When he took unto himself a wife he grew fiercer still, and his rage and passion at the slightest sign of any intruder kept all other members of the tribe at a safe distance.

In due course of time he had a small family, and once in possession of these precious cubs his strength and fierceness increased, and his daring knew no bounds. His roars struck terror into all hearts, and his craftiness and extraordinary cunning inspired a superstitious fear among the natives, which made them speak of him with hushed breath.

But pride must have a fall, and Leo's fall came in a somewhat curious manner.

It happened that food was very scarce, and that the young cubs were growing more and more hungry as the days went on.

Leo was a proud father, and the fine, sturdy cubs which belonged to him were the admiration of all the other lions who had ever had the privilege of seeing them. He would go through almost anything for himself, but for his wife and cubs he cared not what he faced or what he dared, so that he obtained what he wanted.

They had eaten up most of the young things which had been thriving on the various farms, and there seemed to be nothing left but either a sheep or a bullock. Being lazy, Leo did not care to carry either a sheep or a bullock to his lair; he preferred something lighter.

And so it happened one evening that, as he made his way towards the village—making up his mind that if there was nothing else he must have a sheep—he suddenly came across the dead body of a little Kaffir boy lying by the wayside.

The Kaffirs very seldom bury their dead, and so the mother had laid her beloved one under a shady bank, and left him with a few leaves strewn over him.

At first Leo hesitated. He had never tasted Kaffir, and he also knew that it was a bad thing to eat. But he was very hungry himself, and his wife and family were hungry, too; and the little Kaffir boy would be light to carry.

After smelling and turning over the body, he decided first to taste it and see whether it would be good for his family to eat.

Alas! once having tasted it, Leo was done for. It was the most delicious food he had ever tasted, and he was unable to stop eating until he had made a full, heavy meal. Then he looked at the poor little carcass; there would still be enough for the cubs, and yet he hesitated.

He knew it would be bad for them; he knew that, once having given it to them, they would be spoilt for all other food; but he had eaten so heartily himself, and was already getting so lazy and sleepy from the effects of his meal, that he had no energy nor inclination to hunt for any other food that night. So, taking the remains of the little Kaffir boy in his strong mouth, he trotted swiftly off to his lair, and put it down temptingly in front of the cubs.

There were two of them, and they were ravenously hungry; without more ado they set to work, and tore and crunched with their sharp teeth and strong little jaws, until there was not a vestige of the little Kaffir boy left.

The lioness, seeing there was only sufficient food for the cubs, did not attempt to take any, but, hungry as she was, looked placidly on while the young ones satisfied their hunger.



Leo looked at her guiltily, and expected reproaches. But, as it happened, his wife had not noticed what kind of food he had brought; it had been too much torn to be recognizable, and she concluded it was the remains of some small animal he had killed.

At any other time he would have gone out again to fetch some food for his wife, but he was so heavy and sleepy that, with one big yawn, he sank down, stretched out his huge paws in front of him, and, nestling his handsome head comfortably between them, sank into a deep sleep.

From that day Leo was no longer the same. He was restless and irritable, snappy and fierce even to his wife and children. He raced no more after buffaloes or giraffes, or even for antelopes or jaguars; all he wanted was human flesh.

Once having tasted it, he cared for and could eat no other. And as time went on his magnificent coat began to come off in great, unsightly patches, his eyes and mouth got sore and red, and his limbs grew weak and rickety. His roar was no longer the fierce, grand, triumphant roar that it had been; it resembled a hoarse cry of pain now, and his little ones—instead of being sturdy little cubs as they had been—had grown thin, miserable, and mangy.

Altogether Leo was in a miserable state; and, to add to his misery, his wife turned against him. The sight of his mangy coat and bloodshot eyes, not to speak of the sore, drooping mouth, filled her with disgust, and she growled fiercely whenever he came near her.

In vain he brought her food to eat; but the food was always dead Kaffir, and she would not touch it.

She appeared, too, to turn against the cubs, and, instead of fondling and caressing them as formerly, kept them aloof and chastised them severely with her heavy paws whenever they came too near.

Soon after this one of the cubs died, and Leo's grief was painful to witness. He licked it all over, put his huge paw on it, and turned it from one side to the other, uttering queer little sounds all the time, and, when he found it would neither move nor respond to his caresses, gave a prolonged howl of misery which struck terror into his wife's heart.

She had had enough of it by this time; she disliked a mangy husband and scrofulous children, and so the next evening quietly took her departure to some other place where the surroundings were more congenial.

Leo tottered back to his lair that night with staggering, uneven steps to find his wife had gone and that his last remaining cub had just died.

With a cry of pain, something between a roar and a deep growl, Leo stretched himself over the two little, dead bodies of his children and pined and fretted away.

He no longer went for food, not even for Kaffirs, and the villagers and animals in the neighborhood wondered what had become of him, and whether his absence meant some fresh daring on his part.

But there was no more daring for Leo. From the time he laid his long, warm body over the cold forms of his children he never rose again.

For three days he lay there, doing his best to bring them back to life; but on the third day his great head, with what remained of its magnificent beauty, sank for the last time on his heavy paws, and Leo, the king of lions, was dead.

And so this grand, strong, noble animal lost his life through eating human flesh, which he knew quite well he ought not to touch.



CHAFFER, THE CHAMOIS

On one of the craggy heights of the Alpine mountains, in Switzerland, Chaffer stood, one fine, clear day in October, looking out over the landscape, and wondering what he should do and where he should go.

For, sad to relate, he had just been turned out of the herd by an old chamois, who considered that he and those of his own age had a better right there than some of the young males. So, with a few others, Chaffer had been driven off, but not until he had made a good fight for it. He was fairly strong, and did not at all relish getting the worst of anything, but he was young yet and knew his time was coming— the time when he would drive that old chamois out of the herd far quicker than he had been driven, and get the best of him in more ways than one.

He was a fine young animal, and as he stood there at that dizzy height, his four feet planted firmly on the peak, he showed to very best advantage. Chaffer stood about two feet high at the shoulders, and was about three feet in length, not counting his short, black tail; his yellowish-brown body was streaked down the back with a black line, which defined the spine, while his beautiful head—the face and throat a peculiar yellowish-white, with a brownish-black mark which went from his mouth to his eyes—was surmounted by a splendid pair of horns nearly come to perfection.

These horns were from six to eight inches long, black and shiny, slender and round, rising from the forehead perpendicularly, and curving sharply at the extremities into hooks. Very proud Chaffer was of them, for they meant; so much to him. They meant, for one thing, that he was now almost full grown, and that he would soon be of an age to take his place in the antelope world as a champion and fighter. He could hold his own now with some of the males, and, although he had just been driven out of the herd, several others had been forced out with him, so he did not trouble himself much about it.

The only thing he was puzzled about was what he should do next, but this little matter was decided for him in a manner he never dreamed of. He was some way from the herd now, but at that moment he heard the well-known whistle of the sentinel chamois.[Footnote: Each herd has a chamois who acts as a sentinel. At the slightest sign of danger this sentinel gives a peculiar whistle, not particularly shrill or piercing, but which has a curious, penetrating power and carries a great distance. Not only does this sentinel give warning of danger, but he indicates from which direction it is coming.—Author.] In an instant Chaffer was off, leaping over wide chasms, climbing over crags and dizzy heights, sliding down dangerous, slippery places, but always going in the opposite direction to the approaching enemy.

For Chaffer knew now what the danger was—it was a man; and he could, with his wonderful power of scent, smell him, although he was still a great distance away. Once having realized that it was a man, Chaffer lost no time, but made his way at once up the steepest crag he could find. It was much easier for him to go up than down, for his legs were adapted for this purpose, The hind ones being much longer than the front ones.

His small, neat feet were formed for climbing; his forefeet had very sharp hoofs, which, when descending, Chaffer would dig into the ground to gain a foothold, and his hind feet had curious, false hoofs. That is to say, the outer hoofs were higher than the soles, and this enabled him to have a grip on the slightest notch or projection on the face of the rocks, so that it was almost impossible for him to slip. In descending the rocks, he would place his forefeet close together and push them in front of him; he could then slide down the face of an almost perpendicular cliff with the greatest ease and safety, and alight at the bottom without so much as a scratch.

In going up a very steep hill, he would stand up on his hind legs, put his forefeet on some narrow shelf or ledge of rock, and then, with a sharp little bound, draw his body up, and stand with all four feet on a space scarcely big enough for a full-grown man.

Chaffer tried this plan now, and with good effect for a time, but he could smell the man coming nearer and nearer, and began to be terribly frightened. Timid and nervous to a wonderful degree, and of a cautious, suspicious nature, Chaffer's excitement grew intense, and his small, pointed ears quivered painfully. On he went, never stopping to glance round for a single instant, for it was not necessary; he knew only too well what was behind him, and his one object was to get away.

At this moment, however, there was another whistle from the sentinel of the herd, much fainter this time because farther off, but containing the information that there was danger at the top of the mountains as well as at the base. Chaffer hesitated a moment, but he decided to go on now, whatever came; he was far more at home on these sharp crags and dangerous heights than he was on smooth, even ground, and he could go where it was quite impossible for a man to follow.

So he gave a few more leaps, a few more bounds, although the scent of the man now was so strong as to bewilder him, and then landed on a tiny ledge face to face with a hunter!

It would have been hard to say which was the most surprised—the hunter or Chaffer. As a matter of fact, the hunter had been carefully watching another chamois a little lower down—a young male who had been turned out of the herd with Chaffer—and had no idea a second chamois was so close to him until Chaffer alighted on the ledge of rock at his very feet. The two looked at one another for an instant in deathlike silence, their eyes wide open with surprise and fright; for, had the chamois only known it, he could, with one touch of his horns, have sent the hunter whirling through space and onto the rocks beneath, where he would have been dashed to pieces.

Then, with a wild leap, Chaffer sprang—sprang down the precipitous chasm which yawned beneath them, a distance of nearly thirty feet. As he went down, with his graceful body hanging in the air, and his handsome head, with its curved horns, thrown back, he turned himself diagonally, striking his feet sharply every now and then against the face of the rock in his descent, and alighted at the foot in perfect safety.

Meanwhile, the hunter, although he was a hardy Swiss mountaineer, was so frightened at his narrow escape that he gave up the chase for that day and went home, followed by the other hunters. They had been out on this expedition four days already, and had faced great dangers without getting a single chamois. They were brave and patient men, and as they earned their living by chamois hunting—one of the most dangerous and precarious ways of earning a living—had been ready and prepared for a certain amount of risk. But four days in the mountains, with nothing but dried meat for food, added to the intense cold and exposure, not to speak of risking their lives several times a day, was about as much as any man could stand, so, when Chaffer and his companions got away, the hunters decided to go home and hunt them another time.

But the chamois were also frightened, and more nervous and timid than usual for some time after this, and kept a sharp lookout themselves, not trusting so much to the sentinel, for they considered he had not given them warning enough the last time.

Chaffer had been so thoroughly scared that he kept himself hidden in chasms and crevices for days, only coming out every now and then to feed and to give a hurried glance round. Food was getting scarce now, too, and he would very soon have to go without the fresh grass and herbage which grew on the mountains, and make the buds of the pine, fir and juniper trees do instead. But he could treat himself to an occasional bit of salt from the sandstone rocks which are to be found in the Alps, and of this he was extremely fond; it also helped to keep him in good health.

It was a hard winter that year, and when the snow lay thick and white not only on the mountains, but in the valleys, Chaffer had as much as he could do to find enough to eat. Occasionally he would be able to scrape away the snow, and get tiny bits of grass and other green stuff, but it was not enough to keep him alive, and he was obliged to content himself with the buds of trees and any little bit of vegetation he could find.

He did not mind the cold in the least, for he often stayed on the snow-clad heights in summer from preference; but when this winter had really set in, with its exceptional severity, Chaffer betook himself to the wooded land which lay just below the glaciers, and roamed about there until spring once more appeared. But he did not care for wooded districts; he preferred peaks and ravines which had a northern aspect. So, as soon as he possibly could, he left the low lands and once more climbed his beloved mountains.

The cold was still intense, but underneath his ordinary covering of hair Chaffer had another coat of short, thick, greyish wool, and this protected him, and kept him nice and warm. His outer coat had changed during the winter from a golden brown to a dark chestnut, and, as the spring advanced, it changed again to a pretty, light color, which was almost grey.

Chaffer never forgot the first spring day after that awful winter, when the snow, having melted from some of the mountain ranges, disclosed fresh young grass and tender herbage. How delicious it was, and how Chaffer enjoyed it! He had grown quite thin and gaunt, his finely formed muscular neck was lean and scraggy, and his limbs felt weak.

But a week or two of good feeding, with an occasional bit of salt, soon put him right, and by the time summer arrived Chaffer had not only regained the strength he had lost in the winter, but had developed more power and growth in many ways. He had rejoined the herd, for the old chamois had left it by this time, and Chaffer and some other young males had determined that, come what might, they would allow no old chamois to turn them out again.

It was a beautiful summer, and the herd, which numbered about twenty, had a fine time. They sported and leaped from crag to crag—climbed up to the highest and most inaccessible peaks, where they would stand sniffing the clear air, and look out with their beautiful eyes over the picturesque landscape which lay like a vast panorama before them— glide down the chasms and precipices, and take leaps and bounds which would have made almost any animal but a chamois giddy.

And, during that summer, Chaffer grew fat and sleek and handsomer than ever, and by the time October came again was the largest animal in the herd. Only the year before he had been wretched and miserable and very lonely; now he was settled and contented and very happy, for, not only had he refused to allow the old chamois to enter the herd again, but he had chosen a pretty and graceful little wife, and was just as proud of her as he could be.

She was a beautiful creature, and her dark, liquid eyes looked timidly and pathetically out from beneath her nicely developed horns—for both male and female chamois have these appendages—while every movement of her delicately formed body was full of grace. It was no wonder Chaffer was proud of her, and when she presented him later on with a fine little kid, he was prouder than ever.

The baby chamois was a pretty little creature, and quick and active to a remarkable degree. But she had also inherited her parents' sensitiveness and timidity, and never left her mother's side; where the mother chamois went, there the little one followed closely, and when a chasm or ravine was too wide to cross with a leap of her small body, the mother made a bridge of her own body by throwing herself across, with feet planted firmly on either side of the chasm, and on it the little one sprang lightly and gracefully over in safety.

Chaffer was not always with them; he had a good many other things to attend to, but he kept careful and watchful guard over them, and his keen senses of sight and hearing were always on the alert for danger.

One fine day in the following spring, when the kid was growing big and strong, the herd had collected on a favorite feeding-ground, and was browsing in calm enjoyment. Suddenly the sentinel lifted his head, and, stamping his fore feet on the ground, gave the whistle of warning.

The chamois were on the alert in an instant, and, scenting danger to windward, flew wildly in the opposite direction. As a rule, they were able to escape, but this time they had been trapped, for the same hunters, who had tried in vain so many times to catch them, had formed a circle round them now, and had narrowed it until they were close to their prey.

Chaffer leaped and bounded, followed by his wife and little one, and was one of the very first to leave the feeding-ground behind; but he was also the first to meet the hunters face to face—not at such close quarters as at that memorable time when he had sprang on the same ledge with the hunter, but just close enough for those hunters to take a good, steady aim at him.

There was a loud report—another—and another, and Chaffer, stunned and bewildered, found himself lying at full length on the ground, while a horrible pain in his body made him feel sick and faint. In vain he lifted his head, and tried to raise himself; his head sank slowly down again on the soft grass, and his body would not move. He kept his eyes fixed on the hunters, who crowded round eagerly, but a misty veil floated in front of them, and everything looked blurred and dim. He made one more brave effort, and, with a spasmodic jerk, half lifted his body; but the exertion made the stream of blood, which was oozing out of his side, spurt out in quick, sharp rushes, and with a pathetic sigh and a convulsive movement of the beautiful form, which had been so full of life and activity only a few short minutes before, Chaffer let his handsome head fall back for the last time, and died.

The hunters, seeing he was dead, directed their attention to the mother chamois and her little one. The little chamois was on the ground, quite dead, and the mother was standing over her beloved one, her feet on either side of the poor little carcass, dyed a deep red with the blood of her offspring. During Chaffer's life, his wife had left it to him to defend her, but, deprived of his help, and bereft of her little one, she stood at bay—no longer the gentle, timid chamois, but an indignant, furious animal, ready to defend her kid with her life.

Not being sure whether the baby chamois was dead or not, the hunters tried to make the mother leave the small body, but in vain. Not only did she stamp her feet in defiance, but butted at them with her horns in a savage manner that surprised them. At last there was nothing to do but to shoot her, for they could not waste time, and the skin of a very young chamois was exceedingly valuable.



So, as she stood there, reckless and daring, and absolutely fearless through her motherhood, there was a quick flash, another report, and the mother chamois, the pretty wife of Chaffer, of whom he had been so proud, dropped over the body of her baby and mingled her blood with his. She died quicker than Chaffer, and she did not look at her murderers as he had done, but kept her eyes fixed on her little one, and her last movement was made towards it.

So Chaffer, his wife and little one all died on the same day, and in the same manner, and even the hunters, rough and hardy mountaineers as they were, had an uncomfortable feeling whenever they thought of the brave death of the mother, and her pathetic defense of her little one.

But they were hunters, and it was their living, and so in due course of time Chaffer's fine pair of horns were sold, the skin of his wife was turned into soft, yellow leather, and the skin of his little one was made into gloves.



JINKS, THE JACKAL

Jinks lay at his master's feet, his forepaws stretched out in front of him, and his sharp-pointed, black nose nestling comfortably on them. To all appearance he was asleep; but every now and then his sharp, bright eyes would open, and glance swiftly round in all directions, so swiftly that it was hard to realize he had opened them at all.

It was an exceptionally hot morning, even for India, and Jinks' master stopped reading, to sigh with the heat and wipe his streaming face. Jinks was only too glad of an interruption; he had been still quite long enough, and, in his restless, fidgety way, wanted to be doing something. So, as his master yawned, sighed and fluttered his silk handkerchief, Jinks rose up, stretched himself luxuriously, and, following his master's example, yawned too.

He was a fine-looking animal as he stood up and wagged his bushy, fox- like tail, and his master was struck, for the first time, with his handsome appearance and size. For he had known Jinks from a tiny baby, having carried him home in his arms after he had found him with his dead mother, and fed him warm bread and milk, getting in return many a nasty bite from the vixenish little animal, who had all the viciousness of his race.

But, in due course of time, what with repeated kindnesses and tender care, Jinks had grown not only tame, but quite gentle, and was now extremely fond of his master, and never happy unless with him. His master returned his affection warmly, and the two were close companions; went out for long walks together, when it was not too hot; had their meals together, and would have shared the same room in the bungalow, had it not been that Jinks had a most unpleasant smell at times, which civilization could not dispel, and which made it quite impossible for him to be kept indoors at night. Indeed, there were times when this unpleasant odor was so manifest in the daytime, that Jinks was sent to his kennel in disgrace.

He always felt the disgrace keenly, and, although he invariably went at once when he was told, he did so under protest, with his bushy tail and dog-like head held down in a shamefaced manner, and a peculiar gleam in his eyes which spoke not only of shame, but of anger, only kept under through force of discipline. For his master, understanding his nature, had never allowed Jinks for one moment to get the better of him or disobey him in the smallest thing, and Jinks knew too well how a certain small dog-whip felt to wish for any more of it. He had been a pup up to this time, and just as full of wickedness and mischief as he could be.

The occupants of the bungalow had gone through the same experiences— somewhat worse, perhaps—as most people have who bring up a puppy by hand, and had not only found all kinds of small garments strewed about indiscriminately, dragged out and pulled to pieces, but had at times lost articles altogether. Occasionally, a few particles would be found in Jinks' kennel, but Jinks never appeared to know anything about them, and, in answer to their accusations and scoldings, only put on a quizzical, enquiring air, as though he really had not the least idea what they were talking about. Even when caught in the very act, he would pretend not to know what was meant; but when the dog-whip came across his back he would give such an appalling howl that his chastisers would stop for very terror, lest he should wake up the rest of his kind in the neighborhood.

Jinks did not know there were any of his own kind in the neighborhood. As a matter of fact, he had never thought about himself at all, but, having all he wanted in the shape of food and sport, had made himself quite content and even happy. As he grew from babyhood he got more mischievious still, and gave no end of trouble by eating and destroying nearly all the grapes on the vines, and fruit on the trees and bushes.

Then, one night he had a beautiful time. His master had tied him to his kennel, as usual, and left him for the night, and Jinks was just settling down to sleep, when he suddenly heard a rustling overhead in the tall bushes. The rustling was caused by a silly chicken, who, in some way or other, had lost its way, and was now so extremely unwise as to go to roost over the head of a young jackal.

Jinks had never tasted chicken, great care having been taken about this for many reasons; but, somehow, as soon as he found out what was roosting just above him, he had an irresistible desire to get that chicken and see how he tasted. Unfortunately, he was tied up, and his master never allowed him a long rope; but Jinks, having once made up his mind, was not going to allow a rope to stop him.

He therefore set to work in the most determined manner to break it, stretching himself away from his kennel with all his might, but so noiselessly—for he had all the cunning of his kind—that even the chicken, who was uneasy and restless, heard not a sound. But, strain and tug as he would, Jinks could not break the rope, for it was a strong one, and, although he possessed good muscles and sinews, and pressed every nerve into service, there was only a funny little squeak caused by the strands of the rope rubbing together, and there it ended.

Jinks sat down for a few moments on his haunches to think it over. He had no intention of giving up, and, although he had not the slightest idea of the flavor of chicken, he felt that the time had come when he must have it, come what might. So he set his clever brain to work, while his keen, crafty eyes glanced in all directions, but never lost sight of the chicken for a single instant.

He had lost his domesticated look for the time being; and as he sat there, with his bright eyes gleaming, his rough tongue hanging out of his open mouth, and an expectant look on his furry, oval face, he looked just what he was—a strong and healthy young jackal.

Suddenly he thought of something, and without an instant's hesitation lay down to carry out his idea. Taking the rope in his strong white teeth, he gradually, in a silent, stealthy manner, began to gnaw the strands one by one. Now and then he would stop just for a moment to moisten his lips and to make sure that the chicken was still there; then he would continue the gnawing as before. When he got to the last strand, what his strong, powerful teeth had nearly accomplished, his rough, coarse tongue finished, for it was covered with thorn-like protuberances capable of scraping the flesh off an ox.

There was a little snap, and Jinks was free. He had never wished to be free before, but the chicken had given him his wish for freedom, and he meant to have the chicken. With one swift spring he caught the bird, and in another moment his teeth were buried in its breast and back, and the unfortunate straggler from the home roost was giving his last cry, choked in its infancy by another grip from Jinks' mouth.

Jinks took the dainty morsel inside his kennel; for, now he had caught the chicken, he had a guilty feeling, and, moreover, he wanted to enjoy it in peace and privacy. And, oh, how he did enjoy it! Never in all his life had he tasted anything so delicious—it was so young, and juicy, and tender, and the flavor of it! He was obliged to stop every now and then to lick his lips and relish it to the utmost, for he would not have missed an atom of the pleasure for the world.

He ate the whole thing—flesh and bones and even the entrails: he also ate a few feathers, which he did not particularly care about; but it was impossible to get the delicious food without, and so he did not care much. By the time he had finished, the only remains of the chicken were the feathers, which floated about as though seeking for their lost home.

By morning Jinks had removed every trace of his night's doings but the broken rope and the feathers. He had licked every tiny spot of blood off his mouth and coat, but he could not tie himself up again, and he could not get rid of the feathers, although he had made several clever attempts. He had tried to catch them with his mouth and paws, but they had evaded him in the most wonderful manner, and had maddened him at times by floating round him, and even alighting on his very nose, as if to taunt him. In vain he slapped his nose sharply with his paw each time he felt that nasty, irritating, tickling sensation. He always gave his nose a hard knock, while the feathers went floating gaily off as before. He gave it up at last, and lay down in his kennel with a meek expression on his face, but a guilty look in his eyes.

It was the custom for one of the servants to untie Jinks in the morning, so that he could go at once to his master. Occasionally his master would come and set him loose himself, and take him for a morning walk before it got too hot, so that whoever found Jinks had been untied naturally concluded the other had done it.

So it was on this particular morning. Jinks, after lying in his kennel for some time with his meek expression, suddenly remembered this, and so resolved to go into the house as though he had just been untied. He had cunning enough, however, to wait until he heard the servants moving about, and then he got up slowly, and, with his usual bright, wide-awake air, made his way into the house and to his master.

And this was the very morning when Jinks had been lying at his master's feet, and, as he rose up, that his master noticed what a handsome animal he had grown, and how big he was getting. There was no doubt he was a fine animal. He was nearly full-grown now, and stood about fifteen inches high at the shoulders, and measured nearly two feet from the tip of his nose to the beginning of his bushy tail. He had a handsome head, good, muscular limbs, and a beautiful coat of greyish-yellow color, rather dark on the back and head, but much lighter and softer underneath the body and on the insides of the legs. His bright, full eyes changed color repeatedly, but, to a close observer, one dominant expression was always in them—an expression of the deepest craft and cunning.

As he stood there, looking at his master with a subdued, enquiring kind of manner, the latter realized that he was almost a full-grown jackal, and began to wonder whether, after all his domestic training and surroundings, he would ever show the characteristic traits of his kind. Up to now he had been gentleness itself, and was as meek and obedient as any domesticated dog, but he had wild and savage blood in him, and there was a peculiar gleam in his eyes at that moment that his master could not quite understand.

The truth was, Jinks was growing uneasy and uncomfortable under his master's close scrutiny, and began to wonder, after all, whether he did not know all about that chicken. He had never looked at him in this way before, and it both annoyed and irritated him to a frightful degree, and he grew restless, and finally turned his head so that he could not see the steady, embarrassing eyes of his master.

But, as he turned his head, his master caught sight of one tiny spot of blood on his neck which Jinks had evidently overlooked. He said nothing for a moment, and then called Jinks to him in a kindly, caressing manner.

Jinks hesitated. He had grown suspicious, and he did not like his master's manner; in addition to which, he could not forget that he was guilty about the chicken; so, when his master reached forward to pat him, Jinks, thinking he was going to slap him, suddenly turned round and bit him sharply through the hand. It was the very same hand that had fed him from a baby, and cared for and tended him all through his babyhood and young days, and up to this time had protected him from all harm and danger.

But that was nothing to Jinks now. He scented danger, and the treacherous meanness of his nature came suddenly to the fore. He forgot the care and kindness of his master; forgot everything but the fact that those eyes were still looking at him, and that they made him feel restless, irritable and wild. He had had this wild feeling for some time now, but he had been keeping it in restraint, fearing that dog-whip and dreading the anger of his master; but now, for some reason or other, he did not care what his master thought of him, and, as he snapped fiercely at his master's hand, he growled and snarled as savagely as any wild jackal.

Without a moment's hesitation, his master, with his free hand, caught Jinks by the throat and called for help. Luckily, two servants were close by, and came immediately, and Jinks' master gave orders to fetch a gun and shoot him at once.

But Jinks was not born to be shot in that manner. As he felt that grip on his throat, he suddenly realized his strength, and with one great wrench he tore himself free, snapping and snarling in true savage fashion, and showing his fang-like teeth in an appalling manner. He would have sprung straight at the throat of his master, but that at that moment there was a flash of fire, a terrific bang, and Jinks, scared out of his wits, fled, howling in the most miserable way.

This was the last Jinks saw of his master, or his master saw of him, for some time, for after that he returned no more to the home which had sheltered him so long, but roamed the country at will, and made night hideous by his screams and howls. He wandered about for some time, seeking for a companion of some sort, but the only animals at all like himself were one or two domestic dogs which lived in the neighborhood, and of these, for some reason or other Jinks was afraid, and so kept at a safe distance.

Now, in his old life, Jinks had always slept at night and moved about in the daytime, but now he got into the habit of hiding himself by day in woody jungles and such places, and at night going out and wandering about in search of food. He wondered once or twice what had made him feel so differently. He did not know that it was partly due to the fact that he had tasted fresh blood. True, it was only chicken's blood, but it was blood all the same, and it had awakened the latent thirst for it in him, and this, combined with the fact that he had just reached the age of an adult jackal, accounted for his suddenly getting so wild and savage.

All this, however, Jinks could not understand. He only knew that he felt lonely and miserable, and that his restlessness would not let him keep still more than a few minutes at a time. At last he began to get very hungry, for he was not accustomed to getting his own food, and did not know the way in which to set about it. He began to wish he could find another chicken, and his mouth watered at the very thought.

Then one evening he came across some sheep feeding in a field, and, being hungry and desperate, he killed one, and then gorged himself to such a degree that he could scarcely walk away.

He had a good, long sleep after this in one of the shady jungles, and when he woke up was too lazy, for a time, to trouble himself about anything. His loneliness, however, increased daily, and as the days went on he grew so miserable that he gave vent every now and then to dismal, blood-curdling howls, which echoed and re-echoed through the woods, scaring all the wild creatures and striking terror into their hearts.

Then, one night, when he was very hungry again, and could not find anything to eat, he suddenly remembered that he had left some of the flesh on the sheep he had killed a few nights ago. He would go and find it, and if the vultures had not finished it he would have a good feed. He had almost forgotten the way, but when he had gone a short distance he could smell it, for it had become rotten by that time, and was nothing but putrid flesh. Jinks had never tasted putrid flesh, but he did not seem to feel any dislike to it, for as he smelt it he licked his lips in pleasurable anticipation, and hurried on in his quick, silent way.

He was not happy, however, and when he was nearly there gave one of his piercing cries—something between a wild scream and a dismal howl —a cry which, to his bewilderment and surprise, called forth a perfect chorus of screams, shrieks and howls which startled him almost to death. He stood absolutely motionless for a few moments, with one paw uplifted, and his eyes and ears strained to the utmost. Horrible as the shrieks were, there was something familiar and comforting about them, and he felt joyous and frightened at the same time.

When the howls began to die away, he felt impelled to send forth another shrieking scream, and this was again answered in the same way as before. This time Jinks did not stop to listen; he went hurriedly forward to find out what it was.

And what a sight met his eyes! There, just in front of him, was a whole pack of animals exactly like himself crowded round the carcass of the sheep he had killed a few nights ago. Nearly all the animals, at the moment he came upon them, were standing with uplifted heads, their sharp noses pointing at the peaceful moon, howling and screaming at the top of their voices. In a few moments some of them stopped, and continued their occupation of tearing off the rotten flesh of the dead sheep, and swallowing it greedily. Dozens of vultures hovered overhead, and, watching their opportunity, dived down every now and again and tore a piece of flesh from the carcass with their powerful beaks, and then hurried off, making unearthly noises which, joined to the howls of the jackals, made the most awful discord imaginable.

When the jackals had all stopped howling, Jinks moved slowly forward, with a deprecating air, for he was not sure of his reception. And, indeed, had he known what sort of a reception he would get, it is doubtful whether he would ever have ventured forward at all. For the moment the jackals caught sight of him, with one accord they left the carcass of the sheep, and with a few swift bounds surrounded him. They very soon let him know he was a stranger, and an unwelcome one, and before he had time to realize the state of affairs he had received several sharp bites.

His smell was against him, to begin with, for a tame jackal loses much of the strongness of the odor peculiar to him, and a pack of jackals rather prides itself on the strongness of its smell, for this smell keeps away many things that are unpleasant to them in the shape of enemies.

But Jinks was not going to stand still and be bitten to death, so he promptly turned upon his assailants, and bit and tore some of them so savagely that the others paused. One old jackal, being keenly jealous of new arrivals in the shape of strange jackals, took upon himself to catch Jinks by his foreleg, a mistake he had reason to regret, for Jinks—who was abnormally strong, and possessed the peculiar little excrescence shaped like a cone on his head, and which generally denotes a leader of a pack—suddenly seized his opponent by his throat, and refused to let go until he was dead. Then, shaking him as though he had been a little terrier, he laid him down with a growl, and looked round as much as to say:

"Now, then, who comes next?"

None of the jackals seemed to be particularly anxious, for now that Jinks was standing among so many of his fellows, he found he was just a little taller than any of them, and this little gave him. an immense advantage. He snapped and bit one or two more just to show them he was still ready to go on; but, although they all howled and screamed again, they were not anxious to fight. The newcomer had killed their leader, and they were afraid of him.

Jinks wasted no time. He had not stayed long enough in captivity to become really tame or timid, and this one fight had made a jackal of him, and he took care to let them know it. He was wildly excited, and daring enough at that moment for anything, and his daring and recklessness inspired the jackals with respect, and, in spite of a few dissenting voices, Jinks promptly took the leadership of the pack without more ado. It all came as natural to him as though he had been a wild, free thing all his life, and dependent on his own resources for food and shelter.

In that moment he forgot all his past life, and only realized that he was a strong, full-grown animal; that he was the leader of the pack, and that the others, for some unaccountable reason, were afraid of him, and ready to acknowledge that he was their master.

And so Jinks, having chosen his position, kept it. And this was not the only thing he chose and kept. He chose several wives from the pack, and took care to have the best and youngest, no matter how much he had to fight for them, or how much the others resented it. He was quite willing to prove his right to them by as many fights as might be needed; but if he fancied a wife he never rested until he had won her, and then woe betide anyone who so much as looked at her.

But it was not long before the pack knew better than to dispute Jinks' will; he was a splendid leader, daring, brave and as full of pluck and cunning as any jackal could wish.

So he reigned supreme for many years, and fine doings there were sometimes among the pack.



Jinks' pack was the largest for miles round, and numbered over two hundred animals, not to speak of young pups. He had quite a large family of his own by this time, for a jackal mother generally has four or five pups at a time, and Jinks had a good many wives. He was proud of them all, in his way, but he cared more for the chase and hunting expeditions than anything else, and was never so happy as when he was leading his pack either after sheep and antelopes, or taking it to visit some of the farm-houses, towns or villages in search of food.

The pack grew to be famous, after a time, for its ravages and daring, and the distant sound of its awful howling would make the unfortunate inhabitants of the various places shrink and shiver with terror. It came to such a pass, after awhile, that a price was set upon each jackal's head, and a few of them were killed off, but only a few. There was so much danger attendant on attacking such a large number, that only one or two men were daring enough to attempt it.

One of these daring men was Jinks' old master, and so terrible had been the mischief done by the jackals, not only to his sheep and cattle, but to his fruits and crops, that he determined, come what might, to destroy as many of the vicious creatures as he could. The villagers and farmers had been obliged to keep their livestock locked up, and even then, in a few cases, the daring brutes had broken in, taken what they wanted, killed a few animals besides, just to show they had been there, and then made off.

The consequence was, that the jackals had to depend on antelopes and smaller animals, and, these being very scarce, they were almost famished. Jinks was obliged to lead his pack to one of the towns where there was plenty of offal and refuse of all kinds, and here the jackals did good service, for, having cleared the streets of putrid and pestilential matter, the town, which had been down with fever, recovered its health and regained its strength.

Having cleared the towns and villages of all the refuse, the jackals grew more daring still. The live stock was still locked up, and in such a way now that, do what they would, they could not get in the sheds and houses; so they betook themselves to the bungalows, and actually entered the larders and helped themselves.

It happened one night that Jinks led his pack to his old home—the place where he had been so carefully reared. Whether he remembered the place it is impossible to say, but his master was waiting for them with a number of other men, and, as they were all armed with guns, the pack had a warm reception.

As a rule, no matter how much the inhabitants of the bungalows were prepared, the moment that horrible, howling scream began they lost their nerve, and became so frightened and bewildered that they were only too thankful if the jackals took what they wanted in the shape of food and they escaped with their lives.

But Jinks' old master and the men who were with him were made of different stuff, and when, with their usual howl, the animals sprang upon the house, they were met with a volume of fire and smoke that frightened and subdued them for a moment. When they recovered themselves, they were met with more fire and smoke, and, as the latter cleared away, numbers of them could be seen stretched out on the ground, limp and senseless.

Among these was Jinks—brave, plucky, crafty, treacherous Jinks—who had led his pack to the home which had nourished and fed him, and to the master who had tended and cared for him.

As soon as the pack found that their leader had fallen with so many others of their kin, and as the horrible smoke and fire kept on, the remaining members of it turned and fled, howling, moaning and screaming at the top of their voices.

When all had gone but the dead or dying, Jinks' master came forward to where Jinks' handsome body was lying motionless.

"I really believe this is Jinks," his old master said, in surprise. And Jinks he proved to be, for he remembered that peculiar, little, bony projection on Jinks' head, and, although it could not be seen, being covered by a funny little tuft of hair, he felt for it and found it, and this, with the size and markings of the animal, were conclusive.

"Poor old Jinks!" his master said, regretfully, stroking the still handsome head and body. "He was a beautiful animal, but just as treacherous as the rest of his kind."

Now, as a matter of fact, Jinks was not dead yet, and at the sound of the old, familiar voice he opened his eyes, now dim and misty with suffering, and looked at his old master in the way he had been used to do when he was only a pup and dependent on him for everything. And, at the sight of this, his master, who had grown very, very fond of his pet after having him all those years, broke down completely and cried like a child. His friends persuaded him to go away, and, feeling that he could not bear to see his old pet actually die, he consented and went into the house, where he did his best to forget the sad episode.

And what about Jinks? Well, as soon as his master had disappeared, Jinks, although wounded, took himself off in a stealthy manner and rejoined his pack. He had intended to feign death[Footnote: It is a well-known fact that jackals will sometimes feign death as a means of escape.—Author.] until attention was taken from him, but the sound of his master's voice had been too much for him, and he had opened his eyes in spite of himself. He had, however, been crafty enough to close them again and keep perfectly still until they all drew off, and then he slunk away, as I have just told you.

He was sick and feeble for some time after this, and his pack despised him for it, but after awhile he recovered and was himself again. But whether he had had a shock, or whether he still had a tiny bit of affection for his old master in that treacherous heart of his, will never be known.

As soon as he was strong again lie led his pack to a new neighborhood, and, as he was never seen or heard of again, he probably shared the fate of most wild animals and died a tragic death.



PERO, THE PORCUPINE

Not far away was a funny, bristly-looking ball, which moved and rustled and squirmed about, and yet for the life of him the little dog, Jock, could not make out what it was.

There seemed to be no head nor tail, nor beginning nor end. But it was not still for a single moment, and the long, sharp things that rustled so much, and made such a curious sound, were from ten to fifteen inches long.

These things, which looked like quills, were thick in the middle, tapering to each end, and had little black and white rings all the way round them.

Jock could not imagine what it could be, but at this moment the round, prickly ball began to move towards him, and Jock backed away, sniffing and snarling, and keeping at a safe distance from those sharp-pointed things which looked like big, thick needles.

When the prickly ball was quite close to him, it moved round, and then, to his surprise, Jock saw a peculiar head with small ears, tiny eyes—very like a pig's—and a thick, heavy nose or muzzle.

It was evidently an animal, but Jock had never seen anything like it before. The front part of its body was covered with hair, and upon the head and neck there were some very long, stiff hairs, which formed a curious sort of crest, and this crest the animal moved up and down in the fiercest manner imaginable. All the rest of its body was covered with long, sharp quills or spines, which looked like hundreds of small, prickly spears sticking out all over it. Its legs were short, and on its feet were sharp and strong claws.

Suddenly Jock knew what it was. It was a porcupine.

Now Jock had not been out in West Africa very long, and, though he had been told by his dog friends of the porcupine, this was the first time he had really seen one, and he did not care for the experience at all.

However, he was not going to be afraid of a porcupine, and, as it did not look particularly fierce, but rather stupid, and moved in a very slow and clumsy manner—the curious rustling appearing to be the only noise it could make—Jock stuck up his tail, drew himself up and barked. Barked loudly and angrily, and tauntingly, and the porcupine, instead of going away or running at him, or doing any of those things Jock expected it would do, simply turned its back and rustled its quills more fiercely than before.

This made Jock angrier than ever, and he barked and growled and snapped, his teeth, and, had it not been for the prickly spines, would have given the porcupine a good bite. As it was, he felt nothing but contempt for it, but his contempt was short-lived.

Before he realized what was going to happen, Pero, the porcupine, came at him backwards, and suddenly Jock was pierced in over a dozen places by those sharp, cruel quills.

In an instant his barking and snarls were changed to dismal howls of pain. In vain he tried to turn and run away. He was fastened to the porcupine as though with so many nails, and his agony was almost unbearable.

Pero suddenly walked away from him, and, without once looking back, shambled in her clumsy, plantigrade[Footnote: A plantigrade is an animal which walks on the soles of its feet.-Author.] fashion back to the mound of earth, where she had been carefully burrowing a hole for her winter home. It would have been finished by this time if Jock had not disturbed her, and she was naturally angry.



She cared nothing whatever for the dog's howls or moans of pain. She had done with him now and had left him several of her quills as mementoes of the occasion.

In vain Jock tried to get rid of them, but Pero had driven them well in, and was wise enough to know that where she once drove her quills there they stayed, until, perhaps, they worked themselves out in the opposite direction.

For the quills of a porcupine are so peculiarly made that when once they are driven into the flesh, instead of working their way out, they go deeper and deeper, often boring right into the vital parts of an animal, and so killing it.

In days gone by some people believed that the porcupine was a most dangerous animal, and that whenever it saw an enemy approaching it just threw some of its little, pointed spears at him and so killed him. But this belief came from an old fable, for the porcupine cannot throw its quills, but he can push them in, in the same way that Pero pushed her's into the terrier, and then leave them to work their mischief.

Had Jock been a wiser dog, he would have known better than to have had anything to do with the porcupine. But he was only an ordinary English terrier, and, as I told you, had not been long in West Africa.

A horse would have known better, for all horses are afraid of porcupines, and will never face an irritated one if they can possibly get away. As a rule, the very rustle of a porcupine's quills will make a horse take to his highest speed in terror.

Neither leopards or tigers care to face this animal, for they seem to know instinctively how dangerous its quills are.

Once having inserted her quills, Pero paid no further attention to Jock, but went on burrowing and burrowing with her curious, snout-like nose, and never rested until she had made a nice little cave in the earth, where she could be warm and comfortable all through the winter.

She was in a great hurry, for it would soon be time to go to sleep, and before going to sleep she had some important duties to perform and would be very busy.

Meanwhile, poor little Jock limped off painfully. He had eight or nine quills sticking into his shoulders and one had gone into his sensitive nostrils.

In vain he tried to get rid of them. The longer they were in his flesh the deeper they went. If he had gone home his human friends might have taken them out for him, and so saved his life; but he was frightened and bewildered, and, like all animals when in pain or trouble, his first thought was to go away to some quiet place and hide himself in his misery. Having found such a place, there he stayed, poor little dog, in terrible pain, until one of the quills, which was nearly twelve inches long, went so deep as to touch his heart.

So Jock stayed in the hiding-place he had chosen for himself, and no one ever found out what had become of him.

Pero went on placidly with her work in her clumsy manner, and never stopped until she had finished her winter home. Then she knew she must go out and collect some food.

Her food consisted of plants, the bark of trees, and fruits of different kinds; and then there were succulent roots and plants to be found and dug out of the ground, and these provided both food and drink, for the moisture was quite enough to quench the porcupine's thirst.

After this Pero rested a little, for she was very, very tired.

It was September now, and by the end of the month or the beginning of October she would be busy again.

So she made the most of her time, eating and taking things easy. Having finished her work, she felt entitled to do this, and one morning, when the bright, clear daylight penetrated the mouth of her winter home, it fell on two funny little objects, and these funny little objects were baby porcupines.



They were not prickly like their mother, but just soft, helpless mites with curiously-shaped bodies, and funny little heads and snouts, which made them look very much like pigs.

An animal covered with hundreds of sharp quills, from ten to twelve inches in length, each of which can pierce like a little stiletto, does not sound like a particularly comfortable thing to have for a mother. But the baby porcupines were quite happy, and their mother, clumsy as she was, was clever enough never to let any of the quills touch her little ones. She was warm and soft enough underneath, and her babies were just as comfortable as any other animals' babies are.

Although Pero had laid in her stock for the winter, she went out every night to get food. By doing this she achieved two things: she kept her winter stock, and she got fresh food for the time being.

Everything went on very well, and Pero and her babies were perfectly happy in their little home, when one night Pero had a startling adventure.

She was going along doing her best to walk quietly, although this was next to impossible, for the quills in her tail would rustle, no matter how carefully she walked, when she suddenly became conscious of a tall, dark form coming towards her. She knew well enough what that was. It was a man, and anything in the shape of a man had to be most carefully guarded against.

Without an instant's hesitation, Pero suddenly doubled her nose between her forelegs, and rolled herself into a tight ball, leaving all her long, prickly spikes outside. This was a very convenient way of avoiding danger, but the only drawback to it was that, while she was coiled up, she could see nothing and hear very little.

However, she knew that the wisest thing was to keep perfectly still. And when she did this she was seldom touched. This time, however, something turned her over, and over, and over, till she felt sick and faint and dizzy; so dizzy at last that she suddenly unrolled herself a little bit in order to see where she was. To her great joy, she saw that she was near her burrow, and, with a wonderfully quick movement for so clumsy a creature, and with a peculiar rustling of all her quills, Pero crept quickly into her hole, leaving the man perfectly astonished.

For some time she lay there with her babies, quivering and shaking with fright—for the man was trying to get in. The light was getting broader and brighter, and at last, in sheer terror, Pero began to burrow further into the mound.

She went at it with nose and head and paws, as hard as she could go, scraping quickly with her sharp-clawed little feet, throwing the earth behind till she nearly smothered her babies, and pushing her snout- like nose into the earth as hard and fast as she could.

How long she would have gone on with this can never be known, but one of the babies, nearly suffocated with the earth, set up a little, whimpering cry, and Pero's motherly heart responded at once.

She knew it was a cry of pain—of distress—and so she suddenly gave up the burrowing and turned back to her little one.

It was a good thing she did so, for she had to do some more burrowing work in order to get the babies out of the earth which she had thrown over them. But by the time she had done this she realized that the man had stopped trying to get in, and so she was able to lie down.

Her tired little body was quivering with excitement; her nostrils opening and shutting convulsively, and her little heart beating like a trip-hammer. She gathered her babies to her and gave them their evening meal, but all the time she was listening for the enemy.

He was indeed an enemy, and was deeply disappointed at not being able to get Pero, for there were so many burrows about there, and the porcupines had done so much mischief to his various crops—potatoes, carrots, rice and roots of many kinds—that he was determined to destroy them.

So determined was he to kill them, that he was already having dogs trained to take up the scent of the porcupine—dogs who would not be quite so stupid as Jock, although in many cases they would probably get a few quills.

There were two reasons for killing the porcupines. One was to get rid of them and their destructive propensities; the other was that they provided an article of food, their flesh being very white and palatable, resembling pork or veal.

But the man had failed this time, and Pero was determined that she would not risk that danger again. So, the next day, she made a little tunnel from her present home into another hole that she had carefully burrowed out.

Then for some days and weeks she was again busy collecting food. And this was hard work, as roots and plants were getting scarce. Meanwhile, the babies were growing strong and sturdy, and their tiny quills were just beginning to peep out.

Pero finished her work at last, and her second winter home was as carefully and well stocked as her first one.

She decided that she would only go out once more in order to get just two roots which she wanted, and then she would settle down for the winter. But this once more was just once too often, for, unfortunately, the man was on the watch, and, just as Pero was coming slowly out of her burrow, she received a stinging blow on the nose, which completely stunned her.

This is why the porcupine always takes special care to protect its head by rolling itself into a ball. Any blow or wound on the nose is capable of completely stunning it, and for the time being it can be handled and carried away.

Pero was a fine specimen of a porcupine. She was about three feet and a half in length, and stood about a foot and a half high. Therefore she was well worth having, and, owing to her size, she was kept alive.

When she recovered her senses, she found herself in an iron cage, with a cold, stone floor, and she realized, after many futile efforts to get out, that she was a prisoner.

Here she stayed, for the man kept her as a curiosity, and, although she fretted and grieved for a time at the loss of her babies, as the winter grew on she began to get very, very sleepy, and by the time she woke up had forgotten all about her burrow—all about her winter home, and all about her little ones.

But, as she had comfortable quarters, good food and an easy life, she grew, in time, accustomed to her prison. She made the best of it, and soon became not only quite tame, but even fond of the man who had made her a prisoner.



TERA, THE TIGRESS

The day had been exceptionally hot, but a light breeze sprang up towards dusk and softly rustled the dry, dusky, jungle grass, making it bend and shimmer in graceful, undulating waves. The rustling resembled the swaying of corn, and as the breeze increased it became more and more pronounced. One part of the long grass rustled more than the other; it did not stop even when the breeze had passed over it on its way to other grasses.

The rustling grew louder, and, instead of the gentle, swaying motion caused by the breeze, the grass suddenly parted and bent in opposite directions, and from the middle there softly stepped out a full grown tiger. For a few seconds he stood perfectly still. His four, velvet paws were planted firmly on the ground; his pliable tail was waving slowly to and fro, and his bright yellow eyes glanced quickly and sharply in all directions. He was a splendid fellow and quite young. His light, tawny-yellow body was exquisitely marked with dark, velvety stripes—some double, some single—but each stripe even and regular. His legs, down to his soft velvety-looking paws, were marked in the same way, and his long tail had rings of the same dark color all the way down. The under parts of his body, his throat and chest, and the long hair which grew in little tufts on either side of his face were of soft, creamy-white. His large, round head, with its small, upstanding ears, was marked much in the same way; while his fine whiskers gave him the appearance of a huge cat, and so in a way he was, for he belonged to the cat tribe and had all the instincts of the race.

It was beginning to grow dusk, but Tranta was early to-night. This was the reason that his eyes had a somewhat peculiar look just then, for he did not care very much for light. It made the pupils of his eyes contract from their usual vertical slits into small, round spots, and when this was the case he could not see very well.

As Tranta stood there, every sense on the alert, there was another rustle close by, but of this he took no notice. The grass waved as before, and no human eye would have been able to discover anything but grass, but in another moment a second striped, tawny body came forth, somewhat smaller than Tranta, but marked in the same way, and moving with the same lithe, noiseless steps. This was Tera—Tranta's wife— and she was one of the fiercest tigresses for miles round.

Not far off, hidden cunningly in the jungle grass, were four fine cubs, who looked like big, playful kittens. This was the first time Tera had left them, and she was unusually cautious and careful.

Tranta stopped listening as soon as his wife appeared, and began to move softly and stealthily off; his furry body scarcely showing against the jungle grass and making no sound whatever. The truth was Tranta had an idea that the beaters were out, and he was looking for a couple of nice korinda [Footnote: The korinda is a bushy shrub with large, drooping branches, covered with thick leaves. Tigers so habitually use this bush that hunters invariably look out for it when tiger hunting.—Author] bushes, where he and his wife could hide for the time being; but on account of the cubs he did not want them to be too far away from or too close to his lair, and Tera followed him at a little distance in an undecided mood, for she was troubled. Her first thought was for her little ones, and with the cunning of the tiger she wished to lead the beaters away from her cubs. So it was that, with stealthy, but hesitating steps, she followed Tranta, who had come out earlier than usual, in order to provide against to-morrow's danger. But on the way to find the korinda bush, something happened that turned Tranta's attention.

It was not entirely on the beater's account that Tranta wanted a korinda bush; a korinda is an ideal place in which to lie in wait for a young bullock, and, when the bullock comes, it is easy to spring out, strike him down, and drink his warm blood. And Tranta was getting hungry. He was also very thirsty, and, as he began to smell water, he decided to go and have a good drink before hunting further.

Pushing his way through the thick undergrowth, he suddenly came to a little stream, and there, just by the water, bending their beautiful heads to drink, with their small, graceful feet planted firmly on the bank, stood two beautiful, spotted deer.

Now, two of the special dainties that a tiger loves are spotted deer and peacocks; but he prefers the spotted deer. It is dainty and delicious food, and difficult to get on account of the deer's timidity. Tranta's yellow eyes gleamed, and, as lie was not in a very good position to spring just then, he decided to wait until the deer should more a little closer. So he drew in his breath and flattened his fur to make himself as small as possible, and the jungle grass behind him, by blending so wonderfully with his coat, helped to hide his presence.

But the deer seemed suspicious, and lifted their graceful heads in a quick, nervous manner, glancing timidly around with their large, gentle eyes, and sniffing doubtfully. At that moment a third deer appeared close to Tranta, and the temptation was too great. With one swift spring Tranta landed on the deer's back, his teeth in its throat. It was a merciful death, for Tranta never let go until the deer ceased to struggle, and then he promptly proceeded to make a good meal.

He looked round for Tera, but Tera had made the most of her opportunities and had killed one of the other deer, and so had a meal of her own. As soon as she had eaten as much as she wanted, she tore off great pieces of venison, and, taking them up in her mouth, trotted back to her lair. She had forgotten all about the korinda bush by this time, and thought only of her cubs. She was just beginning to train them, and to consider that they needed a little stronger food now than she could give them, and a nice bit of venison was the very thing to begin on. She took no notice of her husband at all, but, in her silent, stealthy way, crept back to her lair and put the dainty temptingly in front of her little ones.

The young cubs, up to this time, had been very kitten-like in their behavior, purring and frolicking about, and only emitting occasional little growls when thrown about or disturbed by one another. But, at the sight of the fresh meat, the wild blood showed itself, and, with simultaneous springs, four little tawny bodies alighted on the venison, tearing it and growling in true tiger fashion.

Tera looked on proudly. She was delighted to see this display, for it showed that they inherited the family spirit, and she encouraged them in it. She caught hold of a piece of the meat herself and growled and snarled, lifting her upper lip and displaying her strong, yellow fangs, in order to show them the way in which to behave.

The little ones learned their lesson quickly. By the time they had finished the pieces of venison they were about as savage specimens of the cat tribe as could be found anywhere. Not only did they gnaw and tear, and growl, but they used their small claws, which were just beginning to grow. Contracting their feet, until the claws, which were like little sickles, curved slowly inward, they slashed the venison until it looked as though it had been cut with so many knives.

Tera was more pleased than ever to see them use their feet in this fashion—for a tiger's chief weapons are in its feet, and it can tear a man, horse or bullock to pieces in a very short time with these powerful weapons.

After they had finished their meal the cubs lay down, licking the spots of fresh blood which were left on their noses and paws, and giving funny little growls at the reminiscences of the feast.

But Tera was uneasy about the beaters, and, having had her evening meal, she did not go out again that night. She was restless and unsettled, and kept a sharp lookout until the early morning. Then she fell into a sound sleep, lying with her forepaws tucked comfortably under her and her head resting on them. But in the midst of this restful sleep Tera suddenly sprang up, her tail waving threateningly, her whiskers twitching, and her keen eyes fierce and defiant.

Just outside the lair Tera could see a group of natives banging, screaming, yelling and beating pans, accompanied by a horrible drumming sound which nearly deafened her. The cubs, frightened and bewildered, crouched round their mother and nestled closely to her.

Had it not been for her cubs, Tera would have gone out in spite of all, for the noise was terrifying and bewildering, and she scarcely knew where she was or what she was doing. But she had her little ones to think of, and, at that moment, would rather have died than have left them.

Her fur bristled up with rage, and she prepared to fight to the death. She knew exactly what was happening; knew perfectly well that the cruel hunters were behind the beaters, and that they were only waiting for her to come out so that they could use those horrible things full of fire.

And so, fortunately for her, she stayed where she was, and thus not only saved her own life, but probably the lives of her little ones.

The beaters, concluding there were no tigers about, moved off, and, as soon as their voices died away in the distance, Tera—after caressing her cubs—lay down and gave them their morning meal, keeping a sharp lookout, meanwhile, with uplifted head, nervous ears, and eyes that gleamed like amber.

Meanwhile, Tranta, who had found a particularly nice korinda bush, and crept into it, considered himself safe. He knew the beaters were coming; he had heard them when they were doing their best to lure Tera forth, so he crouched still closer in his hiding-place.

As the noise stopped he knew, with his tiger instinct, that they would soon find him out, and they appeared sooner than he expected. Then the howls, screams and banging made the worst and most terrifying noise he had ever heard in a tiger hunt. He was pretty sure of himself. He had had some narrow escapes before this, but so far had always managed to get out safely. So, in spite of the noise, he kept perfectly still.

But these beaters were very daring. They not only came close to the korinda bush, but they actually parted the branches, and the noise became so terrible and deafening that at last Tranta grew bewildered, and sprang out, scarcely knowing what he was doing, and not caring much, either.

He wished now that he had stayed in the jungle. Certainly the hunters could have seen him, but he might have crept off in some way. But now he had no time to think, for, as he sprang out, there was a sharp "Bang," followed by a "Ping! ping! ping!" and Tranta suddenly felt a sharp pain in his leg.

The pain was so great that he was obliged to go on three legs and hold up the fourth, which hung in a limp manner and hurt him dreadfully. The fright and shock maddened him, and he turned and faced the hunters defiantly, snarling in his fiercest way and showing his huge mouth and cruel teeth. But, as he turned, there was another "Ping! ping!"—a flash of fire almost in his eyes, and Tranta reeled.

The next instant he recovered himself, and, not liking the fire, turned round and made swiftly for the river. The beaters and hunters followed, and did their best to turn him from the water, but they were not quick enough. In spite of having only three legs to use, Tranta, with a few swift springs, got to the water first, and there he had the best of it.

He was a beautiful swimmer, and, even with a wounded leg, could swim well enough to get away from his enemies.

A short distance from the shore a small ship was lying at anchor, and Tranta cunningly made straight for it. The two natives who were in charge of it promptly went over one side as Tranta climbed up the other, and, although a few shots were fired after him as he clambered on board, they went wide of the mark, and Tranta lay down on the small deck and licked his wounded leg.[Footnote: A fact.—Author.] He stayed there all that day, and neither the beaters nor the hunters dare go near him. But at night he crept over the side of the ship and swam to shore, and, as he scrambled out of the water, a well-directed shot killed him. He was a fine specimen of a tiger, and, as his leg had only been broken, his skin was unharmed, and later occupied a place of honor in a palace.

Tera wondered what had become of Tranta, but, as she was very sleepy and tired, the day passed on, and his absence caused her no uneasiness. She was a little surprised that he did not appear in the evening, but finally wandered out by herself, and was fortunate enough to come across a fine bullock. She did not take any of it to her little ones this time. She knew perfectly well that too much meat would not be good for them, so gave them their usual evening meal of nice warm milk.

Tera was a little uneasy all through that night, as Tranta did not return, but she took it very calmly. She had been growing indifferent to him lately, and the cares of her growing family were taking up all her attention.

As the days went on and Tranta did not appear, Tera forgot all about her husband, and devoted all her time and attention to her cubs.

She waited another week or two, and then, after studying their size and strength, she concluded that it was quite time to teach them how to hunt and kill for themselves. So, to the cubs' great joy, they were allowed that same evening to accompany their mother on a hunting expedition.

Tera was a good mother, and took great pains in teaching them how to walk, where to walk, and when to walk; how to draw in their fur in times of danger; how to hide themselves in the long, jungle grass until it was difficult to tell which was grass and which was tiger; taught them, in fact, all the accomplishments necessary to make them good Bengal tigers. Their own instincts told them the rest, and they proved very apt pupils.

Softly and silently Terra's supple body wended through the tangled undergrowth of the jungle, followed by the four cubs, who growled, whimpered and gamboled about like so many kittens.

At last the cubs began to get tired. It was just when they were thinking of refusing to go any farther that Tera told them—in tiger language—that here was the end of their journey. Crouching softly with her head on her paws, her fierce, yellow eyes fixed on some moving objects in front of her, and her lips and whiskers moving excitedly, Tera told them to look.

They had come to the end of the jungle now, and facing them was an open field. In the field were seven or eight young calves—the very things on which to teach young tigers how to kill. Telling her little ones to watch her, Tera, with one mighty bound, sprang at the nearest calf, bringing him to the ground with the force of the blow. She alighted full on the back of the calf, and her long teeth fastened themselves in its poor, quivering throat.

It was soon over, and, almost before the calf was dead, the four cubs, fired by the sight of blood and their mother's example, sprang, with cruel ferocity on the carcass, and tore and dragged it to pieces.



But Tera had not brought them there simply to eat. Her part was to teach them to kill, so, administering a sharp pat to each, she made them leave the body of the calf and attempt a little killing for themselves.

At first the cubs grumbled and growled, and even scolded their mother in their anger, but, in a very short time, they grew just as excited over the killing process as they had been over the eating, and, although one calf would have been enough to last them for days, they never rested until every one of the little animals was dead, for the killing had aroused all their savage instincts.

Tera looked on proudly, but at last insisted on their returning home. With her strong teeth and sickle-like claws she tore off pieces of meat, and each little cub, seizing a piece savagely in his mouth, trotted after its mother, who led the way straight back to their lair.

After this, however, Tera had rather an anxious time, for, once having taught the cubs to wander forth, she could not keep them at home, and, as she had thoughtfully made her lair near a farm, the cubs amused themselves night after night by killing as many animals as they could find.

Wantonly destructive, the cubs gave way to their ferocious and bloodthirsty nature, and, as they grew stronger, they would sometimes kill three or four cows at a time—calves, pigs, anything, in fact, that came in their way.

Whether it was the meat diet or the freedom, Tera could never make out, but, certain it was, that very soon, instead of consulting their mother and depending on her for everything, the cubs grew fierce and savage, and snarled whenever she came near them.

Being able now to supply themselves with food, they no longer cared for the food their mother provided, and one night, when Tera had put up with it for some time, she quietly slipped off and left them to look out for themselves.

She forgot her children as easily as she had forgotten her husband, and in a very short time was comfortable and happy by herself.

Having no ties or cares, she wandered farther afield, and finally made her home in another jungle. It was, she concluded, a much better jungle than the other; but the very first day she took up her quarters in it there was a great disturbance.

From her hiding-place Tera peeped forth, and saw three or four huge elephants moving slowly towards her. The elephants were carrying curious things on their backs—something like boxes, and in these boxes were men with guns.

Now, Tera would always attack an elephant if it was alone. But she certainly did not like the idea of attacking three or four of them. So intent was she on watching the elephants slowly moving towards her, with their huge forms swaying heavily along, that it was with a sudden shock that she realized that something was behind her.

Turning her head with a swift movement—that only a tiger can make— she saw two other elephants, and at the same instant there was a blaze and a cloud of smoke. With a wild roar, Tera sprang full at the nearest elephant; her four paws, with their cruel claws, sank deeply into his skin, while her great, yellow head almost faced the head of a man.

There was a moment's pause, and another blaze of fire, and then Tera, in spite of convulsive efforts, felt her grasp on the elephant loosening. Dazzled and bewildered, she suddenly found herself at the elephant's feet. In a hazy manner she was conscious that something was touching her. Beyond this she knew nothing, for her muscular body was losing its strength, her yellow eyes were growing dim and misty, and her life blood was staining the jungle grass a deep crimson. For a few moments she lay perfectly still, and then, with a long-drawn, shuddering gasp, threw back her handsome head and died.

It was a cruel death, perhaps, yet it was merciful, for it was far better to die like that than to grow old, or sick, and be torn to death by one of her own kind, or left to starve in the jungle.

And, curiously enough, her skin eventually went to the very same palace where Tranta's had been sent some time before.



HIPPO, THE HIPPOPOTAMUS

Hippo came to the conclusion, in his heavy, phlegmatic way, that perhaps, as it was getting dark and he was very hungry, it would be as well to go and get something to eat. So, moving his huge body, and his short, stumpy legs, he prepared to look around and find his supper.

He was not handsome, by any means. He had an enormous body, a wide head and nose, big mouth and teeth, and, although he only stood about four feet high, his tiny eyes, ears and tail made him look ridiculous, for they were out of all proportion to the rest of his body. As he crawled out of the damp, marshy ground in which he loved to pass his time, he seemed one of the ugliest and most awkward of animals, and so indeed he was.

He had not even a hairy or furry coat to hide some of his ugliness, but an unpleasant, oily skin of the color of dark chocolate, so thick that no ordinary bullet could possibly penetrate it. On all parts of his body the skin was three-quarters of an inch thick, while on his back it was more than twice that thickness.

Therefore, Hippo was pretty safe from the attacks of enemies, a fact of which he was well aware, and, not being sensitive in any way, or nervous, he was not given to trouble or worry.

He made his way slowly towards a nice corn-field, which he had found a few days ago, and the only thing he felt at all uneasy about was that some of the other hippopotami might also have found it. Hippo belonged to a herd consisting of from twenty to thirty hippopotami—mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, relations of all kinds, and several little baby calves. They agreed well together, on the whole.

The only time they grew quarrelsome was when they were selecting new wives, or when one of them had discovered a field of corn or rice, and found that the others wanted to explore it, too. Then some nasty things were said, and some terrible fights took place; for, although a hippopotamus is such a heavy and ungainly creature, he can move swiftly when he is angry.

However, this time Hippo wended his way to the field of corn without the others noticing him, and, arriving there, walked slowly through the ripe grain, his short legs and thick body doing an enormous amount of damage. He never ate what he crushed down—only what he actually cut with his wonderful teeth. [Footnote: The teeth of a hippopotamus are very large and powerful, and those in the under jaw grow forward and outward, not straight up and down, as in most other animals. The large teeth weigh from five to eight pounds each, and, being excellent ivory, keep white under almost any conditions.—Author.]

Opening his huge jaws, he put his mouth to the ground, and, pushing his lower jaw in front of him, cut down the corn as though with a sickle. He ate leisurely as he went along, and his supper took him some time, for, as he had an enormous appetite, and could carry from five to six bushels of food in his body at a time, it was a big meal.

On he straggled, cutting down as he went, and dragging his awkward, splay-footed body after him until the beautiful field of corn was utterly destroyed, for before he left it he had walked nearly all over it. If what he had eaten had been all that he destroyed, that would have been bad enough, but he trampled and ruined far more than he ate, and the owner of the field, when he saw it the next day, was nearly wild with rage and disappointment. He had spent so much time and trouble over his crops, and so much damage had been done lately by these tiresome animals, that it was getting very serious indeed. He resolved that something must be done, and done quickly. Guns and bullets were no use; he would get up a party and try harpoons.

But of all this Hippo knew nothing, and, having finished his evening meal, returned in the same leisurely way he had come, and, laying his huge body down in a nice soft spot, he went to sleep and slept all next day.

When he woke up, he had a good time in the water, swimming long distances, taking long dives, and amusing himself by sinking his enormous body to the bottom of the river, and coming up again every now and then to breathe. He made plenty of fuss over it, too, puffing and grunting in his own peculiar way.

Having had such a good feed the night before, Hippo was in no particular hurry for his evening meal, and, as several of the other hippopotami were also enjoying themselves, he stayed where he was. His wife was resting in a shallow part of the river close by, her whole body under water with the exception of a part of her back and head. Her baby calf was sitting on dry land, as it were, for his mother had taken him under water a good many times, but had to bring him up to the top so often for him to breathe that she had grown tired of it, and so had put him on her back, where he was not only dry but safe.

Hippo took very little notice of his wife and child. He was not at all demonstrative, and, as long as he knew they were safe, did not trouble himself farther about them. So that he had plenty to eat, could have nice swims and dives, and was not molested in any way, Hippo was a very peaceable animal; but once interfere with him in any way, and it was another matter altogether.

And this particular evening something did interfere with him, and it not only annoyed Hippo, but made him furious with rage and anger, and a furious hippopotamus is an extremely dangerous creature. It happened in this way.

Hippo was just coming up after a good, long dive, when he noticed on the river a number of boats filled with men. Now, he did not mind men or boats, if they only went on their way and let him alone. The river was often dotted with boats filled with Kaffirs and white men, but, as a rule, they were sensible enough to keep a good distance from the herd of hippopotami. So, when Hippo became conscious that the boats were coming towards him, he was not only surprised but annoyed. He was in the middle of his aquatic performances for one thing, and he did not like to have boats and men so close to him for another. However, although he was irritated, he was not going to bother himself about either the boats or the men as long as they let him alone.

But this was just the very thing the men in the boats had no intention of doing, for they carried harpoons, and had come out for the express purpose of killing as many hippopotami as they possibly could. So, as Hippo rose to the surface, and before he had time to get over either his surprise or annoyance, one of the men in the nearest boat suddenly stood up, and, throwing a harpoon with terrific force, sent it right into Hippo's shoulder.

For a moment Hippo was too astounded to do anything; then, as he realized what had happened, he moved swiftly towards the boat. But another harpoon was thrown from a second boat, and Hippo's attention was taken off the first one only just in time. His thick skin broke out into tiny red spots, called the "blood sweat," for he was now pretty well excited. He had not thought much about his wife and little one before, but now he knew they were in danger, and must be protected. With one muscular movement of his big body—wonderfully agile for so clumsy a creature—he swam towards the boat, and, before the occupants realized what was going to happen, Hippo had seized the boat in his great mouth and crushed one end of it into splinters. Two of the men were killed instantly, and the others soon after, for Hippo used his terrible mouth and teeth with appalling effect.

In a very few minutes all that remained of the boats and men—with the exception of the first boat, which had promptly made off when Hippo turned—was floating down the river, and all the evidences of the fearful occurrence were the excited hippopotamus and the crimson stain in the water caused by the blood of the unfortunate hunters.

Hippo was still in a fearful rage, however, and could not forget the attack on him. The wounds in his back and shoulder helped to remind him of it, for each harpoon had a barb at the end, and, no matter how Hippo rubbed and strained, he was unable to get them out, and only made the wounds throb and burn more than ever. He snorted and raged, and in his anger blew such a blast of air from his nostrils that it swept his little son off his mother's back and into the water.[Footnote: When in a violent rage, the hippopotamus will sometimes blow the air from his nostrils with force enough to knock over a strong man. We are told by some authorities, that one has been known to upset a boat in this way when not quite near enough to crush it with its teeth.—Author.]

Hippo's wife was frightened and indignant, but promptly brought her little one up again, for he was very young as yet, and not able to stay under water for any length of time, and set him on her back as before, keeping a sharp lookout with her tiny eyes for fresh danger.

A very disastrous hunt it had been for all concerned. Five men had lost their lives, but not one hippopotamus had been killed. So the hunters decided to wait for some other evening when the hippopotami were off guard again. The hunters had no idea of giving up, for the destructive propensities of the animals were not their only reason for wishing to destroy them: the hides, tusks and teeth of hippopotami are of considerable value and bring a good price.

So they waited a few days, and then set forth once more. By this time Hippo had succeeded in breaking off one of the harpoons, and bending the other, but the barbs, which hurt so dreadfully and caused him such intense suffering, he was unable to get out in spite of all his efforts. They were still there, and, if Hippo could only have known it, they were likely to stay there, for they had been made for that express purpose.

Hippo had now developed into a most dangerous animal, for the pain and inflammation of his wounds, added to his naturally savage disposition, had driven him half wild, and he roamed about in his slow, clumsy manner, not even caring to eat, and savagely attacking everything that came in his way. So fierce and bad-tempered had he become by this time, that even his wife carefully kept out of his way, and his little son had been terrified nearly to death ever since his father, in a sudden fit of passion, had turned on him and bitten him cruelly with his terrible teeth. His wife finally took the precaution of taking up her position farther down the river, but keeping fairly close to the herd.

Hippo missed her and the baby calf, and felt lonely and miserable, but he did not take the trouble to follow them, for his wounds were getting worse, and the torture was now so great that he could not think of much else. In vain he sank his huge body in the cool water, hoping to ease the burning and smarting—in vain he took long swims like the "river horse" he was—in vain he dived to the bottom of the river and stayed there until he was obliged to come to the surface to breathe—in vain he kept his whole body under water, with just the end of his broad nose peeping out—it was of no use. The pain got worse, and horrible twinges kept shooting through his shoulder and body, until at last he gave up trying to ease it, and bore it as well as he could.

And then, one evening when it was getting cool and peaceful, and the evening shadows were beginning to make everything look dim and misty, a boat came softly over the water, and once more a man stood up in it, and once more threw a harpoon at Hippo, who had been standing so still that the boat had been able to come quite close, and the hunter to take good, steady aim.

The harpoon this time went straight into one of Hippo's eyes, and, although it was a cruel stroke, it was also a merciful one, for it touched the brain, and in a very few minutes Hippo, with a few spasmodic efforts, blew his last blast of rage, snorted and groaned for the last time, and, with a mighty stirring of the waters, rolled heavily over in the African river, by the side of which he had been born, and died.

And then the hunters threw up their caps and cheered for joy, for they had at least killed one of their enemies and one of the finest specimens in the whole herd. As, at the time of his death, he had been standing in a shallow part of the river, it was possible with great trouble to drag the huge carcass out, but it took the strength of ten horses and the ingenuity of as many men to do it.

The hunters measured him carefully, and found that he measured nearly twelve feet from one end of his body to the other, that he stood about four feet high, and that his tusks, hide and teeth were the best and finest that had been seen for many a day. It turned out to be a fortunate thing that Hippo had been in such a dangerous mood during the last few days, for the other hippopotami had followed the example of Hippo's wife and moved a little farther down the river; consequently, the hunters were able to complete their task without any molestation from them.