darted in among the startled courtiers, and
had sprung at the throat of the Chevalier Macaire, who, with several
other knights, formed a little group behind the king's chair.
It was impossible longer to doubt that there was some ground for the
surmises that had rapidly grown to suspicion, and that had received
sudden confirmation from the fresh evidence of the dog's hatred.
The king decided that there should be a trial by the judgment of God,
and that a combat should take place between man, the accused, and dog,
the accuser. The place chosen for the combat was a waste, uninhabited
plot of ground, frequently selected as a duelling-ground by the young
gallants of Paris.
In the presence of the king and his courtiers the strange unnatural
combat took place that afternoon. The knight was armed with a short
thick stick; the dog was provided with an empty barrel, as a
retreating ground from the attacks of his adversary. At a given signal
the combatants entered the lists. The dog seemed quite to understand
the strange duel on which it was engaged. Barking savagely, and
darting round his opponent, he made attempts to leap at his throat;
now on this side, now on that he sprang, jumping into the air, and
then bounding back out of reach of the stick. There was such swiftness
and determination about his movements, and something so unnatural in
the combat, that Macaire's nerve failed him. His blows beat the air,
without hitting the dog; his breath came in quick short gasps;
there was a look of terror on his face, and for a moment, overcome by
the horror of the situation, his eye quailed and sought the ground. At
that instant the dog sprang at his throat and pinned him to the earth.
In his terror, he called out and acknowledged his crime, and implored
the king's mercy. But the judgment of God had decided. The dog was
called off before it had strangled its victim, but the man was hurried
away to the place of execution, and atoned that evening for the murder
of the faithful greyhound's master.
[Illustration: THE DOG FLIES AT MACAIRE IN THE PRESENCE OF THE KING]
The dog has been known to posterity as the Dog of Montargis, as in the
Castle of Montargis there stood for many centuries a sculptured stone
mantelpiece, on which the combat was carved.
_HOW A BEAVER BUILDS HIS HOUSE_
Bingley's _Animal Biography_.
If we could look back and see England and Wales as they were about a
thousand years ago, we should most likely think that the best houses
and most prosperous villages were the work not of the Saxon or British
natives, but of the little beavers, which were then to be found in
some of the rivers, though they have long ceased to exist there. Those
who want to see what beavers can do, must look to America, and there,
either in Canada or even as far south as Louisiana, they will find the
little creatures as busy as ever and as clever at house-building as
when they taught our forefathers a lesson in the time of Athelstan or
Canute.
A beaver is a small animal measuring about three feet, and has fine
glossy dark brown hair. Its tail, which is its trowel, and call bell,
and many other things besides, is nearly a foot long, and has no hair
at all, and is divided into little scales, something like a fish.
Beavers cannot bear to live by themselves, and are never happy unless
they have two or three hundred friends close at hand whom they can
visit every day and all day, and they are the best and most kindly
neighbours in the world, always ready to help each other either in
building new villages or in repairing old ones.
Of course the first thing to be done when you wish to erect a house or
a village is to fix on a suitable site, and the spot which every
beaver of sense thinks most desirable is either a large pond or, if no
pond is to be had, a flat low plain with a stream running through,
out of which a pond can be made.
It must be a very, very long while since beavers first found out that
the way to make a pond out of a stream was to build a dam across it so
strong that the water could not break through. To begin with, they
have to know which way the stream runs, and in this they never make a
mistake. Then they gather together stakes about five feet long, and
fix them in rows tight into the ground on each side of the stream; and
while the older and more experienced beavers are doing this--for the
safety of the village depends on the strength of the foundation--the
younger and more active ones are fetching and heaping up green
branches of trees. These branches are plaited in and out of the rows
of stakes, which by this time stretch right across the river, and form
a dam often as much as a hundred feet from end to end. When the best
workmen among them declare the foundation solid, the rest form a large
wall over the whole, of stones, clay, and sand, which gradually tapers
up from ten or twelve feet at the bottom, where it has to resist the
pressure of the stream, to two or three at the top, so that the
beavers can, if necessary, pass each other in comfort. And when the
dam is pronounced finished, the overseer or head beaver goes carefully
over every part, to see that it is the proper shape and exactly smooth
and even, for beavers cannot bear bad work, and would punish any of
their tribe who were lazy or careless.
The dam being ready and the pond made, they can now begin to think
about their houses, and as all beavers have a great dislike to damp
floors and wet beds, they have to raise their dwellings quite six or
eight feet above the level of the stream, so that no sudden swelling
of the river during the rainy season shall make them cold and
uncomfortable. Beavers are always quite clear in their minds as to
what they want, and how to get it, and they like to keep things
distinct. When they are in the water they are perfectly happy, but
when they are out of it they like to be dry, and in order to keep
their houses warm and snug they wait till the water is low during the
summer, and then they can drive piles into the bed of the stream with
more safety and less trouble than if the river is running hard. It
generally takes two or three months before the village is finished,
and the bark and shoots of young trees, which is their favourite food,
collected and stored up. But the little round huts, not unlike
beehives, are only intended for winter homes, as no beaver would think
of sleeping indoors during the summer, or, indeed, of staying two days
in the same place. So every three or four years they spend the long
days in making their village of earth, stones, and sticks, plastered
together with some kind of mortar which they carry about on their
tails, to spread neatly over the inside of their houses. All that a
beaver does is beautifully finished as well as substantial. The walls
of his house are usually about two feet thick, and sometimes he has as
many as three stories to his house, when he has a large family or a
number of friends to live with him. One thing is quite certain: no
beaver will ever set up housekeeping alone; but sometimes he will be
content with one companion, and sometimes he will have as many as
thirty. But however full the hut may be, there is never any confusion;
each beaver has his fixed place on the floor, which is covered with
dried leaves and moss, and as they manage to keep open a door right
below the surface of the stream, where their food is carefully stored
up, there is no fear that they will ever be starved out. And there
they lie all through the winter, and get very fat.
Once a French gentleman who was travelling through Louisiana, was very
anxious to see the little beaver colony at work, so he hid himself
with some other men close to a dam, and in the night they cut a
channel about a foot wide right through, and very hard labour they
found it.
The men had made no noise in breaking the dam, but the rush of the
water aroused one beaver who slept more lightly than the rest, and he
instantly left his hut and swam to the dam to examine what was wrong.
He then struck four loud blows with his tail, and at the sound of his
call every beaver left his bed and came rushing to see what was the
matter. No sooner did they reach the dam and see the large hole made
in it, than they took counsel, and then the one in whom they put the
most trust gave orders to the rest, and they all went to the bank to
make mortar. When they had collected as much as they could carry, they
formed a procession, two and two, each pair loading each others'
tails, and so travelling they arrived at the dam, where a relay of
fresh labourers were ready to load. The mortar was then placed in the
hole and bound tight by repeated blows from the beavers' tails. So
hard did they work and so much sense did they show, that in a short
time all was as firm as ever. Then one of the leading spirits clapped
his tail twice, and in a moment all were in bed and asleep again.
Beavers are very hard-working, but they know how to make themselves
comfortable too, and if they are content with bark and twigs at home,
they appreciate nicer food if they can get it. A gentleman once took a
beaver with him to New York, and it used to wander about the house
like a dog, feeding chiefly upon bread, with fish now and then for a
treat. Not being able to find any moss or leaves for a bed, it used to
seize upon all the soft bits of stuff that came in its way, and carry
them off to its sleeping corner. One day a cat discovered its hiding
place, and thought it would be a nice comfortable place for her
kittens to sleep, and when the beaver came back from his walk he
found, like the three bears, that someone was sleeping in his bed. He
had never seen things of that kind before, but they were small and he
was big, so he said nothing and lay down somewhere else. Only, if ever
their mother was away, he would go and hold one of them to his breast
to warm it, and keep it there till its mother came back.
_THE WAR HORSE OF ALEXANDER_
Part of the story of Bucephalus is taken from Plutarch.
There are not so many stories about horses as there are about dogs and
cats, yet almost every great general has had his favourite horse, who
has gone with him through many campaigns and borne him safe in many
battle-fields. At a town in Sicily called Agrigentum, they set such
store by their horses, that pyramids were raised over their
burial-place, and the Emperor Augustus built a splendid monument over
the grave of an old favourite.
The most famous horse, perhaps, who ever lived, was one belonging to
Alexander the Great, and was called Bucephalus. When the king was a
boy, Bucephalus was brought before Philip, King of Macedon,
Alexander's father, by Philonicus the Thessalian, and offered for sale
for the large sum of thirteen talents. Beautiful though he was, Philip
wisely declined to buy him before knowing what manner of horse he was,
and ordered him to be led into a neighbouring field, and a groom to
mount him. But it was in vain that the best and most experienced
riders approached the horse; he reared up on his hind legs, and would
suffer none to come near him. So Philonicus the Thessalian was told to
take his horse back whence he came, for the king would have none of
him.
Now the boy Alexander stood by, and his heart went out to the
beautiful creature. And he cried out, 'What a good horse do we lose
for lack of skill to mount him!' Philip the king heard these words,
and his soul was vexed to see the horse depart, but yet he knew not
what else to do. Then he turned to Alexander and said: 'Do you think
that you, young and untried, can ride this horse better than those who
have grown old in the stables?' To which Alexander made answer, 'This
horse I know I could ride better than they.' 'And if you fail,' asked
Philip, 'what price will you pay for your good conceit of yourself?'
And Alexander laughed out and said gaily, 'I will pay the price of the
horse.' And thus it was settled.
So Alexander drew near to the horse, and took him by the bridle,
turning his face to the sun so that he might not be frightened at the
movements of his own shadow, for the prince had noticed that it scared
him greatly. Then Alexander stroked his head and led him forwards,
feeling his temper all the while, and when the horse began to get
uneasy, the prince suddenly leapt on his back, and gradually curbed
him with the bridle. Suddenly, as Bucephalus gave up trying to throw
his rider, and only pawed the ground impatient to be off, Alexander
shook the reins, and bidding him go, they flew like lightning round
the course. This was Alexander's first conquest, and as he jumped down
from the horse, his father exclaimed, 'Go, my son, and seek for a
kingdom that is worthy, for Macedon is too small for such as thee.'
Henceforth Bucephalus made it clear that he served Alexander and no
one else. He would submit quietly to having the gay trappings of a
king's steed fastened on his head, and the royal saddle put on, but if
any groom tried to mount him, back would go his ears and up would go
his heels, and none dared come near him. For ten years after Alexander
succeeded his father on the throne of Macedon (B.C. 336), Bucephalus
bore him through all his battles, and was, says Pliny, 'of a passing
good and memorable service in the wars,' and even when wounded, as he
once was at the taking of Thebes, would not suffer his master to mount
another horse. Together these two swam rivers, crossed mountains,
penetrated into the dominions of the Great King, and farther still
into the heart of Asia, beyond the Caspian and the river Oxus, where
never European army had gone before. Then turning sharp south, he
crossed the range of the Hindoo Koosh, and entering the country of the
Five Rivers, he prepared to attack Porus, king of India. But age and
the wanderings of ten years had worn Bucephalus out. One last victory
near the Hydaspes or Jelum, and the old horse sank down and died, full
of years and honours (B.C. 326). Bitter were the lamentations of the
king for the friend of his childhood, but his grief did not show
itself only in weeping. The most splendid funeral Alexander could
devise was given to Bucephalus, and a gorgeous tomb erected over his
body. And more than that, Alexander resolved that the memory of his
old horse should be kept green in these burning Indian deserts,
thousands of miles from the Thessalian plains where he was born, so
round his tomb the king built a city, and it was called
'BUCEPHALIA.'
_STORIES ABOUT BEARS_