All around us, now, is the occult night of Egypt, and we sense that we
are in a place we have known in dreams and desires, and perhaps seen a
drawing of in some childhood's book. Before us we sense--we do not
see, so little light does the moon behind the rolling clouds give
us--an immensity of sand. In some places there are little hills; and
in others billows as of the sea, and here a rude terrace, and there a
minute cliff. Everywhere is the sand; live sand, not dead. And
westward, we know, it rolls onward like the sea, through the width of
Africa, through the Sahara, reaches Timbuktu, the secret city, and the
jungle takes up the land, and rolls to the Gold Coast, where the
Atlantic booms in great, curling surf.
And south of us is Africa, too, the crags of Abyssinia, the great belt
of Rhodesia, and the plains where Kaffirs dig for diamonds, and the
great veldts the Boers have tamed, and Table Mountain, that old
navigators know, and the cape they have called Good Hope. And
southward and eastward is the pearly haze of Madagascar.
And north of us the desert slopes away to where Alexandria was, to
where the still Mediterranean is, which has no tides, and Tyre and
Sidon flourished, that now are dead; and Carthage of the Phoenicians
was, whence black Hannibal set forth against the eagles of Rome--and
was conquered and yet lives, so great his name is. And here was the
empire of the Moors, the slim bronze people who struck Spain in a great
shattering wave, and from whom Charlemagne got glory in battle.
All these are dead now, and the moon shines over dead cities, dead
heroes, and great empires that are dead, and buried under shifting
silver sands. But the land we are in is not dead; eternal Africa,
eternal Egypt.
And where we are now, it is old, the events of history being like the
trivialities of a summer day. We sense that Egypt is older than
Mohammed, whose revelation is law there now, and older than the Little
Lord who fled hither from Palestine with Joseph and Mary, older than
the painted kings who sleep in pyramids; older than the pyramids
themselves; older than the Hebrews who helped build them; older than
Moses, who revolted and used black magic against the Pharaoh of his
time; older than the tradition of yellow shaven priests; older than
Isis and Osiris whom they worshiped with polished ritual--older, and
younger, than this; eternal.
Above our heads now there is an occasional beam of the moon, and in
front of us the plain of sand that extends to the little hillocks and
minute cliffs the wind has made. And back of us is the broad and
shallow Nile, where we hear an occasional lap of a little wave, and a
splash as of some small fish jumping. And here and there are isolated
palm-trees.
And there are no men, anywhere, but there is a sense of men. We know
there are men in the cities to the north of us, men and women dancing
in great blazing hotels, men on great liners going eastward through the
canal De Lesseps made, men south of us at camp fires in the jungle, men
west of us on caravans to Timbuktu. But here, and near here, men there
are none.
There is a pocket of clearness in the clouds for a second and the moon
shines through, and we see on the plain before us such assembly of life
as only Noah saw when he took the creatures of the world in seven by
seven and two by two, on board his great ship. In a great orderly
gathering they are there, patient, silent. The bears are there, the
brown bear, and the little black bear. And the moorland ponies, and
the deer are there, great elks with horns like sails, and the little
deer of parks, and they of the cat tribe, with sleek furs and green
eyes, and the fox with his brush, and the lanky, wide-eyed hare, and
the rabbit children do be loving. They are all gathered there.
And the kine of the field are there, patient, stupid-looking. And the
great monster of the river, the hippopotamus, and the armored creature
that has the horn on its nose. And the last of the buffaloes. And the
great springing thing of Australia that carries its young in a pouch,
it is there. And the solemn sheep.
And back of that is an infinity of little creatures, the furry little
creatures of the woods, who run when approached. They are there. All,
all are silent, patient, a little puzzled, one fancies.
In front of this gathering, forward and a little apart, is a manner of
deputation. The lion, who pads around a little, and in whose eyes
there is anger. The great black and amber tiger, who is still but for
the significant movement of the immense tail, and the elephant, that
seems like some gigantic carven thing. And the crocodile lies in the
sand, like some black sea-beaten log. And the polar bear is there with
black dots for eyes. And the horse is still as in a stall. And next
to the elephant the dog sits.
And they are all there, gathered for some occult reason, in the night
of Egypt, under the thin twilight of the clouded moon.
And another beam of moonlight comes, and we see that the Angel of the
Lord has appeared somewhence and stands before them.
As we see the Angel of the Lord, one of the illusions of our childhood
vanishes. He is not a shining figure armed with terror and majesty.
True, he has wings and a sword and a white robe, and is of stature
above mortal. But, on the other hand, he has a great red beard, and
his fingers are gnarled. There is something shy in his appearance, and
kindly. And about him there is something of disappointment. One gets
the impression that once he was a very great angel indeed, but in
latter centuries he has drifted into a sort of back-water.
If he were a man and not an angel, with his red beard and gnarled
fingers and shy ways, he might be an old-fashioned farmer who cared
more for his land than for the price of corn, and who would allow no
tractors or mechanical appliances on his place, still having faith in
the firm hands of workmen, and the strength and canniness of horses.
He is evidently embarrassed, and not quite at home, and it is easily
seen that he is more accustomed to looking at the crack in a horse's
frog, and tending sick ewes, and herding homeless dogs, than facing
emotional tension such as seems to be present.
He comes forward shyly, his brow wrinkled in an embarrassed smile. And
the dog smiles back at him, opening a laughing mouth and wagging its
tail. And the horse gives a little whinny. But the rest are silent.
The elephant regarding him with a sort of kindly contempt, and the
crocodile watching him with ophidian distrust. But the lion is warm
with anger and the tiger dangerously cold with it. The great white
bear is serious.
The Angel of the Lord speaks. His voice is soft and his speech
halting. And we have a sudden chill of horror as we recognize his
accent as Irish. Not quite Southern Irish, and not distinguishably
Northern Irish--neutral Irish.
"Well, now, this is an unusual thing, an out-of-the-way thing, I might
say.... I ... I hope I see you all well?"
There is a rustle of the little creatures back of the deputation. And
in the circle before the angel the dog is wagging his tail, and the
horse throwing up his head. But silence.
"I take it there is something on all your minds, so! Well, let you
speak up, now, and let me hear what it is. It isn't the weather:
that's elegant. And it can't be the crops. I was talking to the Angel
of the Crops last night, and devil a better season has he seen since
the night of the big wind."
He gets no answer.
"It's queer and shy you 've got all of a sudden. And why should you be
shy with me? Sure there 's never anything come between us since I was
put over you. And have n't I always been your friend? Let one of you
speak up, now. How about yourself?" He turns to the lion. "The king
of beasts, they call you. Let you be speaking, now, for the crowd."
All around us now is the occult night of Egypt. Live sand and the
little wind among the hillocks, and back of us the antique Nile. Here
first was magic. And here first the half-gods were worshiped under the
guise of beasts; of the cat and of the crocodile, and of others. And
here is the monument of the half-god, the Sphinx, that is woman and
animal, beauty and terror.
And as we listen, the beasts speak, and to our human mechanics the deep
vibrations are translated into human sounds, and the voice of the lion
is as the voice of some great one of our race speaking in anger. And
in the deep rumble we can hear thunder:
"In the place where I live by the great lake there is lately come a
man." So the lion! "He is a trading man. His legs are bandy. He is
rarely shaven. In the morning his eyes are bleary. He blinks at the
green light of dawn.
"And in the green glade where he is come he has builded a house. He
has littered the ground with mangled boughs of trees, with papers, with
tin cans which are emptied of his food. And the winds cannot clean
that place, nor the rains wash the obscenity away.
"And all day long this man sits behind his counter in the little shop
and barters with the black man, giving knives and beads and cloth for
the skins of the animals whom it is allotted to the black man to kill.
And giving him white man's liquor.
"And the white man drinks his own liquor, and when his heart is high
with it, he takes his rifle and comes to seek me--for he has to seek
me; I and all the clean things of the land avoid him, so little kin is
he to us.
"And if he kills me for his sport, my lioness will come and he will
kill her, too, and what shall become of our little tawny cubs?
"Why should this man come into our clean land, and make unbeautiful the
dells, and stalk me that he may boast to other drinking men: 'I have
killed the king of beasts'?"
"Ay! Ay!" The angel is disturbed. "He does make the place look bad.
And true for you, he does go after you. I understand. I understand
fully, but--"
And now the tiger has arisen, and his speech comes sibilant, with a
little snarl:
"They who come up the Hooghly are not unshaved but clean. They are
precise, languid men. They come for gain in the country. They do not
barter in shops, but gain comes to them. They govern, and for being
governed the brown men of India pay tribute and tax.
"And when the languid men from over the sea grow tired of governing,
they go out to seek adventure. They send out the brown Indian men on
foot to rouse me from the jungle sleep. And they follow with guns on
our brother the elephant, and when I am driven into the open, and stand
there dazed with the sun, they shoot at me from the back of our brother
the elephant.
"And was it for this I was made, given great emerald eyes, given amber
skin with great black stripes, given silken muscles, and claws like
knives, to be driven out of my warm green jungle into the blinding sun,
and be killed by languid men?"
"Well, now, you know what they say; if they did n't kill you, you 'd
kill them."
"How many have I killed, except in defense? Is it sport for me to
leave the cool, moonlit glades, and come to the hot cities to kill men?
If I want fighting, are there not the wild boar and my brother the
elephant? And if I want food, is man as succulent as the young kid?"
"Ay, there 's a lot in that. And what is your complaint?" He turned
to the great carven elephant.
"I am the wisest, the strongest, the most dignified of all. I live on
the shoots of young trees, and raid sometimes the crops, but I kill
nothing except in terror or defense. And once they sought me out in
the secret places for great ivory teeth, and there was great danger.
And it was either kill or be killed.
"And now they trap me with cunning. Now there are helot elephants
trained to decoy the brethren of the warm woods, and traps to hold us.
And when they have made us fast they starve us cruelly. And they bring
us across waters and exhibit us, and the clown and the yokel pay their
copper pennies to gaze at the wise and strong in captivity. And some
greasy man pouches the wages of our prison. Was it for this we were
made wise and kindly and strong?"
The angel is embarrassed. He looks right and left. He turns in relief
to the great white bear:
"Sure, now, what complaint can you have? There 's nobody going to
shoot at you from the back of the elephant. And there's no man going
to open a shop where you are. Begor, 't is few customers he 'd have
barring the sea-gulls. And whenever you get killed, 't is your own
fault. It's your curiosity brings you to where they can get a shot at
you. If you 'd stick around your icebergs you 'd be better off. Sure,
you lead the life of a lord's lady. What brings you here at all?"
"I come for the little seals, and our sister the whale. They cannot
walk. And they are in great trouble."
"I know. I know. Sure, my heart's just in chains for them."
"The seals huddle on the rocks with their young. They huddle and
tremble, and each sinister boat in the Arctic seas is a menace. And
the seas are wide, and the patrols are few."
"I know. I know."
"The black boats come, and the men with rifles."
"Ah, now, don't be talking! Don't I know!"
"And our sister the whale skulks in black seas--she who once greeted
the sun in the morning. And now seldom appears--who once loved to bask
like a cat. She is haunted in her own ocean until she cannot show her
steaming fountains. And as a people, she is a slender people, and will
soon die."
"A great and terrible loss, surely. Sure, I 'm trying to forget, and
you 're reminding me. And you?"
"I have no complaint," uttered the crocodile. "They rarely kill me
with guns. They seldom capture me. And there are always small black
children bathing in the Nile. And boats get upset often. I have no
complaint," he leered.
"Do you know--" the angel is severe--"I never liked you. And what use
you are on this earth is more than I can see. Do you know," he said,
"I 've half a mind to hoof you back into the river. I have so. Now,
here 's one has a complaint." He turned to the horse. But the horse
shook its head.
"No complaint, and you the hardest-worked of them all! And the rest of
these lazy devils doing nothing but lolling around in the sun. And
you, my darling?"
The dog uttered a joyous bark.
"You have no complaints, either."
"Except," the dog pleaded, "that they should n't muzzle me in the heat
of the day."
"Well, now, boys--" the angel was awkward with his hands--"I take it
you 've all got a complaint to make against man. You object, I infer,
to his shooting at you with guns, except, as he is entitled to, in
self-defense. And I take it our friend the elephant also objects to
being exhibited. On the whole, you object to the present attitude of
man. Now, what do you want me to do?"
"We want you," the lion said, "to have God make man stop attacking us."
"Well, now--" the angel shifts from one foot to the other--"well, now,
you 've touched on a very delicate situation. On all subjects, of
course, you 'll find God kind--I might say, to a degree. But the
subject of Man is just a wee bit touchy.
"God, you know, is very much interested in Man. He thinks a lot of
man, and He is very much inclined to let man have his own way.
"So whether He 'd listen to a complaint against man or not, I don't
rightly know. Personally, between me and you, I think it might be
dangerous to put it that way.
"But I 'll tell you what I 'll do. I 'll wait until some fine day when
they tell me He 's in good humor, when He's pleased about Man having
thought out some new fine scheme, or made a discovery, and then I 'll
tackle Him, nice and easy.
"Yes, I 'll take it up some day, and I 'll see what I can do. I 'm
sure if I can get Him in a good humor, I can do something. Will that
satisfy you?"
"It will not," said the animals.
"Well, then, what do you want me to do?"
"We want you," the tiger's sibilant purr came, "to go from us to God
now, to-night."
"Och! have sense! You don't know what you 're asking. I suppose you
think I 've only got to knock at the door and ask God to come out and
talk it over, and offer Him a pinch of snuff, maybe, and ask Him how
the weather 's agreeing with Him. Do you know this wee earth is only
one of a million? Of course you can't comprehend that, being only
animals and having no reason."
There is something like a snort from the elephant. The Angel of the
Lord ventures a timid glance in that direction, but says nothing. The
angel is rather in awe of the elephant, as a mother might be of a
genius child. He switches to a different point:
"Besides, I suppose you think there are only a few angels of us in
it--myself and the Angel of the Changing Seasons, and the Angel of the
Growing Crops, and the Angel of the Rivers and Streams, and the Angel
of the Five Oceans. Well, let me tell you, there's archangels, and
there's powers and dominions, and cherubim and seraphim, and God knows
what else. And there's angels you never heard of: there's the Angel of
the Progress of Education, and there 's the Angel of Economic
Conditions, and the Angel of Atomic Energy. All very clever
fellows--geniuses, you might say. And there 's the Angel of Arts and
Crafts, a sloppy-looking lad I would n't be caught talking to.
"And there 's English angels, all very superior, and Italian angels,
slick as be-damned; and Russian angels are always sighing and groaning
and drinking tea; and American angels, brisk lads would convince a
dying man he was the devil and all for strength and energy. And me
nothing but a poor sort of fellow that knows nothing but animals; you
see, I 'd better be keeping my mouth shut in that kind of assembly.
"I 'll tell you what I will do. I 'll get through my work early, and
contrive to hang around the squares and gardens of heaven, and any one
of these days the Grand Man Himself will be passing by and He 'll see
the glint of my old red whiskers, and He 'll stop the archangels and
the powers and dominions, and come over, so kindly He is."
"'Where have you been hiding yourself, Michael John?' He 'll say. 'And
how's all your care?'
"'They 're fine, Sir. They 're grand,' I 'll say. 'Sure, 't is to the
queen's taste they are--barring a wee bit of trouble that's not worth
mentioning.'
"'And, sure, what's troubling you, my poor lad?'
"''T is not worth troubling your Deity about. 'T is not so!'
"'Out with it now, Michael John!' Himself will say.
"''T is that my little people, Sir, do be worrying hard that man is
after them a bit strong, and if Yourself would just direct him to be a
wee bit easy'--and I 'll tell Him what you all say.
"Is n't that the jewel of a plan? Is n't that the great scheme
entirely?"
"We think it's rotten!" champed the crocodile.
"Well, that's all I can do," the angel told them. "If you 've got a
better plan--"
"We have decided," the lion rumbled, "that if you could do nothing, we
could. We can stalk man as he stalks us. We will not wait for him to
come out; we will descend upon him. We will lie in wait for him in the
way. I shall come to the villages with my kind and the spotted
leopards that purr like the rumbling of drums, and the striped hissing
snakes; and the rhinoceros shall lumber through the streets, and the
great river-horse shall no longer avoid his frail boats but seek them."
"And my brother the elephant will crush him beneath his terrible
knees," the tiger snarled, "and trample his little houses. And the
wild boar with tusks like knives will strike at him from the ground.
And from the jungle I will come forth with the moon, and when dawn
comes there will be wailing, if any are left to wail, and the small
winged things of the jungle will assault him night and day, and there
will be terror through the land."
"And there will be terror through the sea," the white bear prophesied.
"Our sister the whale will no longer flee but fight, and the sails of
ships will quiver and the bulwarks give. And we will push icebergs in
the paths of iron ships. The millions and millions of herring and cod
will help. And the swordfish will founder the life-boats. And out of
the gray-green depths of the sea the devil-fish will arise, his long,
seeking tentacles over the gunnels--"
"Oh, childer, childer dear!" the angel implored.
"And our cousins the birds will help us," the lion took up the litany.
"The eagle and the hawk in their strength, and even the little sparrows
in their number. They will buffet with wings, they will peck with
their sharp beaks, the innumerable folk of the air."
"And from the North," the tiger promised, "the wolves will come out
with their red eyes, their slavering fangs, and the fox will revolt,
with his teeth sharp as a dog's."
"And the things of the field will revolt," the bear went on, "the
patient kine, the sheep and goats, and the vibrations of battle will
put panic on the horse so that he will smash his traces with his hoofs,
and smash men's heads. And the turmoil will craze the dog, so that he
will attack those he loves."
"For God's sake, children dear, will you stop breaking my heart!"
"Death and terror on the land!" prophesied the lion.
"Death and terror on the sea!" promised the great white bear.
"My dears, will you let me put sense at you? Will you listen to me a
moment?" the angel pleaded. "'T is for your own sakes I ask. Will you
just listen?
"What will become of you if you do all this?
"Don't you know that man will come against you with all his weapons and
mechanical contrivances, his poison gas and his torpedoes, and wipe you
off the face of your own earth? Childer dear, you have no idea of the
terrible fellow he is at all. Myself, angel and all as I am, when I
see some of those fellows coming hell-for-leather in their motor-cars,
I leap like a hare out of their way, I do so. And oftentimes I 'm
shaking in the legs for hours after it. I don't mind telling you. He
'll kill you surely, childer dear."
"He 'll kill us anyway," fluted the elephant. "What matter to-day or
to-morrow or a century from now? We die. What of the Irish elk, with
horns like banners, so proud in his green pastures? What of the great
buffalo, lord of the plains?--where is he? If we die, let us die
together, fighting shoulder to shoulder!"
"Besides, maybe it's worse than man you 'd have."
"What is worse than man?"
"Maybe God Himself would come down against you, maybe," the angel's
voice falls to a sacred whisper; "maybe He will uncover His face!"
There is a movement of awe, or terror among the animals. The silent
multitude back of the speakers rustles like leaves. The lion speaks:
"Even that we will brave, if we cannot have justice."
For a little while they look at one another in awed tension. The
animals are frightened, the angel is frightened. One would think they
were terrified by their temerity, and were awaiting the avenging
thunder of God. The angel plucks up courage. He gives a little
nervous laugh.
"Now, here we are, my dear little people, making fools of ourselves as
usual; letting our feelings run away with us. You 'd think it was at a
political meeting you were, with you giving out manifestos and
ultimatums, and wanting to die.
"Let us get down, now, to facts. Let us examine what material we have,
and draw deductions.
"We were all agreed that we are here by the wisdom of God, and being
here in that wise, are subject to his wishes in every way. Even old
Go-by-the-ground--" he looks at the crocodile--"knows that."
"Now, from what I 've heard from the angels who are higher up,--from
them, let me tell you, that are absolutely on the inside,--God designs
to make out of man the perfect being. He intends to combine your
bravery--" he turns to the lion--"and your wisdom--" to the
elephant--"with your beauty"; he is addressing the tiger.
"What about me?" champs the crocodile.
"Och, be damned to you! Man," he goes on didactically, "is essentially
a creature of progress. He is the only being that builds houses--"
From the background comes a shrill squeak from the beaver.
"I mean houses with rooms--"
There is the angry droning of bees.
"What I mean is this: houses with fireplaces and pots and pans and what
not. None of us will deny," he finishes lamely, "the enormous progress
of man."
"I deny it," the lion stormed. "Can I forget the great black armies of
the South, the glistening men with the silver armlets and the short
keen spears? Not even of me were they afraid, those! Their drums
resounded through veldt and plain, They asked only of the earth what
they needed for their good. And when they hunted they hunted fair.
They matched their strength against our speed. And their knowledge
against our knowledge. And at night they sang and they danced beneath
the moon.
"And now they are farm servants to the men who come overseas. They are
not clean, as they once were. Their bodies that once were naked and
glistening are caked with mud and covered with rags. And some of them
are driven into the bowels of the earth, and the sunlight and the
moonlight they were born to is kept from them. And they dig diamonds
for men who are not satisfied with the luster of stars. And they who
once fought me in the open with a spear now skulk with a gun."
"I remember an India that was," the tiger snarled, "a land of rajahs
and temples, of brown dancing girls and men who played little flutes.
They grew the green sugar-cane, and cotton they might spin on great
wooden wheels. And their smiths hammered brass into strange antique
shapes. And they worshiped God with singing and dancing in cool
temples.
"What are the rajahs now, that once were the wonder of the earth, but
little helot princes? And the ranees--the cinnamon-colored queens with
the minute silver bells upon their bud-like toes--but despised native
women? Are the bazaars filled with the quaint work of smiths? No, but
with the meretricious trinkets of the West. And black-coated men seek
to turn them from native immemorial gods. And the machine that throws
pictures the mummers make, fights against the music and the dancing and
the temple bells.
"The beauty I stand for is passing away."
"In Burma, whence I come," said the elephant, "there are jungles deeper
than the jungle of Africa, or the Indian jungles. Great mossy trees,
and painted flowers, and great brown rivers rolling to the sea. And
the men there are beautiful as women, and the women beautiful as
flowers.
"And once they paddled down the great brown river in glistening black
canoes. They wore great gaudy sashes and had a flower in their teeth
or a flower in their hair. Under the shadow of the great trees they
paddled. And when they saw me they made reverence, saying, 'Our lord,
the elephant!' On little reeds they made sweet, plaintive music.
"And now the great ancient trees are being cut down, and floated on the
bosom of the hurt brown rivers. And the peace of the jungle is
disturbed with the cough of the motor-boat, and oil is heavy on the
warm jungle smells. And the men, beautiful as women, are clothed in
soiled white garments; the rounded child-like bodies of the brown women
chafe under a huddle of clothes. And when I am observed, the white man
asks, demands, the help of the little brown men to hunt me, to whom
they once did reverence, and I seem to hear no more sweet, plaintive
music.
"From the quiet river I have seen the painted barges of the Pharaohs
move along under the sweeps of the negro slaves. Color and majesty and
dignity. And the shaven priests chanted their litanies at the change
of the moon. And from the Sahara the desert tribes brought tribute and
treasure to Egypt, the men with the white horses and the black tents.
And the nodding dromedaries and camels and their tinkling bells. And
the kings raised their pyramids, and the multitude of men like ants
listened at sunrise to the great masonic prayer. And they left the
Sphinx to denote their mystery. And Cleopatra, who was Lilith reborn,
played with Rome for a doll.
"All these things have I seen: the magic of great Moses, and the flight
of the Little God of Galilee; the perfumed Pharaohs; the sinister
yellow priests; the gnarled masons at their secret prayers; and
Cleopatra brown as a berry, magnificent as jewels, venomous as a snake;
and the sculptor at work on the Sphinx.
"And now tourists unwrap the great kings, and hucksters chaffer where
once the trains of the prince-merchants of Tyre passed, and we shall
never see a Cleopatra any more.
"But I am not complaining. Men do not swim as well as in the elder
days, nor handle a boat as surely."
"I know nothing of painted Pharaohs," said the great white bear, "nor
anything of Indian queens. In the North are neither kings nor masons,
but day and night and ice, and a little people. In summer is the great
sun, white light, and grass that is green for a little, and the thunder
of breaking bergs, and in winter no sun but the flaming aurora and the
white illimitable miles!
"And the swarthy little people were happy then. In the long nights
they sang, and they bowed to the gods in boulder and stream, and set
out in the little kayaks on the Arctic seas to hunt the great solemn
walrus, or they set off in sledges through the pathless wastes. They
were a brave people, a healthy people.
"And came the boats hunting our sister the whale, and the whales taught
the little swarthy people progress, and everywhere now they are cunning
and degraded and crusted with sin, and a great plague makes them spit
blood, and waste to nothingness, and die."
They all looked at the horse, but the horse was silent.
"Look back in the folds of your memory," the lion prompted. "Look back
well! Can you not remember the great races in the Roman circus?
Listen a little! Can you not hear the trumpets of Agincourt?"
"And you, little brother--" the bear swung his ponderous head toward
the dog--"was there not a time when you lay before a fire in a
rush-strewn hall? And now the houses are too little. They tell me--I
do not know. And did you not once run barking joyously beside man on
his horse? And now horses are out of fashion, are they not, little
comrade? And the cars are too fast for your short legs."
There is another silence, and the angel looks at them piteously.
"I wish to my God I had some of them clever fellows here could argue
with you. I never was much good in an argument, anyway, never having
had the education. But let me tell you there 's angels could prove to
you you 're all wrong. I wish they 'd come here and talk to you, but I
don't suppose they 'd care much about us and our wee affairs. But--but
how about music," he hazarded, "and poetry? Ay, and poetry."
"As to music--" the elephant threw up his trunk in a sneer--"what music
can he make comparable to the birds of summer--the sun going down, and
each bird with its separate song, blending into a gently-colored
symphony, and the chime of the waves with it, and the rustle of the
branches in the sundown breeze?"
"Ay, but poetry."
"It will need poetry," thundered the lion, "more poetry than can be
ever written, to equalize the making ugly of earth. The great cliffs
shamed by mean houses, and the splendid glades ruined that a train may
pass. And the mouths of rivers spoiled by the slag of mills. And
great noble trees hacked down. How many an epic to pay for a great
forest dying, shepherd? How many a lyric for a tree where little
trusting birds had their home?"
The angel throws out his hands abruptly.
"You have me," he says. "You have me!"
He braces with decision, rises to his full height, and suddenly there
is nobleness.
"Well, which is it to be?" he asked. "Will you follow my plan, or do
you insist I go immediately?"
"We insist."
He pauses an instant.
"Very well. I 'll go," he says. "I 'll go."
He looks all around the gathering. In spite of his decision, and his
bracing, there is a great emotion brewing in him.
"Now, before I go, let me tell some of you something. Do you,
Philip--" he turns to the bear--"be getting back North as fast as you
can. You poor fellow, you must be murdered with the heat entirely, and
you with the Arctic furs on. You 'll catch your death here. And as
for you," he warns the crocodile, "don't be obstinate, there 's a good
fellow! Keep to the water, and you 'll be all right. It's only when
you get out, they can get after you. And my little friends the
beavers--where are they? Childer, can you hear me?"
"But what's all this about?" asks the elephant.
"It's just for fear I 'm not coming back."
"But why aren't you coming back?" the lion growls.
"Och, it's just a notion. Are the beavers there at all, at all?"
"No, just a moment!" The tiger is on his feet. "I want to hear more
of this. What do you mean by notion? You aren't thinking of leaving
us?"
There is a quick commotion, a little shudder among all the animals in
the background.
"Well, now--" the angel is embarrassed--"it's a hard errand I have
before me, and what will be at the end of the chapter no one knows. I
to be arguing with the Great Man, and demanding your rights, and He to
be losing His temper with me--there 's no knowing. So to be on the
safe side, I 'll just say good-by to you now. Many 's the pleasant
hour we 've known and springtime coming, and many's the little day we
've spent together and winter roaring through the chilly air."
"But He never loses His temper, does he? He 's always mild."
"Oh, childer dear, ye little know! You all know the Black Man, and
when you get the cold wind of his coming you scurry away. He was an
angel once, the greatest of them all. Lucifer, they called him, so I
've heard old angels say, and the Hebrew or something for Him who does
be bearing light, such a gorgeous angel he was. But one day he and
some of his lads began to argue with the Great Man, and before the
words were half out of their mouths they were tumbling through the blue
spaces of the stars, condemned to eternal hell-fire. Sure, you see
them yourselves on Hallowe'en, and them roaring up and down the world,
and screeching fit to split the sky."
A moan of terror ran through the massed animals. The dog raised his
head and howled.
"And the wee half-god we all know, him with the horns of the goat, that
does the piping in the valleys of spring--sure, he was an angel once.
But something went contrary on him, and now he dare n't show his face
on heaven or earth, but hides in the branches as wild as a squirrel."
And a little shudder of pity arose.
"Ay, and there was others. There was a crowd of reckless fellows in
the days before the flood--or after it; I don't know which--and they
came from heaven to court the daughters of men, such grand women they
had in those days. And the Lord God heard of it, and He stood up and
looked at them, and he said just one word. They 've never been heard
of since. One minute they were there, and the next was emptiness.
"Mind you, I 'm not saying anything like that will happen to me, for
Himself has always been kindness to me. It's always 'How are you,
Michael John?' and 'Don't you ever take a rest at all?' and 'Sometime I
'll have to take a day and come down and see yourself and the wee
ones!' But just, if I don't come back, don't think I 've taken a
better job. Sure, I 'd never desert you, my wee darlings. It's just
maybe I 'm getting a wee bit of discipline."
"I think--" the elephant seemed husky in the throat--"your own plan
might be best--to wait for an opportunity and just suggest."
"Better say nothing at all," growled the lion.
"No, childer dear; I 'd better just go ahead. I will confess it was
timid of me not to go in the first place. It was thinking of my old
skin I was, and I should be ashamed of myself. Sure, there 's no
disgrace in asking for fair play, and you 've been sorely tried. I 'll
go."
"No, no, no!" wailed the animals.
"No, your own plan was wise," the elephant insisted. "If anything
happened to you, what would become of us?"
"Yes, what would become of us?" the little ones wailed.
"Do you honestly think my own plan's wiser? You 're not saying that to
save me from trouble?"
"We're not," the lion said. And "Of course not," added the tiger.
"Just slip in a word when you can," from the elephant.
"Honestly, now, it would be best." The angel was relieved. "I can
talk about your loyalty; and, sure, I can remind him of the kine that
gave shelter to the Wee Relative in Bethlehem, and the donkey that was
proud to carry His weight; and I 'll remind Him, too, that I 've never
asked a favor yet, and if He could just see His way--"
"Well," the elephant thought aloud, "I 've got to be getting back to
Burma."
"I 'm going your way," said the tiger.
"There 's nothing to keep me up further," said the lion.
"I 'm very much obliged to you all--" the angel was abashed with
emotion--"for not insisting. And it's lucky I am," said he, "to have
decent beasts to deal with and not man. For man would have insisted I
'd go, and not given a tinker's curse what would have happened me."
"Ay, man!" sneers the great white bear.
"For God's sake Philip, will you be getting home out of this, before I
have you sick on my hands! And as for you, Go-by-the-Ground, get back
to the river or I 'll sink my foot in your tail. Go on now! Be off
with you!"
There is a _shuff-shuff-shuff_ over the sand as the beasts scatter,
going east, north, west, and south. The angel stands watching them as
they go. Only the horse and the dog remain, the horse nudges him on
the shoulder with its mouth, the dog puts a cold nose into his hand.
"Och, my darlings!"