Chapter II: Part 2

He stole along the borders of the forest until at last he caught sight of a sheep who was grazing in a distant meadow with two lambs. He crept up to her on all fours, while Trust received orders to be quite still. When he was near enough, he flung the sling and was lucky enough to drop it just over the neck of the sheep. She bleated pitifully, but the noose held fast and tightened. Two-Legs, rejoicing, led the animal home and the two little lambs came after, for they did not know what else to do.

When he came home, he fastened the sheep to a tree in front of the cave. They ate one of the lambs and let the other live. The children ran down to the meadow and fetched armfuls of grass and the sheep ate and gave her lamb to drink.

“Do you mean to eat me too?” she asked Two-Legs, that evening, as he sat outside the cave with his family, rejoicing over his work.

“No,” he said, “I do not. I shall keep you with me and you shall be my servant, like the dog. To-morrow I shall go out and catch your husband. Then you shall bear me plenty of lambs; and I shall eat some and put some by, just as I happen to want them.”

“You killed my sister and pulled off her skin,” said the sheep.

“I know better now,” said Two-Legs. “You shall see for yourself.”

Mrs. Two-Legs came with a knife and cut off the old sheep’s wool. The sheep struggled and yelled grievously, but Two-Legs was determined and she was bound so tight that resistance was of no avail.

“Now I shall be cold myself when it rains,” cried the sheep.

“Nonsense!” said Two-Legs. “When it turns cold, I’ll take you into my cave. I want your wool to make clothes of. It’s no use your raising difficulties. If you’re good and obedient, you shall have a better time with me than you ever had in your life.”

2

At night, while Two-Legs slept, the sheep stood outside and thought over things. The ox stuck his head over the bushes and, a little afterwards, the stag stood there too and the horse and the goat and many of the other animals.

“What has he hit upon now?” asked the ox. “The sparrow says that he has tied you up and cut off your wool.”

“It’s only too true,” replied the sheep. “See for yourself how naked I am. He has eaten one of my lambs and he is going to catch my husband to-morrow. But I must say that he has plucked grass for me, so that I have eaten my fill.”

“It’s awful,” said the ox. “But it’s only what we expected. Can’t you get loose?”

“I’ve tried,” said the sheep. “But it’s no use. The more I pull, the tighter the noose gets round my neck. I am a prisoner and a prisoner I remain.”

“Rather die than live a slave!” said the wolf. “I will do your lamb the service to eat her.”

So saying, he caught hold of the lamb and bit her in the throat. The sheep screamed at the top of her voice; Two-Legs woke up and ran out; and all the animals rushed away.

“You’ve been asleep, Trust,” said Two-Legs. “We must see to-morrow how we can prevent these accidents. A nice thing, if I am to catch sheep for the wolf and to fatten them for him to eat!”

3

And the next morning he thought of a remedy.

He and his sons went into the forest and felled some trees with their axes. Then they cut them into sharp stakes and, after they had prepared a quantity of these, they planted them in a circle, outside the cave. Then they wove twigs between the stakes and, by sunset, they had a safe and strong pen over which no wolf could jump. Two-Legs put the sheep into it.

A few days later, he caught the ram with his sling. He went on hunting and soon the cow was there and the bull and their calves. The pen was too small and he had to build a bigger one. The whole family went out to fetch grass, but could never bring enough. The animals in the pen bleated and lowed.

At night, they talked together:

“Candidly speaking,” said the sheep, “this existence has its advantages. Down there, in the meadow, one never felt sure of one’s life; first the lion was after one, then the wolf and the snake and the eagle, to say nothing of Two-Legs himself.”

“There’s something in that,” said the cow. “But I can’t stand the way Mrs. Two-Legs pulls at my udders. And then I’m not so sure that they don’t mean to kill me one fine day. There will be too many of us here before long.”

TWO-LEGS WANDERS

1

Two-Legs began to find it difficult to provide grass for the many animals which he had in the pen.

He and his family had long plucked all that grew nearest the cave. Now they had to go a long way to find any and it was hard work getting it home.

“We shall have to move,” he said to his wife. “We can’t go on dragging the grass up for all the animals. And, as the grass won’t come to us, we must go to the grass. We must go down to the meadow again. You will have to weave us a woollen tent. Then we will get all the skins we can and dig stakes into the ground and hang the skins over them. That’s the best way. And then the animals can go and graze round about the tent.”

“But, when they have eaten the grass in the meadow, what then?” asked Mrs. Two-Legs.

“Then we will pass on to the next one,” Two-Legs answered. “We will pack up the tent, load it on the back of the cow and move on.”

“If only the animals don’t run away!” said she.

“Trust must help me to look after them,” replied he. “And the boys. Then all will be well. They know us now and they let us stroke them. You shall see, they will soon be quite tame.”

The next morning, they began to break up the pen.

“Is he going to set us free?” asked the cow.

“I don’t want to go down to the meadow again,” said the sheep and began to cry. “My legs are stiffer than they were, and I can’t walk as well as I used to. And my eyesight is worse and I have hardly any scent left: it’s so long since I used my senses. I want to stay with Two-Legs and feed out of his hand.”

“You’ve become a slave already,” said the cow. “And you don’t deserve to be free. If I see my chance, I shall be off. He killed my calf yesterday: I shall never forgive him for that.”

“Oh, well,” said the sheep, “suppose we do lose a youngling or two and even risk losing our own lives, what other fate could we expect in any case?”

“You have the soul of a serf!” said the cow contemptuously.

Two-Legs had finished breaking down the pen. Meanwhile, his wife had packed up all their things. They loaded the cow with as much as she could carry, took up the rest themselves and started on their way to the meadow.

“My fears are now being realized,” said the cow, groaning under the unwonted burden. “I am dead-tired in my loins and legs.”

And, hardly had they come down to where the meadow began, when she threw off her load and rushed away, followed by the bull. Trust flew after them, but they turned round and showed him their horns, which made him run back with his tail between his legs.

Two-Legs threw his spear at them, but missed them.

“Time will bring counsel,” he said. “I shall go out and catch them again to-morrow. Let us put up our tent now and arrange our things.”

2

They set up the tent on a little hill from which they could look over the meadow. At the foot bubbled a spring. Trust drove the sheep into the meadow and home again. Two-Legs caught the hen, the goose and the duck and clipped their wings, so that they could not fly away. Gradually, he got a number of sheep and goats and a quantity of poultry.

When the animals had eaten all the grass in that place, he struck his tent and moved to another meadow; and so it went on. It was as if he had quite forgotten the cow. But, one day, his wife reminded him of her:

“You must get the cow back for me,” she said. “I need her milk so badly. And both I and the children want new calfskin sandals.”

Two-Legs took his spear, hung his sling round his neck and went off to look for the cow. When he had gone some way, he saw her in the distance; but she saw him too and trotted away at once. The horse, who was standing a little way off, looked at Two-Legs mockingly:

“You would like to have my four quick legs,” he said.

“I should, indeed!”

“It’s a good thing that there’s something you can’t manage,” said the horse. “It’s dangerous otherwise, the way you play at being master of the forest.”

Two-Legs made no reply, but very quietly unwound his lasso. Then, when he had got it right, he suddenly threw it over the horse’s head. It fell round the animal’s neck and he reared on his hind-legs and darted away wildly. But, at every leap he took, the noose drew tighter; and Two-Legs did not let go the rope. At one moment, he was dragged along the ground and, at the next, recovered his feet again. He twisted the rope round his hand and it cut into his flesh till the blood came, but he did not let go.

At last the horse got tired. He stood still quivering in all his limbs. The foam flew from his mouth.

“What do you want with me?” he said. “My flesh is not nice to eat and my milk isn’t sweet and I have no wool for you to cut off.”

“I want to borrow your four legs,” said Two-Legs. “You were boasting of them yourself. Come up! Stand still now! If you’re good, I won’t hurt you.”

He wound the rope round his arm and came closer and closer. He patted the sweating horse, then suddenly caught hold of his mane and swung himself upon his back. The horse reared and plunged and kicked his hind-legs high in the air and tried, in every way, to get rid of his rider. But Two-Legs held on to the mane and the rope with his hands and gripped tight with his legs and kept his seat for all the effort it cost him. Gradually, the horse became quieter again and then Two-Legs patted him on the neck:

“Now go after the cow!” he cried.

He pressed his heels into the horse’s flanks and gave him a smack. Then they flew in a rousing gallop over the meadow. The cow did not even attempt to run away, but stood staring in amazement at that wonderful sight. Before she had collected herself, the lasso was round her neck and Two-Legs proudly rode home with his capture.

When they reached the tent, he sprang from the horse, patted him and thanked him, but he made no pretence of taking the noose from the horse’s neck.

“Won’t you let me go?” asked the horse.

“No,” said Two-Legs. “But I’ll do better for you. You shall now drink from the spring and then you shall have the juiciest grass to eat that you ever tasted. After that, you shall lie down and reflect that you are now in my service and that you can spend the remainder of your days free of all cares, without the very least anxiety, if only you will be faithful and willing and do the little bit of work that I shall require of you.”

He fed the horse and fastened him to the door of the tent. The cow stood tethered close by.

“Shall we see if we can get loose?” whispered the horse, when night came and Two-Legs was asleep.

“No,” said the cow, shaking her head. “I sha’n’t run away again. I accept my lot. It was a terrible sight to see him on your back. He is the master of us all. No one can resist him.”

But the sparrow flew round the forest on her swift wings.

“Two-Legs has caught the horse.... He rides on his back.... He has fastened him to his tent.... The horse has become Two-Legs’ servant.”

“Have you heard the latest?” the lioness asked her husband. “Do you mean to let him ride on your back too, when he goes hunting?”

The lion gave a threatening roar:

“He had better just try!” he said.

“He knows what he’s about,” answered the lioness, with a sneer. “And you just keep out of his way, coward and degenerate that you are!”

The lion laid his head on his paw and said nothing, but brooded dark thoughts.

TWO-LEGS SOWS

1

Two-Legs moved with his herd from one meadow to the other.

The herd increased year by year, as did his family. Mrs. Two-Legs had now borne her husband seven sons and seven daughters, who were all doing well and helping in the house and with the cattle.

And the animals were more and more pleased to be in his service.

The horse carried him when he went hunting and walked beside him when he struck the tent and moved to a new pasturage. He came at Two-Legs’ call and neither he nor any other animals thought seriously of running away, so that Trust had an easy job in watching over them. Now and then they felt an inclination for freedom, especially when they were talking to the wild animals. But it went no further than the inclination.

For instance, one night in the rainy season, the stag came to the tent which Two-Legs had put up to protect his animals:

“Well, you’re nice and dry here,” said the stag and looked enviously into the tent.

“You’re right,” replied the sheep. “It is really much better than in the old days, when we used to take shelter under a tree and get drenched all the same.”

“Just so,” said the cow. “And in the dry season too it was pleasant every day to get our food, which Two-Legs had stored up for us, instead of having to go all over the country as before, in search of a blade of grass.”

“But I thought you had to drudge for it,” said the stag. “I have often seen you drudging and toiling for your master.”

“One good turn deserves another,” said the horse. “For the rest, I can’t deny that my presentiments have been fulfilled. All my limbs hurt me terribly after the day’s work.”

“And so do ours,” said the ox and the cow.

The duck, the goose and the hen agreed. But the sheep shook her fat head, while she went on chewing the cud:

“I can’t remember what sort of presentiment I had,” she said. “I am well off as I am.”

“Are you grumbling over there?” asked Trust, who was keeping watch and never slept with more than one eye shut. “Shall I call the master?”

The stag took fright and ran away. But the horse said:

“No, please do nothing of the sort. He has worked hard himself to-day and is no doubt as tired as we are. It would be a sin to wake him.”

Then it grew still in the tent.

But Two-Legs in his own tent was not asleep.

On the contrary, he was wide awake, thinking over things, and his wife could not sleep either, for she was thinking too.

“I am sick of wandering about the country,” he said at last. “We are no longer young, we have a very big family and sometimes the work makes me tired.”

“Me too,” said Mrs. Two-Legs. “But that has nothing to do with it. We are obliged to move about to get the grass we want.”

Two-Legs said nothing for the moment.

He rose and went out into the rain, had a look at his animals and then came back again and sat down in his old place. The lion was roaring outside in the meadow.

“Did you hear him?” asked Mrs. Two-Legs.

Two-Legs nodded.

“Tell me,” he said, after a while, “where does the grass come from?”

“You know as well as I do,” she said. “We have often talked of how it scatters its seed and how the seed shoots up between the old withered blades when the rain comes.”

“Quite right,” said Two-Legs. “And why shouldn’t we collect the seed and sow it ourselves? Now, if we pull up all the old grass and take the seed of the kind which our animals like best, we ought to be able to make it grow much thicker. And then we could reap the seed again and sow it again and go on living in the same place year after year.”

“Oh, if we could only do that!” cried Mrs. Two-Legs and clapped her hands.

“Why not?” said Two-Legs. “And, if we succeed in this, then we can build a proper, solid house for ourselves and our animals. I am sure that we can fell the biggest trees with our flint axes, if only we have the patience and persevere. As soon as the rain stops, I shall go out and look for a place where we can settle down for the rest of our days.”

2

A week later, the sky was clear again. Two-Legs mounted his horse, took leave of his family and said that he would not come home before he had found what he sought. He did not return till the evening of the third day and ordered them to pack up early next morning and go with him.

When they came to the place, they had to admit that he had made a good choice.

It was easy to see that the ground was good and fertile, everything around grew so fresh and luxuriant. There was a large, open field and on one side of it was the forest, on the other a meadow, which, in its turn, ran down to a great lake, where fish leapt and played. Beyond the lake were the distant blue mountains, which were beautiful to look at and to dream of. Just at the edge of the forest lay a hill, at whose foot a brook flowed. The brook ran into the river, which wound through the meadow, and the river ran into the lake.

And the field and the meadow were full of all kinds of grass and flowers. There were poppies larger and redder than Two-Legs had ever seen. And there were bluebells and carrots, convolvuluses and corn-flowers. They grew and spread themselves as they pleased, for they themselves were the lords of the land.

“This is where we shall settle,” said Two-Legs. “We shall build a big, strong house on the hill, with stables for our animals and a palisade outside to keep off those who wish us harm. Let us start without delay. You’ll see something, once the house is there!”

He and his sons set to work at once felling trees.

They laboured patiently day after day; but they had to chop hard with their stone axes before the big trees gave way. A cry of dismay went from tree to tree, far into the forest:

“What is happening?... What does he want with us?... Why must we die?” whispered the trees to one another.

3

But Two-Legs and his sons heard nothing and saw nothing. They worked and worked till they had what they wanted. And then they built a strong wooden house on the hill, built two houses, then three: one for themselves, a stable for the animals and a big long house for which Two-Legs had a purpose of which he did not speak for the present.

They closed up all the chinks with moss. And round the whole farm they built a palisade of tall stakes and woven twigs, which made a good wall to protect them against their enemies.

“That’s that,” said Two-Legs. “Now to work!”

He told his wife to sew a leather bag for himself and one for each of the family. Then they went to the field and the meadow and filled their bags with seed of every sort of grass that they wanted to sow.

“Won’t you have a few of my seeds?” asked the poppy, shedding her scarlet petals. “I have thousands of them in my head and I am the prettiest in the land.”

“You may be pretty,” said Two-Legs, “but I have no use for you.”

“You’ve passed me by,” said the violet, modestly.

“You’re forgetting me,” cried the thistle. “I am the proudest and strongest in the whole meadow.”

“But I am the toughest,” cried the dock.

“Mind you take none of their seed,” said Two-Legs to his family. “Our animals don’t eat them.”

So they went home with full bags and out and home again, until they had heaped up a mighty store.

“Now we will prepare the ground,” said Two-Legs. “Come, my dear horse, and lend me your strength, as you have done before.”

He made a plough, harnessed the horse to it and drove it across the field, step by step and furrow after furrow. He rejoiced when he saw the earth turn under the stone blades of the plough.

“What’s the meaning of this?” said the poppy and was forthwith ploughed over.

“It’s no use,” cried the thistle. “Our seed will come up and tease you.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Two-Legs.

Then he told his family to pull up all the thistles and throw them away. And, when he had ploughed as much as he wanted, he took the grass-seed which they had gathered and sowed it in the good, fresh earth.

“Now we must wait for the rain,” he said, “and see how things go.”

4

And the rainy season came and things went as Two-Legs had hoped.

Little green shoots sprouted all over the ploughed field, all alike, all grass of the kind which the animals loved. Here and there, it is true, a thistle appeared and a poppy; but most of it was good grass.

“Look!” said Two-Legs, gladly. “Now we only want the sunshine and then it will grow.”

The sun came and the whole field was a lovely green carpet which grew so that one could see it grow from day to day.

One morning, the stag came to the edge of the forest and beheld all this with amazement. Then he shouted into the forest to his family:

“Come along! Here’s the finest field of grass you ever saw in your lives! Hurry up and come. I’ve started grazing already.”

“You’ve started grazing, have you?” cried Two-Legs and came rushing up with his spear. “Out of this, you thief! Do you imagine that I have sown corn in the sweat of my brow for you to eat? Get out of it! This field belongs to me!”

The stag fled as fast as he could into the forest. But the sparrow flew round and told the news on every hand:

“Two-Legs has taken a great piece of land which no one is allowed to touch. He called the stag a thief when he tried to graze on it.”

TWO-LEGS ENJOYS LIFE

1

When the time came, Two-Legs filled the house which he had built for a barn with the produce of his field. And the harvest was hardly gathered before he began to think of next year.

He ploughed a new field and another and sowed them. The year after, he cleared a part of the forest and tilled that.

And so he went on year by year, until he had cultivated the land as far as he could see from his house on the hill.

Round the house he had planted a garden with the fruit-trees and herbs which he had a use for. The fields lay in long, even strips, each with its own sort of grass or corn. The whole was fenced in; and Two-Legs was hard upon any who destroyed his work or stole his property.

2

It looked as though he were the lord of the earth. No one dared set himself up against him. His herd increased from day to day and the wild animals fled far away as soon as they saw a sign of him or his. In the depths of the forest, however, and under the cover of the darkness and whenever they felt safe from him, they talked of the old days when they themselves were the masters, of the shame that it was that he should subjugate them so and of their hopes of better times:

“He throws stones at a poor bird that picks a grain of corn in his field,” said the sparrow.

“Yesterday, he drove me out of the hazel-hedge round his garden,” said the squirrel.

“He shot an arrow into my left wing because I took a lamb,” said the eagle.

“He has driven me right out of the forest,” said the wolf. “He told me that all the game belonged to him and that, if I dared touch it, he would persecute me and my cubs to the end of the world, if need be.”

“Perhaps he’ll take it into his head to-morrow to say that all the meadows are his,” cried the stag. “And where are we to graze then?”

The thistle, the poppy and the bluebell pressed close against the hedge. The violet hid herself in the ditch and the stinging-nettle stood gloomily and angrily outside Two-Legs’ garden fence.

“Are we any better off?” asked the thistle. “We’ve been driven from home and have to stand against the hedge and look on while the silly grass spreads all over the field. We are at his mercy; he can take our lives any day he pleases.”

“He has planted some of my sisters in his garden,” said the violet.

“And some of mine,” said the poppy. “But that’s not liberty.”

“Prick him, thistle!” said the tall oak.

“I did and he struck me with his stick,” replied the thistle.

“Sting him, nettle!” said the oak.

“I did,” said the nettle, “and I came off no better than the thistle.”

In the corn, however, a glad whisper ran from one end of the field to the other.

“It is we ... it is we ... it is we ... it is we that reign in the land now.... We are good.... We are useful.... You are nothing but weeds.”

“Hear them, the cowardly dogs!” said the thistle.

“We can do nothing,” said the bluebell. “Why don’t you big trees fall down on him and crush him and his brood?”

“That’s a ticklish matter, falling down,” said the oak. “But have we not a king of the forest to protect us? Where is the lion?”

“Yes the lion ... Where is the lion?” they all cried.

But the lion was not there and did not come.

3

Two-Legs sat at home in his garden, under a big apple-tree, surrounded by all his family.

He cast his eyes over his fields, on which the corn waved, and up into the apple-tree, which hung full of delicious, yellow fruit. One of his sons had just come back from the lake with a couple of big fish. Another was hunting in the forest; now they heard his call and he stood at the edge of the wood with a fat roebuck over his shoulders.

A third was busy making a plough: he wanted to improve upon the old one. And all the rest were working at one thing or another. The girls were busy in the kitchen or turning the mill-wheel.

“We have had luck on our side,” said Two-Legs to his wife. “Everything thrives and grows under our hands. And our children will do better than we and their children better still. I hardly dare picture the power and glory which our race may yet achieve.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Two-Legs. “Things are going well with us. Remind me to strew a little corn for the sparrows, when the bad times come.”

“I sha’n’t forget,” said he. “We have such plenty now that we can afford to give those little thieves a helping hand. And I like to hear them twittering when I get up in the morning.”

THE OLD ANIMALS TAKE COUNSEL

1

The complaints of the wild animals increased daily.

“One no longer knows what one dare do and what not,” said the mole. “Yesterday, my cousin was throwing up earth, as our family have done ever since they existed. At that moment, he was caught and killed by one of Two-Legs’ sons, because the mole-hill appeared in the middle of one of his flower-beds.”

“His daughter killed my wife, because she thought her ugly,” said a young spider. “Not that my wife was nice to me. She wanted to eat me immediately after the wedding and I had a narrow escape. But, apart from that, she was the most inoffensive person under the sun and really never hurt a soul. Except the flies, of course.”

“He took away my wife and planted her in his garden,” said the hop-vine.

“And he throws me out if I show the least tiny green shoot,” said the gout-weed.

“He shuts us up in hives,” said the bee.

“He hunts us by clapping his hands and hitting us with cloths,” said the moth.

“He locks us up and fattens us and eats us,” grunted the pig.

“He sets traps for us if we try to get a morsel of food,” said the mouse.

“He is the master of us all,” said the stag. “We have no one to complain to. We have no king. The lion is no longer the ruler of the forest. He kills us with his claws when he is hungry, but he makes no attempt to defend us.”

2

While they were talking, the lioness came slowly up and stood in their midst. They sprang up in alarm, but she lay down quietly and said:

“Do not be afraid of me. I sha’n’t hurt you. I have hardly eaten a mouthful this week for grief. The same cares oppress me as yourselves. And it is worse for me, because my husband ought to have protected us against these strangers and doesn’t. The disgrace, for that matter, concerns me personally.”

“The lion must help us! The lion must set us free!” they all cried together.

“The lion does nothing,” said the lioness, sadly. “He lies at home in our lair, staring and staring before him. But, now, listen to what I have to say.”

They all gathered round and listened.

“We are all concerned,” she said, “each one of us, without exception. I have taken in all that I have heard and seen of Two-Legs and I know his character and his plans as though he had confided them to me. He wants to subdue the whole earth. He and his children intend to reign over us all, whether we submit or not.”

“That is true!” cried the animals.

“Yes, that is true,” continued the lioness. “Let none feel safe! The most powerful animal and the tallest tree: if he has not laid them low to-day, their turn will come to-morrow. The lowest vermin and the sorriest weed, they know not on what day he may need them nor when they are in his way; and then their last hour has struck.”

“Yes, yes!” they cried.

The mighty oak waved his gnarled boughs in assent, the stag sorrowfully drooped his antlers, the worm whispered his “Yes!” in the earth and the bees buzzed with fear.

“Yes,” said the lioness. “To him we are either useful or injurious. If he thinks a flower pretty, he fences it in; if its scent offends his nostrils, he tramples her underfoot. If a tree stands where he can sleep in its shade, he lets it grow. If it is in his way or if he has a use for its wood, he chops it down. If he is able to use an animal, he catches it and makes it his slave. He dresses himself in its skin, eats its flesh, lets it do his work. He does not stop when he has had his fill, as we do. Greedy as he is, he catches animals and gathers fruit for many days, so that he may never suffer want.”

“That’s so, that’s so!” cried the animals, in chorus.

“Wait a bit!” continued the lioness. “There is more to come. He does not hunt fair, like ourselves. He does not go after his prey on his own legs. He rides at it on the back of the horse, whom he has compelled to carry him. He does not catch it with his claws, does not kill it with his teeth: he has a curious weapon, which flies through the air and brings death to whomsoever it strikes.”

“We all know it!” cried the stag.

“It has whistled past my ear!” said the wolf.

“It hit my wing!” said the eagle.

“He does not drink the blood as we do, does not eat the meat as we do,” continued the lioness. “He roasts it at the fire: he always has a fire in his hut. He has done violence to nature: we knew fire only when the lightning struck an old tree and set it alight; he strikes two stones against each other till the sparks come, or rubs two pieces of rotten wood till they catch flame.”

“True, true!” cried the animals. “He has subdued fire.”

“He does not wait to pluck the fruit in the forest when it is ripe,” said the lioness. “He cultivates the plants for which he has a use and roots out the others. Give him a free hand and he will transform the whole earth. No herbs will he let grow but those which he can employ. No animals will he let live but those which serve his use or pleasure. If we want to remain alive, we must become his servants.”

“Hear, hear!” cried the animals.

The lioness paused; all was still. They heard Trust bark a long way off.

“Listen to the dog,” said the lioness. “His first servant. Now he helps him watch over others.”

“The dog has betrayed us! Let us kill the dog!” they cried.

The lioness raised her paw and silence prevailed again. Then she continued:

“Do you remember the night when we met here in this same meadow, when the new animals had just arrived? There were some who warned us: they were the horse and the ox and the sheep; the goose and the duck agreed with them: now they are all his subjects; their presentiments did not deceive them. But do you not remember how the two animals looked when they lay here asleep? A couple of poor, naked wretches: we could have killed them without trouble, had we wished.”

“We could, we could!” cried the animals.

“But we didn’t!” said the lioness. “And now they are the lords of the forest. Do you know whence their power comes? It comes from the animals whom they have subdued. If we could take those animals from them, then they would be just as poor and helpless as before. Two-Legs’ power consists in this, that he can make others work for him. If, therefore, you take my advice, you will try to get his servants away from him. I propose that we send some one who will endeavour to talk them into their senses. Surely, we have only to appeal to their sense of honour and to remind them of the days when they wandered at liberty in the forest! Who will undertake the mission?”

“Do you go yourself!” they all cried.

“No,” said the lioness, “I had better not. It would not be wise. There is blood between their race and mine. They might remember this; and then my words would be in vain. It should be one from whom they have never had anything to fear.”

They discussed the matter for some time; and then it was resolved that the fox should be the emissary. He was at odds, it was true, from the old days, with the goose and the duck and the hen; but there was no one better at hand.

And so he sneaked off: none knew so well the shortest and most secret paths in the forest. He promised to bring back an answer as quickly as possible. The animals lay down to rest in the meadow and whispered together. In the midst of the circle lay the lioness, staring silently before her, with shame and wrath in her eyes.

3

When the fox reached Two-Legs’ house, he met Trust, who was going his night rounds to see if there were any foes about.

“Good evening, cousin,” said the fox, slyly. “Out so late?”

“I might say the same to you,” replied Trust. “I am keeping watch for my master. You’re hardly out on so lawful an errand.”

“I have no master, certainly,” said the fox. “And it’s not long ago since you were a free dog in the forest. You ought to become so again. Come down with me to the meadow. The other animals are gathered there. They will forgive you for entering Two-Legs’ service and look upon you as the good dog that you were, if you will open the door so that the captive animals may escape.”

“There are no captive animals here,” said the dog. “We are all well off and we wish for no change. If I am Two-Legs’ servant, I am also his friend. So run away back as fast as you can to those who sent you.”

With that, the dog turned his back on the fox and went in through the little hole that was left in the fence for his use. But the fox stood waiting awhile, to see if none of the others appeared. And it was not long before a fine gosling stuck her head through the hole.

“Good-evening, little missie!” said the fox. “Please come a little closer.”

“I dare not,” said the gosling. “I am not allowed out at night. And I should so awfully like to get away. I am so frightened of Two-Legs. He roasted my mother the other day and ate her.”

“Shocking!” exclaimed the fox. “You mustn’t stay a moment longer in this murderer’s den. Come out to me and I will take you to a place where you will have nothing to fear.”

“If I only dared trust you!” said the gosling. “But I have ten sisters. I can’t leave them in the lurch.”

“I don’t think you had better wake them to-night,” said the fox. “Young ladies are so talkative and, if the dog or Two-Legs discovered your flight, it would be all up with us. You would be roasted forthwith and I should come in for a certain unpleasantness too: that goes without saying.”

“That is true,” said the gosling. “But will you promise me to fetch my sisters another time?”

“I give you my word that, from to-day, I will come every night and fetch one of the young ladies, until they are all rescued,” said the fox. “As far as lies in my power. There may be obstacles.”

“How kind you are!” whispered the gosling. “And I who thought that the wild animals were such terrible monsters! That’s what I’ve always been told. They said I must be particularly careful not to go into the forest, lest the worst of evils should befall me.”

“Sheer calumny!” said the fox. “All the animals in the forest are angels. I never heard of any one being roasted there. But come now, before we are perceived.”

“I’m coming,” said the gosling.

She waddled through the hole and, that very instant, felt the fox’s teeth in her throat. She was just able to give a scream and then she was done for. But, the next moment, Trust was there. The fox let go the gosling and struck out with his teeth as best he could. But he was the weaker and the dog gave no quarter. Not until the fox lay dead on the ground did Trust go back through his hole again.

4

Meanwhile, the animals were lying in the meadow and waiting.

“The fox has tricked us,” said the stag.

“Of course, he has been caught and is entering Two-Legs’ service like the rest,” said the nightingale.

But, at daybreak, the sparrow came flying up, breathlessly:

“The fox is dead!” she said. “He is lying on the hill outside Two-Legs’ house. I saw him myself. There’s a dead goose lying beside him.”

Then the lioness rose and all the other animals with her:

“The fox went on his own business,” she said. “He fell in his own hunting. We can trust nobody now.”

Then, with bent head, she went sadly home.

THE LION

1

It was one night, some days after the animals had held their meeting in the meadow.

The lion lay in his lair, as was his custom, and stared with his yellow eyes. His spouse was sleeping or pretending to sleep. At every moment she heaved a deep sigh. All was still in the forest.

The lion well knew what his consort’s sighing meant. He knew what the animals had talked of that day and all the other days in the forest. Not one of their complaints was unfamiliar to him; not one of the taunts uttered against him had escaped his ears. Not for a moment had he doubted the feeling in the forest towards the king of beasts.

Nor had he forgotten which of the animals had spoken of him most slightingly. He had imprinted the names of more than one in his memory and he would know how to be even with them when the time came and order was restored in the forest. Every day he had to bear his consort’s gibes, but he no longer heeded them. She would have to beg his pardon and yield him her love and admiration once again. His children would honour him as they had honoured him of old and even more. He would be remembered in the history of the forest as the monarch in whose reign the kingdom had incurred a great danger and misfortune, which he had finally overcome.

2

The lion rose and went slowly through the forest.

“The king of beasts is out hunting,” said the hedgehog, creeping under the bushes.

“See how thin he is,” said the bat. “His skin is hanging loose on his bones.”

“It is many nights since he went hunting,” said the owl. “His eyes are glaring with hunger.”

But the king of the forest was not thinking of hunting. He went, as though in a dream, in the direction of Two-Legs’ house. A deer darted across his path and he did not see her. Slowly he went until he came to the open space on the hill where Two-Legs’ house stood.

He went straight up to it, leapt nimbly over the hedge and crouched in some bushes that grew at the door. He there lay concealed. No one could see him, only his yellow eyes gleamed through the leaves. And one bound would bring him to the door.

3

Two-Legs slept restlessly that night.

He tossed about on his bed of skins and, when at last he fell asleep, Trust began to bark so loudly that Two-Legs had to get up and see what was happening. He had closed up the hole through which Trust used to get out, because the goose had lately escaped that way and fallen a prey to the fox.

“What is it, Trust?” he asked.

The dog kept on barking and leaping up against him. Two-Legs opened a little shutter and looked out and listened. But there was nothing to see. Then he told the dog to lie down and went back to bed. But now he heard the horse kicking in the stable and the ox began to low and the poultry to cackle. There was no hearing a word for the noise. He had to go out again and found all the animals shaking, as though greatly frightened. The horse stood in a violent sweat and the hens and the ducks and geese fluttered anxiously round and round their roost.

“What can it be?” he said.

He opened the door and stepped out into the night, unarmed and naked, as he had risen from his bed. At that moment, there was a rustling in the bushes. The lion leapt forward, but Two-Legs just had time to spring back into the house and bolt the door behind him.

He stood for a moment in great alarm and did not know what to do.

Through a little hole in the door, he saw the lion lying outside in the bushes, with his eyes fixed on the door, ready to leap again. The yellow eyes glittered with rage. Two-Legs understood that the fight was now to come that had been so long delayed.

He thought first of waking his sons, slipping out through the other door and attacking the lion in the rear. But they slept in different parts of the house; and the day was already breaking in the east; and, while he was gone to fetch them, one of the family might easily go out and fall a prey to the king of the forest.

While he stood and reflected, his fear left him.

He considered he was man enough to kill his foe unaided. He silently took the best two of his spears, carefully felt the edges, drew a deep breath and then opened the door.

The lion was not there.

Two-Legs looked from one side to the other and could not discover him. But he was an old, experienced hunter and did not doubt but that the lion was lurking in ambush. So he stood quietly in the doorway, with every muscle taut, ready for the fight that must come.

Then he heard a soft rustling in the bushes and, at that moment, he saw the animal’s eyes there among the leaves. He knew there was no time to lose: if the lion sprang first, it was too late.

He flung one of his spears and struck the lion in the eye. The lion uttered a roar of rage; and then the other spear pierced his heart.

All the inmates of the house were now out of bed and came running up.

There lay the dead lion, a great and splendid sight. Trust barked at him and wanted to bite him, but Two-Legs drove him away:

“After all,” he said, “he was king of the forest. But now let it be declared all over the earth that the lion is dead and that the realm is mine.”

Then they stripped the lion’s hide and hung it on a tall pole, which they set up in the middle of the field, so that it could be seen from far and wide.

“The lion is slain!” cried the sparrow, from door to door. “Two-Legs has murdered the king of the forest. His skin is hanging on a pole outside the house: I saw it myself.”

Then all crowded up and saw it. From the edge of the forest, full of fear they peeped at Two-Legs’ house and the birds stared down from the sky.

“And now all is over,” said the stag.

And so it was.

4

But, in the course of that day, the orang-outang came to Two-Legs, who was sitting outside the house:

“Good-day, cousin,” said the orang-outang.

Two-Legs looked at him without answering.

“Ah, you may have heard,” said the orang-outang, “that I have spoken ill of you. I will not deny that I have been a little careless in my talk. But you yourself know, when one meets with poor relations, one is afraid of hangers-on. One has children of one’s own and it is not easy to make both ends meet in these hard times. Besides, you once caught me a blow with your stick; so we can cry quits.”

“What do you want?” asked Two-Legs. “I have neither time nor inclination to listen to your drivel.”

“Now don’t be hasty, cousin,” said the orang-outang and sat down beside him. “I acknowledge your success. You have been lucky. It does not enter my head to deny your ability. You have managed things splendidly. That little business with the horse was really smartly done. And, now that you have outwitted the lion....”

“What do you want, you bothersome brute?” said Two-Legs.

“I want to join forces with you, cousin,” said the orang-outang. “We two as partners ought to conquer the world.”

“Are you mad?” said Two-Legs. “What should I do with such a ridiculous, stupid beast as you? You’re no more use to me than a pigeon. Away with you! Look sharp or I’ll give you a thrashing which you won’t forget in a hurry.”

The orang-outang retreated a few paces, but did not give up the game:

“You should think it over all the same, cousin,” he said. “However clever you may be, I can be of use to you still. I should be a good intermediary between you and the animals. I can do things you can’t; and what I can’t do I can easily learn. Up in the apple-tree where I sat, I have watched you and studied the way you went about your field; and I have already picked up many of your tricks. You must know that....”

Two-Legs stood up and caught the orang-outang by the arm:

“Come outside!” he shouted into the house. “I want to show you something!”

They all came and stared at the ape.

“This fellow wants to go into partnership with me,” said Two-Legs. “He’s not fair. He says he has already learnt my tricks. Let’s put him in a cage; then we can amuse ourselves with his tricks when it’s raining.”

The orang-outang protested, but to no purpose. Two-Legs held him tight and soon they had built a cage and put him into it.

“There’s none like one’s own people for meanness!” said the orang-outang, as he sat on the floor of his cage, catching his fleas.

MANY YEARS AFTER

1

It was many, many years after.

And it was not in the forest in the warm lands where the sun shines stronger than here and the rain falls closer and all animals and plants thrive better, because the winter does not stunt their growth.

It was in a large village in Jutland.

It was fair-time and the village was full of people and cattle. On every side stood booths with wooden shoes and tin goods, cakes and toys and all sorts of wares. There were refreshment-tents and a dancing-hall. There was a peep-show, there were two merry-go-rounds, there was a place where the fattest lady in the world was exhibited. In another place, for twopence, you could see a tiny dwarf. Then there were white mice and performing fleas, numbers of barrel-organs, all playing at one time, so that you could hardly hear for the din, and drunken peasants and boys playing practical jokes.

But the most remarkable thing of all was hidden in a large tent in the middle of the market-place. This, too, could be seen for twopence; and, if you wished to know what it was, you had but to listen to the man who stood outside and shouted in a hoarse voice:

“Walk up, ladies and gentlemen, walk up! Only twopence for grown-ups, children half-price! Here’s something that’s never been exhibited in this village before, but that’s appeared before all the kings and royal families in the world. It’s a king himself that I have the honour of introducing to you: the king of the beasts, ladies and gentlemen, the terrible lion! He lives in darkest Africa and is so powerful that he can kill an ox with one blow of his paw. He has two lambs for his breakfast every morning. If he were to escape from his cage, he would do away with you all in no time. But you need have no fears, ladies and gentlemen! The lion is in his cage behind thick iron bars. There he stands and glares in his bloodthirsty way, at twopence for grown-ups, children half-price. Walk up, ladies and gentlemen! Hurry up, before it’s too late! Never again, in all your lives, will you see so fine a sight at so cheap a price!”

He shouted like this all the time. A crowd of people stood outside the tent staring. Many went in. When they came out, they told the bystanders about the lion inside. Then more went in and so it continued all day long.

2

The lion’s cage stood at the back of the tent.