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Title: The Heart of the Wild
       Nature Studies from Near and Far


Author: S. L. (Samuel Levy) Bensusan



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Language: English

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[Illustration: GOLDEN EAGLE [Photo by C. Reid]]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE HEART OF THE WILD

Nature Studies from Near and Far

by

S. L. BENSUSAN

Author of "A Countryside Chronicle," "Wild Life Stories,"
"Morocco," etc.

Illustrated with Actual Wild Life Photographs







London: John Milne
1908

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                PREFACE

                TO SIR ROBERT HAY DRUMMOND-HAY, C.M.G.,
                               ETC., ETC.

DEAR SIR ROBERT,

I have but one regret in offering to you and to some small section of
lovers of wild life this bundle of stories, a regret that for the most
part they end with the violent death of the bird or beast whose
life-story is set out. One of my friendliest and most charming critics,
whom I would not willingly hurt or offend, told me lately that she will
read no more of my stories of bird and beast unless I promise to make
them end happily. I quoted Omar the Tentmaker in extenuation, and
pointed out that if we could shatter the sorry scheme of things and
remould it "nearer to the hearts desire" the lion and the lamb would lie
down side by side and the big game shooter would confine his skill to
the target. Then I added that for the time being the battle is to the
strong, and the explosive bullet and the hammerless ejector are to the
sportsman, but from the depth of a twelve year knowledge of the world
and a deep love of the life that is entrusted to our care, she turned
away declaring in great distress that I am "very horrid". Certainly I
was greatly abashed, even though I could not wish her to read this book.

You, no unworthy son of one who was a mighty hunter before the Lord,
know that these stories are true in substance if not in form, and that
such cruelty as is set out in its proper place is of the kind that man
has dealt in some way or another to the brute creation since the dim
far-off days when first he learned to fashion hatchet and spear and
knife. His excuse has passed, but the old-time savagery lingers. I have
done no more than set down what I have seen, though I have gifted bird
and beast with an intelligence they are not allowed to possess. You at
least will grant that there is some foundation for my lapse from the
grace in which serious naturalists thrive even to the second and third
edition of volumes that become works of reference to those who refuse to
admit imagination to their councils. You have seen much of the strange
camaraderie that exists in the African forest and on the heather-clad
hills of your native land, and you know that the philosophy of the
orthodox professor has not yet fashioned even in dreams all the wonders
of life in the heavens above and on the earth beneath and in the waters
under the earth. I am presumptuous enough to think that those of us who
have camped out under the canopy of the stars in the world's waste
places, and have followed the track for days and nights together, not
without privation, have caught glimpses of an order and union in the
wild life around us that will some day be recognised and investigated by
those who speak and write with more authority than I have even the
ambition to command. I must even confess, with all due humility, that I
am beyond the reach of rebuke for my attitude towards bird and beast so
long as it does not come from those, like yourself, whose experience of
the fauna and avi-fauna of North Africa, Southern Europe and the
Scottish Highlands is greater than my own.

                                                         S. L. BENSUSAN.

GREAT EASTON,
  DUNMOW,
    October, 1908.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                CONTENTS

                          THE GOLDEN EAGLE
                          THE BADGER
                          THE CAMEL
                          THE RED GROUSE
                          THE ROEBUCK
                          THE WATER-RAT
                          THE FLAMINGO
                          HOB, THE FERRET
                          THE FIGHTING BULL
                          THE CUCKOO
                          THE SEAL
                          THE GIRAFFE
                          THE WHITE STORK
                          THE WILD BOAR
                          THE STORY OF A SLAVE

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

     GOLDEN EAGLE
     BADGER
     RED GROUSE
     WATER-RAT
     FERRET
     YOUNG CUCKOO
     A TWO DAYS' OLD CUCKOO EJECTING A YOUNG TITLARK FROM ITS NEST
     WILD BOAR

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         THE HEART OF THE WILD




                            THE GOLDEN EAGLE


It is not easy to explain how the Red Fox and the Golden Eagle came to
be friends. Perhaps there were hours in the months of his extreme
loneliness when the great bird was pleased to unbend, and the fox was
the only living creature that was neither to be eaten nor feared. Then
they were near neighbours. From the rocky ledge upon which the eagle's
eyrie was set you could throw a stone to the fox earth. The Golden
Eagle, king of the air and monarch of all the wild life he surveyed,
could well afford to feel generously disposed to the fox in this wild
highland country, for poor Reynard by no means cut the gallant figure of
his brethren in Leicestershire and other homes of grass land. He went
dejected and lived poorly, liable to be shot on sight, no more than
vermin in the eyes of gamekeepers and foresters.

It was early morning, from his vantage-ground the King of the Air
surveyed his splendid hunting grounds. All round as far as the eye could
see there were hills, the heather that covered their lower sides glowed
faintly in the morning light. The air had a nipping freshness that
dwellers in town cannot imagine. Even the fox appreciated it, though he
had been on the prowl all night. He was preparing to sleep, and only
kept one eye open to watch his patron.

The golden eagle stood erect, his keen eyes piercing the distance from
Ben Hope to Ben Hiel and south to the valleys that ended with Ben Loyal.
It was his territory, bird and beast paid him tribute over all the land
his far-seeing eye could reach, even to the distant sea. Then the joy of
morning and of power came to him. He flapped his wings and screamed, the
sound of his triumph echoed among the hills.

"Good-morning, my lord," said the fox obsequiously.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" replied the eagle with good-natured contempt.
"Don't you wish you could fly on a morning like this?" Once again he
flapped his wings that must have measured six feet from tip to tip, and
the rising light caught the orange-coloured feathers that lay sharp and
pointed along his neck, gilded the yellow cere at the base of bill, and
set the gold iris of his deep-set eyes aflame. Even the fox found his
fear mingled with admiration when he looked from the black claws to the
bill that was straight at base and hooked at the point, a weapon that
could tear life out of any wild thing that lived in the Highlands.

In the sun the deep brown feathers of the eagle's body were turned to
purple, the muscles stood out like whipcord on the yellow legs feathered
to the toes. Those talons, nearly three inches long, could catch and
kill any game bird in the Highlands, from the capercailzie that lives
among the dark woods upon the shoots of the larch and pine, down to the
ptarmigan of the barren hill-tops, or his red cousin of the heather and
ling.

"It is so fine that I must enjoy the view before I start," continued the
eagle. "I suppose you supped late?"

"Yes, my lord," replied the fox nervously, "I found a couple of
dead----"

"Faugh!" interrupted the eagle in great disgust. "Carrion: I can't enjoy
anything that I haven't struck down for myself. Sometimes, when the snow
is on the ground, and I have flown some hundreds of miles in search of a
dinner, I may have to content myself with a stillborn lamb, or even with
frozen birds, but I couldn't make a rule of it, or ever thrive on such
fare."

"Do you fly for hundreds of miles literally and truly?" asked the
astonished fox. "Why, if I go over ten miles of ground, in the spring
for example, I expect my vixen to say quite a number of flattering
things; and in the winter, when I'm living solitary, I would never think
of going so far as that unless I were starving."

"My speed is about one hundred miles an hour," said the eagle solemnly,
"and I can increase it for a short distance. And now I'll bid you
good-morning." He gave another wild exultant cry and flung himself into
space. Before the fox could open the other eye, the bird was a speck of
brown without definite shape, rapidly disappearing.

"Well, well," soliloquised the fox, "if I can't fly, I don't have to
travel hundreds of miles to find a meal." So saying, he retired to his
earth.

But the Golden Eagle had not far to fly on this occasion. For the first
few moments he soared higher and higher, rejoicing in the vast spaces of
the sky, in the illimitable freedom of life, in the caress of the
morning. Only when the ecstasy had passed did he look below, far below,
where men and beasts live cribbed, cabined and confined to the surface
of mother earth. Below the hill-tops, where the ptarmigan in their
winter garb were invisible even to his keen eyes amid the surrounding
snow, past long ranges of moor where fur and feather lay low amid the
heather in an agony of apprehension, he saw a great blackcock sunning
himself on a rock by the side of a plantation of Scotch firs. The guns
had all gone south, the artful bird had baffled them time and again,
though some of his brothers, and his sister the grey hen, had gone to
bag. Now, careless of danger, the bronze-plumaged bird sat sunning
himself in the sunlight, spreading his handsome white tail feathers and
thinking of the days that were not far away when he would do battle with
his brethren for the grey hens. Around him fur and feather crouched low
and shut eyes; little birds that had come down from the high lying moors
checked their song, a shadow seemed to drop across the wintry sun. Too
late the blackcock looked up, saw his terrible enemy literally dropping
upon him, saw the huge wings and the tail feathers open like a fan to
break the impending fall, was conscious of a sudden blow--and knew no
more. In a moment the Golden Eagle's talons had pierced the blackcock to
the heart, and all that remained on the rock was a handful of bronze
feathers, as the captor rose with a shrill cry of triumph. He made
straight for a bare rock some mile or more away, and then with one foot
upon the dead bird he plucked it rapidly with his beak, scattering the
feathers on all sides. This done, he tore the skin open and feasted
ravenously on the still warm flesh.

His meal over, he preened himself, and with sudden movement rose from
the rock and resumed his flight, still hungry. This time he went in the
direction of the moorland, and instead of floating over it at a great
height travelled low, as though he had been an owl. The place was
solitary at all times, undrained and seldom shot, and he knew it for a
place where white hares might be found. Nor was he disappointed, for he
started one unfortunate puss, and laughing at her feverish attempts to
escape, dropped heavily upon her. In that moment the poor hare screamed
and died. The terrible talons had gone right through her lungs, and at
the same instant the curved beak delivered a stunning blow upon her
head. Looking hastily round, the eagle saw a piece of high flat ground
by the side of a wood, and rose in flight towards it, carrying his prey
in his talons without any apparent effort. But as he lifted it, and
before he had put the dead hare in the best position for his attack, two
ravens came suddenly from a neighbouring corrie and flew screaming
towards him, calling him all manner of insulting names for daring to
poach on their preserves. Without waiting to argue with them, he gripped
the hare again and flew away, followed for a long distance by the black,
angry birds, whose language will not bear repetition. Finally they tired
of pursuit, or perhaps remembered that he might lose command of his
temper and turn upon them. But to do that with any effect he must have
dropped the hare, and they knew well enough that he would be by no means
anxious to do that. So they abused him until they were tired, and then
returned to their corrie, feeling certain that their reputation would be
enhanced by what had taken place.

Then the Golden Eagle sought another rock, and devoured the hare at his
leisure--very angrily withal, for he hated being made ridiculous by
contemptible eaters of carrion like ravens. But the rich repast
comforted him, and when he left the rock and ascended high in air, it
was to seek a river or loch. That was soon found, and he dropped slowly
by its edge, with more grace and less force than he had used when
falling upon the blackcock. His wings and tail were spread sooner than
before, and he came to anchor as a fine sailing yacht might come to rest
with all her canvas fluttering down. By the edge of the loch he washed
with great care, removing the bloodstains from talons, beak and cere,
but he did not drink. Thirst seldom troubled him.

His hunger satiated at last, and there being no little ones to provide
for, the Golden Eagle rose high, and sailed in leisurely fashion for
miles, keeping a watchful eye on the earth, where he saw fear-stricken
birds and beasts seeking what shelter the land afforded. But he was not
hungry enough to take anything that offered, and preferred to wait until
some dainty morsel was put directly in his way. And it happened that a
red grouse, hit in the wing during the last drive of the season, was to
be seen fluttering vainly over the moorland, and the eagle fell on this
unfortunate, bringing the gift of instant death. Perhaps he was
unintentionally kind. Not being hungry, he was content to eat the dainty
parts that pleased him best, and leave the rest for fox or stoat, or any
vermin that might come along. Once again he washed with scrupulous care,
and then, rising high, turned in the direction of home. He was many
miles away, but before the widespread sweep of his wings miles
disappeared, and the thirty or forty that he had covered took less than
half an hour to race through. With his familiar scream of triumph he
lighted on his home rock, surveyed the world, and knew that it was good.

The fox had had a very long nap. He, too, had washed in his own
half-hearted fashion, and was preparing for his evening prowl.

"I hope you have had a good day, my lord," he said rather anxiously. He
had a vague fear that the hour might come when a succession of bad days
would make the great bird too careless or too hungry to regard foxes
with his present indifference.

"I've done very well, thank you," replied the Golden Eagle with the
graciousness born of a full meal. "Good luck to your hunting." So saying
he stretched himself to his fullest extent, then gradually drew his
feathers closely together, allowed the bright eyes that had never winked
at December's sun to close, and the alert, vigorous head to sink slowly
down. And so he slept.

He had but one care. His mate, who had built and lived with him for five
long years, had disappeared a month before, and he could find no trace
of her. In vain he had travelled as far as Caithness on the east, and to
Foula among the Shetlands in the north, and down south as far as
Perthshire, screaming the old love-cry as he went that she might hear
and answer him. She had left the eyrie as usual one morning; they never
hunted together, and he had not seen her again. Nor would he, for she
had failed to find food and had been tempted by carrion. The carrion--a
dead chicken--covered a steel fox-trap, and though, in her frenzied
fight for liberty, she had torn the controlling staple from the ground,
a keeper had passed within shot before she could get clear of the wood,
and now her skin was being stuffed by a Perth taxidermist, and she would
presently appear under a glass case in the hall of the shooting lodge by
the loch side.

One day differed only from another by reason of the success or failure
of its hunting. If rabbits and grouse--red, black, or white--were
plentiful, the Golden Eagle sought no other food and returned to his
eyrie at peace with all the world. But there were days in the winter
season when nothing was to be found, or more often still when the quarry
got to cover, and then the eagle would come home screaming with rage,
and the red fox would slink to his earth and remain until he was well
assured that the great bird was asleep.

Towards January's end the Golden Eagle fasted for two days, and on the
third rose in the air, feeling strangely weak and ill at ease. Happily
the mist, that had been lying all over the land and had helped to keep
him hungry, was growing thin and yielding altogether in places where the
sun struck boldly at it. So the bird winged his way to one of the
wildest forests in Sutherlandshire, a place seldom disturbed for nine
months out of the twelve. The last stalker had left with October, the
monarchs of the herd had long ceased from "belling" and had been forced
to the lowlands and the root-crop fields by the stress of severe
weather. With keen eyes, and a rage born of hunger in his heart, the
Golden Eagle saw a small herd of young stags and hinds disappear into a
wood where he could not hope to follow them, and then he skirted a few
corries and came to a wild glen where rocks lay strewn haphazard as
though there had been a battle of giants there in the days of old. But
the eagle only saw one rock--a high one standing at the brow of the glen
and bathed in sudden sunshine. A young fawn not a year old had left its
herd and was basking in the light. With a scream of triumph the Golden
Eagle swooped down upon the luckless little animal, drove the cruel
talons deep into its back, and buffeted its head with his heavy wings.
Dazed by the suddenness of the attack and blinded by the blows from the
bird's strong pinions, the poor fawn staggered to the edge of the rock,
the eagle released his grip, and his victim fell headlong on to a rock
below, striking it with a force that broke its neck and ended its
sufferings.

The dead body was too heavy for the bird to carry off, so he stayed by
its side and tore and ate ravenously, until all the hunger that troubled
him was forgotten. It was a very difficult task to rise from the heavy
meal, but he made way at once to the nearest stream in order to wash in
the icy water, and only then turned heavily towards home, feeling very
little inclined after the long fast and the heavy meal to move in any
but leisurely fashion. But he had to forget his inclinations. Two large
peregrine falcons spied their rival a long way off, and seeing that he
was not in a fit state to face their onslaught, made a furious attack
upon him. Could he have reached either of them it would have gone hard
with the one caught; but he was like a merchantman pursued by a couple
of fast cruisers, and while they could turn and twist and use their
wings in any direction they fancied, he had to follow a steady course,
and content himself with uttering threats of what he would do if he
caught one of them then or thereafter. When at last, having done all it
was safe to do without getting quite within reach of the terrible beak
or talons, the falcons flew screaming to their homes, the eagle was left
with a very bad indigestion. Had he been carrying his food in his talons
he must have dropped it, and the swift enemies would have caught it in
the air and made off beyond hope of recovery, for they could cover three
miles to his two.

Doubtless the crows and other eaters of carrion would soon leave nothing
of the carcase from which he had torn his meal.

Shortly after this day, a touch of mildness that seemed a forerunner of
spring came to the Highlands, and the Golden Eagle took a sudden flight
to the north-east. He passed beyond the limits of the land and the home
of the sea eagles, and moved swiftly in the direction of the desolate
island of Foula, beyond the larger group of the Shetlands. And on the
following day he turned to the south again, but not alone, his new mate
came with him, a beautiful creature, larger, heavier and even more
fierce than he. She had come from Norway to Foula Island, and consented
gladly enough to share his home in the wild hills of Sutherlandshire.

Through the slowly lengthening days of February the two eagles, while
hunting independently, worked together to restore the nest on the rock.
It was a very big and rough affair, six feet across at the base, built
of sticks taken from the Scotch fir and the larch and the thick twigs of
heather. Inside it was soft with grass and fern and mosses, and when it
was complete the mother eagle laid three eggs, each three inches long
and nearly as big round the broader end. They were purple, with
red-brown blotches and streaks of yellow and black. It was March before
the first egg was laid, and as the other two came at intervals of
several days, the first nestling came before the other eggs were
hatched. He was an ugly little fellow with big mouth, staring eyes, and
grey down in place of feathers.

Then the other two nestlings made their appearance, and the fox, whose
vixen had given him a litter of cubs, was more uneasy than ever. It was
apparently impossible to satisfy the appetite of the eaglets. The father
and mother birds thought less for the time being of their own wants than
of the requirements of their babies. For miles round all the weaklings
and cripples among the game birds were destroyed, and one afternoon the
mother eagle came to the eyrie with a young lamb in her claws. She had
snatched the new-born creature from the hill-side, and would have been
delighted to feed regularly on lamb, but the shepherd had seen her, and
when she paid her next visit to the hills on the following morning he
was waiting with a shot-gun. Anxiety made him fire too soon, a handful
of feathers came fluttering down, and the mother eagle received a couple
of pellets in her side and several through the outer edge of the
primaries of one wing. Thereafter she left the lambs alone. Her alarm
was the greater because she had never heard a gun before, and the shock
of the charge, though well-nigh spent before it reached her, was very
severe.

"What fools these men are," said the Golden Eagle angrily to the Red Fox
some days after the accident to his mate, "they grudge us the food for
our little ones. And yet if they had but the wit to understand, we serve
their purposes as well as our own. The strong birds and beasts that are
useful in the world can get away from us, the weak ones are taken. But
if they were not taken they would soon spoil the race. Why, I have taken
hundreds of crippled birds from these moors and valleys since men began
to shoot in these parts."

"Do you remember the place before shooting began?" asked the fox in
great wonderment.

"Not perhaps before the gun began to be used," replied the eagle, "but
my memory goes back to times when there was very little shooting indeed.
The moors were all undrained, the forests were sheep farms for the most
part, and the deer were not preserved. The Highland boys used to load
their old guns with slugs and black powder pushed in with a ramrod, and
would wait at the springs for the deer, and if they shot one would salt
it for winter eating. Then the lairds were poor men, and shared their
deer with the poachers. I was a young bird in those days, though I shall
never be old. The eagle renews his youth, and I expect to record a
hundred years. Now I must be off, here comes my mate."

The mother bird was a black speck in the distance, but her mate's loving
eye could find her out, and he sailed away to meet her as she came
heavily towards the nest, a young pig in her claws. She found a
farmhouse, and dropped on to the pig-sty, where mother sow had presented
her owners with a litter of seven. Six had managed to get within cover,
the seventh, a weakly little animal, had paid the penalty, and was
already pork. The farmer's wife had seen the outrage, but her husband
and sons were working on another part of the land and could not be
reached. So the eaglets had a splendid meal of sucking-pig, and there
was enough for the parents too.

In a few weeks the down on the eaglets' bodies had turned to feathers,
and they were completely fledged, handsome birds, like their parents in
all respects save that they had a white ring on the tail feathers. One
morning after they had learned to fly and were beginning to enjoy the
exercise, the Golden Eagle addressed them seriously.

He and his mate had just come from the farmhouse where they had
surprised a couple of hens.

"Look here, my children," he said as he plucked one dead fowl with
wonderful rapidity, "eat well to-day, for from to-morrow you will have
yourselves to look after." His children eyed him curiously, so did the
Red Fox who sat solemnly outside his lair. "I mean it," continued the
Golden Eagle seriously. "You will hunt for yourselves after to-day, and
if you come poaching on the hunting-grounds of your mother and myself
there will be trouble and you will be in the midst of it. Down to now we
have raised and fed you, your wants have been our worry, but now that
time is up, and after to-day you are no more to us than if you didn't
exist. We don't want to see you again, and if you are wise you will take
care that we don't." And on the following morning the young eaglets
departed, flew some way together, and then chose their respective
kingdoms.

They did not thrive, and of the three only one reached maturity. The
first lighted on a stoat in a ditch and could not strike it with the
sharp talons before the angry little beast had jumped at its throat and
bitten through the external jugular vein. Another, not heeding his
parents' warnings, set out for the farm whence the sucking-pig had come
and was shot. But the parent birds remained together in their eyrie and
knew no trouble save when storms were brewing. They could see storms
rising out of the Atlantic, and when one was on the way to their beloved
hills they would grow nervous and restless and fill the air with their
screams.

August came round and the Golden Eagle's joy of life knew no bounds.
Never had the moors been so full of delicious red grouse, never before
in all his long life had he fed so well.

One afternoon he sat on a rock at the head of a wild corrie. Below him
went the stalker and his master, two hundred yards away and quite
invisible.

"A fine day, Donald," said the sportsman; "my best achievement since I
came to the Highlands." To be sure he was only a Sassenach, but he had
shot a grouse, and caught a salmon in the morning, and an hour ago,
after a long stalk, he had grassed a ten-pointer that was on its way to
the lodge strapped to a pony's back.

"Best kill that de'il yonder," grumbled Donald, taking a huge pinch of
snuff preparatory to launching into a long account of the Golden Eagle's
misdeeds.

Some unaccountable impulse brought the eagle to his wings. Ignorant of
his danger, he floated lazily down the valley until the barrel of a
mannlicher rifle gleaming from below caught his quick eye. He seemed to
see right into it. As though conscious of imminent danger, he screamed
defiance and rose higher with loud flapping of his heavy wings. The
rifle cracked....

"How terribly the Mother Eagle has been screaming," said the Red Fox to
himself as he made cautious way down the hill that night. "Thank
goodness she has gone to sleep at last. My nerves were giving out."




                               THE BADGER


Even the residents hardly knew the part of the forest that the badger
called his own, the tourists and callers from the nearest seaside town
had never seen it. From June to September there were visitors in plenty;
they came along the white dusty roads in coaches, carriages and
motor-cars; they walked, or rode on bicycles, held picnics in the shadow
of beech and oak trees, and often left assortments of glass bottles and
paper to mark the spot they had delighted to honour. Sometimes on his
nightly rounds Brock would pass one of these places, and would make
haste to get away from the neighbourhood, for his scent was exceedingly
keen, and he knew the number of the visitors as certainly as though he
had been out during the daytime. The fear of man had come to him quite
naturally, it was part of his life to dread and avoid this relentless
enemy, just as it was his rule to range the woods by night and to retire
to his earth when the sun came out of the east heralded by the pageant
of the morning twilight.

He had few friends; only the brown owl sometimes paused in her work to
pass the time of night, or the fox, whose earth was close at hand amid
the thick-growing gorse, would hold a little converse after a good
hunting expedition that had closed before dawn woke the rest of the
woodland. Then in the moment when sleepy birds were trying their
earliest notes and wondering why those strange visitors the cuckoo and
nightingale would sing all the night through, when the wood-pigeons were
tumbling heavily from their perches, and the shy kingfisher was standing
by the edge of his home in the bank of the stream, the brown owl would
seek his hollow tree, and badger and fox would seek their homes. The
badger's abode was quite palatial. Just where the gorse ended and the
trees asserted themselves again, the soil was very light, and there were
patches of broom and bushes of pink thorn and hazel. Clear of the roots,
the first passage began, with a rather steep slope to a well-cleared
chamber in which the badger slept. Beyond this apartment there was an
upward slope from which two or three tracks branched to the right, and
at the end of the slope was another chamber used as a storeroom only a
few feet below ground. To the right of this was another dip that went to
the open air, or offered a road by yet another gallery to a point just
above the sleeping-chamber. In times of stress the grandparents and more
remote ancestors of the badger had been accustomed to use the chamber
that was nearest the second entrance, for they could then hear the
lightest human footfall. But in the old bad days even this precaution
had availed them nothing. Dogs and tongs had been employed by their
pursuers, and they had been butchered to give idle folk a few hours'
amusement.

When the badger had found the earth in the autumn following his birth,
he did not know that it should have been the home of his house. He had
wandered across miles of country when his family broke up. His parents
had separated, his two sisters had chosen their own road, and the earth
in which he was born remained in the sole possession of his father. Once
he had assured himself that he would enjoy undisputed occupation, the
badger explored and renovated all the tunnelled passages, stopped up all
entrances save one by raising sandy mounds with his feet, and prepared
to enjoy a solitary existence. Thoughtful, sober and introspective he
had no desire for companionship just then.

"I had as fine a family of cubs as you could wish to see," said father
fox, when they had known one another for a few weeks, "but the hunt drew
the gorse and two of them were killed. The others have gone away, so has
my vixen, and if the hunt comes again I'll go too."

The badger stirred uneasily, and traversed all his passages again to
make sure that every possible precautions had been taken. Though he had
stopped the bolt holes, it was only by way of hiding them from prying
eyes; a few minutes' work would suffice him to open them again in time
of need. Even when he went out at night he would cover his point of exit
in the most careful fashion, using hind and fore-feet with equal ease.
Only when the hole was screened would he set out in search of what the
wood might yield. Sometimes he would go down to the marshy ground by the
river and take toll of frogs and insects, he would even stray into the
nearest orchards and eat the fallen apples, pears and plums. Failing
these he would root up plants and fungi and carry away what he did not
want, for storing; but whether he ate in the wildest part of the wood or
comparatively near the haunts of man the enemy, he never forgot the need
for guarding against surprise. Like Agag of old he walked delicately,
and his hearing, like that of the wild boar, was only suspended when his
jaws were actually working. So he would pause with a mouthful of food,
or stop half-way in the work of grubbing up a root to scent the breeze,
though the forest held no foe within its ample boundaries.

In the early autumn, after his arrival, the young badger cleared away
the bed of dry fern and grasses in the sleeping-chamber. His methods
were peculiar, for he collected what he could in his forepaws and then
shuffled out of the earth backwards. Many journeys were necessary to
accomplish this task which was pursued by night, after a meal had been
taken; and when the work was ended, he moved to certain parts of the
wood where he had torn up ferns and grasses which were now dry. He took
these to the sleeping-chamber in the awkward fashion already described,
and though much was lost in transit he had a warm and pleasant bed at
last. Feeling at his ease he ranged the woods in search of wounded game,
making many a hearty meal off fur and feather that should have been
retrieved. Later on, the wind and the rain entered the wood together and
removed all traces that marked the badger's journey to and fro, while
the badger, finding his bed warm and his house free from draughts, set
up a barrier by the entrance and went to sleep. Like the porcupine and
squirrel he refused to face the severe weather, though it is more than
likely that he responded to warm spells and came out on certain winter
nights in search of roots, or the wasp-nests that were in the river
bank. But his capacity for sleep robbed winter of half its terrors and
kept him in good condition. The food stores supported him if he woke in
time of snow, the troubles that proved fatal to so much of the
woodland's life never reached him, and when he resumed his normal
activity in March he was no worse for the protracted rest.

The new life that stirred the forest could not rouse him to any great
ecstasy. The season did no more than endow him with a funny little grunt
and an unwonted measure of playfulness. He loved to stand on his
hind-legs and sharpen his fore-paws against the rough oak tree-trunks,
and in April evenings he would sometimes be astir before his usual time,
generally after light showers of rain. He often went lumbering through
the wood with a curious swaying movement, and sometimes walking backward
as though by way of expressing his playful humour. There was great joy
in the uncouth body, but he had none to share it with him. Even the fox
found a vixen; their loving cries resounded through the woods as they
hunted together by night, and in the heart of the earth there were four
little cubs that would sometimes come to the edge of the gorse and play
with the rabbits.

Brock was now to be ranked among the adults; he had shed his four
premolar teeth, and from tip of tail to tip of nose must have been very
nearly three feet long. He stood about a foot high and the rough skin
lay loosely on his body. His jaws were uncommonly strong--no other
animal of equal size could boast such a pair--and no dog that had not
been trained to bait badgers could have attacked him with impunity. For
the present, however, he had no enemies to face, and his lines were cast
in pleasant places, among the birds' nests that were scattered in
profusion through the wood. Where the nests were built low the badger
would not be denied--the eggs of partridge, thrush, blackbird and wild
pheasant supplied him with many a meal, and sometimes he was quick
enough to add the parent bird to his meal. The animal that could rob
wild bees of their honey had nothing to fear from birds, and even the
stoats, weasels and snakes that pursued birds' nests would not wait to
argue their claims with Brock. He soon learned that some birds deprived
of one clutch will even lay another, and was delighted to observe their
industry, and profit by it in due season. At the same time it must be
remarked that he did very little real harm. His neighbour the fox was
pursuing an active campaign against all the outlying poultry-yards with
so much success that he could afford to leave the rabbits in peace; the
badger did no more than help to reduce the overwhelming number of common
birds. Since game preserving had been practised on the estates that
joined the wood, ceaseless war had been waged against hawks, falcons and
other birds; ignorant keepers had dealt with the kestrel and the owl as
severely as with the carrion crow, and the tendency of birds like
blackbirds and thrushes was to justify Mr. Malthus by increasing beyond
the capacity of the food supply. In helping to counteract this tendency
the badger was doing good work; it was better for the eggs to be eaten
than for the young birds to be born and starved.

Summer waned, and at the time when the stags in Highland forests were
seeking the hinds, Brock found the trail of one of his own species and
felt the pangs of love. He grunted and yelped as though the spring had
come again, and followed the track of the loved one for miles, night
after night. Perhaps the unknown, whose scent would have been equally
keen, knew that she was pursued and assumed the virtue of shyness;
perhaps she was really shy. In either case she was hard to find, and on
many a morning the badger was forced to beat a very hurried retreat to
his home, hungry, footsore and disappointed, compelled to draw upon his
winter stores of roots and grasses for a meal. At last he found his
love. She had stayed to hunt for frogs in the river bed, and in rather
grudging fashion accepted his attentions. Between wooing and winning a
great gulf was fixed, but after nights of pleasant companionship, the
well-beloved one agreed to become Mrs. Brock. Had there been other males
in the neighbourhood, a fight for supremacy might have been necessary,
but the nearest badgers were many miles away and this pair had the
district to themselves. Until the storms came they roamed the woods
together, finding in addition to roots and berries, wounded game and an
occasional nest of wasps or wild bees, which they would root out and eat
as it stood, comb, honey, insects and grubs. With the first break up of
the weather each retired to its home. She lived across the river but
swimming presented no difficulty to either.

When the winter waned, and the first warm dry days called the woodland
to renewed life, the badger was early astir. Once again his bed was
scattered to the winds, and a fresh one was made in the fashion already
described; once again he tested the entrance and exits and made what
effort he could to obliterate his own tracks. Then he swam across the
river and, returning with his lady-love, conducted her to her new home
where she was quite happy. For awhile they travelled together, then he
walked alone, and in his clumsy fashion brought some fresh roots and
bulbs down to the warm earth where three blind baby badgers shared the
fern leaf couch with his mate. They were quite blind and helpless, but
while they were awake their mother was with them, and while they slept
she foraged for herself. As long as he was in the neighbourhood of the
earth her lord would hunt with her, but when he wished to go far afield
he went alone, she would not travel a long way from her little ones.

Later, Brock would lead the baby badgers on their first rambles, in the
days when they were learning to look after themselves. He showed them
how and where food must be sought, warned them of the sound and scents
that portended danger, and taught them their share of forest lore. This
was his duty now that their mother had gone back to her own quarters
across the river and the little ones must face the world alone. With the
coming of autumn he sought his mate once more, but she had gone, and for
all his efforts he never found her again. But, ranging a part of the
wood to which he had never penetrated before, he met a badger
philosopher, an old fellow who had seen six or seven summers and grown
grey with accumulated wisdom.

This philosopher, whose search for a mate had been equally unavailing,
declared that the contemplative life was best of all, remarked that the
old badger run he tenanted was not far removed from an unoccupied earth
and suggested that they should hunt together. The younger one accepted
the suggestion, and started making a bed in the new earth without delay.

It was about this time that he was called upon to give battle. Without
knowing it he had moved into a district that was favoured by one or two
daring poachers. Stray pheasants from a neighbouring estate were tempted
into open spaces by judicious display of raisins, hares and rabbits were
plentiful, and the main road was less than a mile away. One poacher had
a valuable lurcher that would start off into the wood at a given signal
and never return without a rabbit. Coming down a glade at top speed in
hot pursuit of a hare the lurcher saw the badger, and forgetful of his
safer quarry turned to the attack. It was quite a short contest. To be
sure, the dog secured a good grip, but he had forgotten or never known
the extraordinary elasticity of the badger's skin. He only realised it
when the animal he had attacked so unceremoniously had fastened on his
throat with a grip nothing could relax. In little more time than is
required to set the statement down the lurcher lay dead and terribly
mangled by the badger whose terror had given place to rage.

All in vain the poacher called and called, until the coming of the
morning light warned him to make his way home and return, without the
impedimenta of his calling, to go through the wood in the guise of a
peaceful pedestrian. To one whose knowledge of woodcraft was so complete
it was no hard task to find the spot where the lurcher lay, and a very
brief examination of the shattered head indicated clearly enough the
author of the deed. Only the badger's merciless jaws could have bitten
through the lurcher's skull as though it had been a wooden match-box.

The poacher was a dull fellow, an idle loafer who knew the county gaol
intimately, ill-treated his wife and gave long hours to the ale-house.
And yet for all his unprepossessing ways he was not without some measure
of affection, and it had been given to the dead lurcher. Never Arab
loved his well-tried horse better than this wastrel loved his dog--it
had possessed an intelligence that was almost human, and had been the
one living thing that loved him without change of mood. In the silence
of the wood the poacher cried like a little child, hid his friend under
the ferns until he could return and bury him, and then turned on the
badger's track.

Men who have been long brought up in the woodland and learned all the
tricks of the poacher's trade are hard to baffle. As the poacher moved
along all his gifts so long latent, stimulated by grief and rage, he
became for the time one with the wood and its denizens. He heard the
ceaseless under-song, and could analyse it as the skilled critic of
music can analyse the component parts of a symphony; almost
instinctively he knew the shy fearful birds that were peeping at him
through many a screen of leaves, the grass snake and adder that were
gliding away from him. In those hours of wrath and exaltation his eyes
were opened; without haste on the one hand or delay on the other he
found the badger's earth, never losing for long the track of the five
toes and the sharp nails.

Down in the darkness where his bed was strewn, Brock realised the coming
of his enemy; the horror of man so long dormant in him was revived. He
stood up noiselessly and heard the unseen feet move deliberately in
search of the entrance to the earth. Against this man who, in
clear-headed hours, could read Nature's stories as though they were set
in printed page before him, a badger must fight hard for life. It would
be a contest of wits.

The footsteps passed; the hidden animal heard the slow and regular
decline; the normal sounds of the woodland were resumed. By night, he
thought, he would creep away and leave the place, he would go back to
his old haunts below the river where there was safety. The afternoon
turned towards sunset, and then Brock, who was in a passage close to the
ground, heard the tramp, tramp that had startled him in the morning. The
man was coming back, was moving from one part of the ground to the
other, sounding the entrance and the bolt holes. Already he seemed to
know them all. What was he doing?

Presently the dull thud of a spade was heard by the mouth of the run,
and the purpose of the poacher was clear. He had blocked each entrance
and was going to dig until he had found the destroyer of his companion.
Had he stayed till the following day the quarry would have passed. He
knew this well enough so he had brought gun and food, trenching-spade,
lantern and tobacco, and was about to dig down foot by foot to the
badger's lair.

Quite undismayed now that the risk of invasion had yielded to certainty,
the hunted animal prepared to defend himself. At the foot of the first
slope he started to pile the loose earth using his hind-feet as readily
as the others, and before the poacher was half-way down the barrier was
strong enough to have kept a dog at bay. But the man was depending upon
his own exertions, he had no dog, and when his spade encountered the
defence it was speedily broken down.

By this time the badger had retreated past his bedroom into one of the
deepest passages, the one that commanded a double route. He had already
gone to two of the exits that were intended for emergency, but the human
taint was strong at each, and he feared to let the issue of the contest
depend upon a chance flight. Perhaps it was as well, for the strongly
pegged netting that was ranged round each hole must have given him a
pause that would have sufficed the poacher.

The lantern was lighted now and the pipe was out; the poacher, flabby
and out of condition, was deaf to the call of his tired limbs. Passion
sustained him in the pursuit of a task that few sane men would have
attempted. The task would have been relatively easy if additional
assistance had been to hand, but the poacher had no friends. He had
reached the bedroom now, the soil had responded to the sharp spade edge,
and with savage glee he broke up the soft couch of ferns and grass, and
then set the lantern down and mopped his forehead and thought deeply.
Two passages led from this chamber, without counting the one he had
followed; he piled the dry bed by one of them and set it alight, in hope
that the smoke might enter and make the fugitive bolt. But though the
material was dry and burnt well the air was windless and the fumes
ascended.

"Curse you," he cried, as though he knew Brock was in hearing and
thought he could follow his words. "I'll dig till I find you, if I dig
up the whole earth."

Once again the spade work was resumed, the eerie silence of the night
was broken by the recurrent thud. The poacher was drunk with passion;
the impenetrable dignity of the night and the silence of his foe seemed
to set his blood on fire. All sense of fatigue had gone; he hardly knew
how his temples were throbbing or realised that his breath was coming in
short painful gasps until, after another frenzied spell of work, he
turned to survey the long trench that marked his progress, and shout out
a gibe at the unseen badger.

At that moment his light was extinguished, the candle had burnt itself
out, the darkness enveloped him almost with a sense of physical force.
By the junction of the two paths some ten feet away Brock heard the
sound of a heavy fall, the following silence was long and deep. For some
quarter of an hour the badger did not move, then he moved cautiously to
the right along a seldom-used passage and came to a forgotten crossway.
Down one side of it a current of air came clean and pure. He followed
it, along a track he had not used before until he reached an opening
under a bank. All seemed safe. His sharp ears could not catch the sound
of human breath, there was no taint of humanity by the bush that hid the
entrance. The night was still profoundly dark. He slipped noiselessly
into the shadows.

[Illustration: BADGER [Photo by C. Reid]]

The old snake-catcher passing down the woodland clearing in the morning
found the poacher lying at peace, his spade gripped tightly in one hand.
A coroner's jury was told by the doctor that sudden and unaccustomed
exertion had brought about a failure of the heart's action and a
painless death. And twelve good men and true wondered greatly that the
deceased should have exerted himself so greatly. Trained terriers had
been put into the earth under the various nets and had returned quite
silently to their owners. "He must have been insane," said the
enlightened jurymen.

But the snake-catcher, who believed in fairies, knew better. "He tried
to dig a badger by night," he said, "and that disturbed the little
people. So they killed him."




                          THE STORY OF A CAMEL


When Abdullah, the slave dealer, led the long file of loaded camels
towards the desert on the bright April morning, only one of his animals
remained in the fandak. Within a week she had a companion, her little
baby camel who came into the world as though to give her his company
during the long, hot months of summer when, at the sun's bidding, the
caravan that had just set out would cease from its labours and rest in
the far-off city of Timbuctoo.

The fandak was a large rectangular enclosure open to the sky everywhere
save in the cloisters round the inside walls. It was filthily dirty, and
full of flies and insects, but Basha the baby camel noted none of these
things. He passed his early days wandering round the cloisters to look
at the half-starved mules and donkeys that were brought in there for
their much needed rest, and when the heat was greatest and the flies
most insistent, he would lie contentedly by his mother's side. For all
the fandak's limitations Basha had been born in fortunate hour. His
mother's services were not required in field or city, heavy spring rains
had made food plentiful and cheap, so that she was well fed, and the
little one, who by the way was two feet odd inches high when he was
born, enjoyed an unfailing supply of milk. Had he come into the world at
another time or place, his mother might have been put to work hard
before he was three months old, her milk might have been required for
cheese, and he would have pined and died as so many baby camels do. Even
when the summer waned and the autumn rains starred the fields with
flowers of bewildering beauty, Basha stayed with his mother on a farm
outside the city gates. The caravan came back in the season of cool
weather and in place of the merchandise they had taken to the South, the
camels brought slaves for the Sok el Abeed, but they could not go out
again. Between them and the Soudan the fierce veiled Touaregs of the
desert were in arms, and in the direction of the coast the chief camel
road was held by the braves of a tribe that was in open revolt against
Morocco's Sultan.

So, while Abdullah swore strange oaths by the Prophet's beard, and
declared that the men of the desert were descended from devils and the
men of the western province from apes, little Basha grew strong and
unshapely, and life was an affair of sunshine and good milk. Day by day
the farmer spread his mother's food before her on a cloth; dried beans,
crushed date stones and a very small measure of corn and chopped hay,
and Basha would sniff at it with very little interest. If the farmer
himself was absent the cloth might be forgotten, and then Mother Camel
would make an angry noise in her throat and refuse to eat, and little
Basha would suffer accordingly.

"Why must you have a cloth to eat from?" he asked her one day, when she
was gurgling indignantly while the rats made merry at her expense, and
she made no attempt to check their depredations.

"It is Camel Law," replied his mother. "If we were to eat our food from
the bare ground we should take all manner of dirt into our mouths, and
in a little while it would make us ill, perhaps fatally. Our inside
arrangements are very delicate and complicated. In the fandak two camels
and no more will feed from one mat or cloth, and it is right that there
should be precedence at meal-times. The most important camels should be
fed first. That is etiquette, and we set a great store by it. Indeed, if
this consideration is overlooked we let our masters know about it."

"But when you leave your food, I get less milk," remonstrated Basha.

"You can't begin too early," explained the Mother Camel, "to understand
that all camels must suffer. It is part of our life to work hard, to
endure ill-treatment and to be deprived of our fair share of good
things. Down to the present your good luck has been astonishing. Your
brother and sister, one born seven years ago and the other four, died of
starvation before they had lived through one summer. I myself was born
in the country of the black men south of the Atlas mountains, and had to
come here with my mother across the desert before I was six months old."

Basha took small account of these warnings. He could do no more than
judge life as he found it, and do credit to his environment by growing
to be a fine specimen of his race. When at length he was taken from his
mother he was fully a year old, and he enjoyed some idle months on the
farm land, living for the most part upon green herbage, and straying far
and wide in search of camel thorn, r'tam, tamarisk and mimosa. When he
had found his favourite bush, he would run his upper lip over the leaves
as though to assure himself that they were what he sought, but if he
knew what he liked he did not know what was good for him. A wandering
Bedouin shepherd came upon him one morning just as he was beginning to
sniff with appreciation at some leaves that would have finished his
career at once, and thereafter Basha's liberty was curtailed and he had
his first experience of the manacles. They were made of steel and fitted
round each fore-leg above the ankle. This was a most effective device,
for a camel walks moving both legs on the same side simultaneously, and
the steel was capable of arresting the walk altogether. He had to endure
many long and painful hours in this confinement.

As he was quite unconscious of having done anything to deserve such
treatment, and knew nothing of his own stupidity, Basha was full of
indignation and kicked with his hind-legs at all passers, exhibiting
early signs of bad temper. Then the first evil days came to him, and in
the picturesque language of his master he "ate the stick" until he knew
fear and understood the virtue of docility. But in after days when he
was goaded beyond endurance he always kicked out with his hind-legs, and
he learned that many camels do the same when they are angry, although
their fore limbs are much stronger than the hind ones. Perhaps the early
use of the shackles accounts for this tendency, which is common to the
most of African camels.

If his training in those early days was cruel, Basha was no worse off
than his fellows. He had to learn to endure the saddle and the pack, to
kneel at word of command, and to go with the other camels on short
journeys carrying some light load in preparation for the trying days to
come. He grew very slowly but managed to preserve a good condition,
clearly to be seen in the rising hump and in the well-covered skin.
Camels that were overworked or underfed lost their hump, and if they had
any serious illness, their skin looked like a moth-eaten fur.

In his fifth year when he was reckoned fit for the full measure of work
Basha was a very finely developed beast, even though his ugliness was
undeniable. His long, thick upper lip was divided in two, and this
peculiarity accounted in part for his perpetual sneer; his eyes, the one
redeeming feature of his head, were shaded by heavy brow and coarse
eyelashes; his ears were very small and round and he acquired the
curious power of compressing his nostrils that was to be so serviceable
in days to come. His legs were long and thin, and the great shapeless
feet in which they terminated looked very absurd; his walk was little
better than an awkward flat-footed shuffle. His tail was short and
stumpy, and his mode of resting had brought well-defined hard growths to
his chest and knees. He could travel without fatigue over endless miles
of level ground, but hills tired him at once; and he could swim sturdily
though nothing but the most severe thirst would make him drink of
running water. His early-day nervousness had gone though he was still
restive when taken from his companions. He seldom called as he had been
in the habit of doing when he was young, but with manhood, if the term
be permissible, he had developed a violent temper, and there were
seasons of the year when only Abdullah dare approach him. At these times
he would grow very excited, he would repeat the horrid gurgling noise
that his mother had made, and would go about with a hideous pink bladder
hanging from one side of his mouth. At the first sign of this state
among his male camels Abdullah would seek to reduce their rage by
bloodletting. The camels would be hobbled in turn and told to sit down,
and after a cord had been tied tightly round the neck two small
incisions would be made just below the cord. This was an effective cure
for ferocity, but was not always a possible remedy when the camels were
on the march, for it left them very weak.

In the first year of his complete strength Basha was hired with two
other camels by a Moor who traded between the Atlantic coast and
Marrakesh, the far southern capital of the Moorish Empire. The work was
hard and the loads were heavy, but the Moor did not spare himself. The
start from coast or capital would be made in the very early morning
hours. The camels would be loaded in skilful fashion, the weight being
put as high on the ribs as possible, because the hind limbs were so much
weaker than the others. If there was any mistake or the weight was
unfairly heavy, the camels would gurgle angrily and refuse to rise. Then
some fresh adjustment was necessary for Abd el Karim knew better than to
waste his time in trying to force an ill-loaded or over-strained animal
to his feet. Once a camel had risen and started he would go until he
dropped, but no animal would rise before being satisfied that he was
being fairly handled. In those early hours the beasts would be fed with
cakes made of crushed grain and dates, mixed for choice with camel milk
or, failing that, with water. The meal over, the little procession would
start out well in advance of sunrise, and when the first halt was called
it would be to avoid the midday sun and give the weary men a little time
to repose. When the journey was resumed it would be kept up until night
was falling and it was no longer safe to be found on any one of the
broad tracks that served the southern countries for a road. Then Abd el
Karim would seek an ensala, a piece of bare ground next some village,
fenced round with cactus thorn and prickly pear. He would pay the
equivalent of a few pence for admission, and once there the headman of
the village would be responsible to the nearest country governor for the
safety of the little company. The camels would be unloaded, watered and
fed, three or four pounds of grain being the maximum supply for each
beast, and they would enjoy some six hours' rest. But as soon as the
false dawn appeared in the sky and Abd el Karim had said the early
morning prayer that is called the fejer, and comes with the third
cock-crow, loads would be replaced and the journey resumed. Basha
plodded along with seeming content, but in his heart he hated his new
master. It was not that he had any special unkindness to complain about,
the ill-treatment was quite impartial, he hated all humans, and Abd el
Karim stood for him as the type of the tyrants who inflicted such base
servitude upon the camel world. He had no pet grievance, and would most
certainly have resented any special act of kindness as an impertinence.
Whatever kindly feelings he might have had were kept under so severely
that his face had but two expressions. He looked upon the world with
indignation and contempt in turn. When he walked through the narrow
streets of Marrakesh carrying a pack that weighed between three and four
hundred pounds upon his shoulders, he would turn neither to the right
nor to the left; horses, mules and pedestrians had perforce to make way
for him. Not only was he prepared to walk over anything that stood in
his way, he was ready to turn round and bite any passer who came within
reach of his mouth. From nose to tail he could not have been less than
eight feet long in those days, and he stood more than six feet high from
hump to ground. In brief, Basha was an ill-natured, sulky beast, but his
powers of endurance gave him a value for which all his little failings
were forgiven.

In the camel fandak at Marrakesh where he had first seen the daylight he
would join the rest of Abdullah's animals from time to time and hear of
their adventurous journeys to the Soudan. His mother was still at work
among them and had lost another son since Basha was born. She was ageing
now under the combined influences of hard work and insufficient food,
and the sight of her condition roused her son to a state of anger in
which pity took no part. He had no affection for her, but her state
increased the bitterness of his feelings against the enemy man. From
time to time he noted the disappearance of animals he had known and
asked about them.

"He fell," replied his mother once, referring to a camel of his own age,
"and then you know the old cry."

"I don't," confessed Basha, "what do you mean?"

"It has passed into the proverbs of our masters," said his mother
slowly. "'When the camel falls,' runs their adage, 'out with your
knives.' It is a recognition of our undying pluck. So long as we can
endure we keep up and when we fall we are beaten and done for. No rest
can cure us. Our masters know that, and when we fall in our tracks their
knives are out--sometimes before we are dead."

Basha turned away, sick with anger. This then was the end of things, to
labour through the heat of day, to toil until the last store of strength
was exhausted, and then die a dishonourable death under the curved
daggers of brutal masters. How he hated them, one and all.

It was on account of his recent losses that Abdullah decided to include
Basha in the next caravan that left Marrakesh for the South, and so it
happened that he made one of a string of fifty beasts that filed out of
the city by way of the Dukala Gate on a fine September morning. For some
weeks past the camels had rested and had been tended with an approach to
care. Before a final selection was made each animal was examined with
care and a few were rejected on account of ailments that were plain to
the practical eyes of Abdullah and his assistants. Chief of these
disqualifying symptoms was a foot disease brought on by overwork, and
the fate of Basha's mother hung in the balance for she was beginning to
show signs of the unending labour imposed upon her. But there was a fair
sporting chance for her, and Abdullah took it. The unaccustomed rest of
the past three weeks and the regular food had almost restored her
strength.

Although he was now in his tenth year Basha had not crossed the Sahara.
He had not finished growing but was immensely strong, and the journey
had no terrors for him. For the first few days the land was one vast
oasis and the camels went unwatered, feeding in the very early morning
before the dew was off the autumn greenery, and so storing enough
moisture to last them through the day. They were well fed at night, and
Basha began to think that the difficulties of which his companions spoke
after supper when they sat in a great group, had been exaggerated. Then
the caravan reached the real desert beyond the Draa country, and he
understood. The sun was like molten copper above, and the sands seemed
white-hot underneath. Vegetation ceased. No man spoke, and at night the
hours of respite from the heat seemed to fly. A reserve stock of water
was carried in goat-skin barrels on some of the camels, but Abdullah
made a detour in order to reach the oases that lay scattered here and
there. And when the wells at one of these oases were found to be dry,
the real troubles of the journey commenced. Supplies were reduced all
round as they moved towards the next oasis, and on the second morning
following the reduction the desert was swept by a dust-storm.

Long before Abdullah and his companions could note its approach, the
leading camels saw the advancing columns of the storm, and with one
accord they dropped to their knees and crouched with their long necks
stretched out and their nostrils firmly closed to face the coming
trouble. The men shrouded themselves in their haiks and crouched on the
ground, taking refuge with Allah from Satan and his legions, for they
knew well that the sand columns were really djinoon, who went about the
desert seeking whom they might devour. When the legions of the storm had
passed, and men and beasts arose to continue the journey, the terror of
the desert lay heavily upon one and all.

The caravan had a mournful appearance as it laboured across the desert
in the tracks of the storm. Camels shuffled along with the hopeless,
listless energy of creatures attuned to suffering in its every form; the
men, riding or walking, seemed to have yielded to the depression that
the Sahara knows so well. Shifting sand and raging wind had hidden the
tracks, but Abdullah and Abd el Karim, who was acting as his lieutenant,
had rare eyes, and they corrected their bearings by the stars at night.
For perhaps the first time in his life Basha realised the cunning
economy of his body. His stomach had four compartments, to say nothing
of cells, that served for the preservation of the water-supply, and he
could regulate the flow of food and water in manner that took the keen
edge from his sufferings. Men suffered more than beasts, but they had
the consolation of their faith. "Mektub," they muttered, when Abdullah
pointed out the need for diminished rations lest the next oasis should
fail them, "it is written". If their safe arrival in the far-off
Abaradiou of Timbuctoo was decreed, no dust storm would avail to stay
them; if they were to be one of the caravans that the pitiless Sahara
swallows up, no complaint would avail to avert the evil decree.

At night when the packs were removed and the men smoked the forbidden
haschish over their scanty supper, or took council with the star Sohail
that served to guide them to the South, the camels held converse after
their own fashion.

"The end is upon me," cried Basha's mother one evening, "My feet are
worn away. It is not for me to see the Niger's bank or to eat the camel
thorn in the woods beyond the Mosque of Sankoreh".

"It is well, mother," said the camel crouched by her side; "you will
rest at least. We shall go on, and your load will be added to ours.
Rejoice then in the end of the day's work." And late on the following
afternoon, at the hour when the sun first appeared to relent of his
pitiless severity, Basha saw his mother stoop slowly to the earth.

"A camel falls," cried Abd el Karim, who walked by his side, "out with
your knives." He leapt forward, Basha saw the red stain in the white
sand, and then passed on with averted eyes. A few camels gurgled to
express sympathy or indignation, three or four were stopped by
Abdullah's orders and the burden of the dead beast was divided among
them. Then the march was resumed, and in the evening an oasis was
reached where there were date palms in plenty, and a well untouched by
drought. Far into the night the water was poured into the puddled
troughs from the goat-skin bucket that served the well, each of the
camels receiving ten or twelve gallons--enough to quench their raging
thirst and give them a store for two or even three days.

Half of the party remained at the oasis, the other half under Abdullah's
guidance turned aside to El Djouf, the desert city where the merchandise
of the camels would be exchanged for the great blocks of salt that were
worth their weight in gold, and slaves in far-off villages beyond
Timbuctoo. Basha was one of the camels that remained behind, and he sat
through the night with sleepless eyes seeing ever before him the dead
body of his mother, and hearing Abd el Karim's horrid cry. It was anger
with the living rather than pity for the dead that fed his growing
wrath. A light breeze stirred the palm leaves, he heard the far-off cry
of a jackal and then the patter of little feet. This last sound came
nearer until a company of desert antelope ran in view. Undisturbed by
the camels they ranged in search of green food, and drank of the water
remaining in the puddled troughs as though indifferent to the proximity
of the sleeping men.

One, who seemed to be the leader of the deer, paused by Basha's side.

"Little master," said the camel, "whence come you, and what have you
seen?"

"We range the sands," replied the stranger, "from the oasis that is
tended by man even to the far-off spring that only the gazelles have
seen. And to-night we fly from El Kebeer, the great jackal, who has
brought his pack in search of meat."

"Where is he now?" asked Basha, shuddering.

"All are together now," said the gazelle. "They have found the body of
an old mother camel fallen by the way. Until the morning comes they will
hardly leave the spot, and ere then we shall be miles from here. We
shall seek green places that the desert hides from all save us, we shall
rejoice in our freedom and our peaceful lives. Farewell."

He slipped noiselessly into the shadows and was gone. But Basha sat
wakeful and watchful through the night.

With the break of day the most of the camels in the oasis rose to search
for the young green growths that held the dew, but Basha sat silent.

"Fool," cried Abd el Karim, staggering from his tent, the haschish
dreams still clouding his brain; "art thou too among the sick? Shall I
kill thee, or wilt thou eat, O thrice cursed beast?"

"Leave me while there is time," growled Basha, but Abd el Karim heard no
more than the usual angry gurgle, and drawing off one of his slippers he
struck Basha across the mouth.

With a curious cry like a trumpet-call Basha shuffled to his feet, and
Abd el Karim, realising that some awful change had come to his charge,
turned and ran.

In long slanting strides, with outstretched neck, lowered head and open
mouth, Basha pursued noisily. The other camels were feeding behind the
palm grove, their guardians with them, Abd el Karim had run towards the
desert. But the drug he favoured had made his feet unsteady; in the hour
of his direst need he slipped and fell. Basha's teeth closed on the
white haik that enveloped his master, and then he came down slowly to a
sitting position and thrust the man, senseless now from fright, between
the smooth rock and the bony ridge of his chest.

When he rose and ran towards the open desert he was mad, doomed to run
until he dropped and died. But the man he had left prone on the rock
that had tripped him would never, never rise again.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Many days later, in the great fandak of the Abaradiou beyond the gates
of Timbuctoo, Abdullah told his friend the slave-merchant of the
journey. "We had two anxious days," he said, "but the grace of Allah was
upon all save Abd el Karim. One of the camels that had never known the
desert broke down and went mad. Perhaps the man had ill-treated him,
perhaps even strove to stop him. Who shall say more than that Abd el
Karim's hour had come? May Allah have pardoned him."




                             THE RED GROUSE


When he woke to being, and left the warm shelter of his mother's
feathers to take a look at the world around him, the sun was smiling
upon the purple heather, and a light wind was stirring the leaves of
birch and mountain-ash in the plantation below. He was no more than a
tiny ball of yellow fluff with some dark-brown marks on back and sides,
and a chestnut patch on his head, and there were eight brothers and
sisters exactly like each other, waiting for him by the side of the
heather tuft under which his mother had been hatching her eggs.

His father sat on another tuft a few yards away, spreading his plumage
in the sunlight, and the little grouse thought he was fortunate in
having such a handsome parent. The head, neck, breast and sides of
Father Grouse were of a very bright chestnut colour, with black lines
across, his lower feathers were darker, but tipped with white, to show
his pure Highland breeding.

"Kok-kok," said Father Grouse. "What a fine family I have to be sure.
The stupid gamekeeper put his foot in our first nest and we had to make
another one. So you are all very late. June is already here, the other
birds on the moor can fly by now. Kok-kok."

Then he and his wife broke off the tiny fresh tops of the heather, and
the little bird, having been fed with his brothers and sisters, ran
about in the sun till it went down, and then crept back to the nest
where the shells of broken eggs had been lying, pale cream shells
covered with heavy blotches of red. The little grouse, warm under his
mother's feathers and above the moss that lined the nest, slept quite
happily, dreaming of the days when he would be able to fly over the
moor. He woke with a start hearing his father crying:--

"Who goes there? Who goes there? my sword, my sword."

"Don't be frightened," said Mother Grouse reassuringly, as the little
ones nestle closer to her, "he says that every morning."

The newcomer soon became accustomed to be called at daybreak by this
startling cry, and he learned as soon to hide from the buzzard, the
peregrine falcon and the carrion crows that, between them, eventually
managed to secure all his brothers, because they would not listen to
their father's warning. Mrs. Grouse had decided at last that the last
big egg, which was as broad at one end as at the other, held no son or
daughter, and as soon as she had made up her mind about that she put on
her summer dress; it was buff-coloured and marked with irregular bars of
black. When the family had admired it they flew together across the
heather. Father Grouse had no summer dress; he did not change his
costume before autumn.

The family kept to the moor, where they met many very pleasant relatives
with children quite grown up, so much like their mothers that it was
hard to tell the difference, and while they were together Father Grouse
gave his only son a lot of useful information.

"We keep to the heather," he said. "It is our own. On the hills beyond,"
and he pointed to the mountain behind the moor, "you find our cousins,
the ptarmigan. In the plantation below the hills where there are birch,
hazel, ash and juniper trees and where the roebuck hides in the ferns,
you have another cousin, the blackcock. He feeds with us sometimes. We
have not much to do with either of them, though we are not unfriendly.
Kok-kok."

It was a very fine summer, the heather was fresh and sweet to eat, and
very warm to lie on. The little grouse soon lost the yellow down that
had covered him, and his plumage became very much like his mother's. The
family would fly about in a group, father and mother leading, and they
often went off the heather to eat the grass and early berries.

"I have lived more than one whole year," said Father Grouse, "but I was
born in a very bad season. The heather was bitten by the frost, the rain
was unceasing, we could not get enough food, and it was terribly cold on
the wet ground. Hundreds died--but lie down, somebody is coming."

The family crouched low in the heather and saw the landlord's factor
walking up the hill-side with a stout gentleman who wore an unbecoming
coat and a waistcoat with a heavy watch chain across it. The stout
gentleman passed a handkerchief across his forehead. "It is a fine
view," he gasped, "and what are the limits of the bag?"

"Eight hundred brace of grouse may be shot and forty stags but the laird
is not a hard man and might make it a thousand brace and fifty stags,"
said the factor, who had forgotten how to blush.

"Now," whispered Father Grouse, and uttering a challenge, he rose within
three yards of the stout gentleman, closely followed by wife and family.

"You see," said the factor, "the moor is packed with birds, you can
almost walk over them."

"Why did you show yourself like that, my dear?" said Mother Grouse, when
they had settled after a long easy flight.

"Ah," replied her husband, "you leave me to attend to my own business. I
like to see men like that on the moor, they do no harm. It is the young,
slender men who are never tired and are always shooting that I object
to. You can't get away from them, Kok-kok."

"Did you hear the factor," continued Father Grouse, after as near an
approach to a chuckle as a red grouse can achieve. "He said the bag was
limited to eight hundred brace, though the laird might make the limit up
to a thousand. Now there are not two hundred and fifty brace on the
moor. As for the stags, fancy a man like that trying to stalk them;
well, let us go and eat some heather-tops--such talk makes me feel
weak."

They were glorious days that led to the middle of August. The young
grouse was becoming quite big; he could take long flights without
fatigue, could accomplish a small call, was an adept at finding good
food and soft sleeping places, and he never allowed his attentions to
stray from his feathered enemies.

He had some narrow escapes; on one occasion the peregrine falcon struck
down one of his sisters as she was flying by his side; on another the
great Golden Eagle, coming from his eyrie on the mountain top, was
circling over him, but suddenly saw a young deer calf on a rock not far
away. The rock looked over the bare hill-side, and the eagle, lighting
on the poor calf's back, buffeted its face so heavily with his wings
that it fell off the rock and, tumbling down, was killed on the
hill-side. The Golden Eagle made his meal, the fox and the carrion crow
took what was left. It was a sad sight, and the Golden Eagle was more
unpopular than ever on the moor and in the forest.

The young grouse made the acquaintance of the biggest deer on the hill,
a king of stags, with brow, bay and tray antlers, who explained that he
was a stag royal. This acquaintance was made one afternoon in early
August when the grouse family were feeding on some succulent grasses by
the side of the burn where the stag came to drink.

"I am more than pleased to meet you again," said the stag. "I wish you
and your family as sure an escape from the shot gun as I hope to get
from the rifle." So saying he trotted off, and Father Grouse spread his
feathers just as though he had been a blackcock in a juniper tree, and
challenged as loudly as he could.

"Last September," he said, turning to his wondering son, "after my
parents had met with misfortune passing over the butts, I found myself
on some high ground near the big corrie. The royal stag you saw just now
was resting there with his family, and he had been seen by the stalker.
I was sitting on a heather tuft thinking that now I had lost my parents
I should have to join the grouse pack, when I saw the stalker and the
man who shoots the stags, crawling along the ground in my direction.
They wanted to get behind the stag and shoot him as he sat head to wind.

"I can see them now--the stalker very cool, and the shooter very tired.
As I looked I thought I recognised him as the man who had shot my
parents. I did not hesitate, but rose up when they were almost near
enough to touch me, flew within hearing of the stag and called out:--

"Who goes there? The gun, the gun."

"The royal stag and all his family scattered, the stalker put down his
gun and took up his whisky-flask; the man who had shot my parents used
language no respectable grouse could listen to without feeling ashamed.
They went to the wood for their lunch and my cousin, the grey hen, heard
the stalker say he thought they had walked twelve miles after that stag.
Kok-kok."

It was good to be alive in those August days, to wake up when the sun
started work, look out for food in the morning and late afternoon, and
lie close through the heat of the day. The southerner had taken the
shooting on lease and spent one or two days looking over the land, to
the great delight of Father Grouse, who declared that no bird need
suffer uneasiness on his account.

"All old men," said Father Grouse, "would fire into a pack without
hurting anything." This was on the night of the 11th August which
happened to fall on Saturday. Sunday, the 12th, brought no guns to the
moor, and Father Grouse was first puzzled and then delighted. "I have
it," he said at last; "there will be no grouse shot this year, that
stout man knows he will have no chance against us. He will try to shoot
stags because they are bigger. Kok-kok."

Monday, the 13th of August, found the grouse family up betimes; they fed
heartily, as was their custom, and then retired to shelter from the
heat. Father Grouse, Mother Grouse, three daughters and the one son,
comprised the family now. Once or twice Mother Grouse stirred uneasily
and said she heard men, but her husband remonstrated with her.

"You are very nervous, my dear," he said, "haven't I told you there will
be no shooting this year? They will be cutting the corn in the lower
fields soon, and we'll go down there to feed on the stooks. You want a
change of diet to strengthen your nerves. I know well enough you have no
occasion for uneasiness."

                  *       *       *       *       *

"It's no good starting too early," the head keeper had said at the lodge
on the previous evening, "give the birds time to eat and time to settle
down, and then you'll do all right."

And on the morning of the 13th he had declared that the breeze was just
what was wanted, and that everything pointed to a successful day. The
party, four guns and two keepers, with retrievers, had gone steadily
from the low ground where the lodge stood, across the fresh-cut fields,
over the hill-side and on to the moor. The heather was short and
pointers were not used on it.

The old gentleman who took the moor did not shoot, but his three sons
and nephew were first-class shots. While Father Grouse was saying his
last words, he had seen them, and had realised that the men with the
guns were young and sturdy, just the sort he had learned to fear. In
that trying moment he realised how he had deceived himself and family,
and how the gunners, by coming up the wind, had made it impossible for
him to scent them in time.

"Rise quickly with me," he whispered bravely to the Mother Grouse,
"we'll go for a safer place, my dear, and you follow us," he added to
his children. With these words he rose, and the others followed so
quickly that the six birds seemed to take wing together.

"Bang, bang, bang, bang," said the guns, and Father and Mother Grouse
sank down into the heather that had been their home so long, with never
a feather of their fine plumage ruffled. They were shot dead so cleanly
that they knew no pain, and with them two of their children fell, not to
die so easily. The white spot at the base of the beak of Father Grouse
had a bright drop of blood on it, Mother Grouse did not even show as
much.

"Mark down the others," cried the man who had shot the parent birds, and
opened the season with a successful "right and left".

"Isn't worth while," said his friend who had shot one of the younger
birds, "they are only cheepers."

Then the birds being retrieved, the party continued to shoot its way
over the moor, meeting with fair success, for the wind kept the birds
from hearing the approach, and they had fed so well during the fine
weather that they were not at all wild. Twenty odd brace had gone to the
bag by two o'clock.

The young cock grouse never knew how he got away, nor what became of his
family. He heard the guns cracking at the back of him, the hissing of
shot through the air, and he flew wildly until he felt he had reached
safety, then sank down into the heather, not daring to stir. He heard
the guns again; once the remnant of a broken covey passed over the
heather where he crouched, but he did not move until feeding-time came,
and then, after a brief meal, returned to shelter.

For the next two weeks the moor was quite unsafe, the four guns sounded
every morning and afternoon; on one or another of the five beats the
birds fell in all directions. One day the guns came upon the young
grouse suddenly, when he had no idea of their proximity and, crouched in
the heather, he remained quite still. It was a hot day, no breath of air
stirred the leaves; the ground was hard as iron and there was no scent.
A dog passed within a yard of him without betraying his presence; the
gunners moved away to the right; he was safe.

He met single birds on the moor, and all told the same doleful tale of
disaster, and when with the last day of the month the weather changed
and the wind rose, word passed from bird to bird that it was time to
pack. So he joined one or two others and they joined some more, and when
they were fifty strong they joined another band as large, and their
addition went on until the pack numbered hundreds if not thousands. This
was not on the old moor where he had been born, but on another one not
far away, where the guns had only stayed for a day or two before going
on to the high forest lands some mile or more away in pursuit of the
stags. The young grouse and his companions had become very keen of sight
and hearing; they were alarmed by the least sound, and gunners who tried
to walk after them never arrived within firing distance.

One afternoon when the pack was feeding, the young grouse came upon his
friend the royal stag by the side of the burn that ran through the heart
of the heather. The great beast had been wounded by an ill-aimed bullet
and had found his way to the water alone, for his hinds had scattered.
He lay crouched amid the moss and water grasses.

"I have been here for two days," he said to the grouse, "and if I'm left
alone for two more I'll be healed of my wounds and I'll baffle the
stalkers yet. They nearly tracked me, but had no dog, or I must have
fought for it."

"We're staying here awhile," said the grouse, "and I'll do what I can
for you in the way of warning."

The red grouse fed and rested in that quarter for several days, and the
stag went back to the forest on the third evening. "I am well enough to
go to sanctuary now," he said, "to the wood in the centre of the forest
where the stalkers may not follow us. Good-bye, good luck, take care of
the butts." So saying, he trotted off bravely, before the young grouse
could ask what the butts might be.

He was not left long in doubt. On the morning following the stag's
departure, he and his companions were alarmed to see a body of men armed
with white flags approaching from the distance. With one accord the
birds rose and went en masse in the direction indicated by the wind,
right over some little banks of turf they had seen many times before on
the moor. There were several of these banks on various moors, they were
in a line, one being seventy yards or more from the other and were quite
harmless as a rule.

This morning, however, as the birds passed over, the cry of the guns was
heard, shot after shot was fired, bird after bird fell, for every little
enclosure held one or two men. Some birds tried swerving, but it only
carried them from one earth to another; it was a frightful experience
and one that was destined to be repeated, for the birds followed the
wind whenever they fled from the beaters and were caught again and
again.

If the walkers had shot their tens, the drivers secured their hundreds
in the next week or two, until the weather changed again for the worse
and the packs took to a wilder and higher flight than they had ever
attempted before. Then the gunners went off the moors and returned to
the lower lands to shoot partridges.

To his last day the young grouse never knew how he survived the driving.
The constant alarms, the headlong flights through the air, the hiss of
the expanding shot that struck down near neighbours, these experiences
filled him with a strange unreasoning fear, and he was not to escape
scot free, for a couple of stray pellets cut off two of the toes of his
left leg and another skinned the feathers above the left eye so that
they never grew again.

On one occasion in his mad flight from the moor, he would have been
killed against the telegraph wires of the Highland Railway, had not the
singing of the "protectors" warned him just in time to dive below the
wires. He felt little pain and inconvenience from his wounds and soon
learned to go on short allowance of toes, but his fear increased until
the least sound sent him into flight. Long after the moor had ceased to
echo with the sound of guns, he trembled at every noise. The stags
roared in the forest, and he fled in fear; a bird of prey screamed in
the air--he dashed off again.

[Illustration: RED GROUSE [Photo by C. Reid]]

"Have no more fear," said the royal stag one day in later October, "the
guns have gone for the year, the shooting season is over and I go about
the forest as I like. Until my horns have fallen and grown again they
will not return."

This assurance comforted the grouse and he changed his clothes for a
black and buff combination that yielded in a little while to the
splendid chestnut with white tipped lower feathers that he remembered
his father wearing. He still travelled with the pack, but they ate less
heather than they had eaten before, and depended more upon late autumn
berries, grass and corn left on unploughed fields. He grew strong and
indifferent to the storms that swept the moors and made the forest bare.

No sportsman came near, and at the end of December the pack separated,
and our friend was left so near to his own moor that he lighted on it,
and there he met a young lady grouse in her charming winter gown with
its bars of red and buff and spots at the tips of the feathers. He asked
her if she would fly with him, explaining that he had, he feared, lost
his family and friends. She feared that hers was a similar plight and
said she would be glad of a protector. So they went out together and
found the scattered remains of their friends, and for two or three
months enjoyed a pleasant courtship.

Then when the stale winter heather was about to yield to a new crop, one
bird brought news of a district where all the old growth had been burnt
by the proprietors of the land a few years earlier and the new shoots
were plentiful and sweet. The grouse and his lady flew to that spot, and
found a little unoccupied hollow under a heather tuft. He helped her to
line it with grass and moss, and she filled it with ten eggs. It was now
the end of March, and during the first part of April he stood on sentry
duty a little way from the nest, and uttered his war cry in Gaelic as
his father had done before him. Happily the weather was fine once more
and ten little babies were his before April turned to May. He was a
proud grouse on the day when the last bird had come from its shell.

Other birds had been carelessly content to nest in the old uneatable
heather, or on parts of the moorland where the ground was damp and
undrained; the mortality among them had been very great, for they caught
pneumonia and other troubles which are peculiar to the grouse. But this
grouse flourished, and so did his wife and family, and by rare good luck
no birds of prey secured the little ones; the food supply did not fail,
and the weather was never cold enough to kill the children in days when
their down had not changed to feathers.

By this time all remembrance of the autumn had passed from the grouse
and his wife. It was no more to them than a dream. They thought of
nothing but love and domesticity. Spring, which had restored all its
beauty to the Highland country, had effaced recollection of autumn and
winter and all the woes they bore. Summer deepened the remembrance of
the spring and the joy of life; as Mrs. Grouse remarked to her husband,
there was not a pair on the moors that led a finer covey of little ones.

June passed in days that seemed to be twenty hours long, there was no
night--only a prolonged twilight; July was so fine that the burns
dwindled down to little threads, and the farmers on the lowlands were
crying for the water of which in nine years out of ten they had too
much. August found the heather full of fragrance and the grouse forward,
and strong on the wing. "They are exactly like you, my dear," said
Father Grouse to his wife, who had put on her summer dress with the
irregular black bars across buff feathers, as they skimmed over the
heather side by side. The parent birds were like her, very fat and very
lazy, for the heather-tops had been young and plentiful in their part
and they had rather overeaten themselves.

                  *       *       *       *       *

"That was a fine covey," said the first gun to his neighbour at ten
o'clock on the morning of the 12th. "A dozen in all, and we got six. How
odd; last year you bagged the leader with your first shot just as you've
done now. What is it, Donald? Yes, that's odd, this old cock bird must
have been hit twice last season. Two toes gone from left leg and mark of
shot above left eye. Well, put them in. If we go on like this we will
have a good bag."




                              THE ROEBUCK


With the beginning of June, full leaf came to the plantation, but never
a human foot disturbed the fresh thick undergrowth, and save for the
subdued note of birds the silence was complete. Above the woodland the
pines towered along the side of rising ground that led to the more
abrupt hills in whose corries the red deer were to be found; below the
woodland the arable lands began, and stretched in rich and plenteous
growth to the inhabited districts.

The corn was young and green, and the farmers had no work to do within
its area. So the doe that had left her mate and the little party with
which she travelled, in the third week of May, felt happily secure in
the hiding-place she had chosen, a secluded spot amid thick bracken, and
very early in June two little fawns were born to her. They were pretty
babies with coats lighter than their mother's summer dress, and marked
with white spots that did not remain very long. Their mother watched
over them with most anxious and affectionate care, and until they were
weaned could not bear them out of her sight for a moment. In the days of
their utter helplessness she did not leave the wood at all, and the
first walks abroad seemed to fill her with anxiety.

At the beginning of July, when the fawns were able to frisk about in
prettiest fashion, happily ignorant of the element in life called
danger, Donald's retriever pup, making a little journey of discovery,
came quite by chance into the wood. It was quite a puppy, without any
definite ideas of a proper function in life, and no desire to do more
than play with strange animals, but the mother of the little ones was
very frightened, and could not fathom its intentions. She called upon
her babies to lie down in the thick fern, and then made her way to the
puppy.

Had she possessed horns it might have gone ill with the intruder, as it
was she managed to kick him very severely, and he fled from the wood
howling. After this alarm the doe redoubled her precautions, and very
often would stop feeding to stand with one fore-leg raised and listen
intently to some sound coming from far away. Towards the end of the
month the return of her errant husband lightened her anxieties.

The Roebuck came jauntily into the wood and offered no excuse or
explanation for his two months' absence. He was quite a handsome fellow
with about nine inches of antlers bearing the backward and forward tine
that mark the complete development of what our forefathers called the
"fair roebuck". From the shoulder he stood about two feet two inches,
from nose to the end of his short tail he was about four feet long; his
head was short, his eyes were large, and there were black and white
markings on his lips. His coat was the light reddish-brown of summer,
and his conspicuous white patch gave an effective contrast to it. He was
very well pleased with the children his wife had brought him, and
expressed his satisfaction in a series of short, sharp barks.

The family stayed in the wood for a brief time, living on grasses and
ivy and the fresh growth of young trees, to which the fawns soon learned
to help themselves, as they cared more for leaves than grass; but the
pleasure of the season was quite spoilt by the flies. The wood was full
of them, and they bit and worried the fawns until life became a burden.

"We must go up into the hills," said the Roebuck decisively; "it is our
only chance of escape from this trouble. Midges can't climb so far."

"But what about the babies?" said the doe anxiously; "don't forget the
great big stags with long horns that live up there."

"It is quite safe," explained the Roebuck; "we are good friends. Next to
the red grouse, there is no bird or beast that does so much for the red
deer as we do. At the first sign of danger we give the alarm, and send
the red herd scampering over the hills out of harm's way. Often when the
stalkers are abroad we spoil their day's work by coming between them and
the quarry. So you have nothing to fear from our big cousins."

Reassured, the doe and her fawns accompanied the roebuck to the high
hills, choosing night-time for the journey, with the fear of mankind
before them. Food was less plentiful in the high grounds, but there were
sufficient grasses to keep serious trouble away, and the cool shade was
free from the worries that went with it below.

From their new home they could see right across the pinewood, over the
plantation of birch, alder, juniper and Scotch fir, and thence across
the low-lying fields of ripening corn. And when they sat head to wind no
danger could come their way. Change of residence had made the doe, at
least, very suspicious of unaccustomed sights and sounds; the buck was
bolder and more assured.

August found the horns of the red deer fully grown and nearly free from
velvet, and it brought the stalkers to the forest. The sharp crack of
the rifle passed so quickly that it left little terror behind, the
greater cause for alarm was the stalker himself. Did the Roebuck wind
one he would bark defiantly, and his cry was as significant as the crow
of the red grouse, who also hated intruders. It was well for the
stalkers that the roedeer had another interest in middle August--it was
the season of their lovemaking, and then they were less careful about
questions of concealment.

The buck and the doe were more than ever devoted to one another now, and
the fawns were left to their own devices. They courted and played, and
were happy as though the month were April instead of August, and when
one fine morning another roebuck wished to intrude, there was a terrible
battle. The two fawns watched it from a distance. As soon as their
father saw the intruder for the first time, he rushed at him with
lowered head; the newcomer lowered his to receive the charge, and the
horns of both seemed to be locked together. They separated, but drew off
only to rush at one another again, and as each wished to avoid the
other's shock the charge was ineffective. Then they kicked with their
forelegs and stood up, and in that position the parent roebuck managed
to get in a thrust that ripped the intruder's flank badly. This ended
the struggle, the stranger retreated, leaving a little trail of blood to
mark his trail. Mother doe had watched the combatants from a safe
distance, and as soon as the fight was over she called in her own
subdued fashion, and her mate, forgetful of his bruises, rushed headlong
to her side. It had been an anxious time for the doe, for, according to
the forest laws, she must have followed the stranger had he proved a
victor.

On the afternoon of the same day the parents were still together, and
the fawns had rambled to some rocks at the head of the corrie. They saw
no danger below, and all around the place was deserted. But far away in
the blue depths above the Golden Eagle hung for a moment quite
motionless, wondering where his supper would come from. The little
doe-fawn, suspecting no evil, had advanced to the edge of the high rock
overlooking the valley; she was clearly to be seen from the eagle's post
of observation. With quick, fierce swoop the great bird shot through
space, and stuck his cruel talons deep into the fawn's shoulders. As he
did so he buffeted her fiercely with his heavy wings, and she fell
headlong on to the rock below--dead. Assured by one rapid circling
flight that no danger was to be feared the eagle followed, tore from the
half-formed body the parts that pleased him best, and then rose with a
hoarse scream of triumph to wash red beak and claws in the nearest
water.

The parents did not seem to notice their loss as they would have done in
the earlier year, but the little roebuck had seen the tragedy as he lay
crouched in the adjacent heather, pressed as closely to the ground as
the hare in her form. He at least knew now that danger came from every
side. And, as though to enforce recollection of the fact, it chanced
that he was feeding in cover by a hill-side track one evening a week
later, when the sound of footsteps made him crouch very low.

The sounds came nearer, he was afraid to move, and presently a pony came
down the narrow track with a gillie by its side. Tied on to the pony's
back was a red deer--dead, a gaping wound in its throat. The little
roebuck knew the victim for a royal stag, one of the monarchs of the
forest, whose antlers were the admiration of every hind in the district.
Yes, a rifle had cracked twice in the late afternoon in the direction of
a corrie that the great stag favoured, and, doubtless, a bullet had
found its billet. The fawn crept back to his mother's side, he did not
care to ramble any more.

A great chill came to the forest, and there were morning and evening
mists that made feeding difficult.

"We will return to the plantation," said the father roebuck; "it will be
pleasant down there now."

So they made their way back to the first home in the plantation, and all
three began to change their coat, losing the red covering the parents
had worn since May, and the young one had worn since the last white
patches had left him. By October, when the great red deer were roaring
on the high hills, and the stalker had laid his rifle down, roebuck, doe
and fawn wore the thicker livery that would be theirs till spring
returned.

It had not come before it was required, for the brief season of good
weather had passed. Now the clouds hid the high hills, the red grouse
had packed, the ptarmigan was putting on his white dress, and the blue
hare of the hills was following his wise example.

With the winter dress the appearance of the elder roedeer improved
considerably. They began to grow fat, and found an abundance of food.
The tops of young trees, ivy and rowan berries served the doe and fawn,
but the Roebuck was not averse from a raid on the turnip fields below
the plantation, and enjoyed many a meal of corn until the last stooks
were carried.

Owing to his night-prowling habits, his extreme quickness of eye and
ear, and inconspicuous colouring, he could travel unobserved and with
comparative impunity over to the farm lands. Doe and fawn were less
venturesome, and preferred to accept the restricted diet of the
plantation, rather than wander far afield. The Roebuck's favourite
movement was a canter that became a gallop when alarmed; he never
trotted, but was always ready to jump, and could accomplish great feats
if hard pressed.

With the end of December the Roebuck's antlers, which had been growing
very loose, dropped off altogether, and for the next six or seven weeks
the new ones remained undeveloped. At last they were complete, and their
proud owner rubbed off the last shreds of velvet against one of the
trees in the plantation. By this time the fawn had put out two little
points, his first year's horn, and he was so proud of them that he
damaged many saplings in order to test their efficiency.

To such a young roebuck the points were not an unmixed blessing.
Sometimes when he ran out of the plantation into the pine-wood the wire
fencing would catch and hurt them, and the damage done in the months
when his head was very tender quite spoilt its shape, and made his horns
grow awry all the days of his life. Though he had his fair share of
vanity, this mischance did not trouble him greatly, for when he went
abroad after he had grown up, there were few roebuck better off than he.

In his first winter another family joined his parents--a buck, a doe,
and a little doe-fawn about his own age. They moved and fed together
right into the spring; does and fawns keeping well within the precincts
of the wood, while the roebuck ventured afield. They were constantly on
the look-out for food, but had their stated hours for eating it. Early
morning, noon and sunset seemed to be their meal-times, and then they
would feed very delicately and within quite a small space, ready to take
alarm if a branch cracked at the far end of the wood, or a dog barked
beyond the border of the arable land, or the breeze that faced them as
they fed carried on its wings the scent of man the enemy.

In May the two families separated, and the does retired to the most
secluded corners they could find. The Young Roebuck was now left to his
own devices, and celebrated the change by putting on the summer suit of
ruddy brown, that shone when he ventured into the light. Nearly a month
was occupied by the change, and during that time he felt sick and out of
condition; but as soon as the transformation was complete his spirits
revived, and he was ready for any adventure. Throughout July he indulged
in the roughest play with young bucks of his own age, but his single
points kept the fighting from becoming dangerous, and he could not bark
as his elders did in that season. He went up to the hills alone one
night, following the tracks of the past year for it was his rule always
to choose a path he knew, and to travel in darkness, or between the
lights.

Depending upon his own exertions for supplies, he lived in comfort until
the month of August woke the stalkers into life, and then, with the
nervousness common to his years, he thought that every gun was directed
against his life. His keen hearing, fine sight and prompt action often
gave the alarm to less wary red deer; and, if half the stalkers' curses
had taken effect, his tenure of life would have been brief. As it was,
he went back to the plantation at the end of September full of the
belief that his life was threatened, and this thought inspiring all his
movements, doubtless lengthened his days.

For once there was a keen hunter of roedeer in the district; a man who
had shot game in the wonderful country lying between the Zambesi river
and the Uganda Protectorate and was anxious to try his hand at the deer
of his native land. Already he had secured fine heads of the larger
deer, and now he was bent upon following the roe, and studying the
habits of the ground game. Throughout the plantation roedeer changed
their coats to the brown and yellow livery of the colder season; and it
became hard for the experienced eye to follow their movements. They
glided through the wood's most shadowy places, lightly as the sun across
a meadow in June; never a leaf stirred or a branch cracked beneath their
tread, for the paths of their going and coming were marked.

Children making an excursion to the wood saw the circling tracks of the
roedeer, and thought that they were fairy rings made by Queen Mab for
her nightly revels. But the fairies were only the little deer who could
see the children and yet remain unseen, and were never seriously
disturbed by their stray visits. In May and June children were not
allowed to enter the wood, for the does were with their babies then, and
might have done an injury to intruders.

Through the heat of summer the deer were in the high hills, and in the
autumn they were very shy. The hunter noticed these things. He loved the
country, time was his own, and he chose a corner of the land from which
he could mark some of the comings and goings of the roedeer, with the
help of his strong glass. Then he waited all night among the corn
stooks, enduring the cold and the mist with complete indifference; and
as the dawn was breaking he surprised the roedeer's father. The old buck
gave two leaps and was off at a gallop. The hunter remained perfectly
cool, his keen eye told him what allowance he must make for the pace;
and when he fired the buck gave one last despairing jump into the air
and fell dead. By the edge of the corn land the Young Roebuck, who had
seen everything, lay low on the ground in an agony of terror, just as he
crouched when the golden eagle of the mountain seized his sister in the
previous year.

It was late November and the roedeer were growing very fat; they had
grain, turnip roots and rowan berries, as well as the tender parts of
trees and grasses to feed upon, and perhaps the quality of the food
supply kept them to their old home, in spite of the danger that
surrounded it. Now, the hunter knew the numbers and sizes of the wood's
inhabitants, and he secured two more bucks of first head before they
lost their horns. And in January and February he shot several fat does,
matching his cunning against theirs, and having no help save that of a
well-trained dog.

He might have shot the Young Roebuck had he cared to, but the new horns
had nothing more than the forward tine that shoots out in the second
year, about two-thirds of the way from the base, and the hunter had no
use for so small a head. With the end of February he left Scotland, and
three summers had come to the land before he returned.

In his absence the wood remained undisturbed. A few roedeer were shot by
farmers among the corn lands; in one very severe winter several were
killed by poachers, but the young roebuck had escaped all trouble.

In his third year the backward tine had come between the forward one and
the end of the point, and thereafter he was completely armed. He had
learned to bark quite loudly, had fought for a doe and won her from her
former master; he was a parent though without responsibilities, and was
reckoned one of the most cunning deer of the woodland.

Though he travelled far and wide no trouble came his way, hooks and nets
failed to snare him. Angry farmers, stalkers and owners of the young
plantations to which he did so much harm could not reach him with their
vengeance; he seemed to bear a charmed life. Even when he rested there
was some avenue by which tidings of danger could find way to his brain
and restore his full consciousness on the instant. His winter weight was
over fifty pounds, and his antlers were over nine inches, though their
shape had been spoiled in the days when they were no more than simple
points.

The hunter came back to the Highlands in late August and pursued the red
deer until they began to roar and seek the hinds. Then he went South, to
return in January when the snow was on the ground, when the Highland
world seemed given over to storms, and the roebuck had lost their horns.
He sought his accustomed corner and waited to see the roedeer feeding.
Very soon the glass revealed all things to him. He saw the doe come from
the wood to enjoy the stock of roots that had been piled, by his
direction, at the edge of the arable land. Presently a buck of the
fourth year joined her--a fine heavy beast.

In other parts of the woodland he saw other roedeer, and he knew that
severe weather had driven some of the red deer down from the high hills
above him. But the first pair of deer always captivated his attention.
He could not have known that they were old friends, and that he had
spared that same buck when his horns were hardly formed. Perhaps he was
attracted by the elaborate pains this buck and doe took to avoid
observation, by the way in which the buck pushed his companion forward
as an advance guard, and disappeared at the first sign or sound of
danger, leaving her to follow undirected. For days he endeavoured to get
near them, using a well-trained hound, watching in the neighbourhood of
their rings, even employing Donald to aid him in the quest.

Four years of keen observation had made the Roebuck more wary than ever,
and, aided by his protective colouring, he passed lightly from
plantation to pine-wood, unheard and unseen, while the doe was equally
successful in escaping pursuit. For days together they would leave the
hunter's boundaries, but they always returned when they thought the
place was quiet; and in the meantime the roebuck's antler's grew, and
the velvet stripped, and he was becoming a splendid buck with haunch and
head alike at their best.

Many men would have been baffled, but the hunter was unlike most people,
and did not know when he was beaten. His experience had been gained in
many countries, his store of woodcraft was very large. He made a very
careful study of the tracks by which the roedeer left the plantation for
pine-wood and feeding grounds, and then, after leaving the place quite
quiet for several days, took advantage of a strong wind, and stole up to
a point where Donald had dug a pit and put a screen of heather. There
were other dummy screens round the sides of the plantation, and the
roedeer had ceased to fear them.

That evening the doe came out and made her way to a small patch of sweet
grass that the trees had sheltered from the snow. She seemed very
suspicious and ill at ease, and many times stood for a moment with head
erect and fore-foot raised as though to sniff the breeze. At last she
was within sixty yards of the pit, and broadside on, and even as the
hunter pressed the trigger that sent the notched bullet speeding to her
brain, he knew that his aim was true. Quickly as possible he carried off
the spoil, glad at heart, for he knew that her mate must soon be his.

For two days and nights the snow fell, and then on a clear afternoon he
sallied forth again, taking advantage of wind and cover to reach his pit
unobserved. The woodland was desolate and still, no sound of life was to
be heard. He laid his rifle gently down and took from his pocket the
little call given to him by an old deer-stalker of the Austrian
highlands. He put it to his mouth.

In the heart of the plantation the Roebuck, who walked now with clean
horns of splendid growth, heard the music that the doe makes in the most
pleasant season of his life. True to his predominant instinct he forgot
the claims of caution, and rushed headlong in the direction of the
sound. It came from behind a little mound of snow, where the heather
patch had stood. The separating distance became eighty, sixty, forty
yards, and then a long barrel peeped out towards him, and with a mighty
effort he checked his gallop and prepared to turn.

In that brief moment of change the rifle spoke, and he tumbled dead in
his tracks.




                             THE WATER-RAT


Many people know the river in and round the market-town that stands upon
its banks, but very few have seen the parent stream where it passes
rippling for some hundreds of yards between narrow banks in the shadow
of old willow trees, for here it is on private ground. You could not
wish to see more beautiful country. There are high hills crowned with
woods and level meadows where grass is always green, and the willows
share with the poplars the custody of the water. Tiny little tributaries
enter the main stream here and there, but Jock the water-rat looked upon
these with some contempt, as though he thought they were suburban. He
had his home in the roots under an old willow tree. You saw one hole in
the bank just above the water, but there were others under the water,
and in the meadow.

When the summer day was fine and long, Jock would sit at the edge of the
hole that was made in the bank, and would survey the world with a
cautious eye and a contented expression. He was no longer a young
water-rat, and he had not passed through his life without learning that
he had enemies, but in this part of the river the trout were few and of
small size--far too small indeed to trouble water-rats, and the eels
that collected lower down by the mill seldom came in his direction, the
feeding was not good enough. Of great coarse fish like pike there was
little need for fear, the water was too shallow to tempt them to come so
far up. If we except the old heron who was no longer as smart as he had
been in the days of his youth, and now stood on one leg as often as he
did on two, and missed his stroke as often as he made it, Jock had no
enemies in the water, and this is as it should have been, for there
never was a more harmless little animal.

He wore a brown coat well oiled, and carried a black tail with a white
tip, of which he was absurdly proud, for such a decoration in water-rat
land denotes that the wearer is of good family, and Jock had cousins and
distant relatives by the score who could not boast such an adornment. He
was proud of the many doored home he had made for himself, and still
more proud of the river which, he believed, had been put there for his
benefit. He would sit for hours where the light could just reach him and
listen attentively to the soft song of the water, and the louder note of
larks that sang in the sky above him.

From time to time he would look with a patronising eye upon Mrs. Moorhen
who often brought her little black babies past the door of his house
when the mantle of summer was spread over the land. In her early days
Mrs. Moorhen had quite mistrusted him, she thought he was like the big
brown rats that lived about the barns and sometimes came to the water
side, and did what harm they could from the time when their eyes opened
until the fatal day came when the keeper brought his terriers and his
ferrets to the home farm and killed them in their hundreds.

"I assure you, Madam," said Jock, upon the day when he cleared his
character, "I would not harm you if I could, and I could not harm you if
I would. I have nothing at all to do with the brown rats of the barn, my
skin is darker than theirs, and my tail is altogether different. Why,
the white tip ought to have told you as much, even if the length had
not. Then too, my legs are shorter, and I have yellow claws, and yellow
colouring on my fur. Those fellows who live up by the barns are merely
brown. They will eat anything or anybody, and the dirtier their food is
the better they like it, but I have delicate tastes and am altogether a
clean liver."

"Will you give me your word of honour," said Mrs. Moorhen, "that you
have never eaten an egg?"

"Quite readily," he replied. "My food consists entirely of roots and
flowers and water weeds. I've never tasted an egg in my life."

Perhaps Mrs. Moorhen was not altogether satisfied at first, for she
watched very carefully from among the rushes and roots to see when and
where Jock fed. The sight reassured her. After sitting very quietly for
an hour or so enjoying the view and the music, he would let himself down
easily into the water, and swim to some plant that seemed to tempt his
appetite. He would bite it from root or stem, swim back again to his
doorway, and then squat upon his hind-legs and eat with great
deliberation. When he had finished he would remove all the debris very
carefully, and wash himself like the clean little animal he was.
Sometimes he would carry his food on to the bank, or even seek it on the
bank and eat quite away from his burrow, but his movements were all so
simple and so harmless that Mrs. Moorhen could but be reassured, and she
soon came to the conclusion that it was a good thing to have a friend in
a world that was so full of enemies.

"I haven't seen you here for long," she explained, "and when I saw you
first you were running on the land, and that made me suspicious. You
were not in these parts when I came to them in the autumn."

"The truth is," he explained, "that I have only just come back to my
home for the summer. During the winter months I could not face the water
for long, and I could not sit at the door of my burrow because the river
had risen so high, so I was forced to go inland when I was not asleep.

"You may not know," he went on, seeing that his companion looked rather
puzzled, "that during the very cold weather I sleep as long as I can,
sometimes for days together. Then I wake up very hungry and must go in
search of food, and as I cannot find much to eat in the water it is
sometimes necessary to go to the fields to find a meal in the roots."

"Are they not all cleared away by the time the very bad weather comes?"
inquired Mrs. Moorhen.

"They have been taken up," he replied, "but there is generally enough
left to yield more than I could possibly eat if I started at the end of
the summer and never went to sleep until the spring. Sometimes I store
roots and grasses in my burrow, but last year two land rats came to it.
I was frightened and would not return. I have no trouble at all about
the food supply; my only care is to avoid the creatures that one
sometimes meets on the fields in early morning or at dusk."

"I know," said the bird with a little shiver. "You mean great big men
with guns and dogs. I knew a mallard who came to live here in the rushes
with his wife, and we became very friendly. He had the most beautiful
green feathers I have ever seen in birdland. One morning in January when
there was a hard frost and my friends were lying low in the rushes, a
big dog came up to them, and they jumped up to fly away. They went head
to wind to keep their feathers in the proper place for the breeze was
strong. Before they had gone as far as the bridge there was a hideous
noise, and then another hideous noise, and one fell dead on the land,
and the other fell dead in the water, and the dog went after them and
picked them up, and I buried myself in the water up to the tip of my
nose and felt terribly afraid."

"I have heard those noises," said Jock, "but I don't think men would
harm you or me; we do no hurt to anybody, and they don't need us for
their food. My enemies are the stoats and the weasels that run along the
hedgerows and kill rabbits and anything else they can get their teeth
into. Many of my family have suffered death at their hands, and I am
always afraid when I go on the land lest they should see my beautiful
tail. If they did it would be all up with me, for they can walk faster
than I can run. On my bank I am safe for I can drop into the water, and
the weasel or stoat that can follow me there may have all he can get. I
don't mind men, they never seek to hurt me. I don't like boys because
some have thrown stones at me, and I don't like women because one passed
last summer when I sat washing myself by my door, and she said: 'Oh,
there's a horrid rat!' and ran away."

In those late spring days there was not much opportunity for
conversation. Mr. and Mrs. Moorhen had built a nest in the roots of a
willow tree, so close to the water that had it risen an inch or two the
eggs must have been destroyed; and Mrs. Water-rat had retired to a nest
at the far end of the burrow well above the water line, a nest of weeds
and grass that had been bitten into tiny pieces and shaped rather like a
cup. Jock in those days had less time for sunning and washing himself
than he thought he needed, and was constantly in the water searching for
dainties for his wife, or looking out for attractive pieces of grass or
weed that he thought were needed to make the nest still more beautiful.
Sometimes his wife would come from the nest for a brief wash and return
immediately. Before May had passed, and at a time when the river banks
were loaded with an abundance of food that must have gladdened any
water-rat's heart, Jock was the father of six little blind baby
water-rats, and Mrs. Moorhen was the mother of eight tiny little babies,
that looked like balls of soot, so round and so black were they. It was
a busy time, but yet Jock found hours through which it was possible to
listen to the lark, or to watch the bats when they gathered towards
evening and fluttered through the air in pursuit of the flies and
insects that could never get away. In all the land there were no happier
families than those of the harmless bird that lived among the rushes,
and the good water-rat whose record defied reproach.

"If I could find nothing else to eat," he said one day when he had been
explaining his rules of life to his friends, who paused on the water
just in front of his burrow, with their little family playing round
them, "I might be tempted to eat some of those young frogs. Some of my
cousins do so, but they have rather low tastes, and you wouldn't find a
white tip to any tail among them. I hold that it's wrong, for there's no
excuse here to be anything but a vegetarian."

Doubtless the little frogs who had been tadpoles so recently and now
swarmed all over the grass, were very pleased to hear the news, for they
had quite enough enemies already, the old heron being the most
determined of them all. Though he sometimes missed his aim when he
struck at a fish now, he seldom made a mistake about a frog, and as he
too had domestic duties and a family to provide for, he was terribly in
earnest. Had he stayed in the narrower part of the river, it might have
gone ill with Jock and his family, but he felt the need of the biggest
fish he could find, and preferred the neighbourhood of the mill where
there were eels in abundance and he had a fair sporting chance of
capturing a young pike or two.

Jock and his wife had quite enough work to do in the early summer days
when their young were ready to leave the snug nest at the end of the
burrow. It was not difficult to teach them to swim, when once they could
be coaxed into the water, for their natural instinct aided them, and
they took more readily to the water than birds that are born in high
trees take to the air. But it was exceedingly difficult to make them
understand, in the first joy of their newly discovered achievement, that
the river held dangers in its waters, that if the parent water-rats were
too big for the small fish, the little ones in those early days were
quite tempting morsels. Though the father water-rat was quite a foot
long from tip of nose to tip of tail, his children could not claim more
than three inches.

Then too, the babies were inclined to scatter and to be curious, and to
go on voyages of discovery on their own account when they had passed the
period of extreme helplessness that came to them at birth.

In the days when they first looked out upon the water they had no liking
for it, and were carried for their swimming lesson in fashion rather
similar to that employed by the seal when she takes her little one for
the first time to the depths that are to serve as home for the greater
part of his life. When the moment came to leave the baby water-rat
alone, the father or mother would swim away from it, and the little one
would find that it could not drown, and that the water could not even
soak its scanty covering. The water-rat's coat is full of oil that keeps
the water standing in a thousand little bubbles on the points of its
hair unless it stays for a very long time under the water, and no
water-rats do this unless they are attracted by some roots that require
a lot of investigation. The young water-rats swam with head and back
right out of the water. At first they knew no other way, for this was
the method that their parents practised, but they were soon to learn
that, in times of danger, the body must be sunk altogether, and only the
tip of the nose allowed to show above the water. The moorhens dived in
similar fashion, and each thought that the one imitated the other.

"I daresay you find our method of diving very useful when you're at all
alarmed," said Mr. Moorhen to Mrs. Water-rat.

"I see you've learned to dive just as I do," said Jock to Mrs. Moorhen.
"It's the best way to get about, and you've learned the trick
perfectly." It would have been hard to make either believe that the
other had not copied his action.

As soon as the young family was fully grown it scattered up and down the
stream. Jock and his wife were kindly parents enough, and would
doubtless have been well pleased to keep their youngsters by their side,
but the burrow was not big enough for a family that numbered eight in
all. There were splendid positions for other burrows all along the
banks, and the young rats, knowing nothing of late autumn and winter,
were well assured that the supplies of duckweed, water-lilies, young
flags and tender roots of every description would never come to an end.
To them at least that little bend of the river was the world,--a world
full of good things; so some went north, and others went south to make
new friends and start independent housekeeping. The two that went to the
north, that is to say in the direction of the river's source, fared
well. The four that went down stream had no luck at all. Two fell
victims to the eels that lived by the mill pond, another was found by a
hungry pike, and the fourth, having ventured on to the land, under the
impression that he had discovered it, was seen by an active weasel who
would not be denied. By that time, however, August had come to an end.
Mrs. Water-rat in her snug little burrow that had had several leaves and
pieces of weeds added to it by the affectionate Jock was the mother of
another half-dozen babies. Mrs. Moorhen, who had endeavoured to raise
another brood some weeks earlier, was not so fortunate, for her eggs
were found by a land rat, one of the long-tailed, sharp-nosed, lean ugly
fellows that do so much more harm than good. But that the unfortunate
mother was actually driven off her nest by the intruder, and could see
for herself what manner of animal it was, she might have had doubts
about the earlier story that her friend of the burrow across the bank
had told her.

[Illustration: WATER RAT [Photo by T. A. Metcalfe]]

Before the autumn days had turned the greenery of the land to gold a
spell of bad weather set in, accompanied by severe rains that raised the
level of the river considerably. The entries to the burrow were flooded
and, owing to a temporary obstruction at the bend of the river, the
water threatened to pierce to the nest at the far end. On this account
it was impossible for the young water-rats to go to the river as their
brothers and sisters born in the earlier year had done, and for a time
their parents fed them upon the land, carrying them to safety through
the land holes of the burrow to the meadow-side, and always holding them
in their mouths by the loose skin at the back of the neck. From time to
time one of the parent animals would return to the water, plunging off
the bank, and generally coming up by the doorway to see whether any
change had occurred in the level of the water. These constant visits to
the river were in a way a necessity to the animals, because the oily
secretion that kept their fur from feeling the effects of the water, was
not limited to the fur, but extended to the face, and only frequent use
of water kept their eyes clear. With the very little ones this was
hardly the case at first; until they were fully grown they could live
with comparative comfort upon the land for a much longer period than was
possible with their parents.

It was while returning to the river on one of these occasions that Jock
met with what might have proved a fatal encounter. One of the young
herons born in the spring had strayed into the neighbourhood in search
of a fresh feeding ground, and spied what he took to be an appetising
morsel. He darted a stroke at it that would have ended this story on the
spot had not his intended victim been a little too quick, and dived. The
bird remained watching for any sign that would indicate the return to
the surface, knowing, by the instinct that serves every creature in
pursuit of its prey, that in the nature of things Jock could not stay
under the surface of the water for very long. Had the river been quite
clear the water-rat might have been seen swimming close to the river
bed; as it was, the recent rains in swelling the stream had made it
muddy, and Jock was able to move to a point where the water had
collected and left a mass of early fallen leaves. He travelled at a
great pace under the water and came up under these so lightly that never
a leaf was stirred, to remain perfectly motionless with no more than the
tip of his head above water. A branch that had fallen into the stream
kept him from being swept away by the force of the current, and he
stayed there while the heron moved up and down with a succession of
awkward strides, waiting patiently for what promised to be worth working
for. Exposed to the force of the water which was running rather sharply
past the corner where the leaves were covering him, Jock's fur was
speedily soaked, and for the first time in his life the protection of
oil did not avail to keep his skin dry. Happily, the heron being young
and foolish soon gave up the search, and stalked solemnly up the stream
where water was more shallow, leaving his intended prey to scramble up
the bank with some difficulty, and to lie still, wet and miserable and
helpless until the sun came out and dried his fur and he was able by
diligent combing and cleaning to reduce it to something like its natural
condition.

Owing to the peculiar formation of his feet Jock was able to dress the
whole of his fur as easily and completely as a bat might, and by the
following morning he was in no way the worse for the mischance. He lived
in the same relation to land and water that the bat lived in with regard
to land and the upper air.

As the weather did not improve the river burrow was left altogether, and
another was made in a field some little distance off. The necessary work
was done by night and very early morning, and for the greater part of
the day the family remained hidden in the burrow for the farm hands were
at work upon the land, and the confidence associated with the water-side
home had quite disappeared on the land. But the old burrow was not
deserted altogether. In the early days of autumn the old grasses of the
nest were brought out and left on the land, while a store of fresh clean
roots was carried in to serve the family during the winter months in
case of need.

By the time winter had gripped the country-side, Jock's second family
had scattered, leaving him with his wife in possession of the land-earth
they had selected for their winter home. Sometimes they would travel as
far as the stack yard of the home farm in search of their food, and were
quite devoted in their attentions to the piles of root crop that were
gathered under straw at the end of the last field waiting to be taken
away in wheel-barrows and chopped up for the cattle. Jock and his wife
would not have ventured so far from home had it not been that the brown
rats of barnland had been almost exterminated some weeks before. When
the last of the roots had been taken away, and all the land on which
green corn was not rising had been ploughed, dressed and, generally
speaking, made unfit for the water-rat's attentions, Jock and his wife
paid occasional visits to their store at the burrow end. Sometimes
during spells of very cold weather they slept there for days on end,
celebrating their return to wakefulness by a plunge into the river. Not
even the coldest weather could keep them from being clean.

Spring came at last, and the two water-rats left their home on the land,
and returned to the burrow upon the banks. The water had fallen, and
though it had left the burrow's bank-side door choked with debris, the
clearance was an easy matter. Once again the interior of the far end of
the burrow was cleaned, a new nest was made, and Mrs. Water-rat began to
prepare herself for domestic duties. Then it was that Jock strayed out
over the land for no particular purpose save sheer joy of living, and
while returning saw his enemy the weasel afar off and ran for his life.
The weasel pursued, and Jock tumbled into the water six or eight yards
in front of his foe. Because he knew less about the weasel's capacities
than he thought he did, he was foolish enough to put his head out of the
water and address the weasel who stood on the edge of the bank
hesitating as to his next movement. Jock, who was firmly persuaded that
no weasel could swim, attributed the hesitation to the wrong cause, for
as a matter of fact the weasel was only debating whether it was worth
while to get wet for the mere sake of killing. He was not hungry enough
to need a meal.

"If you could only swim as well as you can run," remarked Jock, "I
should be quite afraid of you, you horrid little beast."

"You don't know everything," replied the weasel, preparing to take a
header, "and if you swim no better than you run, you haven't much time
left to learn in."

With these words he plunged in. Conscious that something was wrong, Jock
dived to the bottom and swam as hard and quietly as he could, in search
of covert. But the weasel stuck to him, and was never very far behind.
In desperation, Jock rose under a little mass of leaves that he had
lifted from the bed of the stream, for he knew that his powers of diving
were exhausted. Perhaps this little trick might have availed to save
him, for the weasel was momentarily baffled, but his sharp eyes soon saw
the leaves dispart, he guessed the cause, and Jock fled as Hector may
have fled from Achilles round the Walls of Troy. This time he made for
his home, and entered the burrow by the newly cleared door in the bank.
It was a fatal mistake, for once his feet were on the land the weasel
was master of the situation. He caught Jock at the point where the
passage opened out by the nest, and killed him instantly with one bite
behind the neck. Then he killed Mrs. Water-rat almost as quickly, and
hurried away out of the burrow and on to the land feeling very pleased
with himself, as he ran swiftly towards the rabbit burrows where he
intended to make a fresh kill. So elated was he by the taste of blood,
and the consciousness that he had been too quick for his harmless
victims, that he ran carelessly in full view of the gamekeeper's son,
who was taking his first shooting lessons with a single-barrelled gun.
The lad saw the weasel, and took accurate aim, so that the ferocious
little animal did not survive his latest victims by more than five
minutes. The dead body was picked up and nailed to the branch of the elm
tree that served the gamekeeper as his vermin larder, and everybody was
glad that the weasel's career was ended.

But the larks that sang their hymns of praise to the sun, and the
moorhen that lived so quietly in the reeds, and even the little bats
that fluttered about at dusk round the edges of the river mourned Jock's
decease, and missed his cheerful presence when they passed the little
doorway in the bank, from which he was accustomed to look out over the
shining water and greet his many friends.




                              THE FLAMINGO


Some subtle sense of approaching spring stirred in the breast of the
great mute Swan. He could not call aloud, and the low tone in which he
spoke to his companion captives would not do justice to the occasion. So
he raised himself to his full height, spread his immense wings, and
darted across the pond, half-running and half-flying, and creating such
a disturbance that the squirrels in the open-air cage some distance off
raced to the top of their dead tree to see what was the matter.

On the pond the wigeon drake dived incontinently, and of the pink
flamingoes all, save one, sought the banks, where they twisted their
long necks into the shape of corkscrews, just to show their indignation.
The remaining bird stood on one leg quite unconcerned, his neck in the
shape of a capital S. He stared straight before him, and his glance
seemed to light upon the excited Swan, and pass through him to some
point behind the end of the world. The Swan was annoyed.

"This isn't the time for dreaming," he said, "on a fine April morning
when the gardens are beginning to look their best."

"I'm thinking, not dreaming," said the Flamingo quietly.

"What a waste of time," replied the Swan. "When I have nothing to do I
preen my feathers. I never think. Isn't this a pretty place; did you
ever see anything as charming?"

This was too much for the Flamingo's gravity. He turned his head, hid it
in the feathers that covered the middle of his spine, and smiled. Then
he withdrew his head, but feeling that some of the smile still lingered,
put it down to the ground parallel with his foot.

The Swan looked on admiringly. "You're a funny fellow," he said; "when I
saw one of your family for the first time I thought your body and your
head were fixed up on stilts. Now I realise that you have a very special
allowance of leg and neck. Why?"

"I'm built on special lines in order to realise my peculiar destiny,"
said the Flamingo stiffly.

"Well, well," replied the Swan, "don't take things so seriously. You're
a bit stiff in the leg, but you have a flexible neck, and your tongue
ought to match it. Tell me your story, I'm a good listener, and you
don't seem to have any friends here among your own companions."

"They are good enough in their way," replied the Flamingo, "but they are
all European or American birds. I come from Equatorial Africa, from the
land of great rivers, where the crocodiles bask in the mud, and the
hippopotamus lives under the water, coming now and again to the surface
to fill his lungs with air. Mine is a land of marabous and vultures, of
lions and antelopes, of rhinoceros and giraffe. The rarest and strangest
creatures kept in the gardens are in a way my companions, but the other
flamingoes on this pond can boast no such experiences as mine."

"How come you here, then?" asked the Swan. "If you had a good time in
Africa, why leave it?"

"A thing you call a sportsman is to blame," replied the Flamingo. "We
were having one of our state processions along the banks of the river,
and he came upon us. We had not seen a white man before, and knew
nothing of his intentions, but he knew our habits, and crept up so
quietly against the wind that when we rose we were not more than thirty
yards away from him; he could not resist the temptation of a shot,
perhaps because he thought we were good to eat. The flamingo he picked
out fell dead, another was hit hard, and I was pricked in the wing by a
stray pellet, and picked up before I could run. The sportsman removed
the pellet, and clipped my wings, so that I could not fly, and told one
of his black boys to feed me well. Then he brought me to his home over
the seas, and here I am. Excuse me a moment----"

With this abrupt apology the Flamingo lowered his head and dug his flat
upper mandible into the mud below the surface of the water. He took a
mouthful of mud and ooze, and then filtered it with the help of his
tongue and the little ridges along the edge of the lower mandible. Then
he thrust his neck up in curves that gave it the appearance of a
serpent's body, and moved both mandibles together as though to sample
the flavour of the mud.

"It isn't really to my liking," he said mournfully. "Why, where I was
born and bred I'd have had a mouthful of worms, or little frogs, or
other delicacies for less than the trouble I've just taken."

"It doesn't really matter," suggested the Swan, "you are fed by the
keepers, so you don't go hungry."

"It matters a great deal," persisted the Flamingo. "What makes every
creature in this place sick to death? What makes so many die outright?
Just the fact that they will be fed at stated hours. There isn't any
interest in the business, there isn't any search, there isn't any
travel. There have been days when the flamingo army has travelled miles
and miles on the wing searching for new feeding grounds, every bird with
his eyes wide open, his neck stretched out, his legs hanging straight
out behind him. Each one of us, even those in the centre of the wedge,
hopes at such a time to be the first to sight a good camping ground.
Then the appetite following long hours of travel, the joy of the
exercise, and wonder of the sights that we see--strange men, fierce
animals, impenetrable forests, and lands where the beasts of the field
are rulers and man is of no importance at all.

"What is there here to take the place of that life? In the morning I
stand on one leg, in the afternoon I stand on the other. I put my head
in the mud, or at the far end of my back, or under my wing, or round my
foot. I make an attempt to twist my neck on a new and original pattern,
and I listen to the ill-informed chatter of my European and American
cousins, and the strange folk who come here to see us. And I'd give all
the food that serves me for three days for three hours' wading, or
swimming, or flying in my own far country, under a sky that is really
warm. Doubtless you admire my feathers, but I assure you they are very
dim and dingy compared with what I wore in the days of my freedom under
the sun of Africa."

"I never see you swim here," remarked the Swan. He hadn't seen Africa,
and was not interested in it, and he ignored the remarks about coloured
plumes. His own feathers were very dull.

"I can swim as well as you can," the Flamingo assured him. "But I much
prefer to wade. Then I can put my head in any direction that pleases me,
under my feet if I like, with the upper mandible on the ground. The
attitude is considered quaint, and it sometimes helps one to snap up
some unconsidered trifle that went about thinking itself quite safe."

"Have you many enemies?" asked the Swan. "Can you tell me thrilling
stories of escape from danger?"

"We are too shy," explained the Flamingo. "Except upon rare occasions
nothing can come near us, and when we change our summer plumage we
choose a part of the country where man is seldom or never seen. We go
for choice to the banks of some stream that is known only to the
hippopotamus and the marabou, and live there until our new feathers are
strong."

"What about nesting time?" asked the Swan.

"That's more sacred still," replied the Flamingo. "The wildest and most
desolate stretch of marshy land will serve best for that. We build
together, there are hundreds of nests side by side. I remember my first
view of the nesting colony quite well, for I saw it when I came from the
shell, ripe fruit of the one egg of my nest. Most of the nests hold two
eggs, but when the family is doubled the young cannot get the attention
and instruction given to a single one. They were great times."

"Tell me all about them," said the Swan; "begin at the beginning." And
while the other flamingoes walked indignantly across the grass plot,
tying their necks into knots because they felt they were ignored, the
Equatorial bird croaked harshly, in fashion peculiar to flamingoes,
rubbed one of his webbed feet with his beak and renewed his story. The
wigeon drake came up quietly to join the audience, and later a stray
pochard joined the little group, but nobody else was interested.

"When my mother set me from the egg by giving it a little tap," began
the Flamingo, "I stood up in the nest and had a good look round me. On
all sides, as far as my eye could see, there were nests similar to the
one that held me, just mounds of mud and fibre, scraped up along the
edge of the lake and dried by the sun. Some held one, and others held
two, rounded eggs, quite white and rather rough. Others held baby
flamingoes, with no feathers to speak of, nothing more than some stubbly
down that was dull white or brown. All had straight bills; the beautiful
curve that you see now belongs, like the pink plumage, to maturer
growth. The feathers of the mother birds were at their worst just then,
very dull and dingy.

"I could not recall much of those early days, even if I tried hard. I
remember that my mother would leave me from time to time to go down to
the lake to fish for me; all the mother birds would go together, and
then we little ones would stand up on the edge of the nest and sometimes
tumble over it. Some babies, not more than a few days old, would walk
boldly to the edge of the lake and start swimming; it came quite easy to
them, far more easy than the flying that had to be mastered later on.
When food was found the mother birds would come back and feed us, and
tell us stories of the world lying far beyond our ken, the world that
men live in. My mother told me how she and my father worked to make the
nest, piling the soft mud up with feet and bill, and moulding it into
shape. She told me that flamingoes live together, and that only bad
characters are driven from the pack and forced to live the solitary
life.

"Nearly a month had been required to hatch me from the egg, and I had
all the summer to grow in, for the older birds would soon moult, and
while they were moulting there could be no flying. 'As soon as we have
our new autumn plumage,' said my mother, 'you will start your flying
lessons.' And as the days passed, she showed me great flocks of other
birds flying overhead, the white egrets, the spurred geese in their
black and white dress, the avocets and ibises. At times the hippopotamus
trumpeted in the marsh, or a lion roared on the plain, or we heard the
wail of a hyaena in the hours of deepest darkness; but there were no
other noises to disturb us, and never a danger came our way. The leaders
of the flamingo pack had chosen an oasis cut off from the other fertile
region by miles of summer-made desert. I learned that when the autumn
rains came all the land would blossom and bud once more, and be
accessible to man and beast; but by that time we young birds were to be
flyers, and the masters of the pack would guide us to safety.

"'We are fortunate birds indeed,' said my mother; 'we have beauty and
well-ordered lives, we are related to the storks and herons, on the one
hand, and the geese tribes on the other; so in birdland we are sure of a
welcome wherever we go. We can walk, swim or fly, according to our own
inclination; our feet are webbed, our necks are the most flexible things
in birdland; we are very peaceful, even in the mating season, and our
eyesight is quite remarkable. We live in the least accessible parts of
the world, and the most cunning hunter is baffled by our shyness. Some
of us stand as high as a tall man, and measure four feet from bill to
tail. These are the measurements of birds that cannot possibly be
overlooked.'"

The Flamingo repeated these phrases with evident pleasure, and drew
himself up to his full height in order to show that when his neck was
straight, and he cared to stand erect, he cut a very fine figure. To be
sure he looked a little ridiculous, with his absurdly thin legs and
neck, but he did not know this, and there was nobody to tell him.

"As the summer grew," continued the Flamingo, "the sun's heat reduced
the waters of the lagoon and made the little plateau that held our nest
quite dry and hard. Then we youngsters would go off for little journeys
on our own account, sometimes to the water for food, at other times
towards the plains. We must have looked a curious company, and you would
not have known us for flamingoes; our plumage was now white, with a
little brown shading here and there, while our bills were still nearly
straight. Had we been in an enemy's country, as we were so often in the
later days, we must have fared badly in those late summer months, for we
were very awkward and helpless; we could not have defended ourselves
against anything, and our parents were losing their feathers, and could
hardly fly at all. Then I appreciated the wisdom of the leaders, who had
chosen for us a part of the country that was unknown to nearly all other
living creatures, and possessed splendid food supplies. A few flocks of
birds related to us would rest and feed on the lagoon for an hour or
two, and then would be up and away, while sometimes the only visitor was
the little bird that walks upon the water,[1] or the little warblers
that sang among the reeds all day.

"By the time my feathers had grown, and the moult of the parent birds
had brought back a wonderful set of bright pink feathers, I was face to
face with the task of my life, learning to fly. That is difficult enough
at all times and among all birds, but a very special trouble comes to a
young flamingo, because his own parents are not very good at flight.
Even when we are fully developed we rise with difficulty; and when we
are learning, and are apt to tumble about, we get bad bruises and nasty
falls, because our parents cannot move quickly enough to help us. Some
young birds were permanently injured, and could never fly properly;
others fared even worse, and died of their injuries, and for some weeks
our little colony was happy no longer. The young ones complained, the
old ones scolded, and it was impossible to make allowance for weaklings.
Those that could not fly by the time the waters rose would be left
behind. That was the order, and it made us do our best.

"One morning the plover was heard calling to us at daybreak to say that
the floods were coming down. The leader sounded the order for departure,
and in a few moments we were on the wing in a wedge formation, speeding
in search of fresh pasture grounds. It was a difficult journey, and we
dropped a few weaklings by the way. When the heat became intense, we
were halted by the side of a lake, and there we clustered for hours,
shading our heads under our wings. The surface of the water was turned
crimson by the strong light on the pink feathers of the grown-up birds.

"Those of us who did not find room on the lake stood round the sides,
generally on one leg, thrust our heads and part of our neck under the
most convenient wing, and slept or rested until the elder birds called
to us to resume our places. Then the great wedge swept on, past forest
and clearing and marsh land to another lagoon where we settled for our
evening meal, very tired and stiff, but delighted to find that once we
were on our wings we could move with ease. We were now in more open
country; the break-up of the drought had scattered birds and beasts
everywhere. Until the rain came they had kept in the water-courses and
river-beds, now they could go where they pleased. Where we rested for
the night there was so much noise that for all my fatigue I found it
hard to sleep. If we moved and opened our eyes the glitter of the
fire-flies was so bright and fascinating that it was hard to turn from
them; the frogs, whose friends or relations or play-fellows we had
eaten, protested all night long at the top of their voices; grasshoppers
and mosquitoes sang, herons croaked and small birds held concerts. This
was disturbing enough, but when an elephant pack thundered along towards
the forest and the hippopotamus challenged them from the marshes only a
few hundred yards away, you can imagine that sleep was not easy, and
those of us that were still young and inexperienced would have flown
away if we had known of a quieter resting-place. In a little time we
learned to rely upon our leaders, to understand that the air held roads
and well-marked tracks for them, that they could guide us, if not with
perfect safety, at least with far more certainty and definite intention
than we gave them credit for.

"Sometimes we camped in the neighbourhood of salt water that the flood
had brought down, but this made no difference to our comfort. We could
fish in salt water as well as in fresh, and our food--water plants,
grubs, insects and small reptiles--was always plentiful. Sometimes,
towards evening, when we were just settling for the night, there would
be a rush for river or marsh. Deer of all shapes and sizes, zebras,
sometimes lions or leopards, would come to drink, and though they may
have had no designs upon us, our nerves could not stand the strain of
their company. However tired we might be we would rise. Those who went
up first would wheel round and round in a circle that grew larger and
larger, until at last every bird was on the wing and we were off again
through the quick falling twilight, forced to come to ground again where
best we could. Then the night would be very restless and disturbed, for
any small alarm would send nervous birds fluttering up into the
darkness, only to come down again at the sound of the leader's cry that
all was well.

"If I were to tell you of the strange sights that I have seen,"
continued the Flamingo, after pausing a moment to sample a little of the
mud in the pond, "you would be surprised, but it would take too long. I
have seen an army of storks being ranged in close formation to stay the
advance of an army of locusts. I have seen beasts of prey drinking side
by side with harmless antelopes, and not seeking to molest them. I have
seen the rhinoceros lying asleep in the grass in the hunters' country,
quite at his ease, because his faithful attendant, the rhinoceros bird,
has been perched on his broad back keeping watch for him. When he rises
up the birds will often fly away to a tree, for they know he can look
after himself, but when he rests they settle down upon him once again.

"I have seen the baby beasts of marsh and forest, the lion cubs and the
hippopotamus calves. I have watched the paths of hunters and hunted in
lands where the black man has never seen white folk, and goes about in
fear of the animals that ravage his gardens, destroy his cattle, and
kill him, too, if they can. And by the time I had seen all these sights
I knew something of the world we live in; the spring had come again, and
our leaders were bringing us back by forced marches to the lagoon where
I was born.

"When we were back in the old familiar spot there were grave discussions
about the nests. None of us wished to build new nests if the old ones
would do, but some collections of nests were held to be in bad
condition, and in one of these blocks my mother's nest was set. So those
who had to rebuild moved down the edge of the lagoon, and were soon busy
scraping up mud and rushes. I helped a little, but I did not mate. My
feathers were only beginning to turn pink, my bill had hardly acquired a
proper curve, and no flamingo is satisfied with his appearance until his
beak is longer than his head. I was too young to find a companion, and
stayed happily enough by the new nest, or waded into the lagoon with
unattached companions of my own year, and had a pleasant, idle time.

"Unfortunately, the nesting season was a failure in our district. The
other nesting areas did well enough, but some snakes attacked ours,
capturing a number of eggs and some of the first hatched birds. There
was no delay. We left the nests and started away to another water, a
separate pack. The rest of the old pack was busy rearing young, the
snakes did not attack them, so they stayed and we went, under the
guidance of a very old bird who was one of the best leaders in the
flamingo community.

"When we arrived at a safe place, where water and mud were to be found
in abundance, it was too late to build nests. A few birds laid late eggs
on the ground, but nothing was hatched, and we moped till moulting time
and through it with never a newborn bird in our company. I moulted and
secured a new crop of feathers, not very bright, not to be compared with
the plumage of birds that were seven years old or more, but still much
better than the dingy white and dull brown feathers with which I had
been forced to content myself in times past. I found myself better able
to fly, and though I have never been quick to rise in the air and get
away, I have never known fatigue, and, indeed, in the following spring,
when I proposed to a charming bird of my own age whose plumage was not
quite so glossy as my own, I was able to fascinate her by my graceful
movements in the air, by the ease with which I turned and twisted with
wings spread, neck thrust straight out, and feet stretching as far
behind me as they could go. My first attempt at nest-making was not
altogether a success--our one egg addled--but perhaps it was as well. We
were very young and might have made bad parents."

He paused, and sought for consolation in the depths of the muddy water.

"And then?" queried the Swan.

"The autumn brought the hunting man," said the Flamingo sadly, "and
that's why I'm here. They've clipped my wings; I can't fly. The air is
chill, and cold, and dirty. I'll never grow good plumage again. I know
there is food enough and shelter for bad weather, and companionship of a
kind, but I want the African sun, and the tropical streams and forests,
and the wild free life, and----"

"It's no good, my friend," interrupted the Swan. "You want too much. Be
satisfied that you are still alive. Better be a live flamingo in
Regent's Park than a dead one in Central Africa."

So saying he sailed away to the middle of the pond. The wigeon followed.
But the Flamingo, standing on one leg, looked steadily through the misty
air as though he could see in the far distance the land of his heart's
desire.

-----

Footnote 1:

  Microparra capensis.




                            HOB, THE FERRET


If you left the lane for the footpath that passes along the wood-side,
you could see the keeper's cottage in a large clearing away to the
right. In the days that belong to this story it was a pretty place,
thatched and creeper-covered, with a modest outhouse, one or two sheds,
and some ground that had been reclaimed from the wood when the
eighteenth century was still young. The flower-garden held half a dozen
beehives, and there was a small paddock where a few pheasants were
raised under domestic hens. In a corner of the paddock stood a useful
ferret-hutch, standing a little above the ground, with sloping runs from
the entrances to a little piece of the meadow round the hutch, fenced
round with posts and wire-netting about a foot high. A large elm tree
stood by the side of the enclosure, and one of its branches was used by
the old keeper as his vermin larder. Here one saw stoats, weasels,
hedgehogs, and sometimes a polecat, together with magpies, hawks, and,
one regrets to add, an owl. As soon as the old man had trapped or shot
one of his real or fancied enemies, its dead body was nailed to the
branch and, in that corner of a southern county, traps were seldom idle
or empty.

Some week or ten days before Hob was born, the room in the hutch where
his mother slept was carefully cleaned, supplied with a new hay bed, and
closed. Hob entered the world in complete darkness in company with four
brothers and sisters. Not only was their room void of light, but their
eyes were closed. Their mother fed and tended them very jealously. Had
her sleeping-place been entered in the first month of their life, while
they were sightless and helpless, their mother would have killed them,
for that is ferret law. In those early days they were particularly ugly,
and would squeak faintly as though to emphasise their distaste for their
surroundings; but their mother found plenty of fresh milk or porridge
waiting for her when she went out to eat in the apartment next her hut,
together with odd luxuries in the shape of freshly killed mice or rats,
or young game birds and chickens that had met an untimely death. So the
babies were bound to thrive. One fine June morning the old keeper found
them in the ferret's dining-room lapping milk by their mother's side.
Thereupon he opened the part of the hutch that had been closed down so
long, cleaned it thoroughly, and put in a fresh bed, so that Hob and his
brethren returned to a clean home and proceeded to live their life in
earnest. Within a week they were playing for the greater part of the day
in the enclosure round their hutch, and this early exercise made them
strong and active, so that none of the litter moped and pined and died,
as baby ferrets will when they are badly housed and have no place for
exercise. They still slept in their old room, but paid small heed to
their mother, who, for her part, seemed to have lost the most of her
care for them. When the youngsters were not racing about, playful as fox
cubs, they were eating diligently, and in those days they never failed
to receive three meals. Milk diet was their usual fare, but now and
again their master would tie a piece of fresh meat in some form to the
wooden stake in the middle of their playground, and they would attack
together, each trying in vain to carry it off to the hutch to devour at
leisure.

When they were three months old, Hob's brothers and sisters were taken
away and sent in a neat box to another county in response to an
advertisement, and Hob owed his immunity from travel to the fact that he
was the best of the litter, and was destined for ferreting on the home
farm. He was transferred to another hutch, where he lived by himself;
but when he had his first sporting day, it was in his mother's company.
He never forgot the morning, for it brought experiences that were new
and unpleasant. In the first place he had no breakfast, though he had
been ready for it soon after daylight. Secondly he was muzzled, and this
was an indignity to which he never learned to submit without a struggle.
The muzzling was done with strong thread that was tied in slip knots,
and went round the neck and over the mouth in very painful fashion. Most
people would have hesitated to muzzle a ferret that had never been used,
but the keeper was a very old-fashioned person, and held that the lesson
of restraint could not be learned too soon. When he had made Hob
perfectly helpless in the fashion hinted at, he lowered him into a bag
full of straw, where his mother, whose mouth, like Jericho of old, was
straightway shut up, was already burrowing. Then the old man shouldered
the sack, picked up a ditching-shovel and, whistling his retriever, set
out to accompany one of the sons of the house to a bank where rabbits
had been playing havoc with some green corn.

The bank was sandy and had a high slope, so it could be attacked at any
time of year; and when the mother ferret started in very confidently,
Hob followed her down the dark passage to a point where it branched out.
There he left her and went forward alone, for he scented a familiar
odour. He knew the smell of rabbit very well, and found the taste was
pleasant; he required no teaching to tell him there were rabbits in the
burrow, and that they were within reach. Darkness could not baffle him,
and though the path he followed soon branched in several directions, he
did not hesitate, but chose one that brought him suddenly to his quarry.
At the sight of her enemy, Bunny bolted incontinently and sought the
outer air; there was a muffled report a moment later, and Race the
retriever went down to the bottom of the bank and picked her up dead as
mutton, so cleanly shot behind the ears that she may be said to have
died painlessly.

Of these matters Hob knew nothing; he was following his quarry more
slowly, and by the mouth of the hole he put up another rabbit that
bolted down the bank before he could reach it. He peeped out of the
opening, watched the headlong rush, heard the gun go off again, and saw
the runner turn a somersault. Then his master came forward, untied the
muzzle, and rewarded him with a piece of newly killed rabbit. When he
had eaten his fill he was put back into the bag, where he went to sleep,
and knew no more until he woke to find himself being transferred to his
hutch. His mother, who had done a hard morning's work, received very
careful treatment, her feet being bathed in warm water; but Hob, who had
not worked long, needed nothing more than rest to restore him to his
usual activity.

Though he did not know it, Hob had earned golden opinions already; he
had shown all the instincts of the polecat, of which fierce animal a
ferret is no more than a domesticated species. So he was taken out from
time to time through the summer, his hours of service being gradually
lengthened, and he was always rewarded with part of a fresh kill. So
keen was his hunting instinct that when he did not get his breakfast, he
understood the reason for its absence and would run round the hutch in a
state of great excitement when he heard his master's approach. By the
time summer and autumn had passed and the thick growths had died down
from the hedgerows, leaving the burrows plainly to be seen, Hob was as
reliable a ferret as ever bolted rabbit. He would run along a hedge,
testing every hole in turn, climbing up and down and missing nothing. If
he disregarded an earth, there was no need to worry about it--Bunny was
not at home. If, on the other had, after a moment's hesitation, he ran
in, the appearance of a rabbit was usually a matter of moments. He never
made a mistake, and if rabbits would not bolt, the weather rather than
the ferret was to blame.

Winter brought Hob his first experience of any note, and gave him his
first intimate knowledge of wild life. Snow had fallen heavily, making
the landscape one vast study in white, and leaving tell-tale tracks of
bird and beast all over the snow. It was easy enough to see where the
rabbits were living, even if you did not come upon them sitting outside
their burrows and staring rather disconsolately across the land. It
chanced at the time that two of the younger sons of the house, only
lately promoted to the unrestricted use of 28-bore guns, decided to go
ferreting, and took Hob with them. One was quite certain that he
understood how a muzzle was put on, but his belief in his own
intelligence was scarcely justified, and before Hob had gone to earth
five minutes he had worked the objectionable restriction from his jaws,
and celebrated the event by killing his first rabbit. He stayed awhile
to enjoy a meal that was as pleasant as it was unexpected, and then
proceeded to see what was happening in the outer world. His path led him
to peep out from a hole under the roots of a beech tree. A net had been
placed there by the young amateurs, who were compelled by the nature of
the ground to face the other way; but one turned round in time to see
Hob, quite free from a muzzle, regarding him with serious interest. He
made an effort to pick the ferret up, but being unskilled, forgot to use
the dead rabbit that chanced to lie beyond the net as a lure, and
instead of seizing Hob with a firm, steady grasp, snatched at him
nervously. Very disgusted, the ferret made a snap at the uncertain
fingers, returned to the earth, found the dead rabbit that lay there,
and made another heavy meal. Then, feeling quite tired, he laid himself
up against his victim's warm fur and slept peacefully. The ferret that
came down on a line to inquire after him reported progress, but failed
either to wake Hob up or to reach the rabbit lying in an end-hole behind
him, and as digging operations were impossible because of the thick
roots, the sportsmen returned disconsolate. Even then, had they blocked
up all the exits, they might have recovered their ferret with the next
day; but they did no more than net the ones they could see, and it was
by the small one they had overlooked that Hob entered the world at large
on the following morning.

For him it was a very pleasant place to live in. On all sides there were
rabbits only waiting to be killed and eaten, and to do him justice, Hob
did not keep those that were within reach very long waiting for their
fate. Freedom brought a quick reversion to savagery, all the instincts
of the wild, free-living polecat revived in him at once. He devoted his
first free day to the systematic chase of a family of rabbits right up
to the end-hole of their run, from which there was no escape. Then with
horrid persistence he killed one after the other, biting them behind the
head and taking nothing more than a little blood from each. When the
slaughter was over, he slept among the dead rabbits--clearly he knew
nothing of the fear of ghosts. In the meantime his loss had been
reported to the old keeper, who put a line ferret into the hole where he
was first lost, and then dug right down to the dead rabbit in spite of
obstacles; but of course he was too late, and now he could do no more
than keep a sharp look-out when he went on his rounds, and give the
farm-hands notice that a jack-ferret was loose, and might be found at
any moment, and that a reward of two shillings awaited the finder. But
for all that a price was put upon his head, Hob was not destined to be
secured until he had spent two or three weeks at large, and had grown as
fat as the aldermen of the comic press.

In the days and nights of his freedom, Hob had many adventures. It
became his habit to hunt at night, and many a time the despairing cry of
a pursued rabbit woke the wood when all its denizens seemed to be
asleep. Though he could not have run a rabbit down in a race, he
succeeded by reason of the terror he imposed upon his quarry. Poor Bunny
would race about at three-quarter speed, shrieking as she went. He would
pursue silently, remorselessly, never losing the scent until his victim
would either stop short or would run aimlessly about in a circle, while
he waited for a few moments before rushing forward and inflicting the
sharp bite that brought the hunt to an end. He soon ceased to pursue for
the mere gratification of his appetite; he would kill for the sake of
killing. But towards morning, when the birds were proclaiming the coming
of another day, he would drag a victim to a burrow, eat his fill and go
to sleep.

Once he happened to chase a rabbit into a fox's earth, and even to catch
a glimpse of the vigilant head and fierce eyes of its owner before he
turned and saved himself. On another occasion, while he was watching a
rabbit that sat out on a bank close to the hole that sheltered him, and
preparing to dart forward in pursuit, his intentions were frustrated by
a poaching cat that crept silently up to where the rabbit sat
unsuspecting, and carried it away. Any trouble of this kind made the
ferret very angry and sent him running wildly in search of a fresh
victim. His girth had increased enormously, and his skin was as tight as
a drum, but he kept in excellent condition, and seldom failed to kill
when he had started in pursuit. Many a time he passed his old home, for
in all his wanderings, that took him as far as two miles from the
keeper's cottage, he never forgot its exact position.

Not until he had been a vagabond for nearly three weeks did his luck
fail him, and then on a fine Saturday afternoon he was sighted by one of
the ploughman's lads, and having no time to find a burrow or any other
hiding-place, he submitted to be picked up. The boy took him home to his
father's cottage, found a sack, and having put some straw into it, threw
Hob in after, and tramped over to the keeper. There was nobody in the
house, and not liking to meddle with the ferret-hutches, the lad put the
bag into the house through a window that chanced to be open. He then
closed the shutter and came away. Hob, having been shaken by the fall,
waxed specially indignant and industrious, searched the bag diligently,
and managed to find a hole. He worked his way through it and started to
prospect. He was in the larder, and on a shelf he managed to reach there
was a chicken that the keeper had dedicated to Sunday's dinner. Hob,
being ignorant of his master's intentions--or, perhaps, indifferent to
them--made an excellent supper off such parts of the bird as took his
fancy, and was discovered midmost his repast. Then his time of liberty
came to a sudden end, and the next fortnight was a period of repentance,
for he had no more than enough food to keep him alive, and the fine,
prosperous contour he had developed in freedom disappeared slowly but
surely, leaving him loose-skinned as of yore. When he went into service
again, it was as a line-ferret--his master had finished taking risks.

It would be idle to pretend that Hob liked his work in its new form, but
to his credit be it said that he never sulked. He worked as hard as
ever, though it was inglorious labour to hunt for other ferrets that had
killed rabbits and eaten the best part of them, or chased several to an
end-hole and were now crowding them up in a corner and trying vainly to
kill them. As soon as he stopped he knew he would be pulled out by the
hand that controlled the line, and thrown back into basket, bag or box,
while spade or pickaxe was requisitioned to break down into the earth.
He would resist withdrawal to the uttermost, but the collar round his
neck was too tight to be slipped, and he had to come out.

From time to time Hob ran with the jill-ferrets in the clearing round
the hutches, and he was the father of several fine litters, but was
probably unaware of the fact, for he was totally devoid of domestic
instincts. He could not have helped the jill to tend the little ones,
nor would he have been content to endure the darkness and seclusion of
her home for an hour. It would not have been wise to leave him with
young ferrets, even though they were his own children, if it happened to
be meal-time and one and all were hungry. They would have been regarded
less as kith and kin than as intruders bent upon depriving him of his
food.

After a long period of line-work, Hob's patience was rewarded by a few
days' ratting. Some of the old thatched cottages on the estate were
infested by the rats. They swarmed in the walls and under the floors and
in the thatch; when the corn was threshed they repaired to the houses,
where they were fruitful, and multiplied and replenished the cottages
and ate everything save tar, glass and metal. Complaints were made to
the bailiff, and half a dozen ferrets visited each cottage in turn. It
was a black week in ratland. Flight into the open availed very little,
for there were one or two active terriers in the garden; hiding-places
did not avail, for there was no hole so small but that a ferret could
follow if a rat could lead; and as for fighting, it was no better--the
ferret knew how to dodge the sharp teeth and plant his own before the
rat could try again. There were no muzzles and no lines to hinder
progress, and Hob killed as he had killed in the few weeks when he was a
free ferret and all the rabbits in the woodland were at his mercy. To be
sure, he received a few bites, so did his fellows, but they did not mind
such honourable wounds. When the last rat had been killed, the ferrets
were collected and taken home, to be carefully examined and have their
wounds dressed and their feet carefully washed in warm water, with which
a disinfectant was mixed. This careful treatment saved all trouble, and
after a couple of days' rest the ferrets were quite ready for work.

For more than two years Hob served his master, working so well that many
people tried to buy him, and at last an amateur, who knew little about
shooting and less about ferrets, made an offer that the old gamekeeper
could not resist, and Hob went by rail in a small box to a farm where he
was destined to enter upon evil days. In the first place, his hutch was
a small one, and though it had a sleeping-apartment as well as a
living-room, there was no space for exercise. The straw was not changed
regularly, the saucer that held the milk was often left uncleaned, so
that the milk turned sour; pieces of rabbit or small birds were thrown
in haphazard and promptly conveyed to the sleeping-room by Hob, who knew
no better. Within a month of finding his new home the ferret had quite
lost the gloss that was on his coat in the old days, and lack of
exercise had reduced his vigour. When he went out to work in warren or
hedgerow, and came home tired out and with wet feet, he was turned out
into his hutch and left to get warm by rolling himself upon straw that
was sometimes damp and dirty. The old warm foot-bath that had kept him
in such good condition was quite unknown in the new home. In a little
while he was ill; his feet suffered from a complaint born of damp and
dirt, and he had the kind of fever that results from lack of proper
attention. These conditions were noted and, thanks to a little prompt
and practical treatment, they were righted, but the real causes of the
illness were never removed, because they were not understood, and it was
a tradition of the neighbourhood that ferrets are delicate and hard to
rear. Indeed, Hob's new owner was heard to say that the old gamekeeper
had sold him a weakly ferret for a long price, and had kept back the one
he arranged to buy.

Perhaps the discomfort of his surroundings decided Hob to make his
escape from them. Be that as it may, he took the first opportunity after
his recovery to remain in an earth from which he had driven a couple of
rabbits to the gun. He was free and unmuzzled, and he had no kill by his
side; the line-ferret sent down to investigate made no sign. Digging
only served to send him further into a perfect labyrinth that should
have been dug out or blown up at the end of the previous season, and
when sunset made the weary and angry diggers desist from their labours,
Hob was free once more. By the following morning he had left the earth a
long way behind him, and was sleeping in security by the remains of the
rabbit that had yielded him supper and breakfast in one long meal. He
could not run about as he did when he first made his escape into the
world--lack of exercise and consequent illness had made him weak,
nervous and slow in pursuit. If the rabbits had only known they might
have escaped from him easily enough, and he must have starved; but he
was a ferret, and that fact was sufficient to rob them of the keen edge
of their speed. So strength came back to him slowly but surely, his eye
recovered its brightness, and his coat its glossy smoothness, and though
his feet were often wet and dirty, he could clean himself, because he
had plenty of room to turn about.

[Illustration: FERRET [Photo by C. Reid]]

Then with increase of strength came the desire to run for very pleasure
of exercise, and towards evening the whitey-grey figure might have been
seen passing rapidly along the edge of plantations and across open
meadow-lands--might have been seen, and was seen, for one night a young
farmer, out in search of a rabbit for the table, noticed the movement of
the long, lithe body, and knowing nothing of a missing ferret, was
certain that he saw a stoat. In a moment his gun was at his shoulder,
and a second later Hob's career was at an end.

"Blame me if'e bean't a ferret!" remarked the shooter as he picked his
victim up. And following that brief oration came the obsequies of Hob,
who was flung into a convenient ditch.




                           THE FIGHTING BULL


When the fighting bulls come in at sunset, led from the lush pastures by
the belled bullocks that have been their lifelong companions, one animal
walks alone in the rear of the herd. He is of more than common size and
splendidly armed, if one may use the bull-fighter's term in speaking of
his horns, but his is a gentle nature, and even the ganadero's daughter,
little Golisa, who has no more than ten summers to her credit, may bring
him a handful of corn without fear. He is nine years old, and has many
peaceful seasons before him, for he is El Perdonado.

Never heard of him, you say? That must be because you don't know
Andalusia. I saw the historic fight of which he was the hero; heard the
greatest diestro in Spain make an appeal to the President that El
Cuchillo, as he was then called, might be pardoned for bravery. And I
saw the Spanish grandee, one of whose ancestors was immortalised by
Velazquez, bare his head and pronounce the verdict of acquittal that is
not heard once in five years in the plaza de toros. So El Perdonado (The
Pardoned One) is by way of being an acquaintance of mine, and I have
ridden for miles across country to see him browsing peacefully on the
grass lands beyond Utrera, where he was born and bred. Now I will try to
set his history before you, that you may know something more of fighting
bulls than the plaza de toros can teach. The most of what I have to tell
I have seen for myself, but for some of the more intimate details I am
indebted to El Conecito, most expert of Andalusian banderilleros, with
whom I used to chat over horchatas in the cafe of the Emperadores that
is on the Sierpes of Seville. He will never see this acknowledgement of
his help, for he slipped in the plaza de toros at Valencia during the
corrida in honour of the feast of the Santissima Trinidad, slipped on a
purple patch that had not been properly covered with sand, and died as
he had lived--quite fearlessly.

                  *       *       *       *       *

El Perdonado was born on a Utrera bull-farm, in one of those restful
districts that delight the traveller between Seville and the sea. The
alqueria had whitewashed walls and a red roof, from which a belfry rose;
it lay amid rich pastures. There were pools shaded with willows, and
avenues of poplars that stood like sentinels against the sky-line, and
over all the country-side brooded the spirit of deep and abiding peace.
The young bull's mother was of the notorious Miura herd of the Duke of
Veragua, "the herd of death," famous for their prowess throughout the
arenas of Spain, and known by the red divisa that they carry into the
ring. His sire was from a northern province, and not so well known to
fame, but highly esteemed by the aficionados, the men who study the
science of the bull-ring.

As soon as the calf was weaned he was turned out on to the rich lands
that are watered by one of the tributaries of the Guadalquivir, and
there he passed his days, eating lazily or standing in one of the pools
to keep cool. He and his fellows were placed in the charge of a
ganadero, who rode tirelessly across the meadows throughout the day,
watching that his charges came to no harm and guiding or correcting them
as he thought fit with a long pole. The young bulls were as hard to
manage as a pack of foxhounds. They had every sort of temper among them;
they were vicious, crafty, daring and sulky in turn, but they had one
quality in common, and that was terror of the master's pole. For Miguel,
the ganadero, could knock a troublesome bull calf head over heels with
his formidable weapon; he could ride like a vaquero of the pampas and
turn a score of animals together in any direction he desired. Yet for
all that he was fierce and pitiless, Miguel was the slave of any animal
that fell sick, and never a racehorse received better attention in time
of trouble.

Our friend gave little or no anxiety to the ganadero, and there was
nothing in his behaviour during the first two years of his life that
might outline his character, until the day when the proprietor of the
farm rode down to the pastures with a company of friends and expert
professionals to test the novillos, as the young bulls were then called.
Each bull in turn was separated from the herd and charged by a stranger
on horseback who was armed with such a pole as Miguel used.

Some of the animals would not face the charge at all, but fled in terror
from it--to be driven into a fenced pasture and become mere butcher's
meat in the fulness of time. Others realised that their enemy was not
Miguel, and charged him with fury. These were acclaimed by their owner,
named on the spot, and entered in the stud-book as fighting-bulls. None
of the novillos made so fierce a charge as the subject of this story,
and because of the strength, shape and sharpness of his horns, he was
entered in the records as El Cuchillo (The Knife). Among the bulls
tested were some not quite of the first class in development and horn
growth, though they were not lacking in courage and strength. These were
sent away to provincial bull-rings, where they served, in corridas de
novillos, to give practice to matadors of the second class, and to
satisfy the blood-thirst of men and women who could not afford the time
or money to visit the large arenas.

For El Cuchillo and the chosen companions of his year, life took a new
and agreeable form when the first test had been withstood. They were
kept by themselves in the lowest and richest meadows, where the grass
came to their flanks and the water never failed. In the evening the tame
bullocks that carried cow-bells round their necks came to fetch them
home, and when they reached their stalls there was always a measure of
fine corn for supper. So they increased in strength and natural ferocity
until only Miguel dared face them, and he relied chiefly upon his old
reputation. It is more than likely that he would have fared ill in a
contest with the least of them now; but, as he carried the familiar
pole, was a stranger to fear, and never allowed an order to be
disobeyed, his rule was not seriously challenged. He called each bull by
its name as though he were the huntsman and his charges were a pack of
hounds.

                  *       *       *       *       *

One afternoon when El Cuchillo was rather more than three and a half
years old, the tame bullocks came to the prairie some hours before their
time, and in their wake followed half a dozen ganaderos, with Miguel at
their head, all carrying long poles. Some eight bulls, including El
Cuchillo, were separated from the rest of the company, and round these
the belled bullocks formed a little circle, and the company started
along an unfamiliar and deserted road, through lanes overblown with
flowers of richest colour and fragrant with the perfume of wild thyme.
Past farmhouses well-nigh smothered in greenery, and tiny wayside ventas
where little groups of interested spectators were gathered under the
vine-trellised arbours, men and beasts took their slow and peaceful way.
Before nightfall a quiet meadow received the company of bulls and
bullocks and, while five of the ganaderos went to claim the shelter of a
neighbouring farmhouse, Miguel kept watch during the few dark hours.

In the afternoon of the next day the journey was resumed, and the fierce
bulls went forward in orderly fashion enough, because they were
accustomed by now to the company of bullocks and the tinkling of their
bells. So that the bullocks knew the way, the bulls were well content to
follow. Only on the fourth evening did they reach their destination, the
tablada that lies within five miles of Seville and offers a clear view
of the Giralda Tower and the cathedral. There for some days bulls and
bullocks rested from their labours, and the corn supply of the former
was renewed by Miguel with a lavish hand. Such little fatigue as might
have been associated with the journey over dry and dusty roads was
speedily forgotten.

A very gay procession rode out of Seville to the tablada on the
afternoon of the Friday following the arrival of the animals. There were
several noble patrons of the bull-ring, a tall, fair-bearded man who was
treated with special deference, and a dancing-girl whose name was known
from London to New York via St. Petersburg. One of Spain's leading
matadors was of the party--a heavy-jawed dull-eyed man, who rode his
horse very awkwardly; there were two of the directors of the plaza de
toros, and some of the lesser lights of the arena, including El
Conecito, the banderillero. The bulls took little notice of the
intruders. Their friends, the tame bullocks, were feeding by their side,
and Miguel, armed with his pole, sat watching over them from the horse
of which he seemed to be a part.

The company rode past the bulls, noting their points as connoisseurs
should, and when the great matador--why hide the fact that it was
Espartero himself?--saw El Cuchillo, he positively trembled with
excitement. In thick guttural tones he asked Miguel a few questions;
then, with a light in his eyes that seemed to change the character of
his face, he cantered heavily to where the great bull stood. "We shall
meet on Sunday, my beauty," he cried aloud, "and then you shall feel my
sword in your heart or I will take your horns to my body."

And El Cuchillo, who at other times would permit no man to come within
ten yards of him, raised his huge head and stared at the finest
swordsman in all Spain, as though he understood the challenge and
accepted it.

"You seem pleased with that fellow, Espartero," said the tall man,
turning for a moment from the lady with whom he had been conversing.

"Your highness," replied the great diestro, "since the day when I
entered a plaza for the first time, I have never seen a bull better
set-up, better armed or in more splendid condition. And if I read him
aright, half a dozen horses won't tire him."

Having spoken he drew back, the animation passed from his face as
rapidly as it had come there, and he rode silently back to the city in
the wake of his gay companions. Only Miguel remained in the tablada,
perhaps in that moment the proudest man in Andalusia. For it was to his
care and tireless work that El Cuchillo's perfect condition was due.

More than twenty-four hours passed uneventfully, save that the supply of
corn was doubled, but as Saturday night drew on many unaccustomed sounds
disturbed the bulls--sounds of carriage wheels, the tramp of many horses
and the noise of human voices. More than once the huge animals rose to
their feet and looked round uneasily, but the bullocks showed no sign of
nervousness, and Miguel was in his place. Night deepened, but moon and
stars shone with a good grace, and soon there were other lights moving
close to the ground--lanterns carried by horsemen at the end of long
poles. Miguel's voice sounded across the tablada, calling the beasts by
name; they rose to their feet and came together, a dark, unwieldy
nervous mass that a false movement might have turned into a destructive
force. But other ganaderos were riding through the tablada now and
calling the bullocks, that, obedient to the summons, gathered round the
bulls and, preceded by Miguel and one ganadero, led the way through the
pastures to the high road. As soon as this was reached Miguel's
companion shook his reins and darted off at a thundering gallop along
the Seville road. His the duty to warn belated travellers that the
encierro had commenced, to turn carriages and waggons into side lanes,
and then to continue his headlong rush until the plaza de toros was
reached, and he could summon the men on duty there to light their fires
and open the great gate leading to the toril. It was a simple matter
enough to take the bulls from their native pasture to the place they
were leaving now, but the last few miles between the tablada and the
bull-ring were full of dangers, for all Seville was accustomed to turn
out to see the procession.

When bulls, bullocks and their guardians were safely on the high road, a
long procession of carriages, followed by men on horse and afoot, came
from a turn in the main road and formed a sort of rearguard.

The fascination of the night-ride was at once their justification and
their excuse. The air was so still that the ringing sound of flying
hoofs reached the ear when the first ganadero was some two miles in
advance of the procession; one was conscious of the heavy, intoxicating
perfume that stole out from gardens on either side of the road. From the
poplar trees came the ceaseless call of the cigarrons, nightingales sang
amid the orange-orchards of Las Delicias, the melancholy cry of the
bittern rose from the river marshes, mingled with the croaking of the
bull-frogs never at rest. And every venta along the roadside was
crowded, the garden trees were hung with lanterns, guitars tinkled an
accompaniment to malaguenas, jotas, boleros and other songs and dances
of Southern Spain, and through the pageant and festivities prepared in
their honour the bulls moved with silent dignity. Right along the
Guadalquivir's bank, where the lights shone from the faluchas at rest
upon its waters, they tramped almost up to the Tower of Gold, and then
the plaza de toros shone out clearly in the light of huge bonfires
kindled just beyond its boundaries. Guided for the first and last time
by the poles of the ganaderos, the bullocks turned sharply to the right,
and after a moment's hesitation that gave the one touch of suspense to
the proceedings, the fighting bulls followed. The heavy doors were drawn
behind them, the procession dispersed, and, quite unseen by any eyes
save those of the men engaged, each bull was driven to his own condemned
cell, while the bullocks remained by themselves in a small straw-covered
yard. Then profound silence reigned throughout the city, broken only
when the bells clashed from the Giralda Tower and the old serenos who
paraded the streets with spear and lantern cried to the Maria Santissima
that the night was clear.

                  *       *       *       *       *

In his narrow prison El Cuchillo may have noted the coming of the
morning when one white bar of light fell across the wall. There were
sounds of activity beyond the toril, but he remained undisturbed. He had
little room to turn, there was no food, and, worse still, no water.
Hunger, thirst and fear yielded slowly to an overmastering sense of
anger, founded upon his consciousness of giant strength. He bellowed
savagely, and would have given effect to his rage had it been possible
to move freely.

Long hours passed; morning yielded to afternoon. The great splash of
light that came through the bars waxed intense and intolerant and then
waned slowly with the passing hours, while an indescribable sense of
movement filled the twilight of the condemned cell. In some subtle
fashion it told of the gathering of an expectant multitude. On a sudden
a military band, somewhere just beyond the toril, crashed out the
Spanish National Anthem, there were cheers and shouts, succeeded by a
death-like stillness that was broken in its turn by a shrill,
penetrating trumpet call. Time after time, for more than an hour, came
the reverberating notes, the snatches of wild music, the cries from many
thousand throats. Only one word rang clear: "Espartero".

At last El Cuchillo became conscious of voices on either side of him,
the light broadened, and a hand, shooting out a little way above him,
stuck the barbed point of a red rosette in his shoulder. A moment later
the trumpets called again, the front wall of his prison opened as though
by magic, and he dashed forward with a rush that brought him half way
across the yellow arena. A yell from twelve thousand throats arrested
him; he lashed his flanks, blinked a little--for even the setting sun
hurt his eyes after those long hours of darkness--and then answered his
audience with a roar of defiance. Certainly he knew that he was
surrounded by his enemies; perhaps the awful odour of blood that filled
the arena gave him some prevision of the butchery that was to accompany
his death.

Let us pass over the first few minutes of the struggle. El Cuchillo knew
no difference between the armour-cased picadores who carried the spiked
poles, and the hapless, unprotected, blindfolded horses they bestrode.
That is all that needs be said by way of excuse for the six carcases
that strewed the arena when the tercio sounded, carcases from which the
blue-coated attendants had stripped saddle and bridle. With one
exception the picadores had fallen behind their horses in the most
approved fashion; the exception, a heavy man, protected at all vital
points against the reddened horns, was tossed high into the air and
carried off with a broken collar-bone; while Espartero himself drew El
Cuchillo away with some of the most superb cloak-work Seville had seen
since Lagartijo retired from the bull-ring.

With the enthusiasm of the huge auditorium a thrill of amazement was
mingled. Though the bull's neck bore red marks of the picadores' poles,
he was singularly fresh, his breathing was not short and sharp as it
should have been, and he was in no sense distressed.

Conecito came forward with his banderillas, the beribboned spears used
for the second attack upon the bull, and the crowd cheered lustily, for
the banderillero was a favourite. Bull and man seemed to charge
together, and then Conecito was seen travelling post-haste for the
barrier, which he reached just in time, while his opponent drew up and
trotted off gamely but with "half a pair" (the technical term for one
banderilla) hanging from his shoulder. The second banderillero tried
next and failed altogether--El Cuchillo's pace beat him utterly; and
then, to the accompaniment of a roar of applause and a burst of barbaric
music, Espartero himself came forward with a pair of the light lances.
This time there was no mistake. For all Cuchillo's wonderful habit of
using his eyes as he charged he could never quite tell where the great
matador would cross him, and at the second attempt the two lances were
beautifully placed. Then Conecito tried again, with the same result as
before, save that the one sent home was on the other side of the bull's
flank, so that he carried two pairs now. The second banderillero was
quite beaten, but the renowned Rafael Guerra, who led the second
cuadrilla, succeeded, amid thunders of acclamation. Then the judge
raised his hand to the string with which he signalled, the trumpeters
sounded the third call and a great hush fell upon the arena.

Espartero was to kill. The great diestro, who had been testing the
quality of two or three swords, and giving instructions to the footmen
of his cuadrilla, now chose his weapon, and wrapping the scarlet muleta
round it strode across the arena until he stood below the President's
box.

Hat in hand, he asked permission to kill El Cuchillo in manner that
would do honour to Seville. The President raised his hat in token of
assent; Espartero flung his own over the barrier and turned towards the
middle of the arena, where El Cuchillo, standing sturdily defiant,
greeted his coming with a thunderous bellow, and stared with bloodshot
eyes at the gold epaulettes and braid, the gaudy coat, the red waistband
and blood-stained white stockings of his enemy.

Conecito, who now carried one of the plum-coloured cloaks, stood a
little to the left of his chief and heard Espartero speak to the bull as
though he were a human being.

"El Cuchillo," he said slowly, almost solemnly, "you are a great bull
and know no fear. You have killed six horses and you are still fresh. I,
Espartero, salute and honour you. And now one of us must die."

So saying, he unfurled the scarlet cloth, the muleta, and flashed it
across the bull's startled eyes, so that he charged the uncanny thing.
It jumped up out of his reach, and came back just below his nose, and
buzzed round him like a hornet, and led him to jump and turn and twist
and lose his caution, and stand with his forelegs closer and closer
together as Espartero wished, for when they were quite in the normal
condition he could send his espada through the matted hair over the
shoulder and through the lungs to the heart. Then on a sudden, when the
aficionados were telling each other that the end of the splendid animal
would be tame enough, and speculating whether Espartero would kill with
his favourite volapies, or would fall back on the descabello a pulso,
that must be difficult with a bull whose movements were so uncertain, El
Cuchillo seemed to recover his nerve. He ignored the muleta and rushed
at Espartero himself, and in that moment all the diestro's plans were
upset, and he was forced to save himself by one of the agile turns of
which he was the master.

The trumpets sounded a single warning note; Espartero had gone beyond
the time allotted to him. A murmur of astonishment rippled round the
vast arena; never before in the history of Seville had Espartero been
warned. Even the boys who sell programmes and fruit and sandwiches
ceased their cries; the flutter of fans on the sunny side of the ring
faded into stillness almost automatically; and the gaudy flags that
decked the arena seemed to hang breathless. Alone in that vast concourse
matador and bull preserved their tranquillity, and it would be hard to
say which of the two needed it most.

Espartero realised the need for prompt action. With splendid disregard
for danger he returned to his work, and once again the muleta flashed
all round the bull's head, bewildering, dazing and almost stupefying
him, while one of the banderillas that lay right across the animal's
shoulder was lifted into its proper place by a daring stroke of the
sword. For a moment the forelegs came together, and it seemed as though
Espartero hurled himself upon the bull, but a second later the sword was
high in the air, the matador's stroke had been foiled by one of El
Cuchillo's sudden movements, and one blood-stained horn ripped
Espartero's red waistcoat as he jumped aside avoiding death by a
hand's-breadth. The capadores rushed in to cover their chief's defeat,
and El Cuchillo, disdaining the plum-coloured cloaks, made for one man.
The moment of mad chase to the barrier was one of horrible uncertainty,
the capador vaulted and fell, badly bruised, on the other side, and then
El Cuchillo trotted back to the centre of the arena, distressed and
bleeding, but unbeaten. The trumpet called again.

Espartero examined the sword that had been picked up and brought to him,
only to fling it aside. Armed with a fresh one, he paused to replace and
reassure his wondering cuadrilla, and moved forward again. His face was
perfectly colourless, his hand was shaking, the fatigue of the work done
during the long afternoon was making itself felt, for he had killed two
difficult bulls already, and El Cuchillo had been more than twenty
minutes in the arena.

"Give me your horns or take my sword this time," he cried, as he
approached his enemy, and, as though in reply, El Cuchillo bellowed his
defiance to Spain and its champion matador.

Now, in those last moments, the silence was almost as oppressive as the
heat.

Something of the fury of despair seemed to seize upon man and beast,
some shadow of their overwhelming anxiety lay heavily upon the audience.
The muleta had seemingly lost its power to charm, and the matador seemed
resolved to set his life upon the point of his own sword. With a superb
gesture, he lowered the scarlet rag and invited El Cuchillo to charge.
Hundreds of men and women, used though they were to all the carnage of
the arena, turned their eyes away, until a deafening roar roused them to
see Espartero hurled on one side and El Cuchillo in pursuit of the
plum-coloured cloaks, with the sword quivering in his shoulder.

As the shout rolled through the arena, and Espartero walked slowly to
the barrier, the setting sun made a final effort and flooded half the
arena with yellow crocus-coloured light. The pigeons from the Giralda
Tower swept right across the plaza, and from the sunny side rose a
sudden shout of "Pardon! pardon."

It was caught up all over the arena as El Cuchillo, with a mighty
effort, shook the sword out of his shoulder and, with splendid valour,
returned to the centre of the arena, unbeaten still, and ready for the
next attack.

The clamour increased and became deafening until Espartero was seen
walking empty-handed to the corner below the President's box. Then it
died away to absolute silence.

In clear tones that could be heard all over one side of the arena the
great matador asked the President to grant pardon to El Cuchillo for his
splendid fight, which had given more honour to the famous plaza de toros
than would come to it by his death. And the President, listening gravely
to his appeal, raised his hat and replied, "We pardon El Cuchillo on
account of his bravery".

Amid a scene of extraordinary enthusiasm the trumpets sounded again, and
the tame bullocks came into the arena by way of the toril. They grouped
themselves round El Cuchillo, while people cheered and flung hats and
cigars and flowers to Espartero, and the band played Spain's National
Anthem. So the long-horned hero of "the herd of death" passed to the
toril, where the barbs were removed, his wounds were dressed and his
raging thirst was satisfied. And the crowd that had gathered along the
river-side road to see him pass to his death gathered on the morrow to
do him honour on his way back to the pleasant pastures of Utrera, where
old age comes to him to-day, slowly and in peaceful guise.




                               THE CUCKOO


The month was May, the place was the Heron Wood, which was ablaze with
wild hyacinths and pansies, and full of singing-birds. If you have ever
been through the wood you must know the little open space in the middle
with the pond to which a stray wild duck comes now and again in cold
weather. From one corner of the pond you can see right down the slope to
the wood's end, along a path now overgrown with ferns and weeds, but, in
the old preserving days, a ride cut to enable the squire to shoot his
pheasants. There a Vixen had her earth. She could see over the approach
to the wood and yet remain unseen, so she was well content.

[Illustration: YOUNG CUCKOO [Photo by C. Reid]]

A bird that seemed at first sight to be a sparrow-hawk came into the
wood above the ride, hard-pressed by a flock of sparrows and finches
that were pursuing it with loud, angry cries. Once among the trees, the
hunted one was lost to its pursuers, who gave up the chase and returned
twittering to the open. The Vixen sat quite still. Suddenly she heard
the flutter of leaves, as strong wings passed between them, and in
another minute the bird that might have been taken for a sparrow-hawk
lighted on the branch of the black-thorn above her, lowered his head,
drooped his wings, spread his tail out to the fullest extent and called,
"Cuc-koo," he cried, "Cuc-koo, cuc-cuk-koo".

"Well, I am surprised," said the Vixen, "I thought you were a hawk."

"So did the hedge-sparrows and the green-finches, and the
yellow-hammer," laughed the Cuckoo. "It was very amusing, particularly
as they could not get near me. But I would not like them to catch me in
the open."

"Then why do you try to appear like a hawk when you're a cuckoo," said
the Vixen. "Trouble enough comes to all of us without asking for it. At
least I think so."

"I'm not so foolish as you think," explained the bird, whose plumage,
now it could be seen closely, was very drab and undistinguished, just a
dirty grey with brown markings, and nothing of the gloss that belongs to
the feathers of the hawk tribe. "You see, I'm quite a defenceless bird.
My bill is not made to deal with anything harder than insects. I'm not
built for fighting. Now I'm a fair size, and every hawk can see me when
I fly abroad. If they knew me for a cuckoo, I'd not do much good for
myself, the first that saw me would have a free meal. So I imitate their
flight and all their actions, and they take me for one of themselves. In
this way I am safe to go from place to place; but there is the drawback
that all the little hawk-haters of the woods and hedges are deceived
too, and they mob me as you have seen. However, we can't expect to have
unmixed good luck, and deception involves trouble. Upon my word, I'm
almost as wise as the brown owl himself."

"How do you manage the imitation so well?" asked the Vixen. "I'm not
readily deceived, but I thought you were a hawk."

"Just practice," he replied. "When I'm feeding I can twist and turn up
and down any way you like, and when I'm trying to hide I can slip in and
out among branches in a way your eye could not follow. But when I go
into the open where there may be hawks about, I take a straight flight,
keep my tail spread out, utter no sound at all and go across the fields
as though I were on the look-out for little birds."

"And what are you doing in this part?" asked the Vixen suspiciously. She
was not pleased to see strangers in the wood.

"I've been about since early April," replied the Cuckoo. "I've taken up
my summer quarters here, and I don't mind telling you that there is no
room for any other male cuckoo in this wood. I had to make an exception
to my general rule of peaceful living and fight one of my own tribe for
possession of this pitch. I won, and he has gone across the river."

"What about your mate?" she asked him, and the Cuckoo smiled again,
rather wickedly.

"I don't mind allowing any really charming lady cuckoo to call for a few
days, but she can't stay," he replied. "My instincts are those of a
bachelor."

The Vixen thought it best to change the subject.

"What part have you come from?" she said.

"My winter home is in the centre of Africa," he replied. "A place south
of the equator full of tropical forests, where there are lions and
hippopotami and a few black people in towns and villages where a white
man has never been seen.

"We leave there in March and come north. On our way through Morocco or
Algeria some of us stop, unwilling to cross the sea. You can hear us in
the forests of Ma'mora and Argan, and in the woods of the country of the
Beni M'gild. But the most of us persevere and leave Africa and come into
Spain. There the great spotted cuckoo, who is my cousin, stays and
spends his summer. He is four inches longer than I am; he has a crest on
his head, and white under-parts. He does not thrive as he might, for his
wives will put their eggs in magpies' nests, and those birds are not
good foster-parents. My cousins say that the country north of Spain is
too cold for them; but we say they are too idle or too cowardly to take
the longer journey. We take it, however, making the sea passage as short
as possible, and travelling in separate parties."

"What do you mean by that?" asked the Vixen curiously, and keeping her
eyes upon him as though she feared a surprise.

"You see we male birds come first, and the other folk follow," he
explained. "They come about a week later than we do. We all land in the
South and go quite at our leisure to the northern counties and to
Scotland. One part of these islands is like any other to us so long as
there are plenty of insect-eating birds in the neighbourhood. This year
I arrived about the 6th of April."

"Nobody heard your voice before the 14th," remarked the Vixen, for she
knew every sound from copse and woodland.

"We wait for our females before we sing," said the Cuckoo, "and when our
notes are heard for the first time there is quite a flutter of
excitement in birdland. Dozens of birds come round to ask us what we are
and where we come from; they are in their first year, and have forgotten
our notes. Some of the elders want to hear the news from Africa.
Unfortunately, the novelty soon wears off. Our women-folk can't call as
we do. They have nothing better than a husky note with something like a
common chuckle in it. They try to say 'cuc,' and it sounds like 'kwook'.
And now I've said quite enough for one day, and I'm going to find some
dinner."

He must have lighted not very far away, for he called merrily and
persistently during the next few minutes, and the notes thrilled through
the wood, giving to every living thing the assurance that summer had
returned at last. The Vixen waited awhile, and heard a mild, meek
"kwook-oo-oo," that seemed to be the confidential reply of some fair
lady of the family, then she went back to her earth. Perhaps the Cuckoo
had seen or heard his partner and had gone to a more remote corner to
call to her.

Through the long nights of May and June the Cuckoo seemed to be nearly
always awake. He was quite the last of the woodland birds to go to sleep
and the first to wake up. The Vixen would hear his call break the
silence of the Heron Wood before three o'clock in the morning, when she
was waiting for her lord's return. It was not always the familiar
cuc-koo accented on the first syllable, but sometimes cuc-cuc-koo, and
sometimes, though not often, cuc-koo-koo. He was comparatively shy; most
of the cuckoos that passed over the meadow, calling as they flew, were
hen birds, and it was seldom that he answered their call. One morning in
early June, when the Vixen was playing with her cubs in the shaded
corner by the water, he slipped through the leaves, lighted on a branch
above her head, spread his tail and called loudly, jerking his body with
each note as though the effort was a considerable one, and he did not
want any of the significance of the cry to be lost.

"Why don't you keep your singing for the daytime," said one of the fox
cubs, the biggest in the litter, "instead of waking me up before
sunrise?"

"Well," he replied, "you must not grumble at that. Other birds sleep
soundly because they have been busy all day building their nests or
helping to hatch the eggs or feed the little ones. Naturally enough,
then, the evening finds them tired out, and they sleep until the sun
wakes them. But cuckoos are the wisest birds in all the world. They want
to enjoy the spring and summer without the hard labour that others
practise. So I have no nest to build, no wife to keep, no young to tend,
and I know the Heron Wood in all its beauty as no other bird can hope
to. A very few hours give me all the sleep I require, and when I wake
and see the summer decorating the beautiful wood, I must tell how
grateful I am. It is by my help that the wood returns thanks for the
gift of summer at all hours of the day and night, for when the late
woodlark ceases his song I resume mine."

"That explanation may satisfy you," the Vixen interrupted, "but I am not
sure that it convinces me. For you seem to shirk your duties, and you
can have no share in the joy of the birds that work; you are not a
father."

"You don't know much about it," cried the Cuckoo merrily. "Follow me
now, if you please."

So the Vixen, leaving her cubs to gambol about the little patch of
green-sward, followed, and he went lightly through the wood until he
came to a bush where two accentors, known to the village lads as
hedge-sparrows, had a nest.

"Show yourself," he whispered, and when she did so the sitting bird flew
away hurriedly, leaving six pale-blue eggs exposed to view.

"Look carefully," said the cuckoo with a chuckle, and the Vixen saw that
one egg was rather larger than the rest, and had some tiny black specks
that might have been overlooked at first sight.

"Come away," whispered the Cuckoo. "I don't like to be seen about here.
But I'll tell you in confidence that I'm the father of the big blue
egg."

They moved off quietly to the more secluded corner of the wood where the
cubs had found some rabbits to play with.

"If boys saw the nest they might not recognise that as a cuckoo's egg at
all. Some eggs have red or brown blotches on a grey-white ground; they
were not like this one, and you would not see them in a hedge-sparrow's
nest. They would be in a blackbird's home by the side of the ten-acre
meadow, or a warbler's on the marsh, or in a wagtail's nest."

"I was born in this wood in a hedge-sparrow's nest three years ago,"
said the Cuckoo, on another morning when he sat on a bough above the
Vixen's earth, "and when I am a father the egg is always blue. The
mother of the egg you have just seen visited me for a few days at the
end of May and laid this egg for me on the ground. You see I had no nest
to offer her. So soon as we saw that the colour was blue, as I expected
it to be, we scoured the wood for a nest that had eggs similar to it. We
soon found the hedge-sparrow's. Then we waited patiently for both birds
to go for an airing, and my mate took the egg up in her mouth and flew
with it to the nest. There she left it, and on the following day I said
good-bye to her and she went away."

"Will she lay any more eggs this year?" the Vixen asked him.

"It is quite possible," replied the Cuckoo, "at intervals of a week or
ten days, but they will be no concern of mine, in fact, they may not
even be blue. But they will all find a place in the nests of birds that
have our tastes in food. In parts where there are no insect-eating birds
you would have to search a long time to find a cuckoo."

"Do the hedge-sparrows, and warblers, and pipits and the rest of them
realise the trick you have played upon them?" she asked him. "My mother
once chose a badger's earth for her home and I was the only one that got
out alive."

"Never," he replied lightly. "They only think one of their eggs is a
little unlike the rest, that's all. You know our eggs are quite small
for our size. And when they are all hatched the parents must work harder
than they expected to, for a young cuckoo can eat as much as the rest of
the family put together."

Some fourteen or fifteen days after the strange egg had been put in it,
a blind ugly cuckoo came from the shell in the hedge-sparrow's nest,
calling for food. The little hedge-sparrows had not yet appeared, but
the unoccupied parent bird had all his work cut out to keep the newcomer
satisfied. He was constantly on the wing through the wood in search of
insects, and very often strayed to the orchard of Home Farm, where fat
green caterpillars, most luscious morsels, were to be found among the
currant bushes. And all that time the Father Cuckoo was living at ease
on the fat of the land.

"I met that hard-working hedge-sparrow this morning," he said to the
Vixen, when he took his favourite place on the branch of an elder above
her earth; "he was coming to the orchard as I left it. What a splendid
arrangement it is to be sure. I'm sure my baby will be well fed, and
that foster-father seems to enjoy the work. Let him thank his good luck
there are not two of my family in his nest. If there were, he would have
no time to feed himself or his mate."

"Do the hens ever put two eggs into one nest?" said the Vixen.

"Only by accident," he replied. "Sometimes it happens that a hen carries
an egg to a nest, and deposits it there without noticing that some other
hen has been before her. She would not carry two of her own eggs to the
same nest. Hers is too keen a sense of affection for the unborn; she
knows as well as I do that there is quite enough work for any pair of
small birds in the raising of a single cuckoo."

The little hedge-sparrows were born only to die. Their ungainly
foster-brother was clamorous for all the food that reached the nest, and
he could not stretch himself without danger to the little ones. Do not
let it be said that he deliberately murdered them; but before they were
three days old all lay dead on the ground below the hedge. The parent
birds did not seem to feel their loss very keenly. Probably this was
their second brood, and the earlier one had been reared successfully;
for the nest, built of wool and horsehair and soft mosses, is always one
of the first to appear in the Heron Wood, and, being badly hidden, is
preyed upon by all unscrupulous egg-eating birds, or egg-collecting
boys.

This one was hardly two feet from the ground, and might have escaped
notice, had not the cuckoo-mother been looking for such an one. But even
the Vixen who was not tender-hearted could not help feeling sorry for
the hard-working couple, kept constantly busy to feed the thief who had
thrown their proper offspring out of the nest with such complete
unconcern. Possibly their hard work served to help them to forget their
troubles.

Father Cuckoo to admit any responsibility though the Vixen, having a
mother's feelings for the time being, remonstrated with him.

"You can't blame a young cuckoo, not a fortnight old for being hungry,
and wanting all the food," he said. "And you can't blame me or his
mother, for we were both brought into the world in the same fashion, and
know no other. There are cousins of ours in America who make nests and
bring up their young in the usual fashion; but for unknown generations
they have had this custom, and we, on the other hand, have had ours.

"Nobody can explain these things. Why should I have such dull, ugly
feathers, for example, when some of my African cousins have a plumage
that shines as though each feather had been dipped in gold? Twice a year
I moult, never without a hope that the new suit will be a brilliant one.
But I remain dull and shabby; my partners are like me, and have no taste
for domesticity.

"On the other hand, we can enjoy the knowledge that we are among the
best loved birds in the world, so far as mankind is concerned; that
thousands associate the summer with our song, and find the woodland
empty when we are summoned south again. All these things are matters of
natural law, and you must take us as we are, while we take the world as
we find it."

"What you say may satisfy you," said the Vixen severely; "but it cannot
be expected to satisfy the hedge-sparrow."

"Perhaps there is no need to think about them," rejoined the Cuckoo.
"You must know that if those birds were left undisturbed, they would
raise from twelve to eighteen young every season, for the hens lay three
times. In a few years there would be hedge-sparrows in clouds, far more
than the land can support. So Nature teaches them to set their nests in
open places, where Robin, the horseman's lad, and all his school
companions, may take the eggs by the dozen, and the magpie or the rook
may help themselves."

"Well," she said, "you won't deny that the mother cuckoo is quite
heartless?"

"I do deny it," replied the father. "She will be somewhere near the
nest, and will make it her business to see that the youngster is doing
well. So soon as he is able to fly she will take charge of him and bring
him up in the way he should go. She keeps an eye on all her family."

"But how came he to kill the little birds?" persisted the Vixen. "We
only kill for food at this time of year."

"Just want of room," replied the parent bird. "I can assure you there is
no vice in him. When a young cuckoo wakes to life in a small nest, his
first instinct is to make room for himself. I'm rather surprised to
think that my son did not throw the eggs out right away. That is what I
did when I was born in this wood. I wriggled and wriggled until I had
them one after the other on the flat of my back, and then hoisted them
over the side. There can't be any blame for me in the matter, because
the instinct came to me as naturally as my hunger. A cuckoo's egg only
takes a fortnight in the hatching, so the cuckoo baby is generally in
time to throw other eggs out of the nest. When two cuckoos have got into
the same nest by mistake, the two baby birds fight, and the weaker one
goes out with the other eggs or the small birds. If two cuckoo eggs get
placed in one nest, the cuckoo that is born first is the lucky one. Even
a blackbird's nest can't hold two cuckoos. Perhaps it is our quarrelsome
nature when young that made some mother cuckoos lay eggs in alien
nests."

The Vixen wondered whether these incidents had anything to do with the
mobbing of the cuckoo by the small birds when he went abroad. They
seemed more reasonable as an explanation than the sparrow-hawk theory.

The baby cuckoo was soon fledged, and left nest and wood at the same
time, leaving his father in sole possession. As the summer wore away,
the call changed considerably and ceased to have the fresh ring about
it. There was no loss of health to the bird associated with the failing
voice. On the contrary, he was in splendid condition, and ate heartily
of all the good things the wood provided--moths, caterpillars, beetles
and even butterflies. The indigestible parts of these dainties he
ejected in pellets, just as though he had been an owl. With the end of
July his notes had quite gone; other cuckoos were coming into the
district in great numbers, and were allowed to enter the wood
unchallenged.

"They are from the north of England and from Scotland," he explained.
"They leave early so as to be down here in good time, for we shall all
go south together. Some have come all the way from the mountains of
Sutherlandshire."

"But the young ones can't face the journey yet," said the Vixen. "Many
of them are not yet six weeks old. My cubs take longer to learn to help
themselves."

[Illustration: A TWO DAYS OLD CUCKOO
Ejecting a young Titlark and Eggs from its nest.
[Photo by T. A. Metcalfe]]

"That's all right," explained the Cuckoo; "the birds, you see, are all
old ones; in fact, all the mother birds are three years old at least.
The season's children wait in England some weeks longer than we do, and
travel together. Their mothers have told them all about the road, and we
all have an instinct that keeps us from taking a wrong direction."

"Why don't they accompany you?" inquired the Vixen.

"It is hard to say why we have our call in August unless it is to get
home before moulting time," replied the Cuckoo, "but as far as the
youngsters are concerned, I should say that they could not stand the
heat of our winter home in August. We get there before September, and
they are seldom with us before October, and then the country is more fit
for young birds that have known no warmth worth mentioning. Coming south
gradually in September, they can enjoy what awaits them at the journey's
end."

"Have you a special day for your departure?" she asked. "I shall be off
to the osiers in September and I'd like to see you go."

"When we have received our marching orders," replied the bird, "or as
you might say, knowing no better, when the instinct for departure is
upon us, we await the first fine night with a wind blowing towards the
south. Have you ever noticed how the winds help birds at the season of
the great migrations? They do, whether you have noticed it or not."

For some days in the beginning of August the fields and woods showed a
large number of cuckoos now quite mute, and then the Vixen prepared to
leave the neighbourhood. Cub hunting had started.

"We are ready to fly now," said the Cuckoo. "The signal has come to us;
the wind is backing towards the north."

"Aren't you sorry to leave?" she asked him.

"Yes and no," he replied. "If you had perennial spring and summer I
would stay gladly enough. But one of my family was taken half-fledged
from a nest here once and lived with clipped wings in an old garden
across the river. He has spoken to all of us about the English winter,
and it is something we never wish to meet. We are going to a land of
such sunshine as you have never seen."

Half-way through September there was no cuckoo of any age to be heard or
seen. And the place seemed to lack something, over and above the crops
that had gone from the fields and the green mantle that was fading from
the hedgerow and the wood.




                                THE SEAL


Towards the latter end of May, the grown-up lady seals sought a corner
of the shore where the slope was gentle and the sun was warm; the
younger seals betook themselves, together with the old males, to another
part of the coast, out of sight and hearing. Before the first of the
long June days had come to bring new jewels to the treasury of the sea,
the meaning of the separation was made plain--there were many little
baby seals playing by their mothers' side. Some rested upon a little
nest of white wool that had nothing to do with their skin, which was
dark and of a different texture. No mother had more than one child.

Had you passed among the mother seals in the very early June days, while
they sprawled at ease, suckling their little ones, you might have
noticed one male seal who was rather bigger and more intelligent than
most of his neighbours. You would not have been able to go among or even
near them unless you had taken the form of a red shank, or an
oyster-catcher, or of one of the other sea birds that are the particular
friends of seals; but you may take it, that this baby was the best of
the pack, if only because the story is concerned with his career.

From the tongue of rock that overlooked the smiling waters, the baby
seal, clinging to his mother's side, heard the summer song of the sea,
mingled pleasantly with the wondering bleating cries of many little
babies like himself.

"Take me to the water," he whispered to his mother.

"Cling round my neck, then," she replied, lowering her head, and he did
as she bade him, as well as his feeble limbs would permit.

"Hold on tightly," she cried, and cast herself off the rock into the
deep water, that plashed and curled and danced round them, as though for
very love of seals.

"Soon you will learn to dive," said Mother Seal, "you will be able to
sleep on the water or under it, to catch fine fat fish when you do not
want my milk any more. You are born to a beautiful life; so be happy."

Day after day, mother and son lay side by side for hours on a ledge of
rock that Mother Seal's body had worn smooth; they spent only the
hottest hours in the water. Soon the little one learned to face the sea,
holding on to one of his mother's flippers; then he went in quite boldly
alone and learned to dive, and saw the fish that lived in the depths,
and pursued them clumsily and in fun, for he was not yet weaned.

Only when he was two months old, and had grown quite rapidly, did his
mother tell him that he must now learn to feed himself, and by this time
it was an easy task, as the plaice and flounders soon found to their
cost. They could not hide themselves in the sand sufficiently quickly to
escape from his pursuit.

Having finished her maternal duties, Mother Seal changed her coat. The
spots that had marked it became very light, and the skin itself assumed
a yellow tint that seemed quite like silver at times.

"Is it time to change?" asked the male seals, who had now returned with
the young sons and daughters to the maternal haunts. "If it is, we have
no time to lose," and they, too, put on the light summer dress which
was, with all who wore it, a symbol of joy and happiness, a tribute to
the halcyon days when domestic cares were laid aside, when there was
hardly any night, when food was plentiful, and the sun seldom ceased to
shine upon warm and tranquil waters.

The seals, scattered now into little groups in every bay and round every
islet, enjoyed their idle days to the full. Sometimes they would travel
upshore quite a long way, and laze upon the dry sand, the younger and
less experienced among them being most addicted to such journeys. Every
crag that looked out over the deep water had its noisy tenants, and
throughout August there would be a series of dances given by various
seal hosts and hostesses, at which the most agile among the visitors
would glide through the water in dolphin fashion. They were inclined to
be rather jealous of the dolphins.

During this pleasant season the Little Seal, now in the enjoyment of his
liberty, made friends with a very old Herring-gull. The bird lighted
upon his rock one afternoon and saluted him in friendliest fashion.

"I fish for my living just as you do," he remarked, "but you have some
advantages over me. However, there is room for all of us, so we might as
well be friends. You will find some of my family with your people all
through the summer. We sometimes warn them of the approach of man."

"What is man?" queried the Young Seal, "and why do you warn us?"

"Man," explained the Herring-gull, "is the sworn foe of all things in
the heavens above, on the earth beneath, and in the waters under the
earth. He shoots birds in the air, pursues beasts on the land, and
catches fish from the sea. If he saw you now he would certainly kill
you, not because you have done him any harm, but because you are alive.
He would probably shoot you, and say you were a nice little fellow, for
he does not bear malice."

"But that would be murder, would it not?" asked the Seal, opening his
eyes to the fullest extent.

"Oh, dear no," replied the Herring-gull, "it would be sport," and flew
away, leaving the puzzled youngster to think the matter out for himself.

With September, another change of colour came to the seals. Their coat
became rather darker than before, and the black spots, that began on the
head and spread in ever growing patches over the body, reappeared. The
flippers darkened to a heavy brown, and with all these changes came an
altered mood, and the males began to fight for possession of the
females.

The Young Seal took no part in these contests, though his coat showed
the influence of the season; he was little more than a baby, and, on the
advice of the Herring-gull, he kept away from the scene of the fighting.
He had made small progress in growth since weaning time came, the fish
diet that made him strong had done little to help him to develop. This
mattered not at all; strength rather than length was needed to face the
rough days that lay before the seal world when September was at an end,
and the long fight between adult male seals was over. There was very
little love in the camp during that season. Polygamy prevailed, and the
conqueror took as many wives as he could keep away from his weaker
brethren; but when the last fight had been fought and the early cold
snaps reminded them of the hard season ahead, friendly relations were
resumed throughout the community.

At the bidding of the storm-wind the sea parted with its beautiful
tints, the water became very cold and lashed itself into terrible fury,
and foamed like a bayed wolf. Many a rough buffet it gave to the Young
Seal, and not a few bruises, but the low temperature did no harm to him.
He had enough pure oil in his body to withstand Arctic cold, and on
these northern Scottish shores the temperature never approached Arctic
severity. His friend the Herring-gull had gone; he saw no birds now
within speaking distance, though a few gulls passed down wind every few
hours of the day, trying in vain to steer along the road they wished to
follow.

As the winter advanced, the seals split into small groups on some family
basis of their own, and passed most of their time on the rocks, climbing
up from the water by the aid of the strong nails in their foreflippers
and the muscles of the tail. They always faced the water from which they
had risen, and their attitude at this season was a very listless one, as
if the triumph of wind and rain were not altogether to their liking.

When the Little Seal joined his family party, consisting of the mother,
two male seals, and several children of two and three years old--eight
in all--he soon found that the bottom of the water was the most
comfortable part of the world within his reach. Down upon the smooth
sandy bottom there fell no shadow of the trouble cast upon the upper
waters and the land, and so he learned to remain for long drowsy
periods, half-sleeping, half-waking, roused to instant activity by the
sense of the presence of a fish. He could see under the water as clearly
as he could upon the land, and his whiskers were developing the
sensitiveness that belongs to seals in even a larger measure than to
cats.

These nerves served to rouse him when he was almost asleep, and
indicated the presence of food. When after even a long hunt he had
caught his fish, he did not need to seek land; he could eat it at his
ease under the waves; and if he came up afterwards, it was generally to
tread water with his flippers, and look round to take his bearings.

Finally, when he was quite tired of the sea, he would return to the home
rock, climb up in the manner described, and then, resting his head upon
the body of the seal nearest to him, go to sleep. Every seal attached
himself to his neighbour in this fashion for reasons of safety. When
they were lying in such close touch, the first sign of alarm was
communicated automatically to one and all. Perhaps in that quiet corner
there was little need for such extravagant precautions, but the history
of seals throughout the world is one long drawn-out tragedy, and the
need for care had become as strong an instinct as any that entered into
their simple lives. In old days, and among kind superstitious folks, the
seals had been mermen and mermaids; and when they sat on rocks in the
sunshine, passing their webbed toes through their coat to keep it bright
and lustrous, simple seafaring men had thought they saw mermaidens
combing their golden locks. The sunlight had supplied the gold, and
perhaps the little waves had lent the song; and so the story grew, and
passed into legend, and gladdened many a child-like simple heart, even
though it dwelt in a time-worn body. But now, in the place of gold, men
had introduced the age of lead; mermaids and mermen shocked an age that
held materialism to be the highest form of faith, and knew that a leaden
bullet properly aimed could kill the most beautiful creature that ever
played about a summer sea. So the old seals, grown wary, exercised what
care they could to save their helpless, harmless families from the enemy
man.

Spring came back at last, and if it made little or no difference to the
aspect of the rock-strewn shore, there were pleasant changes beyond. The
waters subsided and lost their angry colour, the days lengthened, the
light grew stronger, and sea birds came back to the cliffs to lay their
eggs, and scream and quarrel in the old familiar fashion. And with the
advent of May the adult female seals withdrew from the others, and the
adult males retired with the younger generation to another part of the
coast where, as good luck would have it, our friend found the old
Herring-gull busily pursuing his fishing.

"I'd like to travel," said the Young Seal, whose blood tingled with the
spirit of the season. "I'm tired of stopping always in one place. Where
does the sea end? You ought to know, seeing that you can fly all over
it."

"The sea has no end and no beginning," explained the Herring-gull. "It
is like the sky, boundless. Wherever I go, I find the sea. But if you
wish to travel, follow the coast down until you come to a place where
the water turns in towards the land. Follow carefully, until it narrows,
and you reach a part where men have spread great nets. They are put
there to catch a wonderful fish with scales as bright as a herring's,
and a pink body that all seals love to feed upon. But be careful to stay
well beyond the nets, and do not let greed tempt you to travel too far.
Then I shall see you back in the late summer, and you will thank me."

This advice seemed very good to the Young Seal, who felt no family ties
and had a love of adventure. He set out, resting from time to time upon
the shore, and keeping the best possible look out for strangers. As he
moved down the coast, he met a seal two years older than himself, bound
on the same errand, and this one promised to show him the road. Having
company, each seal was bolder than before, and as the sea was teeming
with fish just then, they moved quite slowly to the home of the great
pink delicacy. One fine afternoon they lay at their ease high upon the
shore, and came near to be cut off, for a pleasure boat hove in sight,
and they had to rush towards it in search of safety. This was a
thrilling experience, and might have ended very differently if any of
the four men on the boat had carried a gun. As it was, the two seals ran
down the beach in fearful haste, raising sand and shingle very freely,
as they progressed in awkward jerks, first on their chest, then on their
stomach. To the men in the boat the movements appeared so strange that
they could hardly row for laughter, indeed the reduction of their
efforts may have accounted for the seals' escape, but to the two
frightened animals the case was quite different--they found nothing to
laugh at. When they reached water at last, they were very sore, stiff
and bruised; sharp stones and rocks had hurt them very considerably.
They remained under the water for a very long time, and only ventured to
show their heads above it a long way down the coast. At the same time
the incident was not without considerable value. It taught them that an
enemy might appear at any moment, and that they must not venture inland
either when the tide was receding or when the shape of the coast corner
tended to obstruct the view.

At length they reached the river's estuary, and moving along it with
extreme caution, found a point where the banks narrowed a little below
the netting. There they remained for some weeks, and the Younger Seal
found that the salmon seeking the fresh water were worthy of everything
the Herring-gull had said in their praise. He remembered the advice that
had been given to him; his little experience along the coast had done
something to fix it in his mind, and it is doubtful whether the fisher
folk who looked after the nets realised the close presence of the seals.
Doubtless the men, to whom some of the salmon fell in the latter days,
knew that the fish had run the gauntlet, for now and again a salmon
escaping with his life from seal and nets carried to the upper waters
the mark of the seal's teeth. If not gripped behind the neck, many a
salmon could tear himself away with little serious hurt.

At last the fish began to decrease in numbers and the Seal had eaten
enough salmon to satisfy him for a long time. He began to think with
pleasure of the life that awaited him among his own people, and of the
joys of basking at ease without fear of disturbance. In the estuary he
had been bound to observe the greatest care, and now he was not feeling
quite well, the season of change was upon him. So he went down again to
the open water, and turned his head to the north, covering the road home
in comparatively short time, and arriving to find that the female seals
were silvered, and that the males were beginning to change colour. He
told all his experiences to the Herring-gull, but said nothing about
them to his brethren. Instinct told him that if the salmon ground should
be invaded by the seals, man the enemy, who owned the nets, would resent
the invasion after his own brutal fashion. Strange though it may appear,
he knew himself for a poacher.

This summer did not differ from the last. Perhaps the Seal climbed
higher rocks than he had cared to face in the previous year, and perhaps
he was more nervous if alarmed, and more careless when undisturbed.
There were some rocks that the high tide covered and the low tide left
bare, and he took a particular pleasure in seeking one of these at the
ebb and sleeping on the top until the flood lifted him off into the
water--sometimes to finish his sleep there.

Though his colour changes were well defined now, he took no part in the
September fighting, he was not yet sufficiently matured to seek a mate.
His sex was fairly clear by now, particularly when he was with a female
of his own age, for then his jaws and teeth were larger and stronger
than hers would be, and his head was rather bigger. In disposition he
was kind and gentle, and would play for hours with his half-sister, a
baby girl seal born to his mother about the time when he sought the
salmon. He taught her many of his cleverest tricks, and sometimes went
with her, in pursuit of fish, to places she could not have visited
alone. So she saw nothing of the savage September fights in which many
male seals were quite badly torn.

Another winter passed uneventfully, another spring saw considerable
increase in the seal colony, and following it a partial migration in
search of fresh feeding grounds. The gulls and sea swallows told the
seals they liked best the very quiet and well-stocked corners of the
coast; they had the best opportunities of finding out where safety and
plenty were associated.

The Young Seal took his half-sister down the coast to the river estuary,
and they stayed from time to time upon the top of a high rock that was
well out of the reach of man. But some of the salmon that came to the
nets were very badly mauled, and the men in charge began to keep a sharp
look-out. At first they were uncertain whether otters or seals were in
the estuary, then a field-glass revealed the presence of the real enemy,
and a Norwegian who was among the workers at the nets offered to mend
matters in a certain brutal fashion practised in his own land. He rowed
out to the rock when the seals were not at home, and fixed eight or ten
barbed hooks round the base on a stout rope. Then, on the following
morning, when the seals were at rest upon the rock, the boat appeared
suddenly, and they slid off into the water.

As good luck, or their light weight, would have it, little harm was
done. The Elder Seal was badly scratched, and his young companion had a
torn flipper; but the injury was only bad enough to keep them from the
rock and send them farther down stream to the mouth of the estuary,
where they soon found the salmon too quick for them, and made up their
minds to return.

When September came, the Young Seal showed fight, and actually
endeavoured to enter into competition with one of his elders for the
possession of a lady seal who was at least two years his senior. The
contest was a brief one. A few leaps out of the water, one or two
valiant attempts to bite, and the smaller combatant received a terrible
scratch that put the fear of death into him, and cost quite a lot of his
young hot blood.

He sought the refuge of a lonely crag, and felt exceedingly sorry for
himself. There his faithful half-sister found him, and stretched herself
by his side and kissed him affectionately, while the Herring-gull came
and talked wisely to him, and between the efforts of his two friends and
well-wishers he was induced to take a brighter view of life.

"You are much too young to take a wife," explained the Gull cheerfully;
"why, if you succeed in securing one two years from now, you will have
done well."

"I shall never get over this trouble," groaned the Seal, showing the
nasty gash left by his opponent's flipper. "Where I fell back into the
water, it was quite red and horrid."

"Nonsense," said the Herring-gull quite cheerfully; "you'll be quite
right by the time your dark spots have come back. Your enemy did not
want to maul you very severely, or you would have had a very different
tale to tell. He could have ripped you up, or cracked your skull as if
it were no thicker than an egg-shell, had he been in earnest. No seal
should think of fighting for a mate before he is three years old at
least. There isn't a seal of your age that has a wife in any part of the
sea I ever sailed over, and very few would be so foolish as to search
for one!"

This information cheered the Young Seal, but he kept away from his
companions until his wounds were healed, and, returning, found that all
quarrels had been forgotten, and the kindliest feelings ruled. To be
sure, there were occasional fights, but they were quite friendly affairs
like the dances and games of "Follow my leader" in which the community
delighted.

Two years passed uneventfully, the Seal was an adult now nearly six feet
long, victorious in the September fights, and master of many lady-loves.
The Herring-gull was gathered to his forefathers, and it was from a
younger generation that news came to the seal family of certain changes
fraught with grave danger to one and all. The land lying round the
little bay they knew and loved so well had passed from the hands that
held it for so long and was let to a sportsman. Sport! the word had a
strange and terrifying sound in the Seal's ear, he remembered what his
old friend had told him.

He was guardian of a group of seals now, the last to take his place on
rock or shore, the first to rise out of the water and look for danger.
His playing time was over, and responsibility had come with power.

Shots had been heard on several occasions; some young seals that had
ventured on to the sand at full tide, and had forgotten about the ebb,
had never returned.

The Old Seal summoned a family council, and explained matters.

"Farther to the north," he said, "there are some islands that the
Herring-gull knew. There the guns are never heard. Shall we leave our
home?"

The answer to this question is plain to all visitors to the coast
to-day. Sea-birds scream and play and flutter their wings over the
rocks, the summer waters are bright and clear and tempting to the
swimmer, but the seals have gone for good and aye.




                              THE GIRAFFE


Picture to yourself a wide expanse of open land covered with flowers and
grasses that spring two or three feet high in the track of the rains.

To the far west stretches a high mountain range, whose topmost peaks are
ever clad in snow; to the east a river bed filled with a raging torrent
at one season, and dry at another; to the south an acacia wood; to the
north the open land, trackless and desert as the sea.

In this land, from which the sun never takes its departure for more than
a few days at a time, Maami the giraffe was born, a quaint and curious
little creature, whose proportions even in those early days were almost
grotesque. In the secluded spot that was his earliest home the growth
was thick and luxuriant and, while one who surveyed it with a
field-glass from a distant hill might have thought the grasses were
comparatively short, the big antelopes that raced along from time to
time showed no more than the tops of their horns, the lion who pursued
them was unseen. So, too, was the leopard, as he stole along in the
direction of the foot hills of the mountain, hoping to surprise some of
the noisy baboons that lived and clustered there.

From time to time a lion roared close to the young giraffe's home; once,
indeed, when his mother was away, and there were other moments of danger
that Maami never understood. Had he been old enough and big enough to
see and understand what followed the lion's roar, when he was lying in
the soft nest that his mother's body had made for him, his love and
admiration for his parent would have been greater than ever. The Old
Giraffe had been feeding in the acacia grove, and was on her way home
when the lion roared. Hearing the cry, she broke into her fastest
stride; it was not a gallop, it was not a canter, it was not a trot; it
partook of all three, and in the rhythm of the movement there was a
challenge that the lion would not wait to accept.

The great plain was full of antelopes that could be had without
fighting, so he roared an assurance that he meant no harm, and hurried
away to the left, while the eager mother pounded her rapid way to her
calf's side, and then seeing that he was all right, stood up to the last
inch of her height and looked out over the prairie to see where danger
lay. In other animals of Africa it is the sharp hearing, the
extraordinary scent that puzzles the European; the giraffe was content
to rely upon a power of vision second only to the eagle's. Her bright
coat lost its lustre against trees and bushes; she became part of the
landscape by reason of her wonderful gift of protective colouring, and
could scan the country with a certainty that no source of danger would
be overlooked.

Throughout the season of rains mother and son remained in the thicket;
but when the drought came it brought countless cruel insects to prey
upon Maami's tender skin, and for his sake the Mother Giraffe, who was
schooled to endure such trouble, decided to leave their home.

"We will go up into the forest of the high hills," she said, speaking in
the low tones that only the animal world can hear,[2] "for the insects
never climb so far. The evening cold would kill them, so they must stay
on the low hot ground."

Then Maami followed his mother through a dense growth that wrapped and
hid him, over rivers that were dwindling down to the size of
insignificant brooks, over the bare foot hills, where the baboons loved
to play when the nights were long and bright, and up into the high
forest, whose depths knew no light at all.

The silence of the place was awe-inspiring after the comparative gaiety
of life upon the plains. Never a singing bird came to the forest; the
snakes that climbed and clung could hang motionless for hours, and more
than once Maami passed a very old elephant standing up against some tree
trunk as stiffly and silently as though carved in wood by some cunning
sculptor. Happily, there were consolations to make amends for the
darkness and solitude. The ticks and hard-biting insects, that could
thrive so well upon the plains, succumbed to the cold damp air of the
high ground, and within a week Maami and his mother were free from pain
and annoyance. Then, again, food was plentiful for the Mother Giraffe,
and there was plenty of milk for Maami. On the plains the giraffe had
often been driven to the mimosa wood, or even farther afield, in search
of succulent branches and tree tops; here the meals were waiting to be
eaten at every hour of the day. Giraffes have a certain contempt for the
ground; they will not bend their long necks to the earth.

Living, they stand with heads erect; dying, they preserve their stately
carriage until the last. Only when moving rapidly will they bend head
and neck to the body level. Though the plains might have held much
nourishing food the giraffes never condescended to seek it; they looked
to the tree tops for their fare.

Mother and son stayed in the depths of the high forest during the dry
season, and the elder giraffe seldom left her son. He could follow her
when she searched for food, and it was only on the rare occasions when
she needed water that she left him for a time, and went down by night
towards the plains, where a pool well known to her survived the
scorching heat. A few minutes there would suffice the giraffe for some
days; indeed, if she found leaves that retained their moisture at all, a
weekly journey to the pool would suffice for all her wants.

Only when the rains returned the two giraffes made their way hastily to
the scorched plains. There could be no delay, because the dry beds of
the rivers would become impassable when the rain had fallen for a few
days, and many beasts would be cut off from the plains, or compelled to
travel for miles through dangerous country in order to find a ford.

The scorched vegetation made way, as though by magic, for a new, green
carpet, that rose hour by hour; great flocks of birds and beasts
returned from the far corners whither the drought had driven them; and
to the giraffes, so long pent up in the dark forest, the change was a
delightful one. Maami was big enough now to look out over the advancing
greenery, young enough to frisk and play, shaking his neck and whisking
his tail as his mother did, and unfortunate enough to attract the
attention of a jackal who chanced to be prowling about, and at once set
off to the lair of his master the lion, bearing glad tidings of fresh
meat. The lion was hungry, so hungry, indeed, that the jackal would not
approach too close to the lair, preferring to howl without it. As soon
as the lion stirred the jackal slipped away to the side, and followed at
a respectful distance.

At first the lion moved in the direction of another lair, to summon two
of his tribe to join him; but they were feasting on an eland bull many
miles away, and he was forced to proceed alone. He moved stealthily up
wind in the direction of the giraffes' resting-place; but there were
birds on every bush, and they gave the alarm, so that when the huge,
tawny beast was within forty or fifty feet of his goal he saw the Mother
Giraffe watching and waiting for him. He paused, and lashed his flanks
with his tail, uttering a horrible challenge, at which Maami nearly died
of fright; but the Mother Giraffe, in no wise alarmed, whisked her own
tail by way of reply, twisted her long neck in many strange ways,
planted her feet firmly on the ground and waited for the attack. With a
quick succession of leaps the lion hurled himself at his prey, but as he
came full at the giraffe she lashed out with her heavy feet.

The movement was timed to perfection; no eye save the giraffe's could
have calculated the aim to such a nicety, and the lion fell as though
stunned, his lower jaw broken, his hunting ended for all time. Without
waiting to see what had happened, the Mother Giraffe signalled to Maami
to follow her, and they glided away in their own curious fashion until
they were miles from the spot where the great yellow body lay writhing
on the ground, a group of jackals waiting hungrily for the end.

Perhaps the two giraffes were made more careful by this adventure;
certainly Maami never frisked again in the old-time happy fashion; but
it was no more than an incident of daily life, and did not call for any
special remembrance.

The year that followed was uneventful, and when the two giraffes came
again from the forest the Mother Giraffe asked permission to join the
herd from which she had departed when the time came for Maami to be
born. Self-preservation took the mothers away at these most critical
periods of their lives, and they were not permitted to return until
their offspring were old and strong enough to obey the orders of the old
bulls to whom the safety of the herd was entrusted. Experience had shown
that when a calf was too young to follow the lead, mother and child fell
easy victims to pursuit. Alone they might avoid attention, but a herd
was a more or less certain mark for hunters, whether they went on two
feet or four. So a mother looked after herself and child until both were
able to face any emergency, and then they were readmitted to the pack.

Maami was now in his fourth year and well able to look after himself,
cognisant of many, if not all, the dangers that beset giraffes, and the
old bull in charge of the herd gave him welcome in most approved fashion
by bending down certain high branches of edible trees until they were
within the newcomer's reach.

For the Young Giraffe a new life seemed to have opened. He could follow
the herd to feeding places where never a giraffe would have gone alone,
he was entrusted with sentry duty from time to time, he acquired a
measure of confidence, and, above all, he fed entirely upon vegetable
matter. When he claimed his mother's care no longer, he knew that he had
gained independence.

The herd numbered thirty or more, and was led by an old bull giraffe and
two lieutenants, whose skins were darker than those of the old females
or any of the young giraffes. All the males were thicker in the neck
than the females, and heavier in the foot, and they were more nervous
than their companions. Even when the herd rested against the woodland
trees in the extreme heat of the day, or sought for their favourite
branches at feeding time, the old bulls would never cease from scanning
the surrounding country. The leader went a little lame; he, too, had
killed a lion, but not without damage to some leg muscles that made him
move much as a camel moves, the natural ungainliness of a giraffe's
stride being made more than ever apparent by the accident.

In spite of hours of duty, in spite of the feeling that he must obey
orders, Maami was happy enough. He learned to signal the events of hill
and prairie by certain definite movements of head, neck and tail, so
that when he was watching while others fed, his inability to cry aloud
might not lead to trouble.

Nature, in her infinite care for these her most helpless surviving
children, had granted protective colouring and something akin to
telegraphic signalling to the giraffe world, and for two years the old
bull giraffe kept his little company together with no other loss save
that which came when one of the cows retired to some quiet breeding
ground. Three out of four would come back in the course of time bringing
a little one old enough to feed himself and obey orders, the fourth
would not return. She would fall a victim to some enemy, some black
huntsman searching for the giraffe because his hide fetched a big price
in the African market, where it was made into whip-thongs, or she would
fall to a company of lions that could unite against a giraffe, and by
surrounding disable her.

Under the guidance of the old bull giraffe, the herd travelled far
afield, covering a wide expanse of country and gathering much
information about good quiet pools and feeding grounds from many other
tree and grass-feeding animals. Zebras, deer of all kinds, elephants and
even hippopotami were ready to give all the hints that were sought for,
and many a time, in response to warnings that belong to the freemasonry
of the animal world, the bull giraffe led his company away from feeding
grounds that, for all their tempting aspect, held hidden dangers. The
zebras and the deer could hear trouble, elephants could scent it, and
when the wind played havoc with the scent and hearing, the giraffes
could use their eyes in fashion that brought much-needed guidance to
those who had served them at other seasons.

With the exception of the leopards, who worked alone, few animals sought
their food or their safety by themselves. Even the lions united for the
hunt, and man, the destroyer, reaching the confines of the unexplored
lands where wild beasts dwelt, travelled with a company. More than once
Maami saw man in the dim distance, with tents, baggage bearers, and the
impedimenta associated with the pursuit of big game, but more often than
not these destroyers never saw the giraffes at all.

But disaster cannot be avoided for all time, and it was written that
Maami's mother should be the first of the company to pay tribute to man
the implacable. One night, as the herd came from feeding among some
young tree tops, she fell into one of the cunningly contrived pits that
a company of native hunters had set in the path--a trap intended for
even bigger game, but readily discovered by the solitary elephant for
whom it had been set. He had scented it a hundred yards away, and made a
new path into the forest that sheltered him, conquering the pangs of
thirst that had drawn him from his lair. The giraffes having little
scent and paying small attention to the ground beneath their feet, were
not so fortunate; the mother beast fell, and the herd, yielding to brute
instinct, turned in its tracks, and ambled away all night to a distant
place of safety.

Maami understood his loss very vaguely, if at all. With the advancing
years mother and son had forgotten the ties that bound them to one
another in the far-off days of motherly affection and childish need;
and, when morning broke, bringing lingering surcease to the poor
creature's pain, terror and life, there was none of the herd within
sight of the scene of the misfortune. It was one of the chances that
giraffes must take, this deep pit covered lightly with grasses spread
about a slender support of boughs; and the shapeless carcase that the
hunters cast aside when they had stripped off the hide served to give
the carrion a hearty meal. Within twenty-four hours the white bones
alone remained to tell of the graceful and harmless creature that had
haunted wood and plain so long.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Years have passed since Maami's mother met her fate in the hunters' pit,
and, of the giraffe herd that still haunts the plains, seeking the high
woods only in a season of drought, few of the older ones remain. Maami
himself is very near to the leadership; he is second to an old bull some
three years his senior. The leader of the early days lives solitary now,
if he lives at all. When his eyes grew dim and his limbs began to lose
their elasticity, he was compelled to pass his duties and
responsibilities to another and to go his way alone.

To be sure he was no match for young lions or for huntsmen, but there
was no appeal from forest law, which recognises the herd's need for
sound and sure guidance, and since he had left the ranks others had
followed, all to lead solitary lives, happy indeed and fortunate if
inevitable death did not come to them in cruel fashion. Calves new born
when Maami joined the herd are now responsible adults, and the herd
moves with more care than of old time; for, although the lions tend to
decrease, the white hunters have penetrated into the district; and even
the black ivory and hide hunters organised by the big trading companies
are armed with weapons of precision, and have learned to use them with a
measure of accuracy hitherto unknown. In districts known to Maami as
great homes of game in the years when he first joined the herd, you may
travel for miles seeing nothing but a few whitening bones spread out
here and there; and the general trend of wild life is towards the marshy
malarial lands where hunters will not follow willingly.

The giraffe has seen strange sights in these latter days--lions, hyaenas,
leopards and jackals coming to the stream to drink with big deer and
giraffes and zebras, and then moving off without as much as a growl
because man the hunter is on the track, and before his advance one and
all must retreat in terror. There are nights that Maami will remember as
long as he lives, when among the beasts that come to the pools his sharp
eyes have counted wounded lions, leopards and elephants. He has seen a
great tawny lion permanently lame, his shoulder inflamed to an
indescribable condition, an old bull elephant staining the pool red, a
leopard drinking with feverish haste and then dropping dead by the side
of the hard-sought water. All these things tell the tale of the
destroyer with an eloquence beyond words, and account for the strange
spirit of fraternity that seizes upon the beasts as they retreat
pell-mell before the irresistible advance of the white man.

Maami is travelling alone now; it is his last journey. The white hunter
has been too much for the herd; he has dropped one and wounded another,
the rest have gone off in their odd swinging style, tails flapping,
necks waving, heads erect.

Terror-stricken and badly hurt, Maami is running alone, he does not
quite know where. He passes over a great expanse of plain, through a
wood strip wherein he has often taken his fill of tender leaves, but,
for once, no thought of food comes to him, he is conscious only of
growing weakness and increasing thirst. It is the pool that he is
running for, and happily it is not far off. He drinks deep of dwindling
waters; the dry season has come upon the land of late--now he is running
quite aimlessly through the scrub and high grasses. He thinks the herd
is before him, always a little out of reach; he makes a special effort
to overtake it and sinks down very slowly, his head still high.

From a neighbouring tree a white bird with red bills looks down
compassionately. The heat is intense, thirst is coming back, a dark pool
is forming by his side, but this is not water. High up in the air a
vulture is looking at him; it descends very slowly.

Two bright eyes shine for a moment from the grass; the jackal is
investigating the case. He meets Maami's eye and cannot face it, so he
slinks away to a safe distance and howls to his heart's content.
"Blood!" he cries; "meat for one and all!" And to far corners of the
plain, to rocky holes that form a day refuge for carrion, the shrill cry
penetrates. If there are any lions near by they are sleeping after a
successful night's hunting, for never an answering cry follows the
jackal's summons.

Maami is conscious of a strange gathering of ugly birds and foul beasts,
but it does not concern him now. He is growing so cold that even the
tropical sun above his head is powerless to warm him; his eyes are being
veiled, the landscape is very blurred, the herd has passed from sight.
His head droops slowly--he does not feel the teeth of the old hyaena
that, mad with hunger, has flung herself upon him.

-----

Footnote 2:

  Though the giraffe is perhaps the only large animal that never makes a
  sound, travellers and hunters are agreed that these animals can
  communicate many thoughts to each other.




                            THE WHITE STORK


In the afternoon little Tsamani would go in the company of Fatima, his
mother, to the flat roof of his father's house, but in the morning he
was allowed to go up there by himself, with only the little slave girl
Ayesha to guard him.

The happiest hours of Tsamani's young life were passed upon the flat
house-top, where he could see the Tensift river winding its way among
the palms, and the Atlas mountains with their peaks covered in snow, and
the wonderful tower called Kutubia, that flanks the Mosque of the
Library. He could see one of the markets, crowded with heavily laden
camels and noisy tribesmen from the South; and at times when the Sultan
was in the city he would watch him riding in state under the green
umbrella that is Morocco's symbol of sovereignty. These sights pleased
Tsamani, and delighted the little slave-girl, who was at once his
guardian and his playmate; but Father and Mother Stork pleased him most
of all.

When the warm spring weather came, and most of the storks in Marrakesh
took their long flight oversea to cooler climes, Father Stork and Mother
Stork remained behind. She sat in her rough nest upon three white eggs
and he stood on one leg by her side, with his neck bent, and his bill
resting on his breast. They both looked at Tsamani with great interest,
perhaps because he was the son of a powerful governor--more likely
because they were sorry for him on account of his loneliness. For,
though Tsamani had a very soft white djellaba and bright yellow
slippers, he was a lonely boy enough--not half so happy as many of the
little beggars who ran all over the streets in the bazaars, as merry as
they were hungry.

Father Stork made a great rattling noise with his bill, and his mate
responded rather more quietly.

"That's a funny noise, O Father of the Red Legs," said Tsamani. "I can't
make it with my mouth."

"No," said Father Stork, "I don't suppose you can. And you can't fly,
and you can't catch frogs and fish, and you can't build a nest or hatch
eggs--can you, little Tsamani? But don't let that worry you, for
grown-up men can't do these things either, and never think how foolish
they are."

"You are very clever, I know," said little Tsamani, wondering. "And my
father has told me you are very good too. Where do you come from, and
where have the other storks gone?"

"I must tell you," replied Father Stork rather pompously, "for it is
impossible to know too much about us. We are, perhaps, the most
interesting, the most highly honoured of all birds that fly. Our wisdom,
our virtue have been the talk of all ages. We have been favoured by
every nation, but the followers of Mohammed have always treated us more
kindly than the others. You are a Mohammedan, and this house was built
by your great-great-grandfather. Since he built it some of my family
have always lived in this corner of the roof. We remain here when our
children have joined the great procession to the North, and give up our
place to one or other of the children only when we have gone on the
still greater journey from which there is no return. Some day you will
be a man and the friend of our family, so it is right that I should tell
you all you want to know."

"Why do you sit so closely by your nest?" asked the little boy.

"Because all storks are not honest," replied the Father of the Red Legs.
"These sticks that make the nest are collected with great difficulty and
hard work. A dishonest stork--and there are such birds, I'm sorry to
say--waits for the parent to leave his nest, and then steals his best
twigs. So one has to be very careful."

The little slave-girl came across the roof-top, but she only heard
Father Stork clapping his beak--she could not understand anything of the
words he spoke. She was not a "True Believer," only a little girl stolen
by slave-raiders from the Western Sudan, and brought across the terrible
desert to the slave-market in Marrakesh, where Tsamani's father had
bought her for a little pile of silver Moorish dollars, amounting in
value to about twelve English pounds. It was no part of her business to
interfere if her little charge stood by the storks' nest and Father
Stork made that rattling noise with his bill. She was content to stroll
round the roof, listening to the tinkle of the camels' bells, looking
down at the people in the streets beyond, or at her master's other
slaves who worked in the patio below, and passed the hours singing,
shouting or quarrelling as fancy urged them.

"We have been a long time in the world," began the stork. "Even in the
Bible--which is as the Koran to people in the far countries whither my
relatives go--there is a reference to us. A prophet, Jeremiah by name,
testified to our wisdom as he watched us in Palestine gathering for our
yearly flight. 'Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth his appointed
times,' he said, realising, as he did, that we followed the seasons with
never a mistake or approach to hesitation. His people, the Jews,
ancestors of the Hudis who live to-day in the Mellah, called us
Chassidim, which means the pious ones, because they understood something
of our great love for our children. Can you wonder, then, if we storks
are proud? Yet storks were not always birds."

"What were you?" asked the astonished Tsamani.

"The first stork was born a Sultan," replied the bird solemnly. "He was
a merry soul, but had no fear of Allah. He sat at the head of his high
staircase and received his wazeers and subjects. One day, to make them
ridiculous, he had the stairs greased; and when grave, pious men were
about to salute him, they slipped and fell upon those behind, and all
were sorely hurt and confused. Among those hurt was a very great saint
whose groans were heard in heaven. Then Allah was wrath with the Sultan,
who sat back on his throne convulsed with laughter, moving his head so
that his long beard fell and rose from his breast. In an instant the
beard became a bill--the Sultan was turned to a stork, and in place of
his laughter one heard the chatter of his bill. But happily, on account
of our high descent, and our great love for our children, we are set
above all other birds."

"Are you as fond of your three white eggs as my mother is fond of me?"
asked Tsamani in astonishment.

"Every bit," replied Father Stork; and Mother Stork repeated the words
after him in a lower tone. "They are to us more than all the wealth of
Marrakesh, and when, in the fulness of time, the shells open and the
three little babies are given to us they will be dearer still. You must
wait patiently until their day arrives, and then you will be able to see
for yourself."

"O, little master," said the slave-girl, "it is time to descend. The sun
is hot, and thy lady mother will await thee."

So Tsamani went down to the hareem of his father's house, where his
mother passed most of her day lying on soft cushions and eating sweets
and contradicting his father's other wives and favourites because she
was above them all. And when he went upon the roof with her in the
afternoon the voices of the storks were no more to him than they were to
her--no more than the click-clack of their long heavy bills. But on the
following morning the sound had a meaning for him--to his great delight.

Sometimes Father Stork would relieve Mother Stork in the performance of
her duties, for, as he said: "Our love is equal, why then should the
service not be divided?" And in the course of a few days there were
three little storks in the nest, with down for feathers, and such
awkward bodies and ugly heads on them that you and I, not knowing
better, would have laughed. Tsamani was rather disappointed when he saw
them for the first time, but Father Stork reassured him.

"Look at me," he said, putting his second leg firmly on the ground, and
lifting the heavy bill off his breast. "I am a big, fine bird--nearer
four feet long than three. See how beautifully my bright red bill
contrasts with the black of my great wing-coverts and the chief quill
feathers, and the pure white of the rest of my body. Look at my bright
red legs and toes; think what an effective finish they give to me. Two
of my children will grow to be like me, as they are males; the third
will be like her mother--not quite as large and not so brightly coloured
as the others. And all the big feathers will be brown before they are
black."

Each bird in turn would fly from the roof to the pools in the gardens of
the Moorish grandees, and would come back with food for the little ones.
If the father went, the mother stayed; if the father stayed, the mother
went; the nestlings were never left alone by night or day. It was hard
work, for the three babies were anxious to grow and to have feathers in
place of down, and to be able to fly or flutter to the ponds and feed
themselves. "Sometimes," said Father Stork, "they try too soon, and
tumble down into the street and are killed; at other times they must
stop half-way because of exhaustion--but then every Moslem picks them up
and returns them to their nest, for it would be a terrible misfortune to
harm one of us. If some were hurt we should all leave the country."

"Far away to the north-west," continued Father Stork, "there is a
country called Great Britain, and we used to go there every year; but
when men saw us they would say that we were very rare, and would shoot
us, without pausing to think that that would make us rarer still. So for
fifty years we have not been to those islands, and I do not think we
shall ever go there again, though one or two stray birds may alight
there, blown out of their course by a gale. Though we are kind to all
who treat us well, we can fight when it is necessary to do so. We aim at
the head and eyes of those who ill-use us; but against men who carry
guns no fighting avails, so we leave them--and now on all the myriad
roofs of Great Britain no stork builds its nest."

"Are the Mohammedans the only people who are good to you, O Father of
the Red Legs?" asked Tsamani.

"They are our best friends," said the Stork; "though in parts of Europe
we are welcomed, particularly in Holland, where the people respect us
for the love we bear our little ones. They tell the story of a great
fire in one of their cities called Delft, where some storks, unable to
remove their nestlings, died with them. We thought nothing of it--any
storks would have done the same; but the good people of Delft were very
impressed and told all the Dutch folk far and wide, and increased our
welcome from that day. They even put up cart-wheels on poles for us to
build our nests on in districts where the house-roofs have no flat
surface that will help us. As a rule, when we go to a town where the
inhabitants are of mixed race and religion, we find out where the
Mohammedan quarter is, and build there. Uneducated people think it is
because we prefer one faith to another; but the truth, of course, is
that the Mohammedans respect us, welcome our arrival, regret our
departure and never disturb our nests. They even say that we bring good
luck to the dwellers in the house we choose for our building."

"To-day," said Father Stork, a week or two after the last conversation,
"we are taking our young to the marshes. Ask your mother to let you walk
in the Sultan's garden near the great pomegranate orchards by the
Spanish gate."

So Tsamani hurried down to the hareem and the room where his mother lay
upon soft cushions, with her gimbri for company; and she gave her
permission readily enough, and called the old lady who had charge of the
women's quarter, and bade her go to the main courtyard and summon two
men slaves to accompany Tsamani and his little nurse to see that no harm
befell them.

So the little party went out to the gardens that lie round the great
green-tiled palace of the Sultan, and when they came to the marsh by the
orchard of pomegranates Tsamani cried to his little companion: "O
Ayesha, let us stay here and play." He had seen Father and Mother Stork
with their family on the marsh. Then the two men slaves sat in the shade
of the red-blossomed pomegranate trees, and little Ayesha picked wild
flowers, while Tsamani went up to the stork family and saw the little
ones that had only just as many feathers as enabled them to fly feebly
for short distances. They splashed about in the shallow waters of the
marsh, and tried to catch frogs and little fishes; but they were not
skilful enough to do so; they could secure nothing better than a few
worms, and would have fared ill but for Father and Mother Stork, from
whom no frogs or fishes could escape. When the parent birds caught
anything they washed it very carefully in the water before giving it to
their young to eat, and no trouble seemed too much for them in
satisfying the hunger of their little ones. Tsamani watched them while
the two slaves slept under the pomegranate trees; and Ayesha, picking
more flowers than she could carry, forgot that the sun's heat was
growing greater.

"You must go home soon," said Father Stork at last, "or you will be hurt
by the sun, and you will have to go to the hospital, just as our family
has to go when it is sick or ailing."

"Is there a hospital for storks?" said Tsamani, very much astonished.

"Certainly there is," replied Father Stork. "It is in the old northern
city of Fez, home of pious and learned Moors, and was founded many
generations ago by a good Moslem. All sick or wounded storks are brought
there and put in the charge of the pious men who conduct the hospital.
The ailing ones are doctored, the hungry ones are fed, the dead are
buried. It is not for nothing that we serve Moorish cities."

"Serve Moorish cities," repeated Tsamani curiously. "How do you do
that?"

"We are the scavengers," said Father Stork. "In the western countries
men are employed to remove the rubbish and refuse from the houses, but
here and all over the East we take their places. To be sure, we cannot
eat the offal, as the vultures do; but we eat a great deal that would
spread sickness through any city if left lying on the ground under the
hot sun. If there were no gardens and river-shallows here we could live
in the city itself, and would thrive there. Very many of my family keep
in the city of Fez, although there is a river and they can go out to the
marshes if they felt inclined."

The summer, and the rainy season that takes the place of winter passed,
bringing another spring in their train; and still Tsamani spoke to the
storks when the weather permitted him to go upon the roof, and learned a
great deal of their lives and ways. With the completion of their
feathers and the change of colour in their wing quills from brown to
black the young birds had gone afield, and were to be seen in the
well-watered meadows by the tomb of Sidi Bel Abbas, the saint who
wrought so nobly for the poor in his days on earth that he has become
the patron of all the beggars in the white-walled city. One sat on a
corner of the tomb itself, the others on the flat housetops near the
gardens.

"They will go away with this summer," said Father Stork. "They will join
the hundreds of others that came back from the North before the cold
weather sets in. Did you not notice how full the gardens became at the
beginning of the winter, and how the streets and the market places were
full of birds? They do not like the cold weather of Holland and Denmark
and Poland, and other countries of Europe, where they go to rear their
young. At a given season of the year the desire for home takes them. In
spring they seek a milder clime and leave Africa, so that the people of
the countries they favour may know that the summer has come."

"The swallow and the nightingale go with them. Indeed, they go into
countries that my family will not visit. Think what those countries have
lost. There is France, and there is Britain, for example; no stork
builds in either."

"Do you all come back and go away at the same time from all countries?"
asked Tsamani. "And if you do how do you manage it, O Father of the Red
Legs?"

"You ask more than I can answer," replied Father Stork. "I can only tell
you that within three days of the start for the North there is not one
stork in Morocco that intends to take the journey, and within a week of
the time the first stork comes southward from oversea the entire
migration is accomplished. It is one of Nature's secrets that she has
chosen to tell to all the birds of passage but has not given to you and
your fellow-creatures, and consequently nothing I can say would make the
reason clear to you.

"We know when to go and when to return as well as you know when to go to
sleep and when to rise. It is bird law. At times the summons comes to us
to fly earlier than usual, even before all the eggs are hatched, or the
young ones have learned to fly. Then we must forget our love. We must
destroy the eggs that are not yet hatched; we must kill the little ones
that cannot face the journey. Nothing could be more terrible to us. We
would prefer to die for our little ones, but we have no choice but to
obey the law. For generations uncounted we have done so, and now it is
no more strange to us than the regulation of our day--the morning search
for food, the long rest for digestion and contemplation that follows,
the evening search for another meal, the following sleep. In a day or
two now we shall commence our love-flights, and my wife will fill our
nest with eggs once more."

"What are your love-flights?" said Tsamani.

"Wait a little while, and you will see," replied Father Stork.

Some two or three mornings later, when Tsamani and Ayesha climbed to the
roof-top, Father Stork was no longer to be seen. It was then too late
for him to be eating. He should have been standing by the nest, in
accordance with custom; but there were no signs of him. Mother Stork sat
looking skywards, as though in an ecstasy of happiness.

"I am not lost, Tsamani," said Father Stork's voice. It sounded far away
up in the sky; but when the boy looked up into the blue his eyes could
hardly pierce the dazzling light. He saw nothing for a few minutes, and
then Father Stork descended slowly, apparently from the heavens. He was
singing a strange new song, such as Tsamani had never heard in all his
life before--the song that had lighted so much happiness in the eyes of
Mother Stork.

"Listen, Ayesha!" he cried. "Do you hear the white stork's song."

"No, no," laughed stupid Ayesha, showing her beautiful white teeth. "The
storks do not sing, my little lord; they chatter with their beaks, but
they have no song. The doves in the gardens have more song than storks."
Tsamani said no more; he was afraid to let the girl know that he could
hear things she did not dream about.

"Quite right, Tsamani," said Father Stork, gliding easily and gracefully
through the air to the roof's edge. "To Ayesha there is nothing to be
heard but the clattering of my mandibles. To my wife it is a beautiful
love-song. She thinks I brought it down from heaven, for I soared out of
her sight so high that even to my keen eyes Marrakesh was no more than a
dull speck on the ground. Now you shall see my lower love-flight." So
saying, he sprang into the air, and, reaching a point as far from the
roof as the roof was from the ground, went through a series of movements
that were like those of a great yacht with all her sails set to catch a
favouring wind. Tsamani never saw his wings flap, never saw him in any
difficulty to turn in an exact angle at a given point; the motion was
smooth, easy, graceful, and it thrilled Mother Stork with joy.

"We are great lovers," said Father Stork, when he had settled; "so well
known that all the lovesick youths of Moorish cities ask us to give
their messages to the well-beloved. They stand in the white street below
and sing to us."

Once again Mother Stork sat on three eggs, once again Father Stork stood
on one leg by the nest-side, his beak upon his breast, and helped in all
love and loyalty to fetch the food when the babies came. The weeks
hurried towards the summer, the birds were nearly fledged, and one
morning when they were feeding in the gardens Father Stork came back
hurriedly with another of his tribe. They talked vigorously upon the
roof-top and then the newcomer went his way, leaving Father Stork angry
and disturbed.

"What is the matter?" asked Tsamani uneasily. He felt sure that trouble
was brewing, that some disaster was at hand.

"Matter enough!" said Father Stork gravely. "My companion came to give
me and my wife notice that we must join in battle with the ravens on the
fourth day from now."

"Why are you ill friends?" asked the boy.

"That is a secret of stork and raven life that I cannot attempt to
explain," replied Father Stork. "We must fight them and prevail, or must
leave this city. The battle will be a few miles from the Dukala Gate. I
think we shall win and return. You will soon know."

                  *       *       *       *       *

All through the third day Tsamani watched and waited, seeing no grown
stork on roof or in street, straining eyes and ears in vain. Even the
townsfolk were alarmed, and crowded the Mosques, and prayed devoutly.[3]
On the following morning he rose when the Mueddin called for the first
prayer, and the guardian of the hareem allowed him to pass the door and
to climb the steep steps to the roof. He saw the sun come up from the
East and he heard the camels' bells as the caravan moved out to cross
the desert, carrying salt, that it might return with slaves. He was
listening to the earliest notes of stock-doves in the gardens, when with
swift flight a stork swept over the Dukala Gate. He was one of the
younger birds of that year's brood.

"We have won!" he cried. "We have won! The ravens are in full flight.
The storks will return to Marrakesh; and my parents sent me to bid you
good-bye."

"Are they well and safe?" cried Tsamani, sorely afraid, for he was old
enough to know that he had no other friends.

"They live," replied the young stork, "but are sorely wounded, and are
flying northward, slowly and carefully, to the City of the Sickle, the
place of the hospital, where their wounds may be healed. I must return
to them. Haply, we may all come back again."

"How the young stork chatters!" said Ayesha sleepily.

But Tsamani said no word as he went down the narrow stairs, for he felt
that he was alone in the world.

-----

Footnote 3:

  This incident occurred when I was in Southern Morocco where some
  reliable observers told me that fights between the storks and ravens
  are of almost annual occurrence.




                             THE WILD BOAR


He trotted along happily enough through the great open spaces of the
Argan Forest,[4] parts well-nigh unknown to men. All around him the
giant Argan trees defied the sun. Stray goats climbed their broad
branches to eat the fruit, the tiny asphodel flowered in their shade,
and the stock-doves cooed.

Little Tusker knew the forest better in darkness than by morning light,
for the herd rested during the heat, and the grown up ones fed at night;
but they often drank by day in that secluded place, and would seek the
pools by the tiny river where trout flashed and otters fished and
kingfishers shone in the bright sun. It was pleasant to go down to the
pool in the middle of the hot night and listen to the nightingales in
the woods around. By day the numbers of the herd stood in the way of
complete enjoyment, for the strong ones got to the water first and the
weakest had to wait.

"Why do we all go together like this?" asked little Tusker.

"For safety," replied the mother, who had no tusks and was naturally of
a timid, shrinking disposition. "There are hyaenas and other wild things
in the forest. We might be attacked if we went by ourselves. You will
remain with the herd until you are four or five years old, and then you
will do as your father has done, and will live by yourself, for your
tusks will have grown until you can protect yourself against anything
but the Man."

"What is the Man?" he asked.

"He is the enemy who never tires," answered his mother. "He has two legs
instead of four, he has no tusks, he does not know the forest as we know
it, but he carries death with him, and the boar he follows is doomed."

All this was quite unintelligible to little Tusker, and the first few
years of his life brought him no reminder of the warning. He travelled
with the herd, but as soon as he was able to look after himself his
mother's affection came to an end, and she would push him out of her way
on the feeding grounds, as readily as though he had been a stranger. The
herd went many miles in search of food, and did most of their travelling
and eating by night, when only the jackals and hyaenas made a noise in
the forest. They rooted for sweet potatoes and wild turnips, tearing up
great patches of ground, and they hunted for the young maize at the
proper season of the year, ravaging the lands of the farmers to get the
grain.

Luckily for them the farmers, being Moors, were without guns and full of
superstition. They would not sit up at night to wait for the marauders,
and so the herd grew fat. Every season saw some of the full-grown boars
leave to live their solitary life, and in the early winter sows would go
away for some months and bring their litter back with them later on.

On his nightly rambles little Tusker often met the porcupine who also
fed after dark, and was quite harmless in spite of his formidable
bristles. He heard the jackals crying and was amused; he saw the shining
eyes of the hyaena and was afraid. Slowly he learned all the lessons that
a boar must know, and the forest yielded him some of her many secrets.

There was no real winter there. The forest enjoys almost perennial
summer, but there is a rainy season when the days are cooler than at
other times. Then the best lairs are under the Argan trees; when the
greatest heat is on the land, the moist sandy places high up above the
valley are best. Again, in the brief days of tempest the hollows and
gorges are most sought for, since the wind cannot reach them.

Young Tusker learned to know how and when the weather would change. He
knew if any stranger were coming down the wind ever so far away. The
meaning of the cries that the herd uttered, the signs that showed if
water was near, and the significance of the footmarks that crossed the
forest in all directions; he learned all these things.

As he grew up, sleeping under the sun and feeding under the stars,
finding food plentiful and life pleasant, Tusker gradually ceased to be
little. His shaggy skin became covered with bristles, a bristly ridge
covered his spine; his heavy head grew larger and heavier, and the
milk-white tusks developed until the lower ones took the upward curve
that made them formidable. He could fight now with his fellows, but
little harm was done, for all boars learn to receive their neighbour's
tusk-thrusts on their own tusks or on the shoulders, where the hard,
coarse skin is not readily torn.

With consciousness of strength came the desire to travel, and when
Tusker found any track that moved him to curiosity, he would leave the
herd to follow it. One night, when he was rather more than three years
old, he saw the mark of a boar, the track of a large hoof, and he
followed it industriously, leaving the herd far behind. The big
hoof-prints fascinated him, he tracked them all through the night, and
through the next night, too. Then, under an Argan tree, he found the
stranger in his lair.

"What are you doing here?" said Tusker rather rudely.

"I am a recluse from the mountains," said the stranger. "I have left
family, friends and home, that I may live my life alone, and there is
good feeding ground about here. I am three years' old, and it is time to
lead the solitary life."

He spoke at length of the joys of the single state in which he lived all
the year save for the brief period beginning with November, when he
drove some charming young lady pig from the nearest herd to be his
companion for a few weeks. He would tend her with all the care and love
and affection of which a boar is capable, but leave her to rear the
young and join the herd again when her litter was strong enough.

[Illustration: WILD BOAR [Photo by Ottomar Anchutz, Berlin]]

Thereafter Tusker made his home under an Argan tree, separated from the
rest of the forest by a wide clearing where wild thyme and toad flax and
dwarf palm grew, and creeping plants climbed over the double-thorn
bushes. During the fine weather he never went out by daylight unless it
was to drink, but when the rains came he would eat by day. He was so
constituted that one visit to the pools would suffice him for two or
even three days; but the visit was a prolonged one, accompanied by
endless precautions, for since he had become solitary he had become more
nervous than ever, and when he ate or drank he would make sudden pauses
to make sure that nobody was about. He relied more upon hearing than
sight. The slightest unaccustomed sound when he was coming to the pool
would send him grunting into the thicket, but if all was well he would
permit himself to enjoy a very lively time. First, he would drink
deeply, and then he would wallow in the mud for two or three minutes to
ease the irritation of his skin.

The forest was very quiet at night in spite of hungry jackals and stray
hyaenas, and Tusker made very little noise as he travelled to his feeding
grounds, always working against the wind. There were a few duars, or
native villages, in the forest, and one or two large farmhouses built on
the sun-dried clay called tapia that glows so white under the light of
the moon. Tusker avoided farm and village but he could not leave the
crops alone, and for the chance of a meal of young maize he was content
to go where no other food would have taken him.

His keener perceptions taught him now that there was a great,
inexplicable danger in the forest--something his mother had spoken about
when he first joined the herd by her side; and, though he had forgotten
the details, the sense of fear was never really absent from him, and it
was strengthened by one or two events that took place in his first
solitary year.

One night he met the recluse from his mountains looking as he had never
seen pig look before. His coarse hair was matted with perspiration, he
breathed heavily, his little eyes were full of the terror that comes to
the hunted beast.

"I must eat a little," said the recluse hoarsely, "my strength has
almost gone," and so saying he fell to and found a number of Argan nuts
which he ate eagerly, though he paused to sniff the breeze every moment
and ate head to wind. Tusker was astonished and uneasy.

"What's the matter?" he said, when both had eaten.

"The Hunter of the Forest has been on my track these three days," said
the boar of the mountains. "I cannot shake him off, and unless I can
reach the hills where he will not follow, I must die. The hills are two
day's journey and I am tired already. Twice I have broken through the
pack."

"The pack? What is that?" said Tusker curiously.

"There are twenty or more of them," replied the mountain boar. "Dogs of
mixed breed, some large, some small, all savage. With them come the
stalkers, and in the track of the stalkers comes the hunter, and when he
reaches me I must die. I have tried every trick known to me, you will
learn in your time what they are, but now I am not sure if I shall get
to the hills. I must seek a lair now and sleep. Perhaps this good food
and a quiet rest will restore my strength." He shambled off into the
darkness, leaving Tusker full of terror, so fearful indeed that he would
not go back to his old home, but wandered for some hours in the darkest
part of the forest.

Only in the spring-time did he become quite courageous, but with the
coming of April every living thing in the forest took heart of grace;
even the stock-doves were ready to fight in defence of nest and young.
Tusker felt the full joy of life too in November, when he had fought
with several brother boars for the sake of a sow who summed up for him
all his understanding of grace and beauty. He drove her from the herd
and followed her for days when her other lovers were routed, he pursuing
and she retreating all through the wild places of the forest.

Even the Hunter laid down his rifle for a brief season knowing that
should he find boar and sow together, the boar would send the sow to
make her escape, and would stand and fight to the death to give his
beloved time to get away. When the season of love and war had passed
Tusker left his companion to raise her litter and shift for herself;
while, all his love forgotten, he resumed his solitary life and his
accustomed nervousness.

Seven long years passed in the forest, and then in the third year of his
seclusion, when he was in splendid condition, and provided with tusks
that made him respected by all his fellows, the Hunter of the Forest
found his tracks. All the forest paths had tracks of boars, old and new,
some of small animals, some of large, and every track was plain as print
to the Hunter. When he first caught sight of Tusker's footmarks, he
jumped off his horse.

"A great beast, Mohammed," he said to the wiry, muscular Moor who
followed him; "leans to the left when he walks, and must have some
defect in his right hind hoof, for it makes the faintest mark of the
four, he goes so lightly on it." Then he made a few measurements and
recorded them, and noted the exact position of the spot, and rode home
very happy indeed, for his eyes, trained to the forest for nearly forty
years, told him he was on the track of a very fine boar.

That night Tusker fed upon the green maize in the fields of a
neighbouring farmer, returning before daybreak to his lair, where he
slept until a slight rustle in the bushes near at hand startled him to
wakefulness. A moment later, and a little lean mongrel dog showed at the
entrance to his home.

"Come out and fight," said the little lean mongrel dog showing his white
teeth.

"Show me something worth fighting," replied Tusker, showing his own
terrible weapons, "and I'll talk to you."

"O Father of Tusks," replied the little mongrel, "wait until I summon my
twenty-three brethren," and then he gave the call that summons the pack
and gladdens the huntsman's heart. Tusker, hearing answering yelps near
and far, knew in a moment that the dogs had been hunting for him with
their heads to the wind, so that he could not scent them, and realised
that he was face to face with the most serious trouble of his life. He
dashed out at once, before the pack had found time to gather round him,
and made off as hard as he could through the forest.

Tusker led the pack through the most difficult country. He ran at double
thorn bushes and passed right through them; the little dogs of the pack
followed on his heels, and the big ones kept well on either side of the
cover. And while he used his legs Tusker used his brain as well. "The
hunter cannot keep up with us," he said to himself, "if I turn to bay
I'll hurt a few of these fellows, and while he attends to them I'll get
further off."

Ten minutes later, he slowed down and allowed the foremost among the
pack to reach him. Most were scratched and torn by the thorns that could
not penetrate Tusker's hide, but they were game, and the first comers
flung themselves upon him. Tusker enjoyed the next minute or two, bitten
and worried though he was, and when he broke through the pack and
started off again his tusks, that had been white, were red, almost as
red as his angry little eyes, Three dogs were gasping on the ground, one
dying and the other two so badly ripped that had they been in an air
less pure they must have died before nightfall.

The Hunter came up before the sound of the pursuit had quite rolled
away, examined each dog quickly but carefully, gave a surgical needle,
some thread and a little bottle to one of the trackers, and started off
with the rest of the company. The tracker washed and sewed the wounds of
the two living dogs, made them as comfortable as he could and left them
for one of the servants to bring home. As they had not been fed for four
and twenty hours he knew they would recover from their wounds.

Meanwhile Tusker rumbled through a scrub so dense and prickly that, by
taking a sudden turn in a thicket, he was able to let the pack pass him.
Quick as thought he doubled on his own tracks a little way, then turned
sharp to the right avoiding the huntsman and his party, and made
straight for a little river. He paused on the brink and drank, but did
not dare to wallow or cover his hot head with the cool mud, for he heard
in the distance the cry of the hounds at fault and the voice of the
huntsman cheering them to find the line again. He forded the river,
landing some distance lower down on the opposite bank, and travelled a
few hundred yards into the forest.

"Safe at last," said Tusker, and began to hunt for a lair, going
backwards and forwards, sometimes travelling in a circle, and testing
the softness of the ground with his snout. At last he found a soft
sheltered thicket, and rested from his labours, resolving to wallow by
the river at nightfall.

The Hunter was puzzled while his pack endeavoured in vain to find the
line. The trackers went on to where the scrub became thin, and tracks
could show, but there were no fresh marks to guide them. Then the Hunter
cast back, guessing shrewdly that Tusker had doubled on his own line;
but the ground gave him no help, and the luncheon hour found the party
still perplexed.

"If he went to the north," said the Hunter, "we may not find his track
for weeks. If he went in any other direction he must cross the river so
we will work the banks." And when the simple meal was over the Hunter
led his trackers to the water, and they studied every mark on the bank.
Several times the trackers thought they had found their quarry, for they
met perfectly fresh prints among others that were any age from a day to
a week, but the Hunter's eye was looking for the marks of a certain set
of hoofs, of which the right hind one made the least mark, while the
balance was ever on the left side, and the distances were as recorded in
his notes.

Some time about four o'clock the Hunter found the track, and forded the
river; and, just before sunset, saw where it led to the forest. He
summoned his admiring trackers, but forebore to proceed. "The day after
to-morrow at daybreak," was all he said, and then the party made its way
home in the fast failing light, by no means dissatisfied with the day's
work.

On that night Tusker wallowed long and comfortably, and uprooted a fine
lot of wild radishes and turnips. His new lair was comfortable and he
was no worse for his adventure, but he was ill-pleased on the morning of
the second day when without word or warning a mongrel, whose face seemed
familiar, showed at the entrance to his lair and called on him to fight.

Quick as thought, without word of parley Tusker rushed out and sought
the impenetrable covers that had helped him before. He crossed the river
and gained on his pursuers.

In a clearing amid the thickets he came suddenly upon a herd that
scattered in all directions as he gave word of the following pack.

Once more dogs were at fault, but the Hunter was not. Within an hour
after, careful scrutiny of a score of tracks, he had picked out that of
a boar that ran with a list to the left, and trod lightly on its right
hind hoof, and moved at a certain recorded pace with certain recorded
distances between the hoofs.

Within two hours the hounds were closing in on Tusker whose way to
comparative safety lay over a large expanse of forest that was more or
less open. Beyond that part the thicket was the worst in the forest, and
the Hunter knew that the chances would be with the boar if he could
reach that stronghold. When Tusker heard the pack bearing down upon him,
he realised that the Hunter was his master, and that only good luck
could save him now. He thought of the solitary pig from the mountains
and wondered if he looked like him in the hour of his distress.

"I'll try again," said Tusker to himself, as he found the dogs gaining
on him in the more open country. "The Hunter may be far behind," and
then he set his fore-legs firmly on the ground and faced the furious
howling pack, using his terrible tusks with all the force he could put
behind them.

A few moments later he saw the Hunter emerging from the bush, and broke
through again with the dogs, cut and wounded, upon his heels, encouraged
by their master's voice.

He could not go far now. Once again he turned and faced his adversaries,
forgetting everything now in his rage and conscious only of a lust for
blood.

Suddenly there was a shrill whistle, and before it ceased to echo, the
pack opened to the right and left, leaving Tusker alone. He looked up
uncertain what to do, saw the Hunter standing sixty or seventy yards
away from him with a shining barrel at his shoulder, felt a sudden
violent shock, heard as in the far distance a sharp strange sound, knew
that the dogs were upon him again, but could not feel their teeth or the
ground he was lying on.

Another whistle, the dogs parted again, the Hunter came up knife in
hand, his trackers following.

"No need," he said, thrusting the shining steel into its case. "The
bullet went to the heart. A splendid fellow."

-----

Footnote 4:

  The Argan Forest is in Southern Morocco, and takes its name from the
  Argan, a species of olive tree.




                          THE STORY OF A SLAVE


In the early days Marzuk saw life from a secure position on his mother's
back. So soon as morning dawned, the pair would leave their mud hut
beyond the northern gate of Timbuctoo, and seek the market, there to
spread out and arrange such produce as had been collected overnight for
the day's sale.

In their season Aminah, the mother of Marzuk, sold the three fruits we
have never seen in our western world, the rich karita or butter fruit,
the satisfying nata which yields a sort of sweet flour in pods, and the
cheese fruit, upon which a man may dine and not go hungry.

Marzuk's mother was a black woman from below the Niger, in the Soudan,
and very ugly to the eyes of all save her little boy. But her white loin
cloths and shifts were cleaner than those of most of her neighbours, and
worn with some nicety.

She wore her hair in three rolls on the top of her head, supported by a
white fillet about her brows, and she was so industrious and cheery that
the day's end seldom found any of her market stock unsold, and generally
saw quite an imposing heap of cowries in the old calabash that was kept
for use as a till. Money was unknown.

So Marzuk, well-fed, grew strong and straight and comely, learning to
help his mother in her work, and to play truant from his duties and
adventure alone into Timbuctoo itself, and to the Niger banks beyond.
When he returned Aminah would beat him soundly, and cry over him in
mother fashion, while painting for him luridly the dangers of the road.

She spoke with rolling eyes and bated breath of the fierce Touaregs, the
brigands from the Sahara, who went through the streets of Timbuctoo
veiled against the glare of the African sun; of the hippopotami by the
Niger's bank that were ever lying in wait to make meals of naughty boys;
of the treacherous and pathless sand-dunes to the north, and of hungry
monkeys chattering in the trees--monkeys that were really little
children changed from their natural shape for disobedience to parents.
But neither stripes nor warnings could keep Marzuk's feet from straying.

The grass lands near the river, where the sheep pastured, were Marzuk's
favourite resort, because of the white ospreys that dwelt there. These
birds loved to follow the sheep from place to place, taking no notice of
shepherds or farmers, but ever intent upon the actions of their
four-footed friends.

Yet the boy kept well out of the way of all Touaregs, the veiled men of
the desert of whom his mother had spoken. He watched them from a safe
distance when they roamed through the city, spear in hand, ready and
willing to quarrel with any native who should cross their path.

They wore a head-dress that covered their fore-heads and helped to shade
their eyes, and a veil that shrouded the lower part of the face and kept
the mouth free from sand.

Their true home was the desert, where they reared vast flocks on scanty
pasture, but they held the natives of Timbuctoo in no respect, and would
stalk through the market-place, spear at the ready and sword beside
them, and call the men of the city "Sand-eaters," because they went with
mouths and nostrils uncovered. On their side the natives spoke of the
Touaregs as the "Abandoned of God," and would have kept them from the
city altogether, had their strength been equal to their will.

Day by day camel caravans reached Timbuctoo, coming across the desert
from Morocco, Algeria or Tunisia. Marzuk's one interest in his home
district was connected with these caravans.

Twice a year, in midwinter and midsummer, the camels would arrive in
huge convoys. There would be many hundreds of the unhandy supercilious
beasts there at one time, enjoying their longed-for rest, and making
hearty meals on the more succulent growths of the dwarf forest.

The camel-drivers themselves, gaunt, hard-lived men, with faces like
birds of prey, had many adventurous tales to tell, and Marzuk was a very
ready listener. He heard how the veiled thieves of the desert held up
whole caravans and taxed them, helping themselves moderately if
unopposed, but quite ready for wholesale killing if resisted in any way.
He heard, too, of the great salt country, visited by all caravans coming
from Morocco.

"It is a wonderful place," said Hadj Abdullah the camel-driver, on a day
when he arrived at Timbuctoo after six months' absence, "and Allah has
set it in the midst of the desert where no unbeliever may see it. The
houses are fashioned out of salt, and so is the mosque, there are
camel-skins over all the buildings, and the people live on their salt."

"Oh, my master, do they eat it?" asked Marzuk.

"Silence, little empty head," said Aminah, his mother, who listened
beside him. And the camel-driver continued:--

"Twice a year we go there, carrying away the white salt, which is the
best, and the red-veined if the other supply has failed. In return we
leave dates and corn and cotton, and so these people live.

"So terrible is the glare of the salt," added the camel-driver, "that if
we have women or children, we leave them in the oases, a day's journey
from the city."

Besides the precious salt of El Djouf, which was stamped in Timbuctoo
and sent down the Niger to districts where it was worth its weight in
gold, the caravans brought indigo, blue cotton and white, mirrors for
the women, calico, sugar, tea and coffee, and white paper for the
Marabouts. On their journey home they were supposed to take gold dust
and ivory, the long feathers of the wild ostrich and undressed leather.
But the head of the caravan knew of a commodity more valuable than
these, and some of the panniers that had carried salt to Timbuctoo had
living freight on the way back.

Hadj Abdullah employed agents in the city, and well he knew how to
arrange such business as he had, of whatever kind it might be, without
exciting the suspicion of the natives.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The camels slowly recovered their strength, the produce of Hadj
Abdullah's great caravan had been disposed of profitably by barter, and
the goods he had received in exchange would afford plenty of work for
his beasts.

One morning the Moor stopped before the calabashes where Aminah's stores
were placed. Marzuk was by his mother's side for once. Already in his
thirteenth year, he looked strong, healthy and intelligent. Hadj
Abdullah noted these things, whilst seeming to examine Aminah's little
store.

"Oh, my mother," he said with grave courtesy, "have you any
cheese-fruit, or has all gone for the year?"

"I fear it has been eaten, my lord," replied the black woman
respectfully.

"The pity," he replied. "For a plentiful supply such as my house
(family) desires, I would give a whole piece of fine blue cloth--the
last that is left me. Perhaps some fruit remains yet in the plantations
by the river. Can the boy go seek it?"

"I will send him, my lord," replied Aminah, delighted beyond measure at
the idea of getting a piece of the cloth that cowries could not buy.

"He must be back before the second day at sunrise," said the Moor, and
resumed his walk.

So Marzuk set off at daybreak on the following morning with many
warnings of the ill that would befall if his return were delayed. He
passed through the town, leaving it by the southern gate before anybody
but the guard was awake, and was soon knee-deep in the meadows that the
Niger keeps ever green.

He tramped along merrily enough, quite unconscious that two Arabs had
followed him from the huts beyond the southern wall. The ospreys were
everywhere--Marzuk saw nothing but the white birds, and the shining
river, and the butterflies, blue and gold, that fluttered over the
meadows.

On a sudden he heard footsteps, and saw the Arabs hurrying in his
direction. He stood to see them pass, and as they reached him they
turned suddenly and flung themselves upon him. There was no struggle,
only the white birds heard one choked cry of terror, and some few rose
from the meadow to the comparative safety of a neighbouring tree.

His captors carefully gagged Marzuk, and bound legs and arms tightly
with cords of palmetto, then he was rolled in sacking and carried back
to a hut. When the Arabs returned to the city they carried what seemed
to be a bale of raw cotton slung on a pole between them, and they made
unchallenged way to the caravan quarter, beyond the city's northern
gate.

Within the vast enclosure of thorn and cactus that inclosed the
caravanserai only the last great bales of merchandise remained for the
camels, and among these Marzuk was left to pant for breath in an
atmosphere that would have stifled any but a negro. Towards the
afternoon, when he had seen his latest acquisition safely stored, Hadj
Abdullah sought the market-place by the mosque.

"Oh, mother," said he to Aminah, "has the lad returned with the
cheese-fruit?"

"No, my master," she replied angrily. "I am cursed in the boy. He goes
on errands and returns when he likes."

"I am sorry, mother," replied Hadj Abdullah, "for by Allah's grace
to-morrow's sunrise will see us on the road again."

From the mosques of the city the Mueddin called for the prayer said by
devout Moslems at the hour of the false dawn. On walls and battlements
the early wakened doves were fluttering sleepily, the guards at the
gates still slept, the life of the city had not stirred. But beyond the
caravan quarter the camels and mules of Hadj Abdullah were moving out
slowly in single file.

There were seventy or eighty camels in all and ten mules, some of which
carried Arab women who sat in the comfort born of habit, smoking pipes
of the native tobacco.

First on the road were six camels, each carrying two children in what
had been salt-panniers.

Marzuk, whose thongs had been loosened, and whose thirst had been
assuaged, was but one of the twelve whom Hadj Abdullah had bought
secretly or stolen, and, beyond the men engaged by him and the natives
he had bribed, none knew aught of the camel's freight.

Frightened as never in his life before, bruised and sickened by the
camel's irregular stride, his flesh scarred and his bones aching from
the pressure of the raw hide thongs that had bound his limbs, faint for
lack of food, and with nerves strained almost to breaking point, Marzuk
was never in doubt about what had befallen him. He had been captured to
be sold as a slave.

From the resting-place of the caravan the last camel had started on the
road to Morocco, across eight hundred miles of desert, steering a
north-north-westerly course over a track marked by the skeletons of men
and beasts that had fallen by the way.

In her mud hut Aminah, never suspecting the truth, thought angrily and
fearfully of the absent boy, and prayed that he might safely escape the
hippopotami coming for their nightly prowl along the river banks.

As day succeeded day, other caravans arrived from the desert, but never
a sign of the lad from the riverside came to relieve a mind grown weary
now from anxiety and self-reproach. Weeks passed, and months, until
Aminah knew that her prayers had failed to prevent evil spirits
sacrificing her boy to the wild beasts of the river. And then she grew
old suddenly, and within the year her place in the market was vacant.

Hadj Abdullah's caravan made slow progress. The dwarf forest left
behind, the sand waves of the Sahara stretched out before them, and in
traversing this dry and burning sea the caravan endured days and weeks
of travelling that taxed men and beasts to the uttermost.

Once a day, at sunset, the caravan halted, and then Marzuk and his
eleven companions were taken from their panniers and fed. The Hadj
feared to travel by starlight, save when forced to it by anticipation of
an attack by the veiled brigands of the desert, lest the track should be
missed.

Marzuk's companion, a girl younger than himself, proved unable to endure
the camel's irregular stride, the scanty food, and the blinding
sunlight. Before they had been two weeks on the road she could not eat.
One morning she broke out into a fit of screaming that passed gradually
into moans, and then stopped abruptly. In the evening, when the baskets
were lowered, Hadj Abdullah was summoned in haste, but he could do no
more than curse the man who had sold the child to him for half a bar of
salt, and had sworn that she was sound and fit for the caravan journey.
A little hole was scooped out in the sand; the tally of the caravan had
been reduced by one. Next morning the burdens were rearranged, and
Marzuk was carried in a basket with another lad, the camel that had
carried him being requisitioned to carry one of the drivers who had
fallen sick.

For many years the hardships of the journey remained fresh and vivid in
Marzuk's memory. Oases were long days apart, the brackish water was
always hot and never plentiful, they saw no living things unless a viper
ran across their path, or a few desert antelopes showed for a moment on
the horizon. Sometimes, when the eyes ached behind tight-closed lids
from the cruel glare of sky and sand, Marzuk would wake with a start at
his companion's cry--"See, Marzuk! they are taking us home again". Then
they saw Timbuctoo spread before them, the mosques clearly to be
distinguished, the tall palm trees and clay-built houses seemingly but a
few miles away. The camels would raise their heads and lengthen their
stride. But the visionary city would come no nearer, and gradually it
would fade before their longing eyes--the mirage that had set it down
amid the sands had vanished into aching sun-scorched space.

Weeks passed slowly, so slowly that Marzuk's pannier mate, a weakling
at best, succumbed to the trials of the road, and was left to rest
under a little mound of sand that the first wind would level. Marzuk,
too, began to lose strength, and passed long hours in a state of
semi-consciousness, but he had been reared well and generously, and
before he had time to break down altogether, the oasis of Tindouf was
reached.

The back of the weary journey was broken. Thereafter oases were more
frequent, the caravan passed great weekly markets, the country of the
Touaregs was quite left behind, and the natives met were men of fair
skin, though sunburnt. The Atlas Mountains appeared on the eastern
horizon, filling Marzuk with brief terror, for he had never seen snow,
or imagined hills like those that filled the far distance. To the little
black boy from Timbuctoo, the great mountain range appeared as the
awesome wall of a new world, but his curiosity helped him to pluck up
spirit and prepare to face whatever the future might have in store. The
Draa country was left behind, the Sus country reached and passed,
Tarudant being seen hull down on the western horizon, like a ship far
out at sea; and one fine morning, when rosy light peeping over the
snow-filled caverns of the higher Atlas found the caravan already upon
the road, the Moors raised their voices and praised a saint whose name
the lad had never heard.

Marzuk rubbed sleepy eyes and saw in the plains a long way before them a
great city in a forest of palm. Countless minarets glittered in the
early light, the sun lighted some river of size and importance.

"Oh, my master!" cried Marzuk to the Moor who led a camel by his side,
"is that a real city?"

"Truly," was the grave reply, "it is Marrakesh[5] itself."


                                  II.

The long file of camels came at last to rest outside the Dukala gate and
Hadj Abdullah placed his praying carpet on the ground, turned towards
Mecca and returned thanks. No brigand had claimed dues of his
merchandise, and out of the twelve children he had bought or stolen
eight remained alive--a higher average than most travellers could
record.

Marzuk, used from early days to fend for himself, with no special ties,
and a feeling of confidence in his own capacities that none but a
Soudanee would have felt under similar circumstances, gazed about him in
deep wonderment. Before him stretched a city far exceeding Timbuctoo in
area and importance, a place surrounded by a wall that seemed without
end; he saw more palms in one direction than his native place boasted on
all sides together, and the minarets of countless mosques standing
slender and erect as the palms themselves.

That night they slept within Morocco City, in a great fandak
indescribably filthy. The tired mules were brought in with the slaves,
the camels remaining in the outer market in charge of their owner. Hadj
Abdullah hired his beasts in Morocco City, paying a sum equivalent to
two pounds a head for the journey out and home. In the fandak he
addressed a brief warning to the children. They would have three days'
rest and all the food they could eat, and on the evening of the third
day they would be sold. Let them do their best and all would be well
with them, if they were rebellious--he closed his mouth abruptly, but
his silence was significant enough.

Left in charge of the keeper of the fandak, the children lay at their
ease in the reeking straw, and gave their three days to eating and
drinking and singing odds and ends of songs they had heard at home. No
sound of the city reached them, save at the hours of prayer, when from
every minaret the faithful were called to acknowledge the Unity of
Allah. On the afternoon of the third day they were taken to the baths by
a strange man, and each child was arrayed in clean white linen garments,
supplemented in the case of the girls by kerchiefs of many colours.

"Follow me, O slaves," said the Moor, when they were all ready to
return. He led them unresisting through the heart of the city, through
the bazaars with their roofs of palm branches and box-like shops, past
the arcades of the workers in brass and linen and leather and
sweatmeats, to a corner where the passage ended in a heavily barred
gate.

The gatekeeper drew the bolts, and showed through the open door a bare
circular market-place with a broken and dilapidated arcade stretching
down the centre of it, and booths all round the walls. Marzuk cast one
desperate look round, as a bird at the door of a cage, but the fear of
Hadj Abdullah was upon him. In another moment they had been shepherded
through the gate-way and commanded to stand still while their guardian
went to a Moorish official, who sat cross-legged on a carpet, and gave
the numbers and description of the party.

"Five boys, three girls, Timbuctoo," repeated the official, and wrote
the details laboriously on a slip of paper with a bamboo pen.

"Follow," commanded the Moor, and the children marched obediently to one
of the huts or booths built out from the wall like covered pens.

"Go within, and stay there until the market is opened. Let none stir
beyond the entrance," he said curtly, and seeing them safely housed,
went off.

Marzuk left his companions whose terror annoyed him, and going to the
mouth of the pen looked out at the scene.

He saw at once that he and his little party were not alone in the
slave-market. Nearly a dozen of the other pens were tenanted for the
most part by adults, who could be heard chattering or singing happily
enough, and in one pen, at least, quarelling violently. Certainly, they
were in no way cast down, and their indifference helped to bring further
confidence to Marzuk, who beckoned the most distressed of the party--a
little nine-year-old girl--to come to his side and look out.

It was the eve of a great sale. The "Court Elevated by Allah" was about
to leave the southern capital for the North; the great Wazeers would be
seeking to make the last changes in, or additions to, their harems and
households before leaving home. On this account Hadj Abdullah had not
kept the slaves longer to fatten them, preferring to take the prices
that would rule at a big sale for inferior goods, than what he would get
for better material when the city was half empty.

The sun was beginning to decline, and a faint freshness was coming into
the sultry air. The last batch of slaves had been entered; a group of
auctioneers surrounded the Government official in charge of the market,
and speculated hopefully upon the prices that would rule. The keeper of
the gate flung it back, and Marzuk saw the arrival of the earliest
buyers.

They came in singly for the most part--Moors whose wealth was indicated
by their portly presence, and by their outer robes of white and blue
cloth woven in the north of England. They walked into the market-place
and sat down at their ease on the ground against the unoccupied pens, or
the long arcade that bisected the market-circle. Some were very old men
with white beards, and a few were of forbidding appearance; but most
were fat and well-favoured, True Believers to whom life came easily.

The last buyer had arrived. There must have been thirty or forty in all,
and Marzuk knew that the sale was about to begin. A very old slave
walked over the dusty ground, with a goatskin watering-can, and
sprinkled it liberally. The dilal (auctioneer) who had brought them to
the pen came up hurriedly, counted them with raised fore-finger as
though they had been sheep, and told them to be ready to follow him,
using the native tongue of Guinea, since Marzuk alone of the little
company had as much as a smattering of Arabic.

His instructions understood, the auctioneer hurried away to the centre
of the market-place, where the other dilals surrounded their chief. He
looked at the sun as though to tell the hour; it was sinking behind the
saint's tomb on the edge of the market-wall. He gave a signal; the
selling brethren formed themselves into a line, with their chief in the
centre. Then the venerable leader lifted up his voice and prayed. He
praised Allah; dilals and buyers said "Amen". He cursed Satan; the
company reiterated the curse. He employed the blessing of Sidi
bel-Abbas, the city's patron saint, friend of sellers and buyers. Might
he bless the market, the dilals and the patrons. Might he send
prosperity to one and all. The dilals stood with closed eyes and
extended hands and said "Amen."

Their chief's prayer came to an end. Quickly as possible the dilals
hurried to the pens they presided over.

"Come forward, all," cried the one in charge of Marzuk's pen, and the
frightened children needed no second bidding.

"Do as you see the others doing," said the dilal, as, with deft fingers,
he rearranged the shawls of the girls and set the boy's robes straight.

Marzuk seized his little girl friend by the hand; she took the hand of
another girl; the dilal stood in the centre of the line of children,
four on either side of him. Meanwhile, the other auctioneers had
arranged their slaves in much the same way, and the companies stepped
forward to walk slowly round the market.

They moved round the circle of the market, and the dilals called loudly
upon intending buyers.

"O, Abdel Karim," cried a burly Moor, as Marzuk's dilal passed him for
the first time, "let me see the lad who has your right hand."

Marzuk was pushed forward. Coarsely, rather than unkindly, the Moor laid
his fat hands upon the boy, felt his muscles, opened his mouth to note
the state of his teeth, and asked a dozen questions that the boy's
Arabic could not have compassed had he been attending. But it happened
that at the moment when he was thrust into the old man's arms Marzuk
looked up, just as a company of white ospreys swept high over the
market, and in a moment he saw the Niger rising before him, and the
scented fields he knew so well. Brave though he was, his eyes were
flooded, and the words could not pass his throat.

"Newly arrived from the South," admitted the dilal rather impatiently,
in explanation of what he feared would be one of the outbursts that the
market saw so often; "but he is strong and well, and knows a few words."

"Forty dollars, Salesman," said the Moor briefly; "let me see the girl."

Marzuk's little companion was pushed forward and, too frightened to
speak, kissed the old man's hand. He handled her with an approach to
gentleness, asking the auctioneer all he wanted to know.

"Forty dollars also," he said, when the last word was spoken.

Forthwith the dilal shifted the children for whom no bid had been yet
made from the right to the left hand, and took the first vacant place in
the line of auctioneers and slaves, proclaiming with a loud voice: "For
the boy and the girl, forty dollars each".

A quarter of an hour passed, while the salesman marched round and round
with his charges, and in that brief period two smaller children passed
from the left to the right hand side of the dilal. They were the
remaining girls, for whom seventy dollars were offered, an amount
working out in English money at ten pounds.

"A bad price--a bad price," muttered the auctioneer sadly, and then he
withdrew from the line and returned to the pen. "Wait here," he said to
the four boys who had not yet been asked for; "wait till the rest are
sold."

Then he hurried back to the line of auctioneers with Marzuk and the
three girls, proclaiming the price and merits of his wares as loudly as
possible. Several times Marzuk was summoned by an intending purchaser,
and his price went slowly up to fifty-five dollars, while his companion
stayed at forty-eight.

For the other two girl children, a bright, intelligent pair, and not
without good looks of a kind, there was a very brisk bidding; three
country Kaids were bent upon purchasing them. The three sat along the
arcade some twenty yards from one another, and raised the price of the
two little girls three, four, sometimes five dollars at a time, the
auctioneer thanking them with a "Praise be to Allah the One!" every time
the price was augmented.

At last the Kaid from a town on the far side of the Atlas Mountains
raised the price to one hundred and thirty-five dollars at which figure
the bidding ceased, and the two children were handed over to their new
master.

Greatly elated at the thought of his commission, which, though but two
and a half per cent., would be quite appreciable, the auctioneer took
Marzuk in one hand and the girl in the other, and marched briskly round,
declaring their merits and the last bid.

The girl caught up her companion in price, and, passing from hand to
hand, was chosen at last by one of the Kaids, who had failed to purchase
the pair of girls, at eighty-two dollars. Marzuk saw her frightened eye
and quivering lip, she looked once at him and burst into a violent
paroxysm of sobbing.

But there was never a big sale in the Sok-el-Abeed without tears in
plenty. They were of no more moment to the crowd than the water that the
carriers from the south country sprinkled over the sandy market-place.

The auctioneer fetched another boy from the pen and walked round with
him and Marzuk.

The latter felt now that the end was coming, he knew that his purchase
lay between a fat white-bearded Moor from the country and the keeper of
the fandak. He heard the price raised slowly to seventy-five dollars, at
which the keeper of the fandak declared with an angry word that he would
go no higher.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was to no hard servitude that Marzuk was taken in the early days when
he went for the first time to a master's house. He was appointed to wait
upon his master's son, a lad of little more than his own age, and if a
few blows and some ill-usage were his portion from time to time, he was
troubled but little so long as food was good and plentiful.

When the two boys grew towards manhood, their relations became more
intimate and friendly, and Marzuk, who had been told off to the fields
at every harvest time, was raised to a rather more responsible position,
and called upon to superintend the labour of the others. They worked on
the land, ploughing and reaping, cultivating the orchards and digging
water-pits, or they carried the produce of their master's fields to the
markets of the city.

Here he succeeded, and was sent by his master to the far country markets
with corn and oil, sometimes taking journeys of two or three weeks'
duration. Once again his record was satisfactory, and he was further
promoted to carry letters and messages to the great country chiefs, with
whom his master had commercial or social relations.

So it happened that he escaped the harder fate that waits upon slaves
who are idle or vicious or so unfortunate as to find a bad master.
Marzuk learned to ride fearlessly, and to know the great tracks that
pass for roads in Morocco, and stretch between the far scattered cities.

His master's house held many slaves--they were regarded as a source of
wealth, and were encouraged to do their best. In earlier days, when
slaves were very cheap, they had not fared so well, but now that a
master must pay heavily, he would not waste man or woman as he could
afford to do in times when Mulai Ismail ruled and England held Tangier.

To-day Marzuk is the chief of his master's household, a strong,
intelligent fellow, who rejoices in the whitest of djellabas and the
largest size of yellow slippers, carries a long rosary, and rules his
master's other servants with a rod of iron.

Marzuk has picked up a great deal of Arabic; he has become a Mohammedan,
and looks forward to the day when he will be manumitted, and will be
able to make a pilgrimage to Mecca. Thereafter he will embark his small
store of dollars in trade, and with his knowledge of markets and
capacity for sustained work he should end by employing slaves of his
own.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I have set down the main features of his story as he told them to me in
his master's house, in days not long gone past when I was a guest there,
and entered, so far as I might, into the fascinating life of the East,
and I cannot refrain from adding that Marzuk stands to-day on a far
higher rung in the ladder of civilisation and progress than he would
have reached if the curse of slavery had not fallen on him in far
Timbuctoo.

And therein (a wholesome reflection for the more arrogant among us)
slavery, as understood and practised in the world of Islam, differs
mightily from slavery as understood and practised in Christian lands a
few years ago.

I make no mention of the sort of slavery still existing, under European
auspices, on the Congo, and in many of the cities of every country of
Europe. Allah forbid that sleek, smiling Marzuk, upon whose ample
shoulders the burden of labour has fallen so lightly, should ever know
the bitterness of such sad lives as these.

-----

Footnote 5:

  Marrakesh, known in England as Morocco City, is the southern capital
  of the Moorish Empire.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

   Telephone:                                       Telegrams:
  Gerrard 7745.                                "Milnopolis London."

                              AUTUMN, 1908

                          A List of New Books
                              PUBLISHED BY
                          JOHN MILNE Publisher
                29 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.

                                                                   PAGE
  Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.  Lewis Carroll. 6s.               4
  Archibald Menzies.  Agnes Grant Hay. 6s.                           12
  Broken Honeymoon, The.  Edwin Pugh. 6s.                             5
  Call of the South, The.  Louis Becke. 6s.                          16
  Disinherited. Stella M. Duering. 6s.                               10
  Duchess of Dreams, The.  Edith Macvane. 6s.                        11
  Enchantress, The.  Edwin Pugh. 6s.                                 15
  Gentle Thespians, The.  R. Murray Gilchrist. 6s.                   16
  Graven Image, The.  Mrs. Coulson Kernahan. 6s.                      7
  Half-Smart Set, The.  Florence Warden. 6s.                         14
  Heart of the Wild, The.  S. L. Bensusan. 6s.                        3
  "I Little Knew--!"  May Crommelin. 6s.                              15
  Ichabod.  James Blyth. 6s.                                         11
  Insane Root, The.  Mrs. Campbell Praed. 6d.                        16
  Irene of the Ringlets.  Horace Wyndham. 6s.                        15
  King's Cause, The.  Walter E. Grogan. 6s.                           9
  Lady Mary of Tavistock, The.  Harold Vallings. 6s.                 14
  Last of Her Race, The. J. Bloundelle-Burton. 6s.                   14
  Lost Angel, The.  Katharine Tynan. 6s.                             15
  Lost Heir, The.  G. A. Henty. 6d.                                  16
  Love that Kills, The.  Coralie Stanton & H. Hosken. 6s.             8
  Moth and the Flame, The.  Alice Maud Meadows. 6s.                  14
  'Neath Austral Skies.  Louis Becke. 6s.                             6
  Orphan-Monger, The.  G. Sidney Paternoster. 6s.                     7
  Potiphar's Wife.  Kineton Parkes. 6s.                               9
  Quest of the Antique, The.  R.& E. Shackleton. 10/6 net            13
  Quicksands of Life, The.  J. H. Edge, K.C. 6s.                      8
  Tobias and the Angel. Helen Prothero Lewis. 6s.                    10
  Two Goodwins, The.  R. Murray Gilchrist. 6s.                        6
  Wilful Woman, A.  G. B. Burgin. 6d.                                16
  Within Four Walls.  J. Bloundelle-Burton. 6s.                       5

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

                            INDEX TO AUTHORS

                                                                   PAGE
  Becke Louis. 'Neath Austral Skies. 6s.                              6
  Becke Louis. The Call of the South. 6s.                            16
  Bensusan S. L. The Heart of the Wild. 6s.                           3
  Bloundelle-Burton J. Within Four Walls. 6s.                         5
  Bloundelle-Burton J. The Last of Her Race. 6s.                     14
  Blyth James. Ichabod. 6s.                                          11
  Burgin G. B. A Wilful Woman. 6d.                                   16
  Carroll Lewis. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. 6s.                4
  Crommelin May. "I Little Knew--!" 6s.                               15
  Duering Stella M. Disinherited. 6s.                                10
  Edge J. H. K.C. The Quicksands of Life. 6s.                         8
  Gilchrist R. Murray. The Two Goodwins. 6s.                          6
  Gilchrist R. Murray. The Gentle Thespians. 6s.                     16
  Grogan Walter E. The King's Cause. 6s.                              9
  Hay Agnes Grant. Archibald Menzies. 6s.                            12
  Henty G. A. The Lost Heir. 6d.                                     16
  Hume Fergus. New Novel. 6s.                                        12
  Kernahan Mrs. Coulson. The Graven Image. 6s.                        7
  Lewis Helen Prothero. Tobias and the Angel. 6s.                    10
  Macvane Edith. The Duchess of Dreams. 6s.                          11
  Meadows Alice Maud. The Moth and the Flame. 6s.                    14
  Parkes Kineton. Potiphar's Wife. 6s.                                9
  Paternoster G. Sidney. The Orphan-Monger. 6s.                       7
  Praed Mrs. Campbell. The Insane Root. 6d.                          16
  Pugh Edwin. The Broken Honeymoon. 6s.                               5
  Pugh Edwin. The Enchantress. 6s.                                   15
  Shackleton R. & E. The Quest of the Antique. 10/6 net.             13
  Stanton Coralie & Hosken H. The Love that Kills. 6s.                8
  Tynan Katharine. The Lost Angel. 6s.                               15
  Vallings Harold. The Lady Mary of Tavistock. 6s.                   14
  Warden Florence. The Half-Smart Set. 6s.                           14
  Wyndham Horace. Irene of the Ringlets. 6s.                         15

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

                         The Heart of the Wild

                   Wild Life Studies from Near & Far

                                   BY

                             S. L. BENSUSAN

       Author of "A Countryside Chronicle," "Wild Life Stories,"
                            "Morocco," etc.

             Illustrated with actual Wild Life Photographs.

                         Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.

[Sidenote: The Heart of the Wild]

The specimen in the cage is a comparatively familiar animal, and the
difference between him and the hunted creature at bay in the wild, or
the timorous beastie suddenly encountered in the field, is obvious to
the least observant; but what of the beast in his own lair? This is the
side of nature that Mr. Bensusan lays bare to the reader.

You are invited to spend a season in Mr. Beastie's home, to hear his
family history, to accompany him on his foraging expeditions, to
criticise and admire the architecture of his house, to help fight his
enemies, to romp with his youngsters and train them for the battle of
life, which appears to be just as stern for the animal as for the human.

The lives dealt with include the Water-Rat, Giraffe, Ferret, Cuckoo,
Badger, Eagle, Camel, Stork, Wild Boar, Fighting Bull, Red Grouse, Seal,
Roebuck and Flamingo, and, if the reader will accept the analogy, every
life story is a human document.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

A Charming Gift Book for Children

                          THE CHILDREN'S ALICE

                         Alice's Adventures in
                               Wonderland

                                   BY

                             LEWIS CARROLL

               Nine full-page Illustrations in Colour by
                            BESSIE GUTMANN.

  Together with numerous simple Drawings in Line, suitable for copying
          and colouring by youthful artists. Illuminated Text.

                    Demy 8vo, cloth, fully gilt, 6s.

[Sidenote: The Children's Alice]

This edition of Lewis Carroll's masterpiece is confidently placed before
the public, in spite of numerous competitors, because it is felt that it
will supply a want. In many recent editions of "Alice in Wonderland" the
true object of the book has been overlooked, for the illustrations in
more than one instance have been rather above the heads, and the
appreciation, of the youthful readers. Here is an edition, the coloured
illustrations of which, while being truly artistic, will appeal more
directly to the young folk. Here is a childlike and natural Alice and a
new and jovial Gryphon, while the gorgeous liveries of the fish and frog
footmen are emphasised by the new "direct" process by which the coloured
pictures are reproduced.

The illuminated text is sure to appeal to children to whom a blank page
of type is often uninviting, while the simple line drawings will be a
source of endless amusement for the re-creation in the nursery drawing
book, of types, scenes and characters from "Alice in Wonderland."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

New Six Shilling Novels

                          The Broken Honeymoon

                             By EDWIN PUGH

       Author of "The Man of Straw," "Tony Drum," "The Spoilers,"
                        "The Enchantress," etc.

                           Crown 8vo, cloth.

[Sidenote: The Broken Honeymoon]

Here, as in "The Enchantress," Mr. Pugh treats his subject with that
candour of which his work is typical. "The Broken Honeymoon" concerns
the wooing, marriage and honeymoon of a London clerk and a
schoolmistress, and is a sidelight on life in Suburbia, stripped of all
its conventional appurtenances, and shown with that naked reality which
is characteristic of all this author's work. "The Broken Honeymoon" is a
worthy successor to "The Enchantress."

              -------------------------------------------

                           Within Four Walls

                        By J. BLOUNDELLE-BURTON

       Author of "The Last of Her Race," "The Hispaniola Plate,"
                       "The Clash of Arms," etc.

                           Crown 8vo, cloth.

[Sidenote: Within Four Walls]

The talented author of "The Last of Her Race" has again dipped into his
vast fund of historical knowledge and has weaved a romance out of the
intrigues that surrounded the life and death of Henri IV, who was
assassinated by Raviallac at the same time that a conspiracy was on foot
among some of the nobles of the Court to murder the king. The discovery
of this conspiracy by the heroine, leading to her imprisonment "Within
Four Walls," and the adventures of her lover in effecting her rescue,
are incidents that provide Mr. J. Bloundelle-Burton with all the
materiel for a powerful historical novel.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

New Six Shilling Novels

                            The Two Goodwins

                                   BY

                          R. MURRAY GILCHRIST

          Author of "The Gentle Thespians," "Beggar's Manor,"
                          "The Courtesy Dame."

                           Crown 8vo, cloth.

[Sidenote: The Two Goodwins]

Mr. Murray Gilchrist's pictures of rural life have a large circle of
admirers, and this book, which deals with the rich farming folk of the
Peak district, is quite up to his usual high standard.

The torchlight procession at the great house, the loves of the rustic
characters, and, finally, the wedding dance in the "Old Barn," are all
described in the dainty style with which this author has won such great
popularity in his former works.

              -------------------------------------------

                      Life in the Southern Pacific

                          'Neath Austral Skies

                                   BY

                              LOUIS BECKE

                Author of "The Call of the South," etc.

                         Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.

[Sidenote: 'Neath Austral Skies]

This volume is sure of a warm welcome from Mr. Becke's numerous readers.
The descriptions of life in the South Seas are told with his own
particular charm, and the stories of "Tom Dennison," the dare-devil hero
of many of his former works, make this collection especially attractive.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

New Six Shilling Novels

                           The Orphan-Monger

                                   BY

                         G. SIDNEY PATERNOSTER

         Author of "The Motor Pirate," "The Folly of the Wise,"
                   "The Lady of the Blue Motor," etc.

                           Crown 8vo, cloth.

[Sidenote: The Orphan-Monger]

Mr. Varden-Kingdom, "The Orphan-Monger," can only be described as a
"philanthropist" with the pious hypocrisy of a Uriah Heep, and the
fiendish cunning of a Mr. Squeers.

How his schemes to obtain the fortune of Margaret Marston were brought
to nought by the course of true love, forms a theme which holds the
reader spell-bound to the last page.

              -------------------------------------------

                            The Graven Image

                                   BY

                         Mrs. COULSON KERNAHAN

           Author of "An Unwise Virgin," "An Artist's Model,"
                    "The Mystery of Magdalen," etc.

                           Crown 8vo, cloth.

[Sidenote: The Graven Image]

This story tells of the many strange and thrilling adventures which
befell a beautiful young girl, who, thrown on her own resources,
determines to fight against adverse fortune, and incidentally, to
unravel the mystery of "The Graven Image," which plays an important part
in the family affairs of her lover. With this material Mrs. Coulson
Kernahan weaves a plot rich in startling and dramatic incidents, with a
romantic and happy climax.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

New Six Shilling Novels

                         The Quicksands of Life

                                   BY

                            J. H. EDGE, K.C.

                   Author of "An Irish Utopia," etc.

                           Crown 8vo, cloth.

[Sidenote: The Quicksands of Life]

Mr. Edge has already shown the public that he can tell a good story of
Ireland, for his last book, "An Irish Utopia," met with an enthusiastic
reception. He has now drawn still further on his life experiences, for
most of the scenes of his new novel are laid in London and very
intimately connected with the Temple, while the Irish portion of the
plot places the reader amidst the grazing farms of Munster, the
extinction of which is now such a burning question.

"The Quicksands of Life" is, however, a novel pure and simple, and the
reader need not be apprehensive of finding the work a mere treatise on
the Irish Question.

              -------------------------------------------

                          The Love That Kills

                                   BY

                     CORALIE STANTON & HEATH HOSKEN

                  Authors of "A Widow by Choice," etc.

                           Crown 8vo, cloth.

[Sidenote: The Love that Kills]

Giving the reader a sense of mystery to be unravelled from the very
first chapter, excitement of situation is the keynote of "The Love That
Kills," right to the very end.

This story, of a supreme sacrifice made for love, will go far to enhance
the reputation of its clever authors.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

New Six Shilling Novels

                            Potiphar's Wife

                                   BY

                             KINETON PARKES

         Author of "Love a la Mode," "Life's Desert Way," etc.

                           Crown 8vo, cloth.

[Sidenote: Potiphar's Wife]

The dales of Derbyshire have furnished a fine setting to Mr. Kineton
Parkes' story of the rugged lives and passionate loves of their sturdy
farmers and cattle raisers.

"Powerful in plot, brilliant in execution and possessing an intensely
human interest" was the verdict of the reader who read this story in
manuscript, and it is placed before the public with the confidence that
this opinion will be thoroughly endorsed.

              -------------------------------------------

                            The King's Cause

                                   BY

                            WALTER E. GROGAN

       Author of "The Dregs of Wrath," "The King's Sceptre," etc.

                           Crown 8vo, cloth.

[Sidenote: The King's Cause]

No writer of fiction has yet given us a book on the exciting events of
the Seventeenth Century, when Bristol was twice successfully besieged
within two years. In this story Mr. Grogan tells of the adventures of
Bevil Copleigh, of the part he took in the surrender of Bristol to
Prince Rupert, and in the subsequent capitulation of that Prince to Sir
Thomas Fairfax.

With a strong element of love running through it, "The King's Cause"
will appeal to all as full of exciting adventure, while the careful
manner in which the author has studied the period makes his work
instructive as well as highly entertaining.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

New Six Shilling Novels

                          Tobias and The Angel

                                   BY

                          HELEN PROTHERO LEWIS

   Author of "The Rudder and the Rock," "Hooks of Steel," "Thraldom,"
                      "The Unguarded Taper," etc.

                           Crown 8vo, cloth.

[Sidenote: Tobias and The Angel]

This is a pleasant, bright, wholesome novel, with a hint of difficulties
manfully faced and the power of love to save. Dealing with the present
the author does not shirk its difficulties, indeed, the drink question,
too old at forty, divorce law, and other everyday problems all receive
careful and delicate yet masterful handling; nevertheless, the story is
the opposite of prosy, and makes good enjoyable reading.

              -------------------------------------------

                              Disinherited

                                   BY

                            STELLA M. DUERING

              Author of "In the Springtime of Life," etc.

                Crown 8vo, cloth. Coloured Frontispiece.

[Sidenote: Disinherited]

In this novel of present-day England Mrs. Stella M. Duering portrays the
life of the heir to a baronetcy, who, brought up in the expectation of
succeeding to the title, finds himself suddenly disinherited by the late
marriage of his aged relative. Written with brilliance and with wit, and
with an air of mystery pervading the story, the reader's interest is
sustained throughout to a clever and convincing termination.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

New Six Shilling Novels

                                Ichabod

                                   BY

                              JAMES BLYTH

     Author of "Juicy Joe," "The Same Clay," "Celibate Sarah," etc.

[Sidenote: Ichabod]

Mr. James Blyth has turned his attention from social problems to
historical anticipation, and in his latest book, "Ichabod," he gives a
picture of England during the next fifty years, endeavouring to show the
result of the present ever-increasing alien immigration.

The story is powerfully told, full of incident from cover to cover, and
is sure to leave the reader, whatever his views may be, full of
thoughts.

              -------------------------------------------

                         The Duchess of Dreams

                                   BY

                             EDITH MACVANE

             Frontispiece in Colour. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.

[Sidenote: The Duchess of Dreams]

A tale of social ambition, of startling adventure and of passionate
love, placed against the background of the dazzling world of diplomacy.

Miss Macvane has written a story which is both pleasing and interesting,
in fact, she has most successfully entered the domain where Anthony Hope
and Henry Harland found such entertaining inspiration for the treatment
of a highly romantic situation.

The portrayal of the characters is convincing; and the pictures of
brilliant diplomatic functions are particularly vivid and realistic.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

New Six Shilling Novels

                       Archibald Menzies, Mystic

                                   BY

                            AGNES GRANT HAY

               Author of "Malcolm Canmore's Pearl," etc.

[Sidenote: Archibald Menzies, Mystic]

As a study of the effect of worldly trials on a highly-developed and
enquiring character, Archibald Menzies is sure to command attention from
all who are interested in the developments that have recently taken
place in the world of religion. A boy, reared by his mother in a quiet
Midland town, suddenly is brought face to face with a hitherto unknown
side of the history of his family; this, followed by a series of
disappointments, has the effect of causing him to take a doubting view
of the principles in which he has been brought up, and leads him to
espouse the cause of a "New Religion," in which, however, he fails to
find a solution of the problem of present social conditions.

              -------------------------------------------

           Further particulars will shortly be announced of a

                               NEW NOVEL

                                   BY

                              FERGUS HUME

             Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," etc.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

Furniture

                        The Quest of the Antique

                 Being some Personal Experiences in the
                        Finding of Old Furniture

                                   BY

                    ROBERT and ELIZABETH SHACKLETON

          Illustrated with 44 Photographs, and a Frontispiece
              in Colour; Chapter Headings and Decorations
                             by HARRY FENN.

                    Demy 8vo, 425 pp., 10s. 6d. net.

[Sidenote: The Quest of the Antique]

This is not a book to appeal only to lovers of Old Furniture, but it is
a work to stir and hold the interest of those who have never fallen
under the spell of the charming and stately Furniture of the Past.

The two who write this unusual book inherited a kettle, bought a pair of
candlesticks, and were given a Shaker chair; with this beginning they
entered upon the enthusiastic pursuit of the walnut, the brass and the
china of the Olden Time.

The story of what they found and their experiences in the finding, of
the quaint old houses which, as circumstances permitted, they made their
home, is all told with rare charm. In addition, the book is rich in
reliable information concerning Antique Furniture of every kind and in
helpful hints for others, both as regards buying and taste.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

Recent Six Shilling Novels

              NEW EDITIONS are now ready of the following
                 recently published successful Novels:

                          SOME PRESS OPINIONS

The Last of Her Race

                                                  By J. BLUNDELLE-BURTON

COUNTRY LIFE.--"Strongest characters in modern fiction."

THE QUEEN.--"The book is instinct with romance and fine feeling, and
  makes delightful reading all through."


The Half-Smart Set

                                                      By FLORENCE WARDEN

ABERDEEN FREE PRESS.--"This is the best book Miss Warden has written."

LIVERPOOL DAILY POST.--"It is as good as anything the authoress has
  done, and will delight her large circle of admirers."


The Moth and the Flame

                                                   By ALICE MAUD MEADOWS

MADAME.--"A thrilling love story. The delicate and charming way in which
  Miss Meadows tells of the difficulties caused by jealousy and passion
  is most interesting and attractive."


The Lady Mary of Tavistock

                                                      By HAROLD VALLINGS

THE LADY.--"An excellent story, abounding in careful characterisation
  and dramatic moments ... the interest and excitement are sustained
  with never a break from the first page to the last."

DAILY CHRONICLE.--"A delightful story."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

Recent Six Shilling Novels

The Lost Angel

                                                      By KATHARINE TYNAN

MADAME.--"Miss Tynan is already well known as a writer of short stories,
  and the book in question even surpasses her usual standard.... Told in
  the delightfully simple manner which sets Miss Tynan's work far above
  that of the usual writer of love stories."

THE LADY.--"Such stories are always welcome, so simple, so natural, so
  pleasant are they ... abounding in pathos and humour."


Irene of the Ringlets

                                                       By HORACE WYNDHAM

PALL MALL GAZETTE.--"As bright and agreeable as any one could wish."

DAILY CHRONICLE.--"Its humour is happier than that of any novel Mr.
  Wyndham has yet given us."


"I Little Knew--!"

                                                        By MAY CROMMELIN

DUNDEE ADVERTISER.--"Many books though Miss Crommelin has written,
  nothing better than 'I Little Knew--!' has come from her pen."

T.P.'s WEEKLY.--"A companionable book for a traveller."


The Enchantress

                                                           By EDWIN PUGH

The most widely discussed book of the Spring Season, 1908, which the
  Critics themselves were at a loss to diagnose.

FREE LANCE.--"A mercilessly clever book."

ACADEMY.--"The author's audacity leaves us gasping."

DAILY MAIL.--"We do not think that we ever read anything quite so
  hideously frank."

MORNING POST.--"Mr. Pugh handles a difficult and daring theme with the
  tact and discrimination of a master. His incisive and direct style
  provides an effective medium for an arresting and, in the truest
  sense, tragic story."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         JOHN MILNE, Publisher

       ---------------------------------------------------------

Recent Six Shilling Novels

The Call of the South

                                                          By LOUIS BECKE

CHRONICLE.--"Worth ten times the price."

TELEGRAPH.--"Simply packed with incident of great pith and moment....
  The volume is assured of a popular success."


     Over thirty favourable reviews appeared within a few weeks of
                 the publication of the First Edition.

                             --------------

The Gentle Thespians

                          A Comedy Masquerade

                                                  By R. MURRAY GILCHRIST

STANDARD.--"A wonderfully attractive story."

MORNING POST.--"The story moves gently and easily through beautiful and
  smiling ways. It is a tale of sheer joie de vivre, and as pleasant a
  book as one could desire."

              -------------------------------------------

Sixpenny Novels

                           The London Series

                   Demy 8vo, paper covers, 6d. each.

                               NOW READY

The Insane Root

                                                  By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED

                            Author of "Nyria," "My Australian Girlhood,"
                            "Mrs. Tregaskiss," etc.

The Lost Heir

                                                          By G. A. HENTY

                        Author of "The Queen's Cup," "Dorothy's Double,"
                        "Rujub the Juggler," etc.

A Wilful Woman

                                                         By G. B. BURGIN

                                    Author of "The Shutters of Silence,"
                                    "Tuxter's Little Maid," etc.



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