There had been a terrible storm on the Pacific coast—such a storm as even the oldest fisherman, who had lived in the same little fishing village on the North American shore all his life, never remembered to have seen before.
For days sulky, smoke-like clouds had been gathering in the sky, while the sea grew darker and darker in hue, until its darkness was accentuated into an inky appearance by the white-capped waves, which grew bigger and fiercer as each hour drew on. And at last the storm had burst after a deadly silence that could almost be felt—burst with such vindictive fury that houses and buildings, which had stood steadfast for years, toppled and fell down like a house of cards, while the stately vessels which had braved many a storm were tossed about and wrecked upon the rocks.
Even the fish in the sea were surprised, and after a little consultation decided to swim nearer the shore and keep quiet until the storm had spent itself. The fish were not the only ones that came to the conclusion that the shore was the best place.
Seela, a full-grown seal, who thought a great deal of himself and all belonging to him, liked the sea to be a little rough at times. He knew perfectly well that roughness always meant a good meal of fish afterwards, but so much roughness as all this he did not care about. Therefore, when he had stood it for some time, and found that he could hardly keep himself from being dashed against the rocks, and the big pieces of ice which came floating along on the top of the waves, he spoke to his wives and told them to follow him to the shore.
And when they arrived there and scrambled up in their awkward, shambling manner, their sleek, lithe bodies looking as though there were no bones in them, but only soft, flexible muscles, the fishermen on the shore looked at one another in despair. For they knew only too well what the advent of seals meant. It meant that, instead of their catching the fish and so feeding their wives and families, the seals would do both for themselves.
It was not often that seals visited that part of the land, but they had been there before, and a bad time they made for the poor fishermen, who had nearly been ruined the last time, and had made up their minds that, should the seals ever come there again, they would not rest until they had destroyed them. Not that they were of much value, except for the fat of their oily bodies, for they were neither hair seals nor fur seals, but just common seals, with nothing to speak of but the habits, traits and characteristics of all other families of seals and sea lions.
"There's that old rascal that was here last year," one of the fishermen exclaimed, pointing at Seela. "I know him because he has only one eye, a part of one of his front flippers has been torn off, and he is covered with scars and wounds."
Seela was certainly not handsome, and as he shambled up to a place of safety he looked a very sorry object indeed. As a rule he never went on shore when the fishermen were there, but he was sure of two things at that time, and one was that the shore was the best place for the time being, and the second was that it was far too dangerous and treacherous a spot where he had landed for the fishermen to venture close enough to harm him.
So, cunning old rogue as he was, he shambled up and settled himself as well as the still terrific wind would let him, taking very good care, however, to keep close enough to the water to be able to slip in at a moment's notice. His wives followed him obediently, and seemed gentle and meek enough for anything. In his curious, hoarse voice he told them it was pretty safe, and that they need not be concerned about the fishermen.
Accordingly, they stayed where they were until the storm began to subside, and then, seeing the fishermen prepare to come closer, Seela gave the alarm, and, shambling down to the water with peculiar, little jumpy movements, they all, with one turn of their slim, lithe bodies, slipped into the water as though they had been oiled.
Then they had a fine time. As it happened, they met a large shoal of fish just making for the shore, and, being tremendously hungry—and all seals have enormous appetites, being able to easily eat ten pounds of fish a day, and it takes about forty herrings to make ten pounds— they caught and swallowed as many as ever they could eat. Not only that. When they had gorged themselves, and their jaws ached with the constant gulping, they amused themselves by chasing the fish for miles—so many miles that the shoal returned no more to that particular place, and the poor fishermen suffered again, and their wives and babies went hungry.
But Seela cared nothing for the fishermen or their wives and children. He had his own wives to think of, and, as he liked that particular part of the shore in stormy weather, he determined to visit it again after a while.
So, for a time, he and his wives enjoyed themselves. They swam and dived, turned and twisted about in the water, went down to the bottom of the sea and up again, snorting, puffing, panting, and just making as much fuss as only seals can. Sometimes Seela would take a good, long breath and disappear for some time, and, while his wives were looking out for him to appear in one direction, he would suddenly pop up in another, and this he seemed to think was great fun.
When they had led this sort of life for some months, and had made occasional visits to the land on various parts of the coast, one or two of his wives told Seela they wanted to go to some nice, quiet, sunny place, where there were plenty of fish to be had, and then it was that Seela decided to pay another visit to the shore where the fishermen lived.
It seemed ages since they had last been there; the storms were nearly over now, for it was May and getting nice and warm. The coast by the fishermen's village was not only a nice place in stormy weather, but nice and sunny in fine weather, and Seela thought those even banks by the shore would be the very place for his wives just now. So he led the way, and the fishermen found them all one morning comfortably settled on the shore close to the water, basking lazily in the sun.
At first there was general alarm among the fisher folk, and plans and schemes were set afloat to either capture or kill the seals, for there was every probability that a whole herd would shortly appear if Seela and his wives were allowed to remain. But, by the time they were ready to carry out the scheme they had adopted, an event happened on the beach which made the fishermen decide to wait awhile, and this was the appearance of two or three little baby seals. Such funny-looking, little things they were, only about twelve inches long and each weighing about three or four pounds apiece.
Unlike most newly-born animals, their bright, quick little eyes were wide open, and they looked around in the most inquisitive manner, and were just as curious as seals always are, even in their infancy. They were wonderfully active, too, and began moving about within a few minutes of their birth, uttering soft little "bahs" for their mother, and making themselves quite at home.
The mothers were very devoted to the calves, and tended and fed them in the same way that all mammals feed their young. They had all been very quiet and docile before the birth of the calves, but, as soon as they became mothers, the wonderful mother-love made them alert and fierce in defence of their children. Seela looked on at it all with great satisfaction. It was just what he had expected, and, having seen that the mothers and babies were happy and comfortable, he proceeded to enjoy himself by sliding into the water at every opportunity, and gorging himself with fish to his heart's content.
For some time the mother-seals and their young made the rocks their home, basking in the warm sun by day, and taking short excursions into the sea in order to get a little exercise and food for the mothers. The calves had not been allowed to go into the water until their first coats of very thick, soft and greyish fur had dropped off, and then, as some of them seemed a little reluctant, their mothers pushed them in, and, once having found how enjoyable swimming and diving were, they were only too ready to follow afterwards.
Indeed, sometimes they wanted to go in too often, and, as the mothers did not always like them to go in alone, there were some fine scoldings and grumblings occasionally. But, on the whole, they were very happy. They had been joined by other seals now, and their numbers had increased to nearly a hundred, and, although there were a few terrific fights every now and then among the fathers of the various families, the herd behaved well and appeared to have quite settled down.
By this time the fisher folk had got so interested in the little seal calves that they gave up all thoughts of killing their fathers and mothers, and just let them alone. They were kindly, warm-hearted people, and, had it not been that they had been obliged to face so many hardships and difficulties caused by the seals chasing away the fish, they would never have so much as thought of lifting a finger to hurt them. As long as they behaved themselves, they resolved not to molest them.
And so things went on until there came one unfortunate day when Seela, going out for his usual feast and frolic, discovered a beautiful array of fishing nets, arranged in such a manner that any fish would be tempted just to go in and see what they were. But Seela resolved to do a little bit of mischief himself, and, taking the lead, got adroitly between the shoal of fish and the nets, and so drove the fish exactly in the opposite direction. Not content with this, he chased them until he could chase them no longer, and then found that he had left all the other seals behind.
It took him until the next day to find his way back, and when he got home he found everything in confusion and uproar. Two of his wives had been killed, and one was a favorite, for it had taken several desperate fights to win her, and he therefore, naturally, valued her more than the others.[Footnote: It is a well-known fact that no seal cares for a wife unless he has had a good fight for her. The fiercer the fight, the more valuable the wife.—Author.] Some of his children, too, had disappeared, and only a few seals were on the shore.
The fact was, the fisher folk, driven wild by this last crafty and treacherous act of Seela's, resolved to have no more pity, but just to destroy as many of the intruders as they could. So, as soon as the seals returned and settled themselves down again, the fishermen, armed with clubs and knives, surrounded the animals and dispatched a good many, by first giving them a good blow on the nose with a club, and then finishing them with knives.
They did not mind killing the adult seals, but there was something very pathetic about killing the calves. The poor, awkward little things did their very best to run away, and kept uttering their peculiar little "bahs" all the time, but their walk or shamble was very tiring, and required a great effort, and only too soon they sank down utterly exhausted, asking, in their poor, dumb way, that their lives might be spared.
But the only lives which were spared were those of the seals who were quick and fortunate enough to slide into the water, and so swim out of danger. The others were all killed, and this was the reason Seela found such uproar and confusion on his return. In vain he looked for his favorite wife—in vain he called his other wives and children. No one answered, and the few remaining seals seemed subdued and frightened.
The only effect the sound of Seela's hoarse, harsh voice had was to bring out the fisher folk again, and these, armed with their clubs and knives, were overjoyed to find Seela himself, for whom they had been on the lookout. They made straight for him, but Seela was too old a hand. With one turn of his flexible body and limbs, he was in the water again, and no weapon could touch him but a harpoon, and this they did not possess.
He took care not to go on land again, and would have kept away altogether, but that, as he was swimming and diving, he came up once to breathe, and, as he was puffing and panting, he suddenly heard some very enticing sounds, which made him stop and listen. It was only one of the fishermen playing a simple tune on a little whistle, but Seela loved music of all kinds, and was always attracted by it.
In this case he promptly left the water, and although he knew there were enemies and danger about, he went recklessly on, his harsh, hoarse bark or grunt giving place to a plaintive bleat. He scrambled up to his old spot, and the farther he went the farther off the music seemed to be, and although he was getting very tired, he could not resist the charm and fascination of the music, and so shambled on until he was quite a distance from the water.
So taken up was he with the sweet sounds, and partly because of his blind eye, that he never noticed a fisherman coming up on one side of him—never realized that anyone was near him until he felt a sharp, stinging sensation on his nose, and then a much sharper, far deeper pain in his side. He knew well enough then what it was, and with a loud, harsh cry he turned fiercely round to find the fisherman had crept round to his other side and stabbed him again.
Seela thought no more of the fisherman after this; he only thought of the agonizing pain all over him and of the water—the cool sea water, where he would not only be eased and comforted, but where he would be safe. But alas! he had gone so far from the water in his eagerness to get near that treacherous music that it was now impossible to get back. It was always a great effort for him to walk on land and very exhausting, but now he was getting so weak that he could scarcely move at all.
In vain he looked round for that fisherman, but the fisherman took very good care to keep on the blind side of him, for a wounded seal is a dangerous animal to face. In vain he tried over and over again to turn round and make his way back to the sea, all the time sending forth harsh cries, which filled the air with curious echoes.
His voice grew hoarser and fainter after a few minutes, and his flabby, soft body was now lying in a pool of thick, dark blood, which trickled down the banks and crept in between the grass, stones and pebbles as though to hide itself.
Presently there was a convulsive struggle, a faint sound like a soft, hoarse whisper, and Seela was dead. He had been a real old rascal in his time, and had scarcely ever thought of any one but himself: moreover, he had robbed the fishermen time after time of their food, and yet he had died at last, not from any fresh treachery or meanness, but simply from a love of music, which had drawn him on and led him to his death.
Brunie was feeling very lonely and sad, and sat, with her brown body all huddled up, sucking the soles of her feet in a subdued, disconsolate manner.
For the summer was over; October had come with its autumnal chills and cloudy days, and Brunie's husband had already betaken himself to his winter quarters to commence his long sleep, utterly regardless, and supremely indifferent, as to what became of his wife.
He had fattened himself well before retiring by eating large quantities of honey, nice ripe cranberries, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, cloudberries, and all sorts of other berries which grow so plentifully in the Scandinavian forests; not to speak of some beautiful, ripe corn, which he had eaten in a luxurious manner— seating himself on his wide haunches, and collecting with his outstretched arms great sheaves at a time, the ears of which he picked off and consumed at his leisure.
Then he had laid in a good stock of ants and ants' eggs, together with the remains of pine leaves, and other substances which he had scratched out of the ants' nests.
Old Bruin knew perfectly well that this matter, composed of pine leaves and other substances, was absolutely essential to him for the winter, for this is what makes the "tappen." And as the bear sleeps the whole of the winter without food, nature has provided this wonderful contrivance by which he can go on sleeping and remain as fat as ever.
As his stomach receives no food, it naturally becomes empty, and, when empty, subsides into a very small space. Then the "tappen" comes forward, blocks up a passage in the stomach, so that no food can pass through the system, and stays there until the bear wakes up in the spring. Then, as soon as he begins to take food, everything goes on as before.
Brunie knew perfectly well, as she sat there sucking her feet—for she changed the thick, hard skin which covered the soles of her feet every winter, and the sucking helped the new growth—that it was quite time she also looked out for and prepared her winter home.
And so when she had sucked them a little while longer, she hunted round for some nice convenient cave or hollow, and chose one which was hidden so cunningly that no one but a bear would have guessed at its existence.
Some bears make a big hillock of moss, and crawl into the middle of it, but Brunie preferred a cave; it was warmer, more private, and not so likely to be discovered, for she was looking forward to an important domestic event, and wished for privacy.
Having selected her winter home, she collected as many branches of the pine tree as she could find, and with some dry leaves, grass and twigs nearly filled up the cave, only leaving just enough room for herself to crawl in.
She, also, had been feeding well, and had become tremendously fat, for some of her feasts had been enormous.
But it was the end of October before she had completed her house and prepared to settle herself for her winter nap. The last thing she did before she went in was to have a big feed of honey, and a lot of bother and trouble she had to take to obtain it. For the little bees resented the big, brown animal coming and deliberately, eating up the whole of their winter stock which had taken them one long, long summer to collect.
But Brunie cared nothing about their anger, and their tiny stings could not penetrate her long, thick coat, and a good feed of honey was always worth a little trouble.
So, after patting the hives with her big paws in order to make the bees fly away, she lifted up the beautifully made honeycombs and devoured them ravenously.
Having eaten as much as she possibly could, she then betook herself, feeling very subdued and lonely, and very, very sleepy, to her nice, comfortable cave, and in a short time was fast asleep.
She remembered nothing more and never knew—and indeed was far too sleepy to care—that one of those horrible hunters had passed by the very mouth of her cave without knowing she was there.
But he had found Mr. Bruin, however, a little further on. He also was so dreadfully sleepy that he could not rouse himself, and the hunter could hardly get him even to turn over so that he could get a good shot at him.
But he was able to manage the deed very comfortably, as Bruin showed no signs of waking up; and having killed him, dragged him out with the help of some other hunters, stripped off his nice warm coat, and then had a good meal of bear steak, of which hunters are very fond.
But Brunie never even heard the shots which killed her husband, although they were so close by, and the vibrations made the very leaves and twigs on which she was lying quiver again.
She slept heavily on and on, in her snug home, but about the beginning of February woke up, gave one big yawn, and then bustled about.
For she was a very important bear that day.
The next day she was a more important bear still, for she was a mother bear, and had four pretty little children—very small, only about six or eight inches in length, but finely made little animals, and all healthy and strong.
Very, very pleased and proud Brunie was of them, and very tender and careful.
She had forgotten all about Bruin, her husband, now, her only thought being for her little ones.
She kept them carefully in the nice warm cave until the cold weather had passed, and the little bears knew that all they had to do if they felt chilly was to creep up to their mother, and nestle in among her nice warm fur.
And, oh, how proud Brunie felt when she had them all nestling up to her like that! And, oh, how happy she was! Surely no bear ever had such beautiful cubs as hers! And so well had she chosen her home that no one—not even a hunter—ever found the mother bear and her little ones.
Her naturally affectionate nature glowed with love, and not once did she leave her children until the spring had fairly set in, and she began to think it was time to set about finding a little food for herself.
It was, however, very scarce. There were no nice berries or corn, and very little honey left. But she found some winter vegetables and several kinds of roots, nuts, snails, small limbs of aspen trees, and plenty of acorns; so that she was able to make a good meal, and then lumber heavily back to her cave.
It was April now, and the other mother-bears began to make their appearance with their various families, and the male bears, too, began to wake up and come out.
Once having got over their long winter sleep, bears begin to be sociable again, and take an interest in their fellow-creatures.
The mother-bears were particularly busy, for they had to teach and educate their little ones, and there is no quainter sight on the earth than a heavy, lumbering, brown mother-bear followed by her funny little woolly cubs.
Brunie commenced to take her children now for daily walks, showed them the most likely places to find dainty bits of food, taught them to climb and dig, and, as they grew older, to swim; and, by way of amusement when resting occasionally, told them about their many relations who existed in all parts of the world.
She told them about their various cousins: the Black Bear, the Syrian bear, the Grizzly bear of America the Thibetan sun bear, the Polar bear of the Arctic regions, the Aswail hear of India, the Bruany bear (also of India), the Sloth bear, the White bear, and the Brown bears who lived in Asia.
The bear family was so varied, and so enormously large, Brunie explained to them, that she did not even know one-quarter of her own brown bears who lived in Northern Europe.
She told them, too—for she was a very intelligent mother-bear—that in whatever country bears lived they were peculiarly adapted to it. The Polar bear, for instance, had nice thick fur all over the bottoms of his feet; this protected him from the intense cold of the ice, and also prevented him from slipping. Then the bears who lived in hot countries did not have such thick coats as those who lived where it was cold.
"But," said Brunie, in conclusion, "all bears are very much alike, and have much the same habits; all can climb, dig and swim, and all are very, very fond of honey."
And the little bears listened to it all, and thought what a nice little mother-bear Brunie was, and what an extremely important family they belonged to.
But, as the months went on, Brunie began to get very thin and very touchy and irritable, and by the time June came she was so cross and savage that even her little ones were sometimes afraid of her. Curiously enough, all the other bears were just as cross and savage as Brunie; perhaps it was that they were all so dreadfully thin. But, whatever the reason, they snarled and growled, quarreled and fought until sometimes the little bears wondered what on earth was the matter.
The male bears seemed to be particularly savage, and even the hunters —those men who never seemed to be afraid of anything: not even a bear —were very careful to keep at a safe distance, and never attempted to molest them in any way.
All through that month of June the amiable affectionate nature of the bears seemed to have departed, and left in its place a vindictive, irritable and savage one—savage to their companions and to everything but the little cubs, and these the mother-bears never forsook. They took the same care of them as formerly, and fed and cared for them in spite of their irritable, bad-tempered mood. And woe betide anything, whether man or beast, who attempted to touch their little ones.
Brunie herself had a terrible time one day, when a band of hunters, seeing a mother-bear and her cubs alone, tried to capture them.
Furious with rage, Brunie rose up, and in her stiff, ungainly way went to meet them. Each of the hunters held a hatchet in his hands ready to strike at her, but Brunie cared not for hatchets, or anything else, where her little ones were concerned, and, going straight up to one of the hunters, she reared up on her hind feet, and with a terrific blow with one of her fore paws, which she aimed direct at the hunter's head, she killed him on the spot.
Not hesitating a moment, she did the same with two other hunters, always aiming her blows at the head. And here she proved the truth of an old Scandinavian proverb, which says that, "a bear has the strength of ten men and the sense of twelve." Brunie knew perfectly well that the quickest way to kill a man was to aim all the blows at his head, and this she did with fearful effect.
But when she was finishing the fourth, another hunter ran up and struck her a fearful blow with his hatchet, which cut deeply into her hind leg, severing some of the tendons, and causing the blood to gush forth and dye the spot a deep, dark red.
At the same moment that he dealt Brunie the blow, the hunter, with a deft movement, captured one of her cubs, and while Brunie's attention was taken up with the two remaining hunters her little one was carried off.
[Illustration: "FURIOUS WITH RAGE, BRUNIE ROSE UP AND WENT TO MEETTHEM"]
But the pain of her wound and the loss of her cub made Brunie so wildly fierce and savage that the two hunters, remembering the fate of their comrades, came to the conclusion that "discretion was the better part of valor," and with much difficulty managed to get away.
Poor Brunie was, by this time, weak from loss of blood, and sat down, doing her best to lick her wound and comfort her remaining cubs. The little ones in their turn did their best for her, helping her to lick the sore place, and every now and then sucking it with their little lips.
This adventure upset poor Brunie for several days, and the loss of blood made her more weak, irritable and savage than ever.
But she had not forgotten the hunter that struck her with his hatchet, or the loss of her little one, and so, one warm moonlight night, when she was feeling better, and her three remaining cubs were in a sound sleep, she betook herself quietly through the forest, and at last came near the very place where that particular hunter lived.
There was but one field that separated her from the hunter's house, and that was occupied by big, horned cattle, and these cattle, not liking the look of Brunie in the moonlight, and not having sense enough to keep quiet and not molest her, commenced at once to bellow and charge at her as soon as she entered the field.
Brunie had never, like some bears, gone in for cattle killing, but had always kept to a vegetable diet; and she was not at all anxious— particularly at this moment—to have anything to do with cattle. So, with a few growls and a hoarse kind of a grumbling sound, she took no notice of them, but swung herself heavily along towards the farmyard.
The cattle, unfortunately, had not sense enough to let well enough alone and allow her to go quietly on her way, but kept on bellowing, prancing about and charging until Brunie lost her temper.
What! She could not even cross a field without these stupid cattle bothering and worrying her to death, when her little one was a few yards off, and already calling for her! It was too much. So, with a growl of rage, which was more like a hoarse bellow, Brunie made for them, and very soon killed two or three. So excited did she become at last, that for the moment she even forgot her beloved little one, and set herself to work all the destruction she possibly could, out of pure revenge.
But the bellowing and lowing of the cattle, and the growling and grumbling of the bear, had awakened the hunter, and, while Brunie was killing off his cattle, he called up his farm hands, and was already on the spot with guns, and quite close to her before she had any idea of it.
Hiding themselves under the shade of some bushes, the hunter and his men waited until a fine young heifer galloped madly by them followed by Brunie, and then fired. No less than five of the shots took effect, and poor Brunie's life-blood began to gush out.
But, recalled to herself and her mission by her danger, she bethought herself of her little one, and, never stopping to even look at her enemies, made straight for the farmyard, where her beloved one was calling her, leaving a trail of blood as she went.
Had her cub not been there, she would have faced the hunter and his men, and probably have dispatched them in a few minutes; as it was, having forgotten the cattle, her mother-love returned, and she determined to get her cub if she died for it.
But, curiously enough, the little bear seemed to be fully aware of his mother's presence, and, as she came closer, his excitement grew intense, and, calling forth all his strength, by one desperate push he broke open the door of his shed and trotted forth to meet his dying mother.
Poor Brunie sank down just as he came up to her, and licked and caressed him in a most touching fashion, while the little cub, overwhelmed with joy—and yet uneasy and worried at his mother's condition—gave alternate little sounds of pleasure and fright and distress.
Brunie's joy was complete at having her cub restored to her, but her head was swimming and her eyes growing dim, and she groped in vain through the gathering darkness to catch a glimpse of her little one. She was lying at full length, with one huge paw stretched out towards the cub in a peculiarly pathetic manner, and panting her life out when the hunter and his men came up.
A few more pants, a struggle, and, with a deep gasp, Brunie lay quite, quite still, while the little cub jumped about, restless and ill at ease, and giving little, beseeching cries of distress.
First making sure, as he thought, that the bear was dead, the hunter attempted, with the help of his men, to once more capture the cub. But Brunie had—as all bears have—extreme tenacity of life, and she seemed to have compressed all her energy into her last moment of existence; for she was not yet dead, as the hunter supposed, and, just as he laid hands on the cub, with a great effort she raised herself up, struck him a terrible blow on his head, which killed him instantly, and then sank back and died.
And this was the end of Brunie. Had she lived she would probably, as all mother-bears do, have taken great care of her children all the summer, but in the winter she would have left them, for she would probably have had another family, which would have taken up all her time and attention.
As it was, the little cubs had to do the best they could, and soon learned to shift for themselves.
The little captured one—after he had got over the death of his mother—grew quite tame, and was taught many tricks. He was always well treated and well fed, and he grew extremely fond of his master; and there he may be seen to this day, walking and running about that Scandinavian farm, scaring the other animals, thinking a great deal of himself, but always looking just what he is—a brown bear.
A Senegal forest in Western Africa is an ideal home for a monkey—a perfect paradise, in fact.
The trees, with their delightful branches, which seem to be just made for monkeys to sit on; the nice, bushy leaves, which form such cosy hiding-places, and the delicious nuts, berries and various kinds of fruit, all combine to make monkey life extremely happy.
In this delightful place, one fine, warm evening, Mona was born.
His mother had prepared her nursery some time before; she had built a nice little hut, where it was warm and dry, under the outgrowing boughs of a tree; had carpeted it with thick, dry leaves and grass, twined and interlaced twigs and branches overhead to keep out the fierce rays of the midday sun and the occasional heavy showers, and had, in fact, made it just as cosy as it was possible for a monkey nursery to be.
So, in one way, Mona's birth took place under good auspices, and he, being her first-born, more than came up to his mother's expectations. In her eyes he was the finest, the strongest and the most beautiful monkey that had ever existed, and although he whimpered all through that night, and squirmed and wrinkled up his already wrinkled little face into the most hideous contortions and grimaces, he was, notwithstanding, an ideal and lovely baby.
His mother forgot all her anxieties and troubles respecting him, and gathered him to her motherly breast with a little guttural cry of joy.
Unlike most of her tribe, Monica, Mona's mother, was somewhat reserved, and had not, as is usually the case with matronly monkeys, chattered and gossiped about her private affairs. And, as she clasped her little son to her, with her mother's heart swelling with love and pride, she thought, with pleasurable anticipation, of the surprise and gossip there would be in the morning when the wonderful event became known.
But Monica understood little of her own species if she thought this great secret was to be kept until the morning; for several neighbors heard that little whimpering cry, and pricked up their sharp little ears, while their little eyes glinted about, and in a very short time their active bodies scrambled down from their various night abodes, and peeped, with true monkey curiosity, into Monica's hut.
Instantly there was the very greatest excitement. Most of the newcomers were mothers themselves, and therefore understood all about it, and the way in which a baby monkey should be treated from the very first. One and all began telling Monica what to do, giving her good advice, and many scoldings for not letting them into the secret.
But Monica took very little notice; she hugged her baby all the closer, and her bright little eyes glanced quickly and furtively round at the newcomers, only she felt prouder than ever.
She was induced, after much persuasion, to allow the baby to be inspected, which the newcomers did thoroughly. Not an eye, a limb, a finger-nail, or even a hair, escaped their attention, but were examined and criticized with the utmost gravity.
One old mother monkey, who had a large family herself, regarded the baby gravely, and her worried, careworn old face looked a little more worried and a little more careworn, if possible, while criticizing him.
"Isn't he lovely?" Monica whispered proudly.
"Not a bad baby," the old mother monkey said, gravely, "but delicate,Monica, delicate—and born under an unlucky star."
The young mother started, and grasped her baby as though it were going to be torn from her.
"He will never have any luck," the mother monkey went on, gravely; "but he will never come to very much harm.
"He will never have any luck, but he will never come to very much harm." This significant sentence Monica repeated to herself, over and over again, all through that night, never losing the dread which this ominous saying had implanted in her heart. The dreadful words seemed to be ringing in her ears all the time the chattering of the neighbors was going on, and when they had left her, and had gone back to their respective homes, full of the new event, she listened to their chattering dying away in the distance, and then suddenly a few hot tears fell on the baby's head. And these few tears were Mona's christening.
The next day, however, Monica began to think she had been very foolish in paying any attention to what the old mother monkey had said. The joy of motherhood, and the proud possession of a baby monkey of her own, eclipsed everything else, even the ominous warning. She was so busy, too, with the cares and duties of motherhood; there was so much to be seen and attended to, and the new baby required so much attention.
Monica was very, very proud of him, but as the days grew into weeks she began to wish that Mona, as she had called him, and which was a family name, would not whimper quite so much; it made her nervous sometimes, and irritated her, and once she had even gone so far as to give him a smart slap in reprimand. She began to realize, too, as time went on, that there was something in what the mother monkey had said: Mona was decidedly delicate and undoubtedly unlucky.
When he was about a week old, his mother left him for a somewhat longer time than usual to get a little fresh fruit for herself. Before leaving Mona, however, she had given him his breakfast of nice, warm milk, and covered him over with dry leaves and grass. Not that it was cold, but by covering him up she guarded against danger. His funny little, brown head and face were so much the color and so like the dry leaves and grass he was lying in that it would have been very difficult for anyone but a mother monkey to know that there was anything there at all.
Monica waited until she was quite sure that he was asleep, and then stole away.
But, for some reason or other, Mona was not particularly sleepy that morning, and after a short nap opened his bright little eyes and glanced quickly round. His mother was not to be seen, but he did not mind that very much; he was not hungry and he was very comfortable; so he just lay where he was, and amused himself by picking to pieces some of the long grass and ferns which formed his bed with his nimble little fingers. At the same time he pricked up his sharp little ears so he would be able to hear his mother a long way off.
There was a little rustle, presently, and for a moment Mona thought his mother was returning, but yet it did not sound quite like her. It was a peculiar rustling of leaves and grass, which kept on softly and continuously. His mother rustled the grass and leaves, it is true, but she always made sharp little pats and thumps as she came along. There were no pats and thumps now, only one long, soft, continued rustle.
Mona had no fear, simply from the fact that as yet he knew nothing to be afraid of. And so, as the rustling went on, he poked up his small head sharply, and peered curiously around. There was nothing to be seen, however, and from the moment he made the movement the rustling had ceased.
What could it be? he wondered. He was a born monkey, and he had as much curiosity as any other member of his tribe, and, baby as he was, he determined to find out; so, keeping perfectly still, he waited until the rustling began again.
This time it was much nearer, and in some vague, incomprehensible way Mona felt horribly frightened, at what he could not think or imagine; but he had a curious, uncanny feeling, and he shivered all over, while from some reason or other he was unable to move anything but his quick little eyes, which darted hither and thither, up and down, although his small head was as motionless as a statue.
Suddenly, however, his quick little eyes stopped darting hither and thither, for in one corner of the hut a something, which was lying coiled up there, drew his eyes in spite of himself, and, do what he would, he could not turn them back again.
The Something was a long, long, thick coil, with a curious flat head, horrible eyes, and a frightful thing, in the shape of a two-pronged fork, which darted in and out of his wide mouth so quickly that it was difficult to tell when it was in and when it was out.
The horrible thing began to wave its head to and fro with a weird, graceful movement, and, as it waved, so Mona's eyes followed it—to and fro, to and fro—followed it because he could not help himself.
He was so young that as yet he could only crawl feebly round the hut, but at this moment he felt bound to go towards this horrible thing, although he was frightened, and although he did his very best to keep back.
Trembling all over, and too terrified to utter one little cry for his mother, Mona found himself at last outside his bed, getting nearer and nearer to that horrible thing in the corner. His poor, little head began to feel sick and dizzy; his poor little limbs were shaking so that he could scarcely move, and yet he was going on and on, closer and closer, and not once since he encountered the gaze of those terrible eyes had he been able to move his own.
At this moment he became so frightfully sick and giddy, while his eyes were getting so strained that they ached painfully, that he began to forget where he was. He seemed to be going off in some dreadful dream from which he had no power to rouse himself; and there was a curious hissing going on, which seemed to have a dreadful menace in it.
Just as he was going off in this dream, however, he heard faintly in the distance his mother's voice. He did his best to call to her, to cry out, but he was going deeper and deeper into the dream, and in a very few seconds knew nothing more.
When Mona woke up it was to find his little mother's arms round him; his little mother raining tears of joy and thankfulness upon his face, and a number of sympathizing neighbors chattering at the very top of their voices.
Mona, it seemed, had had a terrible adventure. Such a narrow escape, in fact, that it was a great wonder he was still alive. For the horrible thing in the corner turned out to be a dreadful snake.
"One of our greatest enemies," his mother told him, her motherly eyes still full of tears. "Monkeys have such a lot of enemies, Mona," she said, gently. "There are snakes, and leopards, and parrots and—"
"Tut, tut!" the old mother-monkey interrupted, sharply. "What is the good of telling the child all that? He will get to know fast enough."
"But if he had known," Monica said, gently, caressing her little one with a tender air, and feeling thankful—oh, so thankful!—that she had arrived just in time to call off the snake's attention. "If he had known, he might have—"
"Well, what could he have done?" the old mother monkey said, sharply."You know what snakes are."
All the monkeys gathered together, shivered, and glanced round uneasily.
"You know what snakes are; what can you do when you are brought face to face with them like that, and both in a hut?"
Monica nodded gravely, and felt more thankful than ever that her baby had been spared to her.
"I told you he was unlucky," the old mother monkey said, gravely, "butI also told you that he would never come to much harm."
And so it proved. For Mona, as life went on, was always unlucky, but he never came to much harm, although he had some exciting adventures.
As he grew up he became stronger, but always remained a quiet monkey, inclined to whimper.
Quiet monkeys, when inclined to whimper, always have a bad time. Their fellow-monkeys have no patience with their delicacy or whimpering, and do their very best to impress this upon their fellow-creatures as much as possible, in a practical manner. Slaps, sharp tweaks of the tail, and continual teazing, are considered good for both these complaints, and of these little Mona got the full benefit. Altogether, he had an extremely hard time of it.
To begin with, none of the other monkeys seemed to care to associate with him. They never gambolled about and let him join; never asked or even attempted to attend to his toilet for him; and the only part of his person which appeared to form any attraction was his tail, which, he being a Mona monkey, was an extremely long one.
There were times when Mona wished he had no tail; it was impossible to keep it still; he was busy all day long whisking it about out of the way of mischievous fingers.
Unlike all the other monkeys, who sat about in groups, chattering, screaming, laughing and scolding, as they felt inclined, Mona generally sat quite alone, with his pathetic little face looking very miserable, and his sad eyes following the many groups of monkeys from place to place.
Mona was a great admirer of the beautiful, and the Vervet monkeys were his chief admiration. Now, these little Vervet monkeys think a great deal of themselves, and consider, in their own way, that they are the masters of the Senegal woods; they are deeply insulted and fiercely angry should a stranger intrude into their domain, and make no scruples about showing what they feel.
They sit about on the branches in immense troops, and are so wonderfully quick and active that at times it is almost impossible to follow their movements.
Very knowing, and cautious, too, are the little Vervets; a stranger may be sitting underneath the very tree on which they are crowding, and not have the faintest idea that there is a monkey near him; should he suddenly look up, however, he would see some hundreds of little heads peeping through the branches, and hundreds of sharp little eyes watching his every movement. Should they wish to attract the stranger's attention, they will drop a stick so cleverly, and with such precision, that it often hits his nose.
Many a morning Mona passed watching the gambols and the amusing tricks of the little Vervets; but they never invited him to come and play with them or to take any part in their games. For one thing, he was a Mona monkey, and the families or tribes in the Senegal forest are very particular about keeping together.
There was one monkey, of another family, that Mona took great interest in, and this was a little white-nosed lady-monkey.
This white-nosed monkey was a curious little creature; she had a big, white spot on her nose, like all her family, and a little fringe of white hair all around her face, which looked as though she had put her collar round her face instead of her neck, and gave her a somewhat ludicrous air.
But not in Mona's eyes. In Mona's eyes she was absolutely beautiful, and her long tail—nearly black at the top and dwindling to a peculiar greyish hue at the bottom—was another source of admiration to him.
The little white-nosed monkey was a born flirt; graceful, petulant and coquettish to a degree, and she knew perfectly well from the very first that Mona admired her. She was quite content to be admired, and was, in fact—like all white-nosed monkeys—particularly fond of notice and admiration, not to speak of nuts.
She took care to come, day after day, to some conspicuous place where Mona could have a good view of her. But this was not all for Mona's edification; she had another admirer, and this was a Patas, or red monkey.
This red monkey was a big fellow, three feet in length, who, with his bright, chestnut fur, with its deep shade of red, and his darkish, cream-colored legs, thought a good deal of himself.
He detested Mona monkeys, and waged war on them continually; but it was not until the fourth day that he discovered the presence of Mona, and found, to his very great disgust, that he was admiring the little white-nosed monkey, too.
This was quite enough. Down came the red monkey so quickly, so softly and swiftly, that he was on Mona before he realized his presence.
The wicked little white-nosed monkey knew perfectly well what was going to happen, and sat up on her branch, put on her most coquettish air, and prepared to thoroughly enjoy herself.
As a rule, Mona had not much spirit, but he realized that his beloved one was looking on, and he made a brave fight. But the red monkey of Senegal is a very powerful animal when provoked, and he was not going to stand any nonsense from a Mona monkey, and so it came to pass that, after a few minutes' sharp fight, poor little Mona was only too thankful to creep painfully away and hide himself under some bushes, where he cried bitterly.
Sad to relate, the little white-nosed monkey, after this, took no further notice of Mona, but sneered and jeered at him whenever an opportunity offered. She did her best to show him that she despised him, and wished to have nothing more to do with him. And Mona took it meekly, as he took most things.
There was one tribe of monkeys, however, that even Mona would have nothing to do with, and these were the "Knuckle-Walkers." These Knuckle-Walkers had not yet become civilized enough to learn how to walk on the palms of their hands, and no monkey tribe, who thinks anything of itself, ever associated with the Knuckle-Walkers. They were a distinct race of monkeys, and this fact was impressed on them rather forcibly occasionally.
Mona had lost his mother by this time. Loving and gentle as she had been when Mona was a baby, as he grew up she grew tired of him, and, as she had other children since his birth, she had moved off with them to another part of the forest.
Mona had learned by this time that if ever the other monkeys were friendly towards him, it was simply that they wanted to make use of him in some way or other.
One eventful day they had invited him to a feast of parrots' feathers. The young tail feathers of these birds, if plucked out properly, contain some delicious juicy stuff in the quill parts which all monkeys love. Perhaps, it is the difficulty of obtaining this delicious stuff which makes it seem doubly delightful; but, whatever it is, all monkeys will go through a great deal to obtain it.
Mona was deputed to stand in front of the parrots to take off their attention. He was told that this was not nearly so dangerous as pulling the feathers out, and so he believed what was told him, and did his best to attract the parrot's attention, while his fellow- monkeys got behind and pulled out its feathers.
In doing this, careful as he was, poor Mona got some terrific pecks, one of which nearly blinded him; for a parrot's beak can inflict a bad wound, especially if he is really angry.
As Mona did not get a single feather as a reward, he never again consented to attract a parrot's attention while the others obtained their feast.
It was always the same; Mona never came to much harm, yet he was always unlucky.
Once he had really been very much in love with a little lady monkey of his own tribe, and for a time she had seemed very fond of him. But, alas, just as they were getting on so beautifully, the little lady monkey was killed in a quarrel, and poor Mona was left lonely once more.
Another time Mona was sitting on a branch of a tree, thinking about many sad things, when a little movement in front attracted his attention. In an instant his bright little eyes glanced down, and there, creeping slowly up the thick trunk of the tree, was a jaguar.
All the other monkeys were away; they had seen him long ago, but Mona had been dreaming.
With a shrill shriek of terror, Mona looked round for some way of escape, but there was none. To jump would be fatal; to stay where he was would be also fatal. And so Mona crouched down, crying so bitterly, and making such pathetic, little gestures of appeal that even the heart of a jaguar ought to have been touched.
But jaguars have very little heart, and they are extremely fond of monkeys; so, notwithstanding Mona's little beseeching prayers, with one soft spring the jaguar leaped, and in a few moments Mona was no more.
His sad little life, with all its troubles and loneliness, was at an end, and there was not even one monkey to mourn for him.
"A very good thing," the red monkey said, disdainfully. "I hated that Mona monkey. If it hadn't been for him, I should have married the little white-nosed monkey; as it was, she ran away, and married one of her own tribe."
[Illustration: MONA DID HIS BEST TO ATTRACT THE PARROT'S ATTENTION"]
"I always said," the old mother monkey remarked, who had looked on at the death from a safe corner. "I always said that Mona was unlucky."
"Yes," jeered the red monkey, "but you also said that he would never come to much harm. And he was killed by a jaguar."
"He never came to much harm in life," the old mother monkey said, impressively; "but he died as a great many other monkeys do, a quick death. Far better that"—with a sad and somewhat grave shake of the head—" far better—far more happy—than to grow old and stiff and feeble. But I always liked Mona, and I am sorry that he is dead."
And so it came to pass that the only one who felt the least sorrow or faintest regret was the old mother monkey, who had been one of the first to see Mona after he was born.
In the thick mud of one of the marshy swamps of South Africa a herd of buffaloes, some sixteen in number, stood almost knee-deep. The thick fog which arose from the swamp hung round and about like a huge, vapory cloud, making the hot air moist and stifling.
But the buffaloes cared not; to them it was pleasant and enjoyable, and they, one and all, stood placidly chewing their cuds and gazing calmly at nothing in particular.
The leader of the herd, a sturdy, shaggy animal of exceptional size, stood a little apart from the others, on guard and on the lookout for danger. The birds of the herd fluttered and hopped around and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.[Footnote: A herd of buffaloes is generally accompanied by one or more red-beaked rhinoceros birds. These birds feed on the ticks or insects which infest the animals' skin, and also give warning of danger.—Author.]
It was such fun to fly from one animal to another, perching lightly on the mass of woolly hair, and then to peep and hunt, first with one bright little eye and then with the other, until some unwary insect came in sight. These little insects—the ticks—were quick and moved with lightning-like rapidity, but they were not so quick as the birds, for, almost before they realized their danger, the sharp red beaks opened simultaneously with a quick dart forward of their heads, and the next instant the insects were out of sight.
Bulon, the leader of the herd, glanced from under his shaggy brows, first at the birds and then at the buffaloes; his wild fiery eyes were blood-red, and his shaggy mane and almost hairless shanks—for he was getting old—showed unmistakable signs of a recent fight.
And a terrible fight it had been, too, for one of the younger males had dared to show a little attention to one of Bulon's wives, and this in buffalo land is a great insult and not to be overlooked.
So Bulon had promptly challenged the offender; his rival had just as promptly responded to the challenge, and a great fight they had. In times gone by no one would have dared to interfere with Bulon, unless, perhaps, the leader of some other herd, for in those days his strength had been magnificent, and even lions and tigers quailed before him. But old age was creeping on, which the other buffaloes realized only too quickly. His massive shoulders and sturdy limbs were shrinking a little, while his tough, thick skin was now almost hairless, except for his mane and a thin fringe on his back and withers.
But, in spite of his age and diminished strength, Bulon had won the day. It had seemed doubtful at first, very doubtful, and some of the herd had looked on with interest, but with grave doubts as to the result.
A male buffalo is one of the most jealous things on the face of the earth, and his jealousy makes him quite mad for the time being. In a fight neither will give in until one kills the other, and so it was in Bulon's case. He was determined to get the best of it, for he knew that, should the other buffalo kill him, the herd would probably select the conqueror as its leader in his place.
But, after a great clashing of horns, stamping of hoofs, and sharp snorts and grunts, Bulon's opponent began to breathe heavily and show signs of distress, and when this took place the fight soon came to an end.
Bulon followed up his advantage with true buffalo skill, and in a very short time his enemy was in the dust and panting out his life. The fight once over, the herd moved on, leaving the dying buffalo by himself, for, in animal life, the old, sick or decrepit, are always treated with contempt.
Bulon led the way until they reached a nice, muddy swamp. The birds, however, having given warning of approaching danger, the males stationed themselves in an irregular circle in all the most dangerous positions—having first put the mothers and calves in the middle— while Bulon stood a little apart and kept his wicked little eyes first on the herd and then on the birds. He knew as well as the birds that an enemy was near, and but for this would have given the signal to feed. But the buffaloes were quite content; they were knee-deep in mud, surrounded by a thick, damp, hot mist, and as they were not particularly hungry, stood still and ruminated—that is to say, chewed their cuds and enjoyed themselves.
Having four stomachs, buffaloes' food has the same process to go through as the food of all ruminants; that is to say, when vegetable matter is first eaten, it passes into the first stomach, where it stays until it is ready for the next one. The second stomach is much smaller, and covered with a number of curious little cells. After it has been in the second stomach for some time, and whenever the buffalo feels ready for it, the food comes back into the mouth, and he then bites or masticates it just as long as he likes. This is "chewing the cud." When he has finished chewing the cud, the food goes into the third stomach, and after it has been there some time, it passes into the fourth one, where it is at last digested. So, although Bulon would not give the signal to feed, the buffaloes were quite happy, as they had plenty of food with which to chew the cud—an action which is invariably a sign of placid content among ruminants.
Bulon was the only one who was not ruminating. But then he was on the lookout for enemies, and, moreover, his temper was still exceedingly ruffled.
There were signs of a storm coming up; the air was quiet and still, and it was in this peculiar stillness that Bulon thought he heard an unusual sound in the bushes. He turned his huge head and sharp eyes in that direction, but in the next instant there was a short, sharp sound—a stinging, burning, pain in his shoulder and the old buffalo knew that he had been wounded.
Just as he realized this a small, upright form came forward from the left side and stood in front of him. Had the form, which was a man, only been in front at first, Bulon would have seen it; but he could not—like all buffaloes—see very well unless things were in a straight line before him.
The moment Bulon caught sight of his enemy he made a mad rush, and as he plunged violently he splashed and covered the traveler with thick mud, which nearly blinded him. Unfortunately, Bulon was in a soft spot, and the more he wallowed the deeper he sank in the mud. But he made one grand struggle, and, getting a slight grasp, he floundered up and made another wild dash at his enemy. It would, indeed, have gone hard with the enemy if just behind him there had not grown one of those peculiarly thick thorn bushes which grow so plentifully in South Africa—a bush which has long, thick thorns like big needles.
As Bulon plunged madly at his enemy, the man darted to one side, and Bulon crashed into the bush, running the cruel thorns into his nose and eyes, and tumbling head over heels with the impetus. He gathered himself up, nearly mad with pain—for the cruel thorns had completely blinded him—and in his agony tore round and round—forgetting his enemy—forgetting the soft, boggy spot—forgetting the herd— forgetting everything except the awful anguish and bewildering darkness.
It went hard with Bulon after this, for he was in a sad plight. He had spent the greater part of his strength in the fight; the wallowing in the soft mire had exhausted him; he had a burning, raging pain in his shoulder caused by the bullet fired by his human enemy, while the pain in his poor, blinded eyes and his sensitive nose took nearly all his remaining strength. He felt he could not keep up his wild career much longer, but he kept on for a time, only stopping occasionally to rub his poor nose and eyes in the soft, wet ground—an action which only added to his misery, for the harder he rubbed the deeper he drove in the thorns which pierced and lacerated him, poisoning his blood and sowing the seeds of death.
Meanwhile, the buffaloes at the sound of that peculiar "bang" stopped chewing their cuds instantly, and in one of their wild, excitable fits started off in a mad rush, males, mothers and calves all huddled together. In an almost incredible time the buffaloes were out of sight, except a few unfortunate mothers and little ones who, having once stumbled, lost their lives by being trampled to death by the others. This was the reason that Bulon, with all his bellowings of rage, pain and distress, received no answer to his cries, and could find no one of his fellow-creatures to give him comfort.
The hunter had such a narrow escape from the sudden onrush of the buffalo that he deemed it wise—not realizing that the animal had been blinded—to retreat. Had he only known the piteous plight in which poor Bulon was, it would have been an easy matter to have put another bullet into him, and so ended his life and sufferings.
As it was, Bulon wandered about for days in a pitiable plight. The wound in his shoulder, although it still contained the bullet, was not enough to kill him, and, although his blinded eyes and swollen nose caused him intense suffering, there was no likelihood of his dying for some days. So it was that he wandered on seeking food, and, when it was found, having the greatest difficulty in eating it, owing to his swollen nose and mouth. He did his best to follow the herd, but, as the days went on, he grew weaker and weaker. The thorns had caused inflammation now, and the only thing he could do was to sway his huge head from side to side, and totter with short, uneven steps over the heavy, marshy ground.
Then came a day when he struck another treacherous, soft spot, and this time he had neither strength nor will to save himself. He sank softly and slowly into the liquid mud, which covered him as with a mantle, and soothed him in spite of himself, for, in any case, it saved him from the sharp, stinging bites of the great gadflies, which are able to pierce even the thick skin of the buffalo.
By the time night swept over the land the only thing to be seen of Bulon was his grand, huge head and big horns standing out in a bold curve; his shaggy, woolly masses of hair, and his nose and mouth swollen now into an almost shapeless mass. As the night wore on, Bulon's sufferings increased, and his groans were unearthly sounds, echoing and re-echoing through the darkness.
But he grew quieter at last, and towards morning, just as the sun was tinting the sky with glorious colors, Bulon sank a little further into the soft mud he had always loved so well and died.
His own particular herd had forgotten all about him long before this, and had chosen a new leader—a young, strong, vigorous male, who was looked up to and respected far more than Bulon had been during the last few months of his life, for the buffaloes had already begun to realize that Bulon was getting old, and had been losing their respect for him accordingly.
His day had passed. He had guarded his herd carefully and well; led them to the best swamps and pastures, and on hot days picked out the softest and coolest mud for his wives to wallow in, while he had always left the youngest and freshest food for the calves.
So he had fulfilled his duties, and his many children grew up strong and healthy, became fathers and mothers themselves, and did very much the same sort of things that Bulon, the noted leader of buffaloes, had himself done.