Chapter IV: Part 4

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

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

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

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

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

"What about nesting time?" asked the Swan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And then?" queried the Swan.

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

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

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

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Footnote 1:

Microparra capensis.

HOB, THE FERRET

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FIGHTING BULL

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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