Part 11

With September, another change of colour came to the seals. Their coat became rather darker than before, and the black spots, that began on the head and spread in ever growing patches over the body, reappeared. The flippers darkened to a heavy brown, and with all these changes came an altered mood, and the males began to fight for possession of the females.

The Young Seal took no part in these contests, though his coat showed the influence of the season; he was little more than a baby, and, on the advice of the Herring-gull, he kept away from the scene of the fighting. He had made small progress in growth since weaning time came, the fish diet that made him strong had done little to help him to develop. This mattered not at all; strength rather than length was needed to face the rough days that lay before the seal world when September was at an end, and the long fight between adult male seals was over. There was very little love in the camp during that season. Polygamy prevailed, and the conqueror took as many wives as he could keep away from his weaker brethren; but when the last fight had been fought and the early cold snaps reminded them of the hard season ahead, friendly relations were resumed throughout the community.

At the bidding of the storm-wind the sea parted with its beautiful tints, the water became very cold and lashed itself into terrible fury, and foamed like a bayed wolf. Many a rough buffet it gave to the Young Seal, and not a few bruises, but the low temperature did no harm to him. He had enough pure oil in his body to withstand Arctic cold, and on these northern Scottish shores the temperature never approached Arctic severity. His friend the Herring-gull had gone; he saw no birds now within speaking distance, though a few gulls passed down wind every few hours of the day, trying in vain to steer along the road they wished to follow.

As the winter advanced, the seals split into small groups on some family basis of their own, and passed most of their time on the rocks, climbing up from the water by the aid of the strong nails in their foreflippers and the muscles of the tail. They always faced the water from which they had risen, and their attitude at this season was a very listless one, as if the triumph of wind and rain were not altogether to their liking.

When the Little Seal joined his family party, consisting of the mother, two male seals, and several children of two and three years old--eight in all--he soon found that the bottom of the water was the most comfortable part of the world within his reach. Down upon the smooth sandy bottom there fell no shadow of the trouble cast upon the upper waters and the land, and so he learned to remain for long drowsy periods, half-sleeping, half-waking, roused to instant activity by the sense of the presence of a fish. He could see under the water as clearly as he could upon the land, and his whiskers were developing the sensitiveness that belongs to seals in even a larger measure than to cats.

These nerves served to rouse him when he was almost asleep, and indicated the presence of food. When after even a long hunt he had caught his fish, he did not need to seek land; he could eat it at his ease under the waves; and if he came up afterwards, it was generally to tread water with his flippers, and look round to take his bearings.

Finally, when he was quite tired of the sea, he would return to the home rock, climb up in the manner described, and then, resting his head upon the body of the seal nearest to him, go to sleep. Every seal attached himself to his neighbour in this fashion for reasons of safety. When they were lying in such close touch, the first sign of alarm was communicated automatically to one and all. Perhaps in that quiet corner there was little need for such extravagant precautions, but the history of seals throughout the world is one long drawn-out tragedy, and the need for care had become as strong an instinct as any that entered into their simple lives. In old days, and among kind superstitious folks, the seals had been mermen and mermaids; and when they sat on rocks in the sunshine, passing their webbed toes through their coat to keep it bright and lustrous, simple seafaring men had thought they saw mermaidens combing their golden locks. The sunlight had supplied the gold, and perhaps the little waves had lent the song; and so the story grew, and passed into legend, and gladdened many a child-like simple heart, even though it dwelt in a time-worn body. But now, in the place of gold, men had introduced the age of lead; mermaids and mermen shocked an age that held materialism to be the highest form of faith, and knew that a leaden bullet properly aimed could kill the most beautiful creature that ever played about a summer sea. So the old seals, grown wary, exercised what care they could to save their helpless, harmless families from the enemy man.

Spring came back at last, and if it made little or no difference to the aspect of the rock-strewn shore, there were pleasant changes beyond. The waters subsided and lost their angry colour, the days lengthened, the light grew stronger, and sea birds came back to the cliffs to lay their eggs, and scream and quarrel in the old familiar fashion. And with the advent of May the adult female seals withdrew from the others, and the adult males retired with the younger generation to another part of the coast where, as good luck would have it, our friend found the old Herring-gull busily pursuing his fishing.

"I'd like to travel," said the Young Seal, whose blood tingled with the spirit of the season. "I'm tired of stopping always in one place. Where does the sea end? You ought to know, seeing that you can fly all over it."

"The sea has no end and no beginning," explained the Herring-gull. "It is like the sky, boundless. Wherever I go, I find the sea. But if you wish to travel, follow the coast down until you come to a place where the water turns in towards the land. Follow carefully, until it narrows, and you reach a part where men have spread great nets. They are put there to catch a wonderful fish with scales as bright as a herring's, and a pink body that all seals love to feed upon. But be careful to stay well beyond the nets, and do not let greed tempt you to travel too far. Then I shall see you back in the late summer, and you will thank me."

This advice seemed very good to the Young Seal, who felt no family ties and had a love of adventure. He set out, resting from time to time upon the shore, and keeping the best possible look out for strangers. As he moved down the coast, he met a seal two years older than himself, bound on the same errand, and this one promised to show him the road. Having company, each seal was bolder than before, and as the sea was teeming with fish just then, they moved quite slowly to the home of the great pink delicacy. One fine afternoon they lay at their ease high upon the shore, and came near to be cut off, for a pleasure boat hove in sight, and they had to rush towards it in search of safety. This was a thrilling experience, and might have ended very differently if any of the four men on the boat had carried a gun. As it was, the two seals ran down the beach in fearful haste, raising sand and shingle very freely, as they progressed in awkward jerks, first on their chest, then on their stomach. To the men in the boat the movements appeared so strange that they could hardly row for laughter, indeed the reduction of their efforts may have accounted for the seals' escape, but to the two frightened animals the case was quite different--they found nothing to laugh at. When they reached water at last, they were very sore, stiff and bruised; sharp stones and rocks had hurt them very considerably. They remained under the water for a very long time, and only ventured to show their heads above it a long way down the coast. At the same time the incident was not without considerable value. It taught them that an enemy might appear at any moment, and that they must not venture inland either when the tide was receding or when the shape of the coast corner tended to obstruct the view.

At length they reached the river's estuary, and moving along it with extreme caution, found a point where the banks narrowed a little below the netting. There they remained for some weeks, and the Younger Seal found that the salmon seeking the fresh water were worthy of everything the Herring-gull had said in their praise. He remembered the advice that had been given to him; his little experience along the coast had done something to fix it in his mind, and it is doubtful whether the fisher folk who looked after the nets realised the close presence of the seals. Doubtless the men, to whom some of the salmon fell in the latter days, knew that the fish had run the gauntlet, for now and again a salmon escaping with his life from seal and nets carried to the upper waters the mark of the seal's teeth. If not gripped behind the neck, many a salmon could tear himself away with little serious hurt.

At last the fish began to decrease in numbers and the Seal had eaten enough salmon to satisfy him for a long time. He began to think with pleasure of the life that awaited him among his own people, and of the joys of basking at ease without fear of disturbance. In the estuary he had been bound to observe the greatest care, and now he was not feeling quite well, the season of change was upon him. So he went down again to the open water, and turned his head to the north, covering the road home in comparatively short time, and arriving to find that the female seals were silvered, and that the males were beginning to change colour. He told all his experiences to the Herring-gull, but said nothing about them to his brethren. Instinct told him that if the salmon ground should be invaded by the seals, man the enemy, who owned the nets, would resent the invasion after his own brutal fashion. Strange though it may appear, he knew himself for a poacher.

This summer did not differ from the last. Perhaps the Seal climbed higher rocks than he had cared to face in the previous year, and perhaps he was more nervous if alarmed, and more careless when undisturbed. There were some rocks that the high tide covered and the low tide left bare, and he took a particular pleasure in seeking one of these at the ebb and sleeping on the top until the flood lifted him off into the water--sometimes to finish his sleep there.

Though his colour changes were well defined now, he took no part in the September fighting, he was not yet sufficiently matured to seek a mate. His sex was fairly clear by now, particularly when he was with a female of his own age, for then his jaws and teeth were larger and stronger than hers would be, and his head was rather bigger. In disposition he was kind and gentle, and would play for hours with his half-sister, a baby girl seal born to his mother about the time when he sought the salmon. He taught her many of his cleverest tricks, and sometimes went with her, in pursuit of fish, to places she could not have visited alone. So she saw nothing of the savage September fights in which many male seals were quite badly torn.

Another winter passed uneventfully, another spring saw considerable increase in the seal colony, and following it a partial migration in search of fresh feeding grounds. The gulls and sea swallows told the seals they liked best the very quiet and well-stocked corners of the coast; they had the best opportunities of finding out where safety and plenty were associated.

The Young Seal took his half-sister down the coast to the river estuary, and they stayed from time to time upon the top of a high rock that was well out of the reach of man. But some of the salmon that came to the nets were very badly mauled, and the men in charge began to keep a sharp look-out. At first they were uncertain whether otters or seals were in the estuary, then a field-glass revealed the presence of the real enemy, and a Norwegian who was among the workers at the nets offered to mend matters in a certain brutal fashion practised in his own land. He rowed out to the rock when the seals were not at home, and fixed eight or ten barbed hooks round the base on a stout rope. Then, on the following morning, when the seals were at rest upon the rock, the boat appeared suddenly, and they slid off into the water.

As good luck, or their light weight, would have it, little harm was done. The Elder Seal was badly scratched, and his young companion had a torn flipper; but the injury was only bad enough to keep them from the rock and send them farther down stream to the mouth of the estuary, where they soon found the salmon too quick for them, and made up their minds to return.

When September came, the Young Seal showed fight, and actually endeavoured to enter into competition with one of his elders for the possession of a lady seal who was at least two years his senior. The contest was a brief one. A few leaps out of the water, one or two valiant attempts to bite, and the smaller combatant received a terrible scratch that put the fear of death into him, and cost quite a lot of his young hot blood.

He sought the refuge of a lonely crag, and felt exceedingly sorry for himself. There his faithful half-sister found him, and stretched herself by his side and kissed him affectionately, while the Herring-gull came and talked wisely to him, and between the efforts of his two friends and well-wishers he was induced to take a brighter view of life.

"You are much too young to take a wife," explained the Gull cheerfully; "why, if you succeed in securing one two years from now, you will have done well."

"I shall never get over this trouble," groaned the Seal, showing the nasty gash left by his opponent's flipper. "Where I fell back into the water, it was quite red and horrid."

"Nonsense," said the Herring-gull quite cheerfully; "you'll be quite right by the time your dark spots have come back. Your enemy did not want to maul you very severely, or you would have had a very different tale to tell. He could have ripped you up, or cracked your skull as if it were no thicker than an egg-shell, had he been in earnest. No seal should think of fighting for a mate before he is three years old at least. There isn't a seal of your age that has a wife in any part of the sea I ever sailed over, and very few would be so foolish as to search for one!"

This information cheered the Young Seal, but he kept away from his companions until his wounds were healed, and, returning, found that all quarrels had been forgotten, and the kindliest feelings ruled. To be sure, there were occasional fights, but they were quite friendly affairs like the dances and games of "Follow my leader" in which the community delighted.

Two years passed uneventfully, the Seal was an adult now nearly six feet long, victorious in the September fights, and master of many lady-loves. The Herring-gull was gathered to his forefathers, and it was from a younger generation that news came to the seal family of certain changes fraught with grave danger to one and all. The land lying round the little bay they knew and loved so well had passed from the hands that held it for so long and was let to a sportsman. Sport! the word had a strange and terrifying sound in the Seal's ear, he remembered what his old friend had told him.

He was guardian of a group of seals now, the last to take his place on rock or shore, the first to rise out of the water and look for danger. His playing time was over, and responsibility had come with power.

Shots had been heard on several occasions; some young seals that had ventured on to the sand at full tide, and had forgotten about the ebb, had never returned.

The Old Seal summoned a family council, and explained matters.

"Farther to the north," he said, "there are some islands that the Herring-gull knew. There the guns are never heard. Shall we leave our home?"

The answer to this question is plain to all visitors to the coast to-day. Sea-birds scream and play and flutter their wings over the rocks, the summer waters are bright and clear and tempting to the swimmer, but the seals have gone for good and aye.

THE GIRAFFE

Picture to yourself a wide expanse of open land covered with flowers and grasses that spring two or three feet high in the track of the rains.

To the far west stretches a high mountain range, whose topmost peaks are ever clad in snow; to the east a river bed filled with a raging torrent at one season, and dry at another; to the south an acacia wood; to the north the open land, trackless and desert as the sea.

In this land, from which the sun never takes its departure for more than a few days at a time, Maami the giraffe was born, a quaint and curious little creature, whose proportions even in those early days were almost grotesque. In the secluded spot that was his earliest home the growth was thick and luxuriant and, while one who surveyed it with a field-glass from a distant hill might have thought the grasses were comparatively short, the big antelopes that raced along from time to time showed no more than the tops of their horns, the lion who pursued them was unseen. So, too, was the leopard, as he stole along in the direction of the foot hills of the mountain, hoping to surprise some of the noisy baboons that lived and clustered there.

From time to time a lion roared close to the young giraffe's home; once, indeed, when his mother was away, and there were other moments of danger that Maami never understood. Had he been old enough and big enough to see and understand what followed the lion's roar, when he was lying in the soft nest that his mother's body had made for him, his love and admiration for his parent would have been greater than ever. The Old Giraffe had been feeding in the acacia grove, and was on her way home when the lion roared. Hearing the cry, she broke into her fastest stride; it was not a gallop, it was not a canter, it was not a trot; it partook of all three, and in the rhythm of the movement there was a challenge that the lion would not wait to accept.

The great plain was full of antelopes that could be had without fighting, so he roared an assurance that he meant no harm, and hurried away to the left, while the eager mother pounded her rapid way to her calf's side, and then seeing that he was all right, stood up to the last inch of her height and looked out over the prairie to see where danger lay. In other animals of Africa it is the sharp hearing, the extraordinary scent that puzzles the European; the giraffe was content to rely upon a power of vision second only to the eagle's. Her bright coat lost its lustre against trees and bushes; she became part of the landscape by reason of her wonderful gift of protective colouring, and could scan the country with a certainty that no source of danger would be overlooked.

Throughout the season of rains mother and son remained in the thicket; but when the drought came it brought countless cruel insects to prey upon Maami's tender skin, and for his sake the Mother Giraffe, who was schooled to endure such trouble, decided to leave their home.

"We will go up into the forest of the high hills," she said, speaking in the low tones that only the animal world can hear,[2] "for the insects never climb so far. The evening cold would kill them, so they must stay on the low hot ground."

Then Maami followed his mother through a dense growth that wrapped and hid him, over rivers that were dwindling down to the size of insignificant brooks, over the bare foot hills, where the baboons loved to play when the nights were long and bright, and up into the high forest, whose depths knew no light at all.

The silence of the place was awe-inspiring after the comparative gaiety of life upon the plains. Never a singing bird came to the forest; the snakes that climbed and clung could hang motionless for hours, and more than once Maami passed a very old elephant standing up against some tree trunk as stiffly and silently as though carved in wood by some cunning sculptor. Happily, there were consolations to make amends for the darkness and solitude. The ticks and hard-biting insects, that could thrive so well upon the plains, succumbed to the cold damp air of the high ground, and within a week Maami and his mother were free from pain and annoyance. Then, again, food was plentiful for the Mother Giraffe, and there was plenty of milk for Maami. On the plains the giraffe had often been driven to the mimosa wood, or even farther afield, in search of succulent branches and tree tops; here the meals were waiting to be eaten at every hour of the day. Giraffes have a certain contempt for the ground; they will not bend their long necks to the earth.

Living, they stand with heads erect; dying, they preserve their stately carriage until the last. Only when moving rapidly will they bend head and neck to the body level. Though the plains might have held much nourishing food the giraffes never condescended to seek it; they looked to the tree tops for their fare.

Mother and son stayed in the depths of the high forest during the dry season, and the elder giraffe seldom left her son. He could follow her when she searched for food, and it was only on the rare occasions when she needed water that she left him for a time, and went down by night towards the plains, where a pool well known to her survived the scorching heat. A few minutes there would suffice the giraffe for some days; indeed, if she found leaves that retained their moisture at all, a weekly journey to the pool would suffice for all her wants.

Only when the rains returned the two giraffes made their way hastily to the scorched plains. There could be no delay, because the dry beds of the rivers would become impassable when the rain had fallen for a few days, and many beasts would be cut off from the plains, or compelled to travel for miles through dangerous country in order to find a ford.

The scorched vegetation made way, as though by magic, for a new, green carpet, that rose hour by hour; great flocks of birds and beasts returned from the far corners whither the drought had driven them; and to the giraffes, so long pent up in the dark forest, the change was a delightful one. Maami was big enough now to look out over the advancing greenery, young enough to frisk and play, shaking his neck and whisking his tail as his mother did, and unfortunate enough to attract the attention of a jackal who chanced to be prowling about, and at once set off to the lair of his master the lion, bearing glad tidings of fresh meat. The lion was hungry, so hungry, indeed, that the jackal would not approach too close to the lair, preferring to howl without it. As soon as the lion stirred the jackal slipped away to the side, and followed at a respectful distance.

At first the lion moved in the direction of another lair, to summon two of his tribe to join him; but they were feasting on an eland bull many miles away, and he was forced to proceed alone. He moved stealthily up wind in the direction of the giraffes' resting-place; but there were birds on every bush, and they gave the alarm, so that when the huge, tawny beast was within forty or fifty feet of his goal he saw the Mother Giraffe watching and waiting for him. He paused, and lashed his flanks with his tail, uttering a horrible challenge, at which Maami nearly died of fright; but the Mother Giraffe, in no wise alarmed, whisked her own tail by way of reply, twisted her long neck in many strange ways, planted her feet firmly on the ground and waited for the attack. With a quick succession of leaps the lion hurled himself at his prey, but as he came full at the giraffe she lashed out with her heavy feet.