OUR FRIENDS, THE ELEPHANTS
Personality, as has been remarked before, has its part in the animal
kingdom, just as with the human family. The hyena is a sneak, an
animal tramp, ready to seize upon that which the richer have left
behind; a filthy vagrant, ostracized even among his own co-occupants
of the animal kingdom. The lion is a sluggard, a poser, a sort of
motion-picture actor among animals, perhaps a bit big-headed because
his looks have given him the title of the king of beasts. The leopard
is a cat, just as a mean, vicious-tongued gossip is a cat; both wait
for the psychological moment to strike, fawning and docile and even
friendly until that moment shall come. Of course, the leopard is dumb.
It therefore strikes with its teeth, instead of by words. The tiger
is pugnacious, even as a man who knows his strength is pugnacious;
place one tiger and three lions in the same arena, and the tiger will
come forth bloody, but alive. The lions will stay behind, dead. The
chimpanzee, the Koolakamba, the marmoset and others of the monkey and
ape breeds are buffoons. The rhinoceros is a sulking dunce. Throughout
the whole list, each has his one element of personality, his one
characteristic of echoed human nature which stands forth and identifies
him,—all but the elephant. And he has everything!
You don’t like tigers, do you? Or hyenas? Or lions? You wouldn’t care
to make a pet of a rhinoceros, or have a giraffe running his neck over
the transom of the kitchen door when the grass in the back yard had
become too short for cropping? But haven’t you said more than once, as
you stood in front of the picket line, punching forth peanuts, that
“you just loved elephants?” If you haven’t, you’re different from
ninety-nine per cent. of the persons who attend a circus. The reason
all lies in that one fact of personality.
For the personality of an elephant is everything that is contained in
the personality of a magnetic human being. He is a buffoon,—yet he can
be a tragedian. He is a child, yet an age-old sage; an ardent lover,
still as ardent a hater; strong-minded, but possessing weaknesses;
stolid, and at the same time shrewd with a shrewdness one might believe
impossible in a beast; honest, yet a thief; faithful, but tricky as a
coquette; a clown with a serious mind; and a wrecker, with the heart of
a saint.
It’s a long list. Yet I’ve seen every phase of it exemplified in
elephants, even to the extent of temperament! Of course, that sounds
impossible; only opera stars and long-haired poets and motion-picture
stars are temperamental. Very well then, consider this:
On a certain circus to which I happened to be attached for several
years were Kas and Mo, twin baby elephants, and named respectively for
Kansas and Missouri. They were young; naturally the training which
usually is given elephants in the compounds of India, or the European
Zoölogical gardens before shipment to America, had been missing, and
the two youngsters were forced to receive their education as the circus
trouped along through the summer months, or waited away the snowy weeks
in winter quarters until the sun shone again. One day, after they had
been with the circus several seasons, I happened to notice them in the
winter quarters yard, where they had been picketed for an hour or two
of sunshine.
No one was near. No one was giving orders. Yet those elephants were
acting in the same manner as I had seen them perform that morning
in the practise ring. They raised their feet in unison, they knelt
in unison, they trumpeted in unison and did the “hootchie-kootchie”
together. An accident? Not at all. They simply were practising their
act, even as a human performer would practise. And they were in
earnest! A moment later, Kas floundered in the midst of a number and
stopped, with his attention on something far more important than
acting: a wisp of hay, dropped by an animal man as he passed. His
trunk went forth to grasp the food greedily, while Mo, intent upon
his practise, continued his work. But a second later came a squeal, a
grunt, a whirling trunk which caught Kas just back of the ears and sent
him reeling dizzily. He recovered; and the fight was on, while “bull
men”, or elephant keepers, tumbled out of the animal house, while
hooks sought flesh and the two squealing, angry elephants were parted.
At last came peace and the head bull tender grinned as he passed.
“Got in a scrap over their act,” he explained. “Worse’n a ham song an’
dance team. But they’ll make up. Watch ’em.”
I watched the two hulking beasts; they were six feet tall, in spite of
their “babyhood.” For fully five minutes neither knew that the other
was on earth; each sulking, each looking in the opposite direction,
each appearing to be thinking up uncomplimentary remarks about the
other. Then gradually the air cleared. Fifteen minutes later, they were
back on the job once more, again going through the new number of their
act,—and without a trainer in sight. If that isn’t temperament!
Of course, as has been mentioned before, it is sure death to give
tobacco to an elephant. He’ll remember you for years and years, and a
few more years after that, and then, when you finally show up, proceed
to commit murder. It sounds logical.
But Kas and Mo are two of the best little tobacco chewers I know. If
you’ll feed them tobacco, they’ll remember it,—and stick out their
trunks for more. All for the reason that they like it, just as nearly
every other elephant likes it, for the licorice and sugar it contains.
The tobacco itself may be bitter, if it is chewed long enough, as is
the case with the human family. But the elephant differs. He gets only
the taste of the licorice and sugar and syrup as it goes down. And he
wants more!
For an elephant’s appetite is his most childish trait. In age he may
be at the possible time of discretion which should attend the passage
of some hundred years of growth; but in appetite, he still is a kid of
the all day sucker stage. That’s why he likes peanuts, simply because
while his leathery brow may be wrinkled and old, his stomach is blessed
with eternal youth. Give him hay, and he will look upon you as a
friend. Give him sugar cane, lollypops, marshmallows, peanuts, popcorn,
chew-w-w-wi-n-g gum an’ candy and he will love you like a flock of
brothers. And watermelon! If there is an elephant heaven, it consists
of watermelons everywhere, and not a guard in sight!
Everything goes down—just so it is sweet and gummy and of the type that
the small boy crams into his face on the way home from school. Perhaps
that is why there is such an affinity between the urchin and the
elephant. Also, there is another trait which might indicate that the
elephant, no matter what its age, is perpetually in a stage of second
childhood. It gets the colic!
“It rarely fails,” said Henry Boucher, an elephant trainer one night in
Chicago, as he strove to rescue old one hundred and twenty-five year
“Mamma” from an onslaught of colic. “Get ’em in these big towns where
the crowds are heavy, and where there’s plenty of time for the bunch to
stand in front of the elephant line, and sure as shootin’, one of the
blamed fools will show up with the colic! When it comes to sweet stuff,
they ain’t got as much sense as a two-year-old kid. Look at that blamed
old fool, now! Swelled up like a poisoned pup! And she’s the head of
the herd and supposed to have some brains!”
But Mamma was beyond the stage where she could be insulted or
reproached. Her piglike eyes were bulging, while her stomach was
bulging even more. Within that stomach was a conglomeration of peanuts,
candy, chewing gum, popcorn, gumdrops, hay, apples, bananas and
whatever else in the line of sweets had come her way; Mamma had refused
nothing, and now she was paying the penalty. Yet, as Boucher had said,
she was the head of the herd, the most sagacious, most thoughtful old
elephant of the whole thirty-ton bunch. That means a great deal.
Many a time I had seen Old Mamma stop the procession from the train to
the circus lot, that she might test the strength of a bridge before
allowing her herd to venture upon it. Carefully, slowly, one ponderous
forefoot raised, she would take every possible precaution before
allowing her weight to come upon the span, easing her tremendous bulk
upon the structure with a shrewd conception of avoirdupois that was
almost human. Nor did she move until she was certain that there came no
creak of weakness, no crackle of bending timbers. Then, just as slowly,
the other foot came forward,—and gradually she moved upon the bridge,
while the whole herd waited for her signal that all was safe.
Once, too, I was on the circus when two lions broke loose. The
elephants became panicky; they milled and circled, breaking from their
picket pins, and lunging wildly in their attempts at escape.
A shrill, trumpeting blast from Mamma and they ceased their excitement.
They waited, even as a well-trained military company awaits the command
of a superior, while their leader went to the side-wall, raised it with
her trunk, and signaled them to come on. One by one, hurrying, it is
true, but orderly, they went into the open, to be corralled by the wily
old commander, trotted across the lot to safety, and held there until
the animal men could cease capturing the lions long enough to cajole
the elephants back to the menagerie tent.
Again have I seen her with an obstreperous “rogue” chained to her side,
and seemingly aware of what it all meant. Only one thing will hold down
an elephant when it is “going bad.” That is work, work and more work.
Give Mamma that “rogue” in time, and her percentage of failures would
be few. Hour after hour would she work him, leading him to the rear of
wagons, pretending herself to push, but shunting all the labor upon
him, until, from sheer fatigue, he was ready to go back to the picket
line and be a good boy.
Yet this was the beast which lay on the ground in Chicago, bulging like
an overgrown balloon, squealing her pain, wiggling her trunk, rolling
her piglike eyes, and waiting until the attendants should arrive with
the whisky, Jamaica ginger and paregoric!
Which, one would say, was a childish thing. True, and there are many
other traits about an elephant that are equally paradoxical. We
once had an elephant whose regular, accepted job was to save the
show. His occupation in circus life was the same as that of some
strong-shouldered, slow-thinking day laborer whose mind never was above
his task, and who was paid for his muscles and not his brains. When
rain came, it was Barney for whom the lot superintendent yelped, that
the big, hulking elephant might place his gigantic forehead against
the rear end of a wagon and succeed in removing it from the mire after
twenty and even thirty horses, hook-roped to every available part of
the vehicle, had failed. He helped to unload the show in the brisk,
keen air of early morning, shunting the wagons into position for the
draft teams after the pull-up horses had brought them to the runs; and
more than once, when a switch engine wasn’t handy, I’ve seen old Barney
hitched to a freight car or two, to drag them out of the way when they
projected too far upon the team tracks, thus making the turning of the
six and eight and ten-horse teams a difficult matter as they hooked
up for the trip to the show lot. After all this was done, the bosses
magnanimously would allow him to be attached to a string of three or
four wagons, the “clean-up” of unloading, that he might drag them to
the circus grounds, clustered with every workman who desired a free
ride.
After this came the work of the show lot itself. Barney carried
“quarter poles” for the canvas men of the big top. He moved the
property wagons here, there and the other place, and “spotted” them
conveniently for the work of the performance. When the heavy,
three-ton tractor became stuck in the mud, it was old Barney who yanked
it back to solid earth. When night came, he got the wagons off the lot,
then, the cry of “mule-up!” echoing from his keeper, shambled to the
glaring lights of the circus train that he might assist in the loading.
From dawn until midnight, the constant cry was for Barney, with only
one bit of respite. That was when he accompanied the rest of the herd
into the ring for their performance.
Not that Barney did the various tricks which had been taught the
others. Far from it. The good old beast always had been too busy for
such things. But there was one stunt which had come upon him naturally,
which seemed to carry for him all the amusement and joy and recompense
necessary for his life of hard work, and that was the fact that he did
the hootchie-kootchie!
No one, about the show at least, had taught him. No one knew that he
possessed the “art” of the Egyptian dance until one day when the side
show happened to be backed up against the menagerie tent in such a way
that the squealing music which accompanied the contortions of “La Belle
Fatima” sounded directly behind the elephant picket line. As soon as
that music began surprised “bull-men” saw a peculiar glint come into
Barney’s eyes. His head began to sway, and his trunk curled high in
the air with delight. Then ponderously, one hind foot was raised and
swung far across the other, to be swept back again and planted on the
earth while the other rear hoof was jerked up into a comical sweep. It
was an elephantine interpretation of the “kootch”, danced with a verve
and spirit which few elephants possess, in spite of the fact that they
seem to take a delight in it—a “kootch” with a bit of a shimmy thrown
in for good measure—and laughing bull-tenders sought the menagerie
superintendent to tell him of Barney’s newest accomplishment.
Whether or not it was self-taught remains a mystery. For ten years
Barney had been a working elephant, nothing else. His duties were
too manifold to allow him the vacation of the parade; even in winter
quarters he was hauling hay or dragging the wagons about while the
other elephants practised their acts. He had been a working elephant
long before he came, to the show; if ever he had been trained, that
time had been at least fifteen or twenty years in the past. Yet as long
as that music lasted, just so long did Barney perform his imitation of
the dances of the streets of Cairo. And the next day, Barney went into
performance!
That was his sole stunt for a long time. He needed no cue. When the
music played, he danced. That was all there was to it. And how he
danced! Finally the head bull-man got an idea, and working with Barney
on bright days, or when the jobs about the lot were slack, taught him
to blow a huge mouth organ, so that he could furnish his own music.
However, there was only one difficulty. Barney wouldn’t stop playing!
[Illustration: KAS AND MO PRACTISING THEIR ACT. _Page 96._]
[Illustration: MOON AND SNYDER IN THE PERFORMING ARENA. _Page 114._]
He had an ear for music, that elephant! True, the only notes he could
play consisted of the general conglomeration as he blew through the
harp, then sucked in the air again, but it seemed to be enough
for Barney. Then came a night in the mud, when the poor old elephant
was squealing with fright as he sank to his belly in the mire, yet
struggled faithfully on at his task of rescue, where the men and
tractors and horses had failed.
The work was grueling. It was almost cruel. Not that Barney protested,
not that he sought to quit,—but simply through the horrible strain
of self-inflicted punishment as the big beast went from one task
to another, willingly, gladly, his muscles straining, the huge
veins standing forth about his ears like knotted cords. The lot
superintendent drew a muddy hand across his forehead.
“Wish we could let him rest!” came whole-heartedly, “but there ain’t a
chance. If he don’t work—we don’t get off this lot!”
The bull-tender frowned. He scratched his head. Then suddenly he
grinned and hurried away.
“Got an idea,” he announced, over his shoulder. “Maybe it’ll cheer him
up.”
He was gone a moment, only to slosh back through the mud, carrying
a bulky object which he held forth toward the tired, faithful, old
elephant.
“Here, Barney,” he said, “make a little music for yourself as you go
along.”
It was the mouth harp. The elephant trumpeted, then projected his
trunk. A moment more and he was working harder than ever, the big
harp curled in his proboscis, and the exhaust of his tremendous lungs
bringing from it strange, sonorous discords. But Barney liked them,
which was all that was necessary. When dawn came and the last of the
wagons was trundled off the lot, they led Barney to the elephant cars,
trotting placidly and serenely,—still blowing on his harp. After that,
the instrument became a regular accompaniment. I have seen, more than
once, in the gray light of dawn, a tremendous hulk of an elephant
pushing circus wagons about as they came from the steel runways of
the flat cars, a big mouth-harp curled in his trunk, playing his own
particular style of music as he worked!
But to return to Mamma and her colic and the paregoric. Sounds foolish,
doesn’t it—paregoric for an elephant? Or Jamaica ginger, or whiskey?
Yet it is a fact that paregoric is carried by the gallon with more than
one circus, merely to cure colic in elephants. The same once was true
of whiskey—with the exception of the fact that it came by the barrel.
Of course, that was in the days before the Eighteenth Amendment,—an
amendment, by the way, which once, at least, brought its complications
in the elephant world. And all because of the fact that Jerry, a
seventy-year-old kid, was a toper.
At the same time, Jerry had two other afflictions. One was the fact
that he was a chronic addictee of the colic. The other was that he
hated the hippopotamus.
When a circus is in winter quarters, a certain amount of laxity is
allowed among the animals. There is not the danger of panics, or
squeamish visitors, and more than once I have seen a two-year-old
lion, known to be harmless to the circus workmen, wandering about,
perfectly free and perfectly at peace with the world, being shunted
out of the way should he amble into the blacksmith shop, and often
kicked, as a big dog would be kicked, when he decided to make his bed
on the piles of canvas where the “sailors” were repairing various bits
of tenting for the summer. So it was perfectly natural that Jerry, who
was somewhat of a clown, should not be constantly picketed with the
rest of the elephants in their big cemented space at the end of the
menagerie house. The result was that Jerry spent most of his time at
the hippopotamus tank.
It was a rough life that he led for the hippo, which, you must
understand, is not the really fierce, open-mouthed thing that you see
on the circus billboards in the act of swallowing several boatloads of
scrambling Africans, but a slothful, slow-thinking water hog, with no
thought other than the warmth of his tank and a sufficiency of hay from
one day to the next.
Just why Jerry disliked him isn’t known. Perhaps it started in mere
playfulness. Perhaps too, it began at some far distant time, back
in the dim days of ancestry, for such things happen in the animal
kingdom. I once saw a young chimpanzee become hysterical with fright
when it was forced, for press-agent picture purposes, to pose on the
back of a stuffed baby elephant! The chimpanzee couldn’t forget,—and
this in spite of the fact that the baby elephant had been an object of
taxidermy for more than five years! Therefore, there is no need to seek
the reason for Jerry’s dislike. It simply existed.
All day long he would stand beside the high, steel grating which
surrounded the hippopotamus tank, waiting for the big river hog to
raise his head from the water. The minute that happened, the elephant’s
trunk would shoot forth as sinuously as a snake, and with a smacking
blow descend upon the pop-eyed, flat head of the hippo. There was
little force to the assault; it would correspond to a human slap, more
than the striking of a fist. Yet it was enough to worry that poor old
hippopotamus into a state of almost constant submersion. Hour after
hour Jerry would await his chance, while the hippopotamus would sulk
beneath water, his nostrils barely visible at a far and safe end of the
tank. Then would come a moment of forgetfulness,—but never for Jerry.
His trunk always was ready. The moment that hippo came into view, out
went that stinging, smacking slap, and the poor, persecuted old hip
would seek the depths again. Month after month it continued, then Jerry
contracted one of his usual attacks of colic.
Rather, faked it, for that was one of Jerry’s best little tricks. He
liked the remedy—whiskey—and knew that there was but one way to obtain
it. It’s comparatively easy to tell when a human being is a malingerer,
but with an animal it is different, and Jerry had all the fine points
of the colic well rehearsed. His belly would distend, his eyes pop, and
his squeals and grunts become piteous, with the result that the animal
men, rather than take the chance of neglecting an elephant which really
was ill, would pour a couple of quarts of whiskey or Jamaica ginger
down him, mark it up on the expense account, and go back to their other
work. Either suited Jerry, for each contained alcohol, and that was all
he desired. A short time after the administration of the dose, he again
would be on his feet, a bit bleary-eyed and immensely pleased with the
world, mildly intoxicated, and too happy even to bother his pet enemy,
the hippopotamus. But this time conditions were different.
In the first place, Jerry hadn’t tasted a good drink for a long while.
With the coming of prohibition, the usual barrels of whisky had
vanished. Jamaica ginger also had become scarcer, owing to an increase
in cost. The last few attempts at illness on the part of the elephant
had been met by concoctions that were bad-tasting, red-peppery and
containing but a small amount of alcohol, incidentally of but small aid
in curing elephantine colic. The stomach of an elephant seems built for
alcohol; it will respond quicker to whisky than any other remedy.
The result was that the head animal man had prevailed upon the police
department to transfer to him, for elephant medicinal purposes, a small
barrel of moonshine which had been captured in a raid and contained
more of living fire than alcohol. And it was about this time that Jerry
keeled over.
The high-proof remedy was brought forth and poured down him. Jerry
gulped, and continued to be ill. They tried it again, and Jerry got
another drink. Evidently his pachydermic mind was working fast:
drinks had been few and far between, and he intended to get as many
as possible while the supply lasted. Twice more they poured the
concoction down him. Then Jerry rose.
But it was a different Jerry. His eyes had a far-away look. There was
a sort of wavering gait to his lumbering walk, and an angular curl to
his trunk which denoted that his sense of direction was a bit awry.
For a few moments he trundled about the menagerie house, sniffing at
the hay, scratching his back against the heavy posts, and squealing
delightedly. Then his blinking eyes fastened upon the bulky form of the
hippopotamus, just coming out of his tank for an airing.
A trumpet blast, and Jerry loped across the menagerie house. He
leaned against the iron grating—and went through. A half hour later,
when sweating animal men, with ropes, chains, other elephants and
bull-hooks dragged Jerry away, the hippopotamus tank was a wreck, the
hip himself had broken away, rampaged through a double door and was
shivering in the snow of the outside yard, while the whole animal
house had gone wild. Here and there through the cat cages, sporadic
fights were breaking forth. The monkeys were squealing and shrilling
with fright. The ostriches were holding pugilistic contests; the
sacred cattle were milling and horning, and trouble was everywhere.
Let one fight start in a menagerie, and they all get the fever. Jerry
had started his fight,—and finished it; the poor old hippopotamus was
a mass of bruises, cuts and trunk marks, while Jerry, bellowing and
leering, strove his best to break away and finish the job. With a
larger elephant chained to each side of him, they dragged him to the
picket line and imprisoned him there, nor was he ever again allowed the
freedom of the animal house. What is more, Jerry now belongs to the
temperance forces,—by request. And his attacks of colic have become far
fewer, for now he receives only one half of one per cent. remedies.
Surprising that an elephant should get drunk and then attack his worst
enemy? Not at all. I have seen them do far more surprising things,
and things which would indicate that the scientist who says that an
animal cannot reason never studied elephants. When a three-ton beast
can display the fact that he knows he is committing theft, that he
must choose his time for criminality and then, the deed accomplished,
cover up his trail so that no incriminating evidence be left behind,
something beyond mere accident must be responsible. It sounds
impossible, yet it happened on the Ferrari Wild Animal show some years
ago,—and the “criminal” was an elephant.
There is only one time of the day when the menagerie tent of a circus
is deserted, and that is the hour shortly before opening time, when,
after everything has been made in readiness for the reception of
the afternoon crowds, the menagerie and candy force hurries to the
cook-house for the noonday meal. It was upon the return from this one
day that a complaint came from the menagerie candy stand. Some one had
stolen a barrel of lemonade!
“Anybody let them elephants loose?” the menagerie superintendent asked,
as the report was made to him. But no one had. The picket line then
was examined. Every elephant was in place, every chain safely about
the stake in a half-hitch. Suspicion then turned to canvas men and
“roughnecks”, who might have sneaked into the tent, stolen the contents
of the barrel, and carried the “juice” away for sale at reduced
prices to the purveyors at outside “snack stands”, those inevitable
booths which are set up about every circus by the townspeople. But
investigation along this line also resulted in failure. And the next
day the contents of another barrel disappeared!
Now was the time for action, and a guard was set during the noon hour.
Nothing happened! The next day, the guard remained, and for four days
after that. The lemonade continued to repose undisturbed in the barrel.
Then, believing that the danger had passed, the guard was removed,—with
the result that the refreshments disappeared once more, lemons, sugar
and all! This time Bill Rice, one of the managers of the show, and now
a circus owner himself, decided to stand guard, but not in the open.
Hidden behind the side wall, he took his place when the rest of the
menagerie crew departed and began his vigil. For a long time there was
not a movement, not an indication that the mystery of the disappearing
lemonade would be solved. Suddenly, however, his attention centered
upon a peculiar clanking noise which emanated from the elephant line.
There, one of the largest of the herd was working at his chain with
his trunk, raising and lowering the loose end of the chain, drawing
it forward, throwing it back; stopping to look about him in fear of
discovery, then hurrying to his work again. A moment more, and the
elephant stepped forth free, then, picking up the loose chain, so that
it would not betray him by its noise in dragging, he hurried to the
lemonade barrel, deposited the chain gently on the ground, drank the
lemonade, ate the lemons, scooped up what remaining sugar had become
deposited on the bottom of the barrel, and the job finished, once more
raised the chain and returned to his post in line. There Rice saw the
thing which made him gasp. For that elephant had curled the chain in
his trunk, and with a single deft movement had placed the “half-hitch”
upon the stake again! And even a human must take a lesson or two before
he becomes an adept in the “half-hitch!”
This is the sort of thing which gives a circus man a feeling of almost
reverence for elephants. Once in the circus business, once aware of
the strange things that the beasts will do, nothing seems impossible
for them. Perhaps the circus man gives them credit for too much brain
power. And perhaps, on the other hand, even he underestimates them. For
there are things which are not easily explained.
I have known an elephant to kill his trainer while in a rage, and then
later mourn for him, displaying all the remorse, all the evidences of
conscience that could possibly be shown by a human murderer. I have
known elephants to work with their worst enemies in performance, to
exert every possible effort to “put on a good show”, to be friendly and
even helpful with those enemies in the ring,—yet once outside the big
top, to refuse utterly to abide them. A dog, for instance, is an object
of dislike to an elephant, but he will go into performance with one and
appear absolutely satisfied. But let that dog come within his range
while he stands in the picket line!
I once saw the execution of a “killer” elephant, while visiting a small
show in South Dakota. For twenty-four hours, ever since the murder,
the brute had been a prisoner in the big elephant car, surly and sulky
and defiant. Yet when the show management ordered a switch engine to
each end of the car, when the beast’s hind legs were being fastened
to heavy, hempen ropes, leading through the opening of the rear end
of the car to one switch engine, and a steel-cable noose, attached to
the other engine, was being fashioned for his neck, that beast ceased
his angry trumpeting and sullen grumbling. Instead, a piteous note
came into his call. He curled his trunk in, and when they beat it
away with their bull-hooks, he sank to his knees and begged! What was
the explanation? Why should that elephant have ceased his defiance,
to become friendly, even piteously supplicating as they prepared for
his death? A circus man will tell you he knew that his time had come,
and knew he was begging—and begging in vain—that they spare his life!
I still can hear the cries of that elephant as the noose was placed
about his neck and the signal given to the engineers to tighten the
ropes; it was like the cry of a soul in terror! To a circus man it is
explainable. That elephant knew. Some innate sense of right and wrong
told him that he had committed a crime and that he was to be punished.
But here is a happening which even a circus man will not attempt to
explain, for it goes into something deeper, something more subtle even
than intuition:
Last year, on a western circus, Snyder, the biggest elephant of the
herd, went bad. The story of his killing has been told and retold,
for it was a dramatic affair which included even the wrecking of a
menagerie. But there is one angle which has not been touched upon:
Snyder’s whole venom that day had been centered upon another member
of the herd, Floto, whose sole offense, it seemed, was that he was
the most docile of the herd. Hard-working animal men had kept them
apart by a bulwark of elephants; to attack Floto, Snyder first must
attack in turn Mamma, and Frieda and Alice, all nearly as large as he,
all capable of giving him a good fight, and not one afraid. Snyder
seemed to understand. A few sallies, a few rebuffs in the shape of
swift-lashing trunks, and he confined himself to attempts to sneak
around the end of the herd, or to catch Floto at a moment when he was
unguarded. But this was impossible. Then came the time of execution.
The rifles were ready. Fingers were at the triggers. But humanity on
the part of the animal men demanded that first the swiftness of poison
be attempted. The heart was cut from an apple, and the space crammed
with cyanide of potassium, enough, in fact, to kill several elephants.
Then, cajoling and tempting him with the fruit, the superintendent
went as near the mad beast as possible and tossed him the poison-laden
sphere. Snyder stepped forward eagerly; he had not been fed for
twenty-four hours. He stretched his trunk to raise the fruit, sniffed
at it, stopped, and drew away. Then with a sudden movement, he grasped
it again, and whirling, tossed it over the backs of the protecting
herd, straight in front of the hated Floto. Only the swiftness of an
animal man, who darted under the elephants and seized the apple before
the greedy, slothful pachyderm in the rear could grasp it, saved the
show from the loss of a second and innocent brute.
How did Snyder learn in that brief second of sniffing that the red,
alluring apple was in reality a thing of death? And did he seize the
chance to accomplish through strategy what he could not achieve by
physical force?
You may answer the question yourself!