THE GIRAFFE
Picture to yourself a wide expanse of open land covered with flowers and grasses that spring two or three feet high in the track of the rains.
To the far west stretches a high mountain range, whose topmost peaks are ever clad in snow; to the east a river bed filled with a raging torrent at one season, and dry at another; to the south an acacia wood; to the north the open land, trackless and desert as the sea.
In this land, from which the sun never takes its departure for more than a few days at a time, Maami the giraffe was born, a quaint and curious little creature, whose proportions even in those early days were almost grotesque. In the secluded spot that was his earliest home the growth was thick and luxuriant and, while one who surveyed it with a field-glass from a distant hill might have thought the grasses were comparatively short, the big antelopes that raced along from time to time showed no more than the tops of their horns, the lion who pursued them was unseen. So, too, was the leopard, as he stole along in the direction of the foot hills of the mountain, hoping to surprise some of the noisy baboons that lived and clustered there.
From time to time a lion roared close to the young giraffe’s home; once, indeed, when his mother was away, and there were other moments of danger that Maami never understood. Had he been old enough and big enough to see and understand what followed the lion’s roar, when he was lying in the soft nest that his mother’s body had made for him, his love and admiration for his parent would have been greater than ever. The Old Giraffe had been feeding in the acacia grove, and was on her way home when the lion roared. Hearing the cry, she broke into her fastest stride; it was not a gallop, it was not a canter, it was not a trot; it partook of all three, and in the rhythm of the movement there was a challenge that the lion would not wait to accept.
The great plain was full of antelopes that could be had without fighting, so he roared an assurance that he meant no harm, and hurried away to the left, while the eager mother pounded her rapid way to her calf’s side, and then seeing that he was all right, stood up to the last inch of her height and looked out over the prairie to see where danger lay. In other animals of Africa it is the sharp hearing, the extraordinary scent that puzzles the European; the giraffe was content to rely upon a power of vision second only to the eagle’s. Her bright coat lost its lustre against trees and bushes; she became part of the landscape by reason of her wonderful gift of protective colouring, and could scan the country with a certainty that no source of danger would be overlooked.
Throughout the season of rains mother and son remained in the thicket; but when the drought came it brought countless cruel insects to prey upon Maami’s tender skin, and for his sake the Mother Giraffe, who was schooled to endure such trouble, decided to leave their home.
“We will go up into the forest of the high hills,” she said, speaking in the low tones that only the animal world can hear,[2]“for the insects never climb so far. The evening cold would kill them, so they must stay on the low hot ground.”
Then Maami followed his mother through a dense growth that wrapped and hid him, over rivers that were dwindling down to the size of insignificant brooks, over the bare foot hills, where the baboons loved to play when the nights were long and bright, and up into the high forest, whose depths knew no light at all.
The silence of the place was awe-inspiring after the comparative gaiety of life upon the plains. Never a singing bird came to the forest; the snakes that climbed and clung could hang motionless for hours, and more than once Maami passed a very old elephant standing up against some tree trunk as stiffly and silently as though carved in wood by some cunning sculptor. Happily, there were consolations to make amends for the darkness and solitude. The ticks and hard-biting insects, that could thrive so well upon the plains, succumbed to the cold damp air of the high ground, and within a week Maami and his mother were free from pain and annoyance. Then, again, food was plentiful for the Mother Giraffe, and there was plenty of milk for Maami. On the plains the giraffe had often been driven to the mimosa wood, or even farther afield, in search of succulent branches and tree tops; here the meals were waiting to be eaten at every hour of the day. Giraffes have a certain contempt for the ground; they will not bend their long necks to the earth.
Living, they stand with heads erect; dying, they preserve their stately carriage until the last. Only when moving rapidly will they bend head and neck to the body level. Though the plains might have held much nourishing food the giraffes never condescended to seek it; they looked to the tree tops for their fare.
Mother and son stayed in the depths of the high forest during the dry season, and the elder giraffe seldom left her son. He could follow her when she searched for food, and it was only on the rare occasions when she needed water that she left him for a time, and went down by night towards the plains, where a pool well known to her survived the scorching heat. A few minutes there would suffice the giraffe for some days; indeed, if she found leaves that retained their moisture at all, a weekly journey to the pool would suffice for all her wants.
Only when the rains returned the two giraffes made their way hastily to the scorched plains. There could be no delay, because the dry beds of the rivers would become impassable when the rain had fallen for a few days, and many beasts would be cut off from the plains, or compelled to travel for miles through dangerous country in order to find a ford.
The scorched vegetation made way, as though by magic, for a new, green carpet, that rose hour by hour; great flocks of birds and beasts returned from the far corners whither the drought had driven them; and to the giraffes, so long pent up in the dark forest, the change was a delightful one. Maami was big enough now to look out over the advancing greenery, young enough to frisk and play, shaking his neck and whisking his tail as his mother did, and unfortunate enough to attract the attention of a jackal who chanced to be prowling about, and at once set off to the lair of his master the lion, bearing glad tidings of fresh meat. The lion was hungry, so hungry, indeed, that the jackal would not approach too close to the lair, preferring to howl without it. As soon as the lion stirred the jackal slipped away to the side, and followed at a respectful distance.
At first the lion moved in the direction of another lair, to summon two of his tribe to join him; but they were feasting on an eland bull many miles away, and he was forced to proceed alone. He moved stealthily up wind in the direction of the giraffes’ resting-place; but there were birds on every bush, and they gave the alarm, so that when the huge, tawny beast was within forty or fifty feet of his goal he saw the Mother Giraffe watching and waiting for him. He paused, and lashed his flanks with his tail, uttering a horrible challenge, at which Maami nearly died of fright; but the Mother Giraffe, in no wise alarmed, whisked her own tail by way of reply, twisted her long neck in many strange ways, planted her feet firmly on the ground and waited for the attack. With a quick succession of leaps the lion hurled himself at his prey, but as he came full at the giraffe she lashed out with her heavy feet.
The movement was timed to perfection; no eye save the giraffe’s could have calculated the aim to such a nicety, and the lion fell as though stunned, his lower jaw broken, his hunting ended for all time. Without waiting to see what had happened, the Mother Giraffe signalled to Maami to follow her, and they glided away in their own curious fashion until they were miles from the spot where the great yellow body lay writhing on the ground, a group of jackals waiting hungrily for the end.
Perhaps the two giraffes were made more careful by this adventure; certainly Maami never frisked again in the old-time happy fashion; but it was no more than an incident of daily life, and did not call for any special remembrance.
The year that followed was uneventful, and when the two giraffes came again from the forest the Mother Giraffe asked permission to join the herd from which she had departed when the time came for Maami to be born. Self-preservation took the mothers away at these most critical periods of their lives, and they were not permitted to return until their offspring were old and strong enough to obey the orders of the old bulls to whom the safety of the herd was entrusted. Experience had shown that when a calf was too young to follow the lead, mother and child fell easy victims to pursuit. Alone they might avoid attention, but a herd was a more or less certain mark for hunters, whether they went on two feet or four. So a mother looked after herself and child until both were able to face any emergency, and then they were readmitted to the pack.
Maami was now in his fourth year and well able to look after himself, cognisant of many, if not all, the dangers that beset giraffes, and the old bull in charge of the herd gave him welcome in most approved fashion by bending down certain high branches of edible trees until they were within the newcomer’s reach.
For the Young Giraffe a new life seemed to have opened. He could follow the herd to feeding places where never a giraffe would have gone alone, he was entrusted with sentry duty from time to time, he acquired a measure of confidence, and, above all, he fed entirely upon vegetable matter. When he claimed his mother’s care no longer, he knew that he had gained independence.
The herd numbered thirty or more, and was led by an old bull giraffe and two lieutenants, whose skins were darker than those of the old females or any of the young giraffes. All the males were thicker in the neck than the females, and heavier in the foot, and they were more nervous than their companions. Even when the herd rested against the woodland trees in the extreme heat of the day, or sought for their favourite branches at feeding time, the old bulls would never cease from scanning the surrounding country. The leader went a little lame; he, too, had killed a lion, but not without damage to some leg muscles that made him move much as a camel moves, the natural ungainliness of a giraffe’s stride being made more than ever apparent by the accident.
In spite of hours of duty, in spite of the feeling that he must obey orders, Maami was happy enough. He learned to signal the events of hill and prairie by certain definite movements of head, neck and tail, so that when he was watching while others fed, his inability to cry aloud might not lead to trouble.
Nature, in her infinite care for these her most helpless surviving children, had granted protective colouring and something akin to telegraphic signalling to the giraffe world, and for two years the old bull giraffe kept his little company together with no other loss save that which came when one of the cows retired to some quiet breeding ground. Three out of four would come back in the course of time bringing a little one old enough to feed himself and obey orders, the fourth would not return. She would fall a victim to some enemy, some black huntsman searching for the giraffe because his hide fetched a big price in the African market, where it was made into whip-thongs, or she would fall to a company of lions that could unite against a giraffe, and by surrounding disable her.
Under the guidance of the old bull giraffe, the herd travelled far afield, covering a wide expanse of country and gathering much information about good quiet pools and feeding grounds from many other tree and grass-feeding animals. Zebras, deer of all kinds, elephants and even hippopotami were ready to give all the hints that were sought for, and many a time, in response to warnings that belong to the freemasonry of the animal world, the bull giraffe led his company away from feeding grounds that, for all their tempting aspect, held hidden dangers. The zebras and the deer could hear trouble, elephants could scent it, and when the wind played havoc with the scent and hearing, the giraffes could use their eyes in fashion that brought much-needed guidance to those who had served them at other seasons.
With the exception of the leopards, who worked alone, few animals sought their food or their safety by themselves. Even the lions united for the hunt, and man, the destroyer, reaching the confines of the unexplored lands where wild beasts dwelt, travelled with a company. More than once Maami saw man in the dim distance, with tents, baggage bearers, and the impedimenta associated with the pursuit of big game, but more often than not these destroyers never saw the giraffes at all.
But disaster cannot be avoided for all time, and it was written that Maami’s mother should be the first of the company to pay tribute to man the implacable. One night, as the herd came from feeding among some young tree tops, she fell into one of the cunningly contrived pits that a company of native hunters had set in the path—a trap intended for even bigger game, but readily discovered by the solitary elephant for whom it had been set. He had scented it a hundred yards away, and made a new path into the forest that sheltered him, conquering the pangs of thirst that had drawn him from his lair. The giraffes having little scent and paying small attention to the ground beneath their feet, were not so fortunate; the mother beast fell, and the herd, yielding to brute instinct, turned in its tracks, and ambled away all night to a distant place of safety.
Maami understood his loss very vaguely, if at all. With the advancing years mother and son had forgotten the ties that bound them to one another in the far-off days of motherly affection and childish need; and, when morning broke, bringing lingering surcease to the poor creature’s pain, terror and life, there was none of the herd within sight of the scene of the misfortune. It was one of the chances that giraffes must take, this deep pit covered lightly with grasses spread about a slender support of boughs; and the shapeless carcase that the hunters cast aside when they had stripped off the hide served to give the carrion a hearty meal. Within twenty-four hours the white bones alone remained to tell of the graceful and harmless creature that had haunted wood and plain so long.
Years have passed since Maami’s mother met her fate in the hunters’ pit, and, of the giraffe herd that still haunts the plains, seeking the high woods only in a season of drought, few of the older ones remain. Maami himself is very near to the leadership; he is second to an old bull some three years his senior. The leader of the early days lives solitary now, if he lives at all. When his eyes grew dim and his limbs began to lose their elasticity, he was compelled to pass his duties and responsibilities to another and to go his way alone.
To be sure he was no match for young lions or for huntsmen, but there was no appeal from forest law, which recognises the herd’s need for sound and sure guidance, and since he had left the ranks others had followed, all to lead solitary lives, happy indeed and fortunate if inevitable death did not come to them in cruel fashion. Calves new born when Maami joined the herd are now responsible adults, and the herd moves with more care than of old time; for, although the lions tend to decrease, the white hunters have penetrated into the district; and even the black ivory and hide hunters organised by the big trading companies are armed with weapons of precision, and have learned to use them with a measure of accuracy hitherto unknown. In districts known to Maami as great homes of game in the years when he first joined the herd, you may travel for miles seeing nothing but a few whitening bones spread out here and there; and the general trend of wild life is towards the marshy malarial lands where hunters will not follow willingly.
The giraffe has seen strange sights in these latter days—lions, hyænas, leopards and jackals coming to the stream to drink with big deer and giraffes and zebras, and then moving off without as much as a growl because man the hunter is on the track, and before his advance one and all must retreat in terror. There are nights that Maami will remember as long as he lives, when among the beasts that come to the pools his sharp eyes have counted wounded lions, leopards and elephants. He has seen a great tawny lion permanently lame, his shoulder inflamed to an indescribable condition, an old bull elephant staining the pool red, a leopard drinking with feverish haste and then dropping dead by the side of the hard-sought water. All these things tell the tale of the destroyer with an eloquence beyond words, and account for the strange spirit of fraternity that seizes upon the beasts as they retreat pell-mell before the irresistible advance of the white man.
Maami is travelling alone now; it is his last journey. The white hunter has been too much for the herd; he has dropped one and wounded another, the rest have gone off in their odd swinging style, tails flapping, necks waving, heads erect.
Terror-stricken and badly hurt, Maami is running alone, he does not quite know where. He passes over a great expanse of plain, through a wood strip wherein he has often taken his fill of tender leaves, but, for once, no thought of food comes to him, he is conscious only of growing weakness and increasing thirst. It is the pool that he is running for, and happily it is not far off. He drinks deep of dwindling waters; the dry season has come upon the land of late—now he is running quite aimlessly through the scrub and high grasses. He thinks the herd is before him, always a little out of reach; he makes a special effort to overtake it and sinks down very slowly, his head still high.
From a neighbouring tree a white bird with red bills looks down compassionately. The heat is intense, thirst is coming back, a dark pool is forming by his side, but this is not water. High up in the air a vulture is looking at him; it descends very slowly.
Two bright eyes shine for a moment from the grass; the jackal is investigating the case. He meets Maami’s eye and cannot face it, so he slinks away to a safe distance and howls to his heart’s content. “Blood!” he cries; “meat for one and all!” And to far corners of the plain, to rocky holes that form a day refuge for carrion, the shrill cry penetrates. If there are any lions near by they are sleeping after a successful night’s hunting, for never an answering cry follows the jackal’s summons.
Maami is conscious of a strange gathering of ugly birds and foul beasts, but it does not concern him now. He is growing so cold that even the tropical sun above his head is powerless to warm him; his eyes are being veiled, the landscape is very blurred, the herd has passed from sight. His head droops slowly—he does not feel the teeth of the old hyæna that, mad with hunger, has flung herself upon him.
[2]
Though the giraffe is perhaps the only large animal that never makes a sound, travellers and hunters are agreed that these animals can communicate many thoughts to each other.
Though the giraffe is perhaps the only large animal that never makes a sound, travellers and hunters are agreed that these animals can communicate many thoughts to each other.